I started my college career as a psych major (or, as I usually like to put it, suffering the delusion that I was going to be a psych major). I was also in the university honors program, which was articulated through departments. A student in the program would take a few general ed courses, but the rest of the honors courses were within the major.
My first honors psych class was called History and Systems of Psychology. The textbook was decent, though heavily biased in favor of behaviorists. The class was taught by a professor nearing retirement, who lectured to us for 48 of the 50 minutes in each session from yellowed notes, punctuated only by his coughing tic. He would then ask if there were any questions. I always had questions, but after the first two or three, he did his best to avoid calling on me.
A handful of times we had what the professor called class discussions, usually of about 20 minutes. But the honors psych students seemed incapable or uninterested in discussing the history or systems of psychology. They would find a relevant item from class notes and repeat it. When I tried to raise critical questions during a class discussion, the professor told me that we weren't there to criticize, but to learn, the history and systems of psychology.
We spent weeks on Wundt, and then two class sessions on psychoanalysis, a "system" of psychology the textbook essentially dismissed as superstitious claptrap that only delayed psychology becoming a genuine science. I had been reading Freud since my sophomore year of high school, and was trying to read Jung, and I found this blanket rejection of Freud ridiculous. Text and professor were eager to move on to the real scientific psychologists, and given loving emphasis were the behaviorists Watson and Skinner. I tried to suggest that the argument legitimating the scientific status of behaviorism was circular, but was told that it's real psychology because it can do things (which psychoanalysis, by extension, cannot) - make people stop smoking, or fight the urge to suck their thumbs in important business meetings.
After the long chapter on Watson, the continued frustration with the honors psych students acting like sheep and with the professor expressly precluding critical discussion, I decided I needed to do something. We were just getting started on Skinner when I made my move.
I drove the 45 minutes across town to my parents' house, and dug out my sister's old scuba fins and snorkel. That morning before class, I stuffed them as well as I could into my backpack (the fins stuck out of the top), and walked from my dorm to the classroom, making sure I would be a couple minutes late. In the hallway, I ran into the only other student in the class who seemed to be interested in discussing the history of psychology (a psych major, who turned out to be kinda crazy), and told her I was going to shake things up. She went inside and found her usual seat.
Meanwhile, I geared up. Shoes off, swim fins on. Mirrored sunglasses. Backpack strapped to my chest. Snorkel.
In this getup, I whisked open the door and flapped across the room to my usual seat, just in front of the crazy psych major, along the windows. As I collapsed into it and got out my textbook, the professor said, suppressing a tremendous rage, "That's alright, no one noticed you coming in."
He went back to his notes and tics, and lectured on Skinner. I paid attention, but managed to glance around the room at all the psych majors, staring straight ahead at the prof, blind to my existence. Halfway through class, in mid-sentence, the professor suddenly addressed me, saying that I was to remain after class to discuss my "idiotic stunt."
I got you, man, I thought. You may be a committed apologist for behaviorism, but you're a lousy behaviorist. You fell for it. You gave me attention, while denying that you were giving it. And as we all know about denial...
He got through about 40 minutes, but then gave up. He couldn't concentrate. The class left, and I stayed behind, and I explained myself. I told him I did what I did to protest the total lack of meaningful discussion in the class, to try to shake up the psych zombies - make that honors psych zombies. I even waited until we got to Skinner, to protest the obvious bias in the book, and to do something that I thought would be poorly explained by behaviorism.
I can't remember what he said. I don't think he punished me, except that he gave me a B for a final grade after all the A work I'd done.
After class, I walked over to the psychology department and met with the department chair. I told him what happened in class - well, some of it. I told him about the zombies' reaction. And I told him I was dropping the major.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
I am an advertisement for myself
Every spring I teach a course I designed, called, unwieldly enough, Human Interests and the Power of Information. It is half philosophy of technology, half post-structuralist critique of contemporary media and techno-science, and half political and sociological investigation of everyday life in the siliconized world.
Every spring when I teach it, I have a different emphasis. This year I thought I was going more in the direction of the techno-science and knowledge discourses business, but after reading Baudrillard yesterday to prep for class today, I just had to write some stuff about it. This is part one.
In Simulacra and Simulation, Jean Baudrillard makes several pronouncements about media, the most provocative of which may be that media implode meaning and the social, and simulate sociality through the constitution of the masses. That is, instead of a social life characterized by exchange, mediated lives take place among an amorphous mass culture. I believe Baudrillard takes many cues from Marshall McLuhan throughout this phase of his work, and this particular claim can be illuminated in reference to McLuhan’s view that advertising homogenizes society (in pursuit of the goal of coordinating and maximizing consumption). A homogenized society is, for Baudrillard, not a society at all, but “the masses,” and the consumption he claims the masses do is not prompted by advertising, it is the consumption of advertising itself.
This latter is obviously true: the “brand benefit” of most consumer products, especially of mass quality, is the brand image itself. It’s what makes Levi’s Levi’s, an iPhone an iPhone. (Apple is the most valuable corporation in the world, and one of the most highly groomed, protected, and prized brands.) How this destroys meaning and the social is less clear, at least at first.
On one level, Baudrillard could be saying something like this. Since what we consume is the advertising, what we spend our social lives on is the exchange of signs “branded” by advertising. Social life among “the masses” as constituted by media, is characterized by an exchange of asyntactic messages, signs that have been branded, and the sameness of all those messages means that they cannot mean anything. None of us has anything to say, except for what our branded, consuming existences provide for us to say, which is to say, the endless repetition of media messages.
Meanwhile, and borrowing a bit from McLuhan again, as well as the history of audience research going back to Lazarsfeld in the 1920s, the brand images and advertisements themselves are adjusted for maximum impact through market research, focus groups, and so forth. There’s a continuous feedback loop from the advertiser to the target of the ads and back to the advertiser.
If one were to look at this without considering the human activity of exchanging signs, where we would be the conduits through which the signs are exchanged, rather than living creatures with the capacity to communicate (an assumption that fits rather well with Baudrillard’s notion of the destruction of meaning and sociality), then the exchange of signs takes place as follows:
Advertisement-Consumer/Conduit-Consumer/Conduit-Advertisement
This suggests that we could characterize the activities of each node in the system of linguistic exchange formed by this circuitry as follows:
Advertising-Advertising-Advertising-Advertising
Meaning - linguistic, narrative meaning - is swallowed up by the ultimate form of media, the form of advertising, which is ubiquitous. Every term in the lexicon has been unhinged from any sort of referential or representational meaning by the reshuffling of the signifier deck by advertising. We can't speak of anything - love, art, truth, iced tea, war - without speaking in the terms of advertising.
Practically everyone who reads Baudrillard claims he's being hyperbolic on these points. I'm not so sure. If language is the foundation of meaning, and if language is irrevocably and always already altered by advertising, then the basic concept we each have of love, art, etc., and the basic ways we utter love, art, etc., are in advertising language. (It's important to keep in mind Baudrillard's insistence that it's the form of advertising, not what we take to be advertising, that matters.) Advertising speaks to us about who we are (constituted consumers), and gives us the terms to address one another as who we are (constituted consumers).
Thus, the "catastrophe of meaning" which leaves the masses in a state of "stupor," of "fascination."
Not content with that, Baudrillard drops a mention of computer language into this analysis, claiming that it will liquidate advertising and displace it. (The book was published in French in 1981.) What I want to do is see what a Baudrillardian interpretation of contemporary silicon technology would look like. Now that we have mobile bodies targeted by and targeting everything at once, in what sense is advertising obsolescent?
Every spring when I teach it, I have a different emphasis. This year I thought I was going more in the direction of the techno-science and knowledge discourses business, but after reading Baudrillard yesterday to prep for class today, I just had to write some stuff about it. This is part one.
In Simulacra and Simulation, Jean Baudrillard makes several pronouncements about media, the most provocative of which may be that media implode meaning and the social, and simulate sociality through the constitution of the masses. That is, instead of a social life characterized by exchange, mediated lives take place among an amorphous mass culture. I believe Baudrillard takes many cues from Marshall McLuhan throughout this phase of his work, and this particular claim can be illuminated in reference to McLuhan’s view that advertising homogenizes society (in pursuit of the goal of coordinating and maximizing consumption). A homogenized society is, for Baudrillard, not a society at all, but “the masses,” and the consumption he claims the masses do is not prompted by advertising, it is the consumption of advertising itself.
This latter is obviously true: the “brand benefit” of most consumer products, especially of mass quality, is the brand image itself. It’s what makes Levi’s Levi’s, an iPhone an iPhone. (Apple is the most valuable corporation in the world, and one of the most highly groomed, protected, and prized brands.) How this destroys meaning and the social is less clear, at least at first.
On one level, Baudrillard could be saying something like this. Since what we consume is the advertising, what we spend our social lives on is the exchange of signs “branded” by advertising. Social life among “the masses” as constituted by media, is characterized by an exchange of asyntactic messages, signs that have been branded, and the sameness of all those messages means that they cannot mean anything. None of us has anything to say, except for what our branded, consuming existences provide for us to say, which is to say, the endless repetition of media messages.
Meanwhile, and borrowing a bit from McLuhan again, as well as the history of audience research going back to Lazarsfeld in the 1920s, the brand images and advertisements themselves are adjusted for maximum impact through market research, focus groups, and so forth. There’s a continuous feedback loop from the advertiser to the target of the ads and back to the advertiser.
If one were to look at this without considering the human activity of exchanging signs, where we would be the conduits through which the signs are exchanged, rather than living creatures with the capacity to communicate (an assumption that fits rather well with Baudrillard’s notion of the destruction of meaning and sociality), then the exchange of signs takes place as follows:
Advertisement-Consumer/Conduit-Consumer/Conduit-Advertisement
This suggests that we could characterize the activities of each node in the system of linguistic exchange formed by this circuitry as follows:
Advertising-Advertising-Advertising-Advertising
Meaning - linguistic, narrative meaning - is swallowed up by the ultimate form of media, the form of advertising, which is ubiquitous. Every term in the lexicon has been unhinged from any sort of referential or representational meaning by the reshuffling of the signifier deck by advertising. We can't speak of anything - love, art, truth, iced tea, war - without speaking in the terms of advertising.
Practically everyone who reads Baudrillard claims he's being hyperbolic on these points. I'm not so sure. If language is the foundation of meaning, and if language is irrevocably and always already altered by advertising, then the basic concept we each have of love, art, etc., and the basic ways we utter love, art, etc., are in advertising language. (It's important to keep in mind Baudrillard's insistence that it's the form of advertising, not what we take to be advertising, that matters.) Advertising speaks to us about who we are (constituted consumers), and gives us the terms to address one another as who we are (constituted consumers).
Thus, the "catastrophe of meaning" which leaves the masses in a state of "stupor," of "fascination."
Not content with that, Baudrillard drops a mention of computer language into this analysis, claiming that it will liquidate advertising and displace it. (The book was published in French in 1981.) What I want to do is see what a Baudrillardian interpretation of contemporary silicon technology would look like. Now that we have mobile bodies targeted by and targeting everything at once, in what sense is advertising obsolescent?
Monday, March 12, 2012
the end of the world - Santorumaggedon
As we have seen, the Republican Presidential Nomination campaign is all about which candidate will win the hearts, minds, and votes of those who believe that the United States is a nation founded on the Book of Revelation, the Christian document called the Constitution, capitalism, and guns. If they are right, the most apocalyptically-inclined candidate should win, and not only that, but that nomination should bring down upon us a hell-storm.
(Nota bene: The Republican convention is in August, the eighth month. It cannot be a coincidence that in Chapter 8 of Revelations, the seventh seal is broken. Yeah, no kidding!)
There can be no doubt that the most fervently evangelizing of the candidates is Rick Santorum, so it is clear that the closer he comes to the nomination, the closer we all come to the Final Judgment, the Ultimate Ultimate Fighting Championship of The Lord, the Last, Really, Really, Last Call of the End of All Times, as expounded upon in clear and concise detail in Revelation and other books and signs.
At present, Mitt ("OMG President Mittens!") Romney has 454 delegates; Rick Santorum has 217, Newt Gingrich has 107, and Ron Paul has 47. That means, as you are no doubt aware, that we are a mere 927 delegates away from Santorumageddon.
Should Rick Santorum overcometh Mitt Romney, clearly that would mean that the GOP had been given a white stone, since, as anyone can see, Santorum is white, and probably made of some kind of stone, and that new name will be written upon him: Republican Nominee. And lo, the reign of Santorum will be upon us all.
Book it. Either when Romney concedes, as he eventually must, because he's a loser nobody likes, not even the Republican Party establishment, or when Santorum wins the nomination at the Republican Convention in August, that'll be lights out.
(Nota bene: The Republican convention is in August, the eighth month. It cannot be a coincidence that in Chapter 8 of Revelations, the seventh seal is broken. Yeah, no kidding!)
There can be no doubt that the most fervently evangelizing of the candidates is Rick Santorum, so it is clear that the closer he comes to the nomination, the closer we all come to the Final Judgment, the Ultimate Ultimate Fighting Championship of The Lord, the Last, Really, Really, Last Call of the End of All Times, as expounded upon in clear and concise detail in Revelation and other books and signs.
At present, Mitt ("OMG President Mittens!") Romney has 454 delegates; Rick Santorum has 217, Newt Gingrich has 107, and Ron Paul has 47. That means, as you are no doubt aware, that we are a mere 927 delegates away from Santorumageddon.
He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches; To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna, and will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name was written, which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.
- Revelation 2:17
Should Rick Santorum overcometh Mitt Romney, clearly that would mean that the GOP had been given a white stone, since, as anyone can see, Santorum is white, and probably made of some kind of stone, and that new name will be written upon him: Republican Nominee. And lo, the reign of Santorum will be upon us all.
Book it. Either when Romney concedes, as he eventually must, because he's a loser nobody likes, not even the Republican Party establishment, or when Santorum wins the nomination at the Republican Convention in August, that'll be lights out.
Monday, March 05, 2012
the end of the world - 6 March
And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see.
--Revelation 6:3
Super Tuesday is always regarded as Apocalyptic, especially by the non-incumbent party, so it's appropriate to interpret the day, in terms of both its political and doom implications, from that standpoint. What we need to interpret is this text regarding the "second seal" and the "second beast."
There can be no doubt that these refer, this year, to the Republican nomination campaign. That is to say, the Republican Party positions itself as the party of God, Christianity, Righteousness, and the End of Days. (Exhibit A: The Republican Party has declared itself, for more than 30 years, to be the Party of God, Faith, Divine Dispensation, Morality, etc.) The "second seal" and the "second beast" must, therefore, refer to GOP Presidential candidates.
There can be only two, at this point: Mitt (aka "Mittens," aka NOT the Massachusetts native son) Romney, and Rick (don't even get me started) Santorum. Since Santorum still trails Romney, we must conclude that Santorum is "the second beast," right? So any win by Santorum during Super Tuesday is obviously another step closer to Armageddon, right?
This is getting so confusing. I wish the Republicans would work this out, so those of us trying to provide instructive guidance about the end of the world could have something like the truth to work with.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
dinner
Tonight I made some food.
I cut two chicken breasts in half, pounded them flat, seasoned them, and added a slice of prosciutto and thin slices of fontina to them.
I dredged the chicken breasts in flour, sautéed them, and stuck them in a warm oven while I made a pan sauce with white wine, lemon juice, triple sec, sautéed mushrooms, and demi-glace. Later, I added tarragon and parsley to that.
Meanwhile, I was cooking Swiss chard...
and potatoes with diced prosciutto and shallot.
The final result looked a little like this:
Meanwhile, Valentine gave me this look:
(fierce)
I cut two chicken breasts in half, pounded them flat, seasoned them, and added a slice of prosciutto and thin slices of fontina to them.
I dredged the chicken breasts in flour, sautéed them, and stuck them in a warm oven while I made a pan sauce with white wine, lemon juice, triple sec, sautéed mushrooms, and demi-glace. Later, I added tarragon and parsley to that.
Meanwhile, I was cooking Swiss chard...
and potatoes with diced prosciutto and shallot.
The final result looked a little like this:
Meanwhile, Valentine gave me this look:
Friday, March 02, 2012
academic freedom, academic repression, academic license
I'm in a faculty reading group this semester, reading an anthology called Academic Repression. A recurring theme in the book's chapters, each written by an aggrieved (or repressed) academic, is a recounting of the various ways that the academic establishment systematically rules out certain discourses - namely, progressive, critical discourses.
Several authors note that the tenure process is used to eliminate probationary faculty who dare to challenge the status quo, either in academia or in US culture or foreign policy. They express horror, I would call it, at the profoundly conservative leanings of the academic elite and the ham-fisted interventions of boards of trustees, government officials, and so on. Tenure, it seems, is granted only to those who obey the rules, follow the script, don't make noise, and behave themselves.
My reaction, chapter after chapter, is, "have you been involved in US academia at all, in the last 30 years? Did you not notice this before you became an assistant professor?"
I'm not suggesting there isn't systematic repression, because there certainly is. Notably, those complaining of it are generally from more elite, research-oriented institutions, where research doesn't matter, it's the determination in the last instance of a person's worth. Period. What this means is that research-intensive institutions have more of a vested interest in, and do more to discipline, the work of their faculty. After all, they are more dependent on reputation, large quantities of research dollars and foundation grants, then smaller, less elite, teaching institutions.
Again, I want to ask these authors, "did you know anything about this institution before accepting a position there? Like, where the money was coming from?"
They complain of a lack of academic freedom. I have little doubt that they are correct. I just think it's strange, and either naïve or disingenuous, to expect it in those institutions.
In contrast to elite research institutions whose hierarchy systematically preclude academic freedom, at teaching institutions, there also isn't academic freedom, but for entirely different reasons. Continuous, deliberate underfunding of public, comprehensive teaching universities limits the scope of academic discussion, and the desperation of junior faculty at these institutions to save their jobs leads them to quiescent compliance with any requirement - stated or implied - for tenure.
I am inclined to say there is no academic freedom in colleges or universities in the United States. This statement might lead a reader to the legitimate question: why am I not about to be fired, and why am I not afraid to say things like this?
The answer is that, although I don't have any more academic freedom than anyone else, what I have is a form of academic license. Simply put: I don't matter to the academic establishment, the power elite, the board of trustees, or anyone else. Nobody is paying me any attention. Nobody knows what I do in my classes except for the students in them, and the few students who care about what I do in my classes are overwhelmingly favorable to the material and ideas I expose them to, and the rest don't pay attention, either.
I could never get away with this if I was at a research institution. I'd have to toe the line. I'd have to publish, or perish, which means I would have to produce large bulks of the scholarly drivel that all the other academic philosophers in high-powered philosophy departments in the US have to produce (and produce all too happily). Ahh, but if I succeeded in that enterprise, I'd have tenure!
I don't think I'm being cynical. The authors in Academic Repression testify to this, ad nauseam. Let's say I'm glad I'm not one of them.
Several authors note that the tenure process is used to eliminate probationary faculty who dare to challenge the status quo, either in academia or in US culture or foreign policy. They express horror, I would call it, at the profoundly conservative leanings of the academic elite and the ham-fisted interventions of boards of trustees, government officials, and so on. Tenure, it seems, is granted only to those who obey the rules, follow the script, don't make noise, and behave themselves.
My reaction, chapter after chapter, is, "have you been involved in US academia at all, in the last 30 years? Did you not notice this before you became an assistant professor?"
I'm not suggesting there isn't systematic repression, because there certainly is. Notably, those complaining of it are generally from more elite, research-oriented institutions, where research doesn't matter, it's the determination in the last instance of a person's worth. Period. What this means is that research-intensive institutions have more of a vested interest in, and do more to discipline, the work of their faculty. After all, they are more dependent on reputation, large quantities of research dollars and foundation grants, then smaller, less elite, teaching institutions.
Again, I want to ask these authors, "did you know anything about this institution before accepting a position there? Like, where the money was coming from?"
They complain of a lack of academic freedom. I have little doubt that they are correct. I just think it's strange, and either naïve or disingenuous, to expect it in those institutions.
In contrast to elite research institutions whose hierarchy systematically preclude academic freedom, at teaching institutions, there also isn't academic freedom, but for entirely different reasons. Continuous, deliberate underfunding of public, comprehensive teaching universities limits the scope of academic discussion, and the desperation of junior faculty at these institutions to save their jobs leads them to quiescent compliance with any requirement - stated or implied - for tenure.
I am inclined to say there is no academic freedom in colleges or universities in the United States. This statement might lead a reader to the legitimate question: why am I not about to be fired, and why am I not afraid to say things like this?
The answer is that, although I don't have any more academic freedom than anyone else, what I have is a form of academic license. Simply put: I don't matter to the academic establishment, the power elite, the board of trustees, or anyone else. Nobody is paying me any attention. Nobody knows what I do in my classes except for the students in them, and the few students who care about what I do in my classes are overwhelmingly favorable to the material and ideas I expose them to, and the rest don't pay attention, either.
I could never get away with this if I was at a research institution. I'd have to toe the line. I'd have to publish, or perish, which means I would have to produce large bulks of the scholarly drivel that all the other academic philosophers in high-powered philosophy departments in the US have to produce (and produce all too happily). Ahh, but if I succeeded in that enterprise, I'd have tenure!
I don't think I'm being cynical. The authors in Academic Repression testify to this, ad nauseam. Let's say I'm glad I'm not one of them.
Monday, February 27, 2012
depression is stupid - part 6
Normally, I'm a very energetic person. I teach, write, play guitar, cook, walk, ride a bicycle, and perform most other activities with tremendous intensity and vigor. I even sit and read ferociously.
When depressed, I lose almost all of my power. This is not only a terrible obstruction to getting things done, but it's a cruel insult to my sense of self. I am nothing if not intense, so if I'm not intense, it follows that I'm nothing. Logic aside, that's how it feels.
I shall first illustrate by way of music. My guitar playing is a little off, because I never really learned the things most guitar players learn, so what I do is based on a very vivid sense of alienation from music, actually. I play the guitar very much in the same vein that Ionesco wrote plays, if you dig that (and maybe three people will).
It's been impossible to play the guitar lately. I can't catch hold of the weird relationship I have to music that drives me to play and to write songs - the compulsion to make this thing do something it's not inclined to do. But there's nothing there. I hold the guitar in my hands, and I don't know what to do with it.
Cooking has been the same. I have a smattering of French and a bit of Northern Italian, and what I love to do is walk into the kitchen, decide on some fairly arbitrary course of action, and make madcap gorgeous food happen. Pork loin stuffed with fennel in a sauce Robert? Solid! How about improvising on prawns poached in court bouillon and served with a sauce of the reduced stock and cream, with chives? Okey-dokey. Whip that up.
Lately? Nix. I made black bean chili Thursday. It was the most creative I've been in the kitchen in months.
I think my definitive characteristic is ferocious, iconoclastically-bent invention. While depressed? Bupkis.
Depression is stupid. It makes my music and food stupid, too.
When depressed, I lose almost all of my power. This is not only a terrible obstruction to getting things done, but it's a cruel insult to my sense of self. I am nothing if not intense, so if I'm not intense, it follows that I'm nothing. Logic aside, that's how it feels.
I shall first illustrate by way of music. My guitar playing is a little off, because I never really learned the things most guitar players learn, so what I do is based on a very vivid sense of alienation from music, actually. I play the guitar very much in the same vein that Ionesco wrote plays, if you dig that (and maybe three people will).
It's been impossible to play the guitar lately. I can't catch hold of the weird relationship I have to music that drives me to play and to write songs - the compulsion to make this thing do something it's not inclined to do. But there's nothing there. I hold the guitar in my hands, and I don't know what to do with it.
Cooking has been the same. I have a smattering of French and a bit of Northern Italian, and what I love to do is walk into the kitchen, decide on some fairly arbitrary course of action, and make madcap gorgeous food happen. Pork loin stuffed with fennel in a sauce Robert? Solid! How about improvising on prawns poached in court bouillon and served with a sauce of the reduced stock and cream, with chives? Okey-dokey. Whip that up.
Lately? Nix. I made black bean chili Thursday. It was the most creative I've been in the kitchen in months.
I think my definitive characteristic is ferocious, iconoclastically-bent invention. While depressed? Bupkis.
Depression is stupid. It makes my music and food stupid, too.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
depression is stupid - part 5
I've mentioned my therapist several times in this space. I've had a few therapy experiences. When I was a kid, my family was in group therapy. Even prior to that, I saw the psychological counselor at my grade school a few times, during my first depressive episode, I think. In high school, I was somehow referred to an awful psychologist who had a fixed theory about adolescent development, and insisted I fit the profile he was interested in. He was worse than useless, and may have written a series of fantastically successful and terribly damaging books based on his pet theory. I saw a therapist back at UNC-Charlotte, who was excellent the first few times I saw him, but then suddenly had a revelation about his work and, like that awful jerk I saw in high school, started making everyone fit his pet theory.
I saw a student psychotherapist at Duquesne a couple times. I liked the idea of it, because Duquesne is one of very few psych PhD programs in the US that adopt a phenomenological/existentialist approach. I'm not sure how helpful that experience was to me, primarily because it was only about three sessions. She decided not to continue our sessions, and, to be candid, I think it was because we were both very attracted to one another.
Years later, here in California, miserably depressed, I called the mental health hotline that I have access to through our insurance, and they hooked me up with my therapist in Modesto. They gave me two or three names and phone numbers, and I had to call them. She was the first one I reached.
By that point, I was pretty jaded about psychotherapy. I knew I didn't want someone operating out of what is basically a behaviorist model (like the guy at UNCC, and, really, the jerk in high school). I had doubts about psychoanalysis (still do). So, in our first contact, I asked my would-be therapist about her methodology. She was taken aback. She was also a little amused at my arrogance - a theme that would repeat throughout our relationship.
In retrospect, she was deeply committed to cognitive therapy. I gotta say, cognitive therapy is stupid.
The thing is, depressives have distorted pictures of reality. We think in terms of doom, all-or-nothing options, and we repeat to ourselves messages that damage us. For instance, in a really good bout of depression, I tell myself, about 4 dozen times a day, that I'm a terrible, worthless person.
The gist of cognitive therapy is to counteract those distortions by deliberately introducing a different set of messages. My therapist had me do this by actually writing myself notes of affirmation. Whenever I heard that negative message in my head, I was supposed to pull a piece of paper out of a pocket and read it: "You're a caring person" or "You're a good teacher" or "You're kind" - crap like that.
And it is crap. It's indescribably stupid. Think about this scenario. You're miserable. You're at work, and you're fighting against crying for no reason at all. You have to go be in front of other people in a few moments, and you believe you will fail. You think you're a fraud. So, what you do is, you reach into your pocket, and there's a folded piece of paper in there that says something inane like "You do things that make the world a better place." That's supposed to make you think differently about the situation, turn off the negative messages, and give you the fortitude to go do what needs doing.
This is what's stupid about cognitive therapy, from my experience: it works.
Since cognitive therapy is that stupid, it must be the case that either I'm that stupid, or depression is that stupid. Wait, let me read this folded piece of paper. It says "You're a smart person." Obviously, then, depression is stupid.
I saw a student psychotherapist at Duquesne a couple times. I liked the idea of it, because Duquesne is one of very few psych PhD programs in the US that adopt a phenomenological/existentialist approach. I'm not sure how helpful that experience was to me, primarily because it was only about three sessions. She decided not to continue our sessions, and, to be candid, I think it was because we were both very attracted to one another.
Years later, here in California, miserably depressed, I called the mental health hotline that I have access to through our insurance, and they hooked me up with my therapist in Modesto. They gave me two or three names and phone numbers, and I had to call them. She was the first one I reached.
By that point, I was pretty jaded about psychotherapy. I knew I didn't want someone operating out of what is basically a behaviorist model (like the guy at UNCC, and, really, the jerk in high school). I had doubts about psychoanalysis (still do). So, in our first contact, I asked my would-be therapist about her methodology. She was taken aback. She was also a little amused at my arrogance - a theme that would repeat throughout our relationship.
In retrospect, she was deeply committed to cognitive therapy. I gotta say, cognitive therapy is stupid.
The thing is, depressives have distorted pictures of reality. We think in terms of doom, all-or-nothing options, and we repeat to ourselves messages that damage us. For instance, in a really good bout of depression, I tell myself, about 4 dozen times a day, that I'm a terrible, worthless person.
The gist of cognitive therapy is to counteract those distortions by deliberately introducing a different set of messages. My therapist had me do this by actually writing myself notes of affirmation. Whenever I heard that negative message in my head, I was supposed to pull a piece of paper out of a pocket and read it: "You're a caring person" or "You're a good teacher" or "You're kind" - crap like that.
And it is crap. It's indescribably stupid. Think about this scenario. You're miserable. You're at work, and you're fighting against crying for no reason at all. You have to go be in front of other people in a few moments, and you believe you will fail. You think you're a fraud. So, what you do is, you reach into your pocket, and there's a folded piece of paper in there that says something inane like "You do things that make the world a better place." That's supposed to make you think differently about the situation, turn off the negative messages, and give you the fortitude to go do what needs doing.
This is what's stupid about cognitive therapy, from my experience: it works.
Since cognitive therapy is that stupid, it must be the case that either I'm that stupid, or depression is that stupid. Wait, let me read this folded piece of paper. It says "You're a smart person." Obviously, then, depression is stupid.
Monday, February 20, 2012
depression is stupid - part 4
In November of 2010, after a brief spate of depression in October, I decided to do something crazy, just for kicks: I participated in National Novel Writing Month. The aim of this is to encourage the creative spirit, I'd say. Participants attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words during November, starting from scratch.
I just jumped into it. I wrote a ridiculous book: the autobiography of a character I'd invented 20-some years ago called Biff Nurfurplerberger, who is a pop music singer-songwriter. The autobiography was written by two authors, Biff and Simon Ratmason, both of whom are unreliable narrators. Several chapters, and many depictions of events, flat out contradict what is stated elsewhere. Silliness abounding. (It's called Cake, and that link sends you to the Amazon page for it.)
It was the sort of satire I've been writing since I was 10. I pulled out every trick in my book. In one chapter, maybe my favorite, Biff (I think it's Biff - it's sometimes unclear whether the text is Biff's or Simon's) describes his role in the Beatles, and his feelings about the break-up of the band. Another chapter, the existence of which is denied by the foreword to the reader (which is pretty clearly not written by either Biff or Simon, but unsigned), is about the worship of cats. I stole the text from the Catechism. (Do you get it?!?!)
It was a blast. I cackled - yes, cackled! - while writing it. I finished the 70,000 word opus in 30 days (I crossed 50k on the 15th), and never looked back. The result was exactly what I wanted it to be, and I don't think there are more than a couple dozen words I would want back. Seriously.
In 2011, I decided to try again. This time, I had a serious novel in mind. Again, it was satire, but a dark one. It was to be a slightly futuristic, dystopian novel about a world run by one corporation, where repairing anything is illegal. The corporation has a division called Quality Assurance that makes certain that products break, by having what they call Warranty Workers break into people's homes and damage their appliances.
There was absolutely no way I could complete this project, like I did Cake. The story was too complex, involving too many characters' arcs. The world I was creating had to take more time to invent. I struggled, but I got through my 50,000 words.
And I hate it. I regard it as a complete failure. To write this book - which I still think would be an excellent book - I'd need to start over again.
My expectation for myself was that I would write around 60, 70 thousand words of the same clean, shiny prose as I had for Cake. That was impossible. Cake relied on about 30 years of developing a satiric, silly voice, a flair for absurdity and cognitive dissonance. This new contraption had to be seriously written, had to be funny (in that dark way - almost the way Kafka or Beckett are funny), had to carry the story, and had to be consistent.
This really, really, can't happen with a story as complex as I had in mind.
I approached the project with an all-or-nothing attitude, which is, of course, another characteristic mental attitude of depression: if I am not totally successful, I am a total failure. (Note also that the depressive does not give himself/herself credit for any past successes.) Since I could not succeed in those terms, I counted myself a failure, and I got nothing positive from NaNoWriMo. I can't even bring myself to share the book with anyone but my Loveliest, even just to ask how to start it over again.
Setting yourself up to fail is one more way that depression is stupid.
I just jumped into it. I wrote a ridiculous book: the autobiography of a character I'd invented 20-some years ago called Biff Nurfurplerberger, who is a pop music singer-songwriter. The autobiography was written by two authors, Biff and Simon Ratmason, both of whom are unreliable narrators. Several chapters, and many depictions of events, flat out contradict what is stated elsewhere. Silliness abounding. (It's called Cake, and that link sends you to the Amazon page for it.)
It was the sort of satire I've been writing since I was 10. I pulled out every trick in my book. In one chapter, maybe my favorite, Biff (I think it's Biff - it's sometimes unclear whether the text is Biff's or Simon's) describes his role in the Beatles, and his feelings about the break-up of the band. Another chapter, the existence of which is denied by the foreword to the reader (which is pretty clearly not written by either Biff or Simon, but unsigned), is about the worship of cats. I stole the text from the Catechism. (Do you get it?!?!)
It was a blast. I cackled - yes, cackled! - while writing it. I finished the 70,000 word opus in 30 days (I crossed 50k on the 15th), and never looked back. The result was exactly what I wanted it to be, and I don't think there are more than a couple dozen words I would want back. Seriously.
In 2011, I decided to try again. This time, I had a serious novel in mind. Again, it was satire, but a dark one. It was to be a slightly futuristic, dystopian novel about a world run by one corporation, where repairing anything is illegal. The corporation has a division called Quality Assurance that makes certain that products break, by having what they call Warranty Workers break into people's homes and damage their appliances.
There was absolutely no way I could complete this project, like I did Cake. The story was too complex, involving too many characters' arcs. The world I was creating had to take more time to invent. I struggled, but I got through my 50,000 words.
And I hate it. I regard it as a complete failure. To write this book - which I still think would be an excellent book - I'd need to start over again.
My expectation for myself was that I would write around 60, 70 thousand words of the same clean, shiny prose as I had for Cake. That was impossible. Cake relied on about 30 years of developing a satiric, silly voice, a flair for absurdity and cognitive dissonance. This new contraption had to be seriously written, had to be funny (in that dark way - almost the way Kafka or Beckett are funny), had to carry the story, and had to be consistent.
This really, really, can't happen with a story as complex as I had in mind.
I approached the project with an all-or-nothing attitude, which is, of course, another characteristic mental attitude of depression: if I am not totally successful, I am a total failure. (Note also that the depressive does not give himself/herself credit for any past successes.) Since I could not succeed in those terms, I counted myself a failure, and I got nothing positive from NaNoWriMo. I can't even bring myself to share the book with anyone but my Loveliest, even just to ask how to start it over again.
Setting yourself up to fail is one more way that depression is stupid.
Friday, February 17, 2012
depression is stupid - part 3
Among my most annoying depressive symptoms is my struggle with self-worth. On any given day, I really don't have any.
One day, my therapist asked me about my self-worth. I forget the exact wording of her question, but the gist of it was to ask what the basis of my feelings of self-worth were. I couldn't really answer her at first.
Then I said I thought I was good at certain things, like teaching and cooking. I said I was intelligent and articulate. She interrupted me, and said that intelligence isn't something that you do for yourself or create for yourself, and being good at something, although you do in large measure create that for yourself, isn't intrinsic to you. She restated her question: why do you regard yourself as having worth as a person.
At this point, I got kind of frustrated, and argued, not in so many words, that my worth as a person was contingent upon my doing good or being worth a damn in the world. She responded that those were measures of others' esteem, not my own self-worth.
I still struggle with this, on two levels - practical and theoretical. (I suppose Aristotle would approve.)
Practically, having a tenuous sense of self-worth means that I'm dependent on a daily basis on others responding to me as though they value me, in order to feel good about myself. Most people who attempt to be entertaining feel this way, I believe. The vast majority of stand-up comics do, for sure: they need people to laugh with them, to assure themselves that people aren't laughing at them. The upshot of this is that bad days make me feel like I'm a bad person, not a person who had a bad day.
Theoretically, I still don't understand the concept of self-worth very well. The other day it occurred to me to distinguish self-worth from self-esteem. Self-esteem looks to me like a fairly vacuous self-boosterism, and I'm not sure what it's supposed to achieve. Do people who believe that they're always doing such good work do better work as a result? Self-worth is more a matter of having dignity and respect for oneself, and regarding oneself as worthy (sorry for the circularity; Aristotle would approve). But to my therapist's question of its basis, I'm still perplexed. I guess she had in mind something like "because I'm me, because all humans ought to have self-worth," but I'm not sure I buy that. (Too Kantian? Maybe if there was an eschatological explanation of self-worth, I'd find it more plausible.)
In any event, the problem of self-worth is yet another reason that depression is stupid.
One day, my therapist asked me about my self-worth. I forget the exact wording of her question, but the gist of it was to ask what the basis of my feelings of self-worth were. I couldn't really answer her at first.
Then I said I thought I was good at certain things, like teaching and cooking. I said I was intelligent and articulate. She interrupted me, and said that intelligence isn't something that you do for yourself or create for yourself, and being good at something, although you do in large measure create that for yourself, isn't intrinsic to you. She restated her question: why do you regard yourself as having worth as a person.
At this point, I got kind of frustrated, and argued, not in so many words, that my worth as a person was contingent upon my doing good or being worth a damn in the world. She responded that those were measures of others' esteem, not my own self-worth.
I still struggle with this, on two levels - practical and theoretical. (I suppose Aristotle would approve.)
Practically, having a tenuous sense of self-worth means that I'm dependent on a daily basis on others responding to me as though they value me, in order to feel good about myself. Most people who attempt to be entertaining feel this way, I believe. The vast majority of stand-up comics do, for sure: they need people to laugh with them, to assure themselves that people aren't laughing at them. The upshot of this is that bad days make me feel like I'm a bad person, not a person who had a bad day.
Theoretically, I still don't understand the concept of self-worth very well. The other day it occurred to me to distinguish self-worth from self-esteem. Self-esteem looks to me like a fairly vacuous self-boosterism, and I'm not sure what it's supposed to achieve. Do people who believe that they're always doing such good work do better work as a result? Self-worth is more a matter of having dignity and respect for oneself, and regarding oneself as worthy (sorry for the circularity; Aristotle would approve). But to my therapist's question of its basis, I'm still perplexed. I guess she had in mind something like "because I'm me, because all humans ought to have self-worth," but I'm not sure I buy that. (Too Kantian? Maybe if there was an eschatological explanation of self-worth, I'd find it more plausible.)
In any event, the problem of self-worth is yet another reason that depression is stupid.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
depression is stupid - part 2
A common symptom of depression is usually called something like loss of capacity to enjoy pleasurable activities. For instance, over the last few months, I have had less enjoyment from playing the guitar, from listening to music, and even from cooking.
The irony is that these are activities that I engage in not only because I enjoy them for their own sakes, but because they are calming, soothing, even meditative. They relieve stress.
Instead, I've felt like it was worthless for me to play the guitar (because I'll never be a great guitarist), and I haven't been listening much to music (because I can't ever figure out what I want to hear), and I have felt like my cooking was in a rut (because I haven't been patient or exploratory). The distorted perception related to my depressive outlook discounts the value of the activities that generally do, and generally should, make me happy, and so the prospect of them is sometimes overwhelming.
For several years, I found an hour every day to play the guitar (guitars, I suppose), but lately I practically force myself to play, sometimes just out of guilt that I own them and they just sit there taking up space. As one might well imagine, playing an instrument with that motivation is not all that enjoyable. It also doesn't lead to the best performances, which reinforces my perception that I'm so lousy at playing that it's not worth it.
My Loveliest will say that I play beautifully, that she loves to hear me play, and that what should matter is that I play because it feels good to play. This is a difficult message to understand, because I can't think about it in terms of what it does for me. Instead, I feel stressed.
So, the activities in life that I enjoy, that, in a manner of speaking, I need to enjoy, are not relieving stress, but causing it, because I am depressed, in large part because of stress.
Ergo, depression is stupid.
The irony is that these are activities that I engage in not only because I enjoy them for their own sakes, but because they are calming, soothing, even meditative. They relieve stress.
Instead, I've felt like it was worthless for me to play the guitar (because I'll never be a great guitarist), and I haven't been listening much to music (because I can't ever figure out what I want to hear), and I have felt like my cooking was in a rut (because I haven't been patient or exploratory). The distorted perception related to my depressive outlook discounts the value of the activities that generally do, and generally should, make me happy, and so the prospect of them is sometimes overwhelming.
For several years, I found an hour every day to play the guitar (guitars, I suppose), but lately I practically force myself to play, sometimes just out of guilt that I own them and they just sit there taking up space. As one might well imagine, playing an instrument with that motivation is not all that enjoyable. It also doesn't lead to the best performances, which reinforces my perception that I'm so lousy at playing that it's not worth it.
My Loveliest will say that I play beautifully, that she loves to hear me play, and that what should matter is that I play because it feels good to play. This is a difficult message to understand, because I can't think about it in terms of what it does for me. Instead, I feel stressed.
So, the activities in life that I enjoy, that, in a manner of speaking, I need to enjoy, are not relieving stress, but causing it, because I am depressed, in large part because of stress.
Ergo, depression is stupid.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
depression is stupid - part 1
I'm going to see my doctor tomorrow. This evening while vacuuming I was thinking about the cognitive therapy I had before, and how it helped me identify bad mental habits that reinforced depression - in particular the "I'm fraudulent," "I'm not worth shit," and "I'm doomed" parts.
One thing that I need in order to feel happy is social and political involvement. Getting involved in the Society for Phenomenology and Media back in 1999, and getting involved in CFA in 2002, helped me through two dark periods. In particular, CFA activism consistently restored my sense of genuine meaning, purpose, and my own value to the world.
Being in on the politics on campus helped me to understand what was going on, to see my own troubles in a context that showed I wasn't being judged on my merits, but according to a distorted, managerialist, authoritarian model of control that is experienced by the majority of faculty in the US. Learning about our working conditions from my CFA colleagues, and from the contingent faculty movement, was empowering and gave me hope.
A couple years ago, my depression and anxiety symptoms started to return, triggered in part by the last few horrible years of administrative malfeasance, hypocrisy, and greed, and in large part by the resultant increase in my job insecurity. At the same time, I became even more involved in activism, more involved in resisting the autocratic management in whatever way possible.
Much of that effort has seemed to fail, from my perspective. The autocrats remain, they hire more autocrats to carry out their bidding, and they gleefully spend education budgets on union-busting and on consultants whom they hire to figure out how to get rid of more faculty and staff. The stress I'm experiencing from all this is ridiculously high.
Thus, I have a dilemma. I have relied on this range of deep involvements in my institution and in the faculty labor movement for creating meaning and purpose in my life. Besides which, the person I am just can't sit by - I'm simply a born dissenter. On the other hand, the stress is definitely a factor in my depression and anxiety. If I reduce or eliminate those involvements, I will increase the anxiety I feel for not being involved, taking some control over my fate. If I continue, I will maintain or increase the stress that contributes to my anxiety.
My therapist would ask something at this point like, "Is it realistic to think you can control your fate, either way?" Or, "Is that the only way you can control your fate?" One or two of my friends would likely tell me to give up on the union and campus politics. While I get that, I also feel conflicted. Even just last week, a CFA meeting followed the next day by a committee meeting (on college dean evaluation) lifted me from a point where I wasn't sure I could continue going to work. Then on Tuesday of this week, a discussion in academic senate weakened my hope and resolve.
So my conclusion for now isn't that I should or shouldn't stay so deeply involved with things. It's simpler: depression is stupid.
One thing that I need in order to feel happy is social and political involvement. Getting involved in the Society for Phenomenology and Media back in 1999, and getting involved in CFA in 2002, helped me through two dark periods. In particular, CFA activism consistently restored my sense of genuine meaning, purpose, and my own value to the world.
Being in on the politics on campus helped me to understand what was going on, to see my own troubles in a context that showed I wasn't being judged on my merits, but according to a distorted, managerialist, authoritarian model of control that is experienced by the majority of faculty in the US. Learning about our working conditions from my CFA colleagues, and from the contingent faculty movement, was empowering and gave me hope.
A couple years ago, my depression and anxiety symptoms started to return, triggered in part by the last few horrible years of administrative malfeasance, hypocrisy, and greed, and in large part by the resultant increase in my job insecurity. At the same time, I became even more involved in activism, more involved in resisting the autocratic management in whatever way possible.
Much of that effort has seemed to fail, from my perspective. The autocrats remain, they hire more autocrats to carry out their bidding, and they gleefully spend education budgets on union-busting and on consultants whom they hire to figure out how to get rid of more faculty and staff. The stress I'm experiencing from all this is ridiculously high.
Thus, I have a dilemma. I have relied on this range of deep involvements in my institution and in the faculty labor movement for creating meaning and purpose in my life. Besides which, the person I am just can't sit by - I'm simply a born dissenter. On the other hand, the stress is definitely a factor in my depression and anxiety. If I reduce or eliminate those involvements, I will increase the anxiety I feel for not being involved, taking some control over my fate. If I continue, I will maintain or increase the stress that contributes to my anxiety.
My therapist would ask something at this point like, "Is it realistic to think you can control your fate, either way?" Or, "Is that the only way you can control your fate?" One or two of my friends would likely tell me to give up on the union and campus politics. While I get that, I also feel conflicted. Even just last week, a CFA meeting followed the next day by a committee meeting (on college dean evaluation) lifted me from a point where I wasn't sure I could continue going to work. Then on Tuesday of this week, a discussion in academic senate weakened my hope and resolve.
So my conclusion for now isn't that I should or shouldn't stay so deeply involved with things. It's simpler: depression is stupid.
Monday, February 13, 2012
the end of the world - and why it still seems to be going
I know thy works, and where thou dwellest, even where Satan's seat is: and thou holdest fast my name, and hast not denied my faith, even in those days wherein Antipas was my faithful martyr, who was slain among you, where Satan dwelleth. But I have a few things against thee, because thou hast there them that hold the doctrine of Balaam, who taught Balac to cast a stumblingblock before the children of Israel, to eat things sacrificed unto idols, and to commit fornication.
--Revelation, 2:13-14
My loyal readers may have been having some difficulty squaring their experiences with my explanation that the world had ended last week. That's understandable, and, to be candid, I've had some difficulty, myself.
First of all, let me make it as clear as I can that it's a good idea to continue to pay your bills and your rent, even if the world has ended. I have no information that settles once and for all the question of whether debts transfer beyond the Apocalypse. Given our recent experience of the sub-prime mortgage crisis, I'm guessing "yes." Word to the wise.
Second, as I suppose goes without saying, I cannot accept any liability for your failing to pay said bills during the last week.
Moreover, those experiences are very hard to understand in light of today's text, which includes tomorrow's text, since it's about to be Valentine's Day. It's a challenging text, since it does not specifically denote doom, but instead, more of a snit, over behavior that's normally given severe condemnation -- eating sacrificial animals and having hot sex. From my perspective, both eating animals and hot sex are au courant this time of year, so I am sure that's what's referred to. (I think the idea in that last line has something to do with rabbis trying to stop us from eating sacrificial animals and having hot sex. I'm not sure.)
But to what end? And how does this explain how we've had to go to work for almost a whole week now, after the apparent end of everything?
These are challenging times. Dark times. My loyal readers will know that, despite all the portents, we must push forward. After all, tomorrow isn't another day.
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
the end of the world - 7 February
Some things are abundantly clear, in this world. It is clear, for instance, that the fate of the world is tied to the fate of former senator Rick Santorum. We know this to be true because he tells us so.
In an earlier post, I noted the close connection between Santorum's candidacy for the Republican Presidential Nomination, Newt Gingrich's relationship to truth and falsity, and the ultimate end of everything. Gingrich proposed that the South Carolina primary would be "armageddon" for Santorum, and on that basis, I suggested the possibility that Santorum's defeat in South Carolina would herald the end times.
No such luck.
I have since become more clear in my understanding of Newt Gingrich's relationship to the truth. When he said South Carolina would be "armageddon" for Santorum, he had to be uttering falsehood, because he's Newt Gingrich.
Upon further reflection, it's clear that Gingrich provided us the clue we needed to understand these signs. Since Newt cannot tell the truth, his invocation of "armageddon" in South Carolina, on the grounds that Santorum would lose big (as he did), clearly indicates that the true sign of the final end of all ends will be a Santorum victory.
To sum up: Everything Newt Gingrich says is false. Therefore, when he proclaimed that armageddon would follow Rick Santorum's terrible defeat in the South Carolina primary, the truth of that statement was, really, that armageddon would be presaged by Santorum electoral victories. Since Santorum won in the three non-binding, non-elector-selecting primaries and caucuses Tuesday, it's obvious that those elections indicated the end of the world.
Obviously, this means that any work you've done since then will be unpaid. Sorry.
In an earlier post, I noted the close connection between Santorum's candidacy for the Republican Presidential Nomination, Newt Gingrich's relationship to truth and falsity, and the ultimate end of everything. Gingrich proposed that the South Carolina primary would be "armageddon" for Santorum, and on that basis, I suggested the possibility that Santorum's defeat in South Carolina would herald the end times.
No such luck.
I have since become more clear in my understanding of Newt Gingrich's relationship to the truth. When he said South Carolina would be "armageddon" for Santorum, he had to be uttering falsehood, because he's Newt Gingrich.
Upon further reflection, it's clear that Gingrich provided us the clue we needed to understand these signs. Since Newt cannot tell the truth, his invocation of "armageddon" in South Carolina, on the grounds that Santorum would lose big (as he did), clearly indicates that the true sign of the final end of all ends will be a Santorum victory.
To sum up: Everything Newt Gingrich says is false. Therefore, when he proclaimed that armageddon would follow Rick Santorum's terrible defeat in the South Carolina primary, the truth of that statement was, really, that armageddon would be presaged by Santorum electoral victories. Since Santorum won in the three non-binding, non-elector-selecting primaries and caucuses Tuesday, it's obvious that those elections indicated the end of the world.
Obviously, this means that any work you've done since then will be unpaid. Sorry.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
the end of the world - ?
February 2 is Groundhog Day. It's not Groundhog Day, which is a filthy, depraved, disgusting so-called motion picture that was filmed in Clarion, Pennsylvania, not Punxsutawney, since Punxsy is kinda crappy, actually, compared to Clarion. Groundhog Day, the day, not the movie, is an enduring tradition involving drunkenness and rodent exploitation, like most traditions.
What does this have to do with the end of the world, you ask?
We must interpret carefully this perplexing text on Groundhog Day. As always, reading it in the context of Revelation is helpful.
You see? It's odd, until you probe a little deeper.
The lily, thorns, love, and daughters part has a pretty direct meaning, as I'm sure is clear. It's about boinking, and spring, which is, of course, the season of boinking. Groundhog Day is the day that Punxsutawney Phil interprets the omens only he can, in order to determine when spring will arrive. Hence the relevance of the season of boinking line from Song of Solomon.
The verse from Revelation is the pickle. To whom is this addressed? That is, who is "thy"? What are "thy labor" and "thy patience"?
Let's be clear about this: Punxsutawney Phil is an innocent groundhog, who is ceremoniously yanked from a tree trunk at the ass-crack of dawn in godforsaken Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania on the second of February in the midst of a couple thousand college students in the tenth hour of a drunken binge, hoisted aloft by twerps in top hats, and then stuffed back in the tree. If anybody labors patiently, it's Punxsutawney Phil.
Cuuuuute.
Plus, think of the labor he is thus required to perform: he looks for his shadow, among this mayhem (sometimes empty bottles are thrown), and, I can tell you from having seen the spectacle, he's very, very afraid! He can't bear them evil drunken hooligans. (I have always been concerned about Phil's little ears. The crowds are terribly loud.) It is therefore obvious that the "thy" referred to in Revelation is Punxsutawney Phil.
What this tells us is that Phil will tell us whether the end of days (read: the season of boinking) will be delayed six weeks. As a result, I must hold in abeyance my further information about that date and the circumstances of the final and ultimate end of all ends. For now, it's all in Phil'shands paws.
What does this have to do with the end of the world, you ask?
As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
Song of Solomon 2:2
We must interpret carefully this perplexing text on Groundhog Day. As always, reading it in the context of Revelation is helpful.
I know thy works, and thy labor, and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil: and thou hast tried them which say they are apostles, and are not, and hast found them liars:
Revelation 2:2
You see? It's odd, until you probe a little deeper.
The lily, thorns, love, and daughters part has a pretty direct meaning, as I'm sure is clear. It's about boinking, and spring, which is, of course, the season of boinking. Groundhog Day is the day that Punxsutawney Phil interprets the omens only he can, in order to determine when spring will arrive. Hence the relevance of the season of boinking line from Song of Solomon.
The verse from Revelation is the pickle. To whom is this addressed? That is, who is "thy"? What are "thy labor" and "thy patience"?
Let's be clear about this: Punxsutawney Phil is an innocent groundhog, who is ceremoniously yanked from a tree trunk at the ass-crack of dawn in godforsaken Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania on the second of February in the midst of a couple thousand college students in the tenth hour of a drunken binge, hoisted aloft by twerps in top hats, and then stuffed back in the tree. If anybody labors patiently, it's Punxsutawney Phil.
Cuuuuute.
Plus, think of the labor he is thus required to perform: he looks for his shadow, among this mayhem (sometimes empty bottles are thrown), and, I can tell you from having seen the spectacle, he's very, very afraid! He can't bear them evil drunken hooligans. (I have always been concerned about Phil's little ears. The crowds are terribly loud.) It is therefore obvious that the "thy" referred to in Revelation is Punxsutawney Phil.
What this tells us is that Phil will tell us whether the end of days (read: the season of boinking) will be delayed six weeks. As a result, I must hold in abeyance my further information about that date and the circumstances of the final and ultimate end of all ends. For now, it's all in Phil's
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
the end of the world - not 31 January 2012
Pundits are proclaiming today's Florida Republican Primary to be the most significant yet. The Republican Party establishment have evidently come to their collective senses and realized that OMFG NEWT F***ING GINGRICH IS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT?! Consequently, they've poured buckets of money into Mitt Romney.
(Not literally, I suppose.)
Of course, the real significance of this is: Rick Santorum's campaign will begin its inexorable and pitiable descent from madness to obscurity, obscurity to boutique, boutique to dropsical, and finally, dropsical to dead. (That's the usual course of these things.) Despite this, I can safely say that the world will not end today.
There is also no 31st verse of the first chapter of Revelations, and although Chapter Two, Verse One of Ezekiel provides some intriguing hints of what could come up later, obviously that couldn't apply to our situation today, since it's January 31 (i.e., 1:31), not February 1 (i.e., 2:1).
So enjoy your day. My enjoyment of my day will begin with an optometrist appointment. I would make a joke here about going to "see" my optometrist, and it would be hilarious, but I don't have the heart. Depression is a terrible thing, and, as a tip for everyone, optometrists are not qualified to treat depression.
(By the way, it's also impossible for the world to end on the day you go to see your optometrist. This does not apply if your eye doctor is actually an opthamologist.)
(Not literally, I suppose.)
Of course, the real significance of this is: Rick Santorum's campaign will begin its inexorable and pitiable descent from madness to obscurity, obscurity to boutique, boutique to dropsical, and finally, dropsical to dead. (That's the usual course of these things.) Despite this, I can safely say that the world will not end today.
There is also no 31st verse of the first chapter of Revelations, and although Chapter Two, Verse One of Ezekiel provides some intriguing hints of what could come up later, obviously that couldn't apply to our situation today, since it's January 31 (i.e., 1:31), not February 1 (i.e., 2:1).
So enjoy your day. My enjoyment of my day will begin with an optometrist appointment. I would make a joke here about going to "see" my optometrist, and it would be hilarious, but I don't have the heart. Depression is a terrible thing, and, as a tip for everyone, optometrists are not qualified to treat depression.
(By the way, it's also impossible for the world to end on the day you go to see your optometrist. This does not apply if your eye doctor is actually an opthamologist.)
Sunday, January 29, 2012
tenuous
This morning, I'm thinking about my depression and anxiety in relation to my perma-temped job.
I am in my 13th year of teaching at Cow State Santa Claus as a temporary faculty member. I do not have the opportunity for tenure, and have very reasonable assurance that I will never have that opportunity. While the support for humanities education collapses, and while 75% of college faculty nationwide are similarly positioned, my PhD gets staler and staler, and I become more and more un-hirable as a starting assistant professor.
Among tenuous-track faculty (my gag name for those of us in perma-temped positions), CSU "lecturers" enjoy probably the best working conditions, wages, and benefits of anyone. What that does not do anything to resolve is the humiliation we're constantly subject to, and, for me, the added humiliation and despair over my status.
For instance, it is very hard to believe I am really worthy of a tenure-track job, despite having a longer and stronger publication record than several of my tenured colleagues. Psychologically, this is due to my position at the university being one in which I am constantly given that message on a daily basis.
I always worry. I am always concerned that this academic year could be my last, and that, given the landscape of faculty work opportunities, the last of my career. I have a very strong feeling of being temporary, of not being at home, of not being able to have a home, and of having nothing between me and the catastrophic loss of my employment, career, and what I am often rueful to regard as my life's calling.
What struck me particularly about this this morning is how difficult it is for me to sit down and read a book. I'm best at it around 9-10 am, sitting quietly in my work room at home in a blue armchair from Ikea (grad student furniture). But there's always something else I feel I should be doing, something that I have to do in order to try to save, or resurrect, my career. I cannot just sit there and read, not when tomorrow the university could begin disciplinary proceedings against me over a trumped-up charge, and nothing can stop them, because I don't have tenure.
(That's not a paranoid thought, by the way. I've seen it happen several times to temporary faculty, and as a faculty rights rep, I've had no way to do anything about it.)
I am in my 13th year of teaching at Cow State Santa Claus as a temporary faculty member. I do not have the opportunity for tenure, and have very reasonable assurance that I will never have that opportunity. While the support for humanities education collapses, and while 75% of college faculty nationwide are similarly positioned, my PhD gets staler and staler, and I become more and more un-hirable as a starting assistant professor.
Among tenuous-track faculty (my gag name for those of us in perma-temped positions), CSU "lecturers" enjoy probably the best working conditions, wages, and benefits of anyone. What that does not do anything to resolve is the humiliation we're constantly subject to, and, for me, the added humiliation and despair over my status.
For instance, it is very hard to believe I am really worthy of a tenure-track job, despite having a longer and stronger publication record than several of my tenured colleagues. Psychologically, this is due to my position at the university being one in which I am constantly given that message on a daily basis.
I always worry. I am always concerned that this academic year could be my last, and that, given the landscape of faculty work opportunities, the last of my career. I have a very strong feeling of being temporary, of not being at home, of not being able to have a home, and of having nothing between me and the catastrophic loss of my employment, career, and what I am often rueful to regard as my life's calling.
What struck me particularly about this this morning is how difficult it is for me to sit down and read a book. I'm best at it around 9-10 am, sitting quietly in my work room at home in a blue armchair from Ikea (grad student furniture). But there's always something else I feel I should be doing, something that I have to do in order to try to save, or resurrect, my career. I cannot just sit there and read, not when tomorrow the university could begin disciplinary proceedings against me over a trumped-up charge, and nothing can stop them, because I don't have tenure.
(That's not a paranoid thought, by the way. I've seen it happen several times to temporary faculty, and as a faculty rights rep, I've had no way to do anything about it.)
Thursday, January 26, 2012
the end of the world - apparently not 25 January 2012
Okay, I'll admit it, my last post about the end times was motivated entirely by self-interest, namely, my self-interest in having the Spring semester somehow not happen. I didn't have any good backing for that assertion. Sorry. (Say it like a Canadian! "Sore-ry!")
(Ooooh, I smell a meme! "Say it like a Canadian!")
Now that I think about it, my selfish desire to have the world end in order to avoid having to go to school today was incredibly short-sighted. Follow me here: if the world had ended, and I didn't have to go to school today, it would also have been the case that I, too, would have ended, since my existence more or less depends on the world's existence. What was I thinking?!
Clearly, no one should want the world to end, unless that person was more or less assured of some avenue of escape from personal demise concomitant with the world's. Plus, if you think about it, wanting the world to end entails wanting lots of people to stop existing, as well, and there's something slightly rude about that. In fact, this whole "end of the world" business is a lot trickier, ethically speaking, than I thought. Some people are really attached to the world, and their friends and pets. Holy crap! I'm really attached to my friends and my pets! Sorry, guys! ("Sore-ry, guys!")
On the other hand, if the world were to actually, really, officially end - like really end, not just kind of turn crappier - not only would my friends and pets end, but so would I. So I wouldn't continue to exist, only in a world where my friends and pets would not exist. No. I would stop existing, too. That should make the notion more bearable, right? The end of the world wouldn't be just the end of my friends and pets ("Sore-ry!"), but my own end as well, and so I wouldn't have to deal with the pain and loss.
That's nice, eh? ("Eh?")
(Ooooh, I smell a meme! "Say it like a Canadian!")
Now that I think about it, my selfish desire to have the world end in order to avoid having to go to school today was incredibly short-sighted. Follow me here: if the world had ended, and I didn't have to go to school today, it would also have been the case that I, too, would have ended, since my existence more or less depends on the world's existence. What was I thinking?!
Clearly, no one should want the world to end, unless that person was more or less assured of some avenue of escape from personal demise concomitant with the world's. Plus, if you think about it, wanting the world to end entails wanting lots of people to stop existing, as well, and there's something slightly rude about that. In fact, this whole "end of the world" business is a lot trickier, ethically speaking, than I thought. Some people are really attached to the world, and their friends and pets. Holy crap! I'm really attached to my friends and my pets! Sorry, guys! ("Sore-ry, guys!")
On the other hand, if the world were to actually, really, officially end - like really end, not just kind of turn crappier - not only would my friends and pets end, but so would I. So I wouldn't continue to exist, only in a world where my friends and pets would not exist. No. I would stop existing, too. That should make the notion more bearable, right? The end of the world wouldn't be just the end of my friends and pets ("Sore-ry!"), but my own end as well, and so I wouldn't have to deal with the pain and loss.
That's nice, eh? ("Eh?")
Monday, January 23, 2012
the end of the world - 25 January, 2012
In the days following a predicted date of the end of the world, one is often asked to explain how it is that one mistakenly made such a prediction. This is understandable, and I for one certainly promote critical thinking by all of my followers, but these questions are, in truth, out of order.
First of all, the notion that once the date passes, a prediction is proved "wrong," is so simplistic that it's false.
Last week, I was able to discern that the world would end after the South Carolina Republican Primary, that is, following the "armageddon" of Rick Santorum's campaign, predicted by Newt Gingrich. As I explained, it is physically impossible for truth and Newt Gingrich to co-exist in this universe, and so, if he had spoken the truth about Santorum's demise, our own would follow.
Now that Gingrich has been declared the winner in South Carolina, and Santorum in Iowa, we know that Gingrich's claim was not true. Thus, we and our universe continue to exist. Somewhere, on a little watery planet light-years away, emerging extremely alien life crawling through primeval slime is unspeakably grateful, whereas we continue to bitch.
Anyway, my point is that my so-called prediction was not "wrong," since the events of Saturday followed precisely the course that I had explained. QED. [Original text: "QED, mutherfucker!" - Ed.]
Second, this whole business of calling for accountability for "wrong" predictions fundamentally mistakes what this is all about. Visionaries like myself (if I do say so) are not "predicting," like cheap side-show palm readers or tarot charlatans. We are engaged in an interpretation of the signs that the world and our holy texts present to us, an interpretation of world events in their ultimate significance, and in their ultimate days.
Third, I'm not very good at math. Specifically, algebra. And believe me, there's a lot of algebra involved in interpreting the signs and holy texts. Parsing Revelation requires quadratic equations.
Fourth, it's rude.
I am prepared, today, to announce that the world will meet its final and ultimate doom on Wednesday, the 25th of January, 2012. Classes at Cow State Santa Claus are scheduled to begin on Thursday, 26 January, but obviously, I won't be able to make it.
First of all, the notion that once the date passes, a prediction is proved "wrong," is so simplistic that it's false.
Last week, I was able to discern that the world would end after the South Carolina Republican Primary, that is, following the "armageddon" of Rick Santorum's campaign, predicted by Newt Gingrich. As I explained, it is physically impossible for truth and Newt Gingrich to co-exist in this universe, and so, if he had spoken the truth about Santorum's demise, our own would follow.
Now that Gingrich has been declared the winner in South Carolina, and Santorum in Iowa, we know that Gingrich's claim was not true. Thus, we and our universe continue to exist. Somewhere, on a little watery planet light-years away, emerging extremely alien life crawling through primeval slime is unspeakably grateful, whereas we continue to bitch.
Anyway, my point is that my so-called prediction was not "wrong," since the events of Saturday followed precisely the course that I had explained. QED. [Original text: "QED, mutherfucker!" - Ed.]
Second, this whole business of calling for accountability for "wrong" predictions fundamentally mistakes what this is all about. Visionaries like myself (if I do say so) are not "predicting," like cheap side-show palm readers or tarot charlatans. We are engaged in an interpretation of the signs that the world and our holy texts present to us, an interpretation of world events in their ultimate significance, and in their ultimate days.
Third, I'm not very good at math. Specifically, algebra. And believe me, there's a lot of algebra involved in interpreting the signs and holy texts. Parsing Revelation requires quadratic equations.
Fourth, it's rude.
I am prepared, today, to announce that the world will meet its final and ultimate doom on Wednesday, the 25th of January, 2012. Classes at Cow State Santa Claus are scheduled to begin on Thursday, 26 January, but obviously, I won't be able to make it.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
the end of the world - 21 January 2012
And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea.- Revelations 21:1
Saturday, the 21st of January - 21/01/2012 - is very likely to be the end of the world.
No, it's not because Saturday is the sabbath of the chosen people. And it's not because Jon Huntsman dropped out of the Republican Presidential race.
It's because of Rick Santorum.
Now, before anyone gets any crazy ideas about Santorum, his sanctity, or his electability (especially not his electability, cuz, you know, Santorum). In fact, it's not really because of anything Rick Santorum has done or failed to do. It's not because of his pandering to the bigot vote, and it's not because of his adherence to a very weird theology. And I am not saying that Rick Santorum is the antichrist.
To understand the truth, sometimes you have to look beyond the facts. This is one of those times. Facts cannot help us to understand or to know how and why it is that, of all people, Newt Gingrich has discovered the truth.
This will be difficult to comprehend, so let me take it a little slow.
Cosmologists have speculated about the origin and the state of the universe as we presently experience it. Current thinking seems to coalesce around the notion that the reason this universe is here is that, of all possible universes, no incompossible universes can co-exist in the same space-time. That is, this is the universe we live in, because this is the universe that makes it possible for us to live in it. We can't know of the existence of other universes, which are equally possible to our own, if not compossible with it, because to know of their possibility, we'd have to leave this one, and when we did, we'd stop existing, too.
The gist is, there cannot be two co-existing incompossible universes.
So, let's distinguish two different universes. We'll call the first universe Our Universe, and we'll call the second universe Shit-Crazy Universe, just to keep them distinct.
In Our Universe, there is a guy named Newt Gingrich. Newt Gingrich is a politician in the worst possible sense of the term. I mean to say, it is not possible for Newt Gingrich to utter the truth. When I say it's not possible, I mean, Newt Gingrich and anything approaching the truth cannot co-exist in Our Universe. It is a fundamental law of nature.
Yet, Newt Gingrich has told the truth about the Saturday primary, to wit, that it will be armageddon for Rick Santorum. Despite this, Newt Gingrich apparently continues to exist.
Now, once Saturday's primary concludes, once Rick Santorum is soundly defeated, should Newt Gingrich continue to exist, it must be the case, following this fundamental law of nature, that Our Universe will be destroyed, and the Shit-Crazy Universe will replace it. Armageddon for Rick Santorum will thus be armageddon for us all ... except for Newt Gingrich.
Newt Gingrich: destroyer of universes.
Book it. Just before the drop of the puck in the NY Islanders - Carolina Hurricanes NHL game at 7:08 EST.
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