#and a deep wish that i could write a story in a well-defined political landscape for them without ideas of how to develop any kind of plot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hecallsmehischild · 3 years ago

Text

Recent Media Consumed

Books

The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien. About ten or fifteen years ago, I tried to read this and was totally overwhelmed by it. I kept it around, hoping maybe someday I might be able to read it. I finally have, and here are my impressions: WHY SO MANY NAMES. WHY YOU HAVE TO NAME EVERYBODY, AND EVERY TRIBE OF PEOPLES, AND EVERY INANIMATE OBJECT, AND EVERY LANDSCAPE FEATURE. WHY. *ahem* So. I have a general comprehension of the events of The Silmarillion, but I dealt with it by doing what you do for an impressionist painting. I (mentally) stepped way back and let all the names flow by me, and if there were names that were repeated a lot, then I mentally attached appropriate plot points and character details to those names so I could track with who they were and what they were doing. And, actually, I found myself able to hang on and enjoy the book for the most part. This is going to lead into a re-reading of the Lord of the Rings books, since I haven’t read those in about as long…

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien. I haven’t read some of these books since pre-teen years, with one required re-read of The Two Towers in high school (i.e. it’s been many an age since I’ve read these and my memory of the stories has been far more heavily influenced by the movies). In re-reading the first book, I was struck by the extreme tone shift for the Elves and Dwarves. Elves seem much closer to happy, mischievous fairies than these ethereal, solemn pillars of elegance and grace the movies show them to be. And Dwarves are far more bumbling and craftsmanlike than the movies show. Aside from that, The Hobbit was a pretty solid adaptation from the book, and the book also reminded me that this story was the first time I experienced “NO, MAIN CHARACTERS DON’T DIE, HOW DARE YOU,” and probably was the first book to make me cry. I must have been 8 or 10 years old. I FORGOT HOW MUCH THIS STORY INFLUENCED ME.

A Conflict of Visions by Thomas Sowell. I have a longer-than-usual list of things to say about this book. First is that it was just that level of difficult that I was struggling to understand while reading it (on Audible), but I think I got it. Sowell has several base concepts that I see repeated throughout his books, though he does like to dedicate whole books to specific aspects of the same topic. He is pretty damn thorough that way. So, for example, I would put this book in the middle of a three-book spectrum of similar concepts: Intellectuals and Society (most concrete and easiest to read), A Conflict of Visions (next-level abstraction, a little difficult to read), Knowledge and Decisions (root abstract concept, very difficult, I have not been able to get past chapter 2). The second thing I have to say is about a couple interesting concepts it proposes. Its whole point is to help readers understand the roots of two ways of seeing the world that come into severe conflict politically, and he calls them by their root titles: the constrained and the unconstrained visions. He traces the path of each back through the intellectuals that most spoke of them (tending to contrast Adam Smith with William Godwin and Condorcet). Though he leans heavily toward the constrained vision (based on reading his other works) he does his best to make this book an academic study of both, with both of the visions' strengths and flaws and reasoning and internal consistencies fairly laid out. In doing so, he helped me understand a few things that make this situation really difficult for people on opposing sides to communicate. One of them is that root words and concepts literally mean different things to different people. I had some vague notion of this before, but he laid out three examples in detail: Equality, Power, and Justice. It was kind of astounding to see just how differently these three words can be defined. It makes me think that arguing about any specific issues rooted in these concepts is fruitless until first an understanding has been reached on terms, because otherwise two parties are endlessly talking past each other. Another really interesting idea he brought up is the existence of “hybrid visions” and he named both Marxism and Fascism as hybrid visions. This was especially fascinating to me because I have seen the accusation of “Nazi” flung around ad nauseam and I wondered how it was that both sides were able to fling it at each other so readily. Well, it’s because Fascism is actually a hybrid vision, so both sides have a grain of truth but miss the whole on that particular point. In any case, this was a little difficult to read but had some fascinating information. For people who are wondering what on earth this gap is between political visions, how on earth to bridge the gap, or why the gap even exists in the first place, this is a really informative piece.

Movies

The Hobbit & Fellowship trilogies (movies). I mean, it’s definitely not my first watch, not even my second. But I went through it with Sergey this time and that means the run-time is double because we pause to talk and discuss details. This watch came about partly due to Sergey’s contention that Gandalf’s reputation far outstrips his actual powers, so we ended up noting down every instance of Gandalf’s power to see if that was true. Conclusion: Gandalf is actually a decently powerful wizard, but tends to use the truly kickass powers in less-than-dire circumstances. That aside, this movie series was always a favorite for me. I rated The Hobbit trilogy lower the first time I saw it but, frankly, all together the six movies are fantastic and a great way to sink deep into lore-heavy fantasy for a while. And I’m catching way more easter-egg type details after having read the Silmarillion so it’s even more enjoyable. (finally, after about a week of binge-watching) I forgot how much this story impacted me. I forgot how wrenchingly bittersweet the ending is. I forgot how much of a mark that reading and watching this story left on my writing.

Upside-Down Magic. Effects were good. Actors were clearly having fun and enjoying everything. Story didn’t make enough sense for my taste, but it was a decent way to kill flight time.

Wish Dragon. So, yes, it’s basically an Aladdin rewrite, but it’s genuinely a cheesy good fluff fest that made me grin a whole lot.

Plays

Esther (Sight and Sound Theatres). < background info > This is my third time to this theatre. There are only two of these in existence and they only run productions of stories out of the Bible. The first time I went I saw a production of Noah, the second time I saw a production of Jesus. My middle sister has moved all the way out to Lancaster, PA in hopes of working at this theatre. My husband and I came out to visit her. < /background info > So. Esther. They really pulled out all the stops on the costumes and set. I mean, REALLY pulled out all the stops. And the three-quarters wrap-around stage is used to great effect. I tend to have a general problem of not understanding all the words in the songs, but I understood enough. I highly recommend sitting close to the front for immersive experiences. This theatre puts on incredible productions and if you ever, ever, EVER have the opportunity to go, take it. Even if you think it's nothing but a bunch of fairy tales, STILL GO. I doubt you'll ever see a fairy tale produced on another stage with equal dedication to immersion.

Shows

The Mandalorian (first two seasons). Well. This was pretty thoroughly enjoyable. It felt very Star-Wars, and I’d kind of given up after recent movies. Felt like it slipped into some preaching toward the end? Not sure, I could be overly sensitive about it, but I enjoyed this a lot (though I did need to turn to my housemate and ask where the flip in the timeline we were because I did NOT realize that the little green kid IS NOT ACTUALLY Yoda).

Games

Portal & Portal 2. Portal is probably the first video game I ever tried to play, back when I had no idea what I was doing. Back then, I attempted to play it on my not-for-gaming Mac laptop. Using my trackpad. Once the jumping-for-extra-velocity mechanic came into play, I just about lost my mind trying to do this with a trackpad and gave up. Later I returned to the game and played it with my then-boyfriend on a proper gaming computer. Now, after having played several games and gotten better at "reading the language" of video games, I decided I wanted to see if I could beat the Portal games by myself. Guess what. I BEAT 'EM. Yes, I remembered most of the puzzles in Portal so that's a little bit of a cheat, but I'd say a good 2/3 of Portal 2 was new puzzles to me. It is crazy how proud I feel of myself that I could beat Portal 2, especially. Learning how to play video games at this age has really knocked down the lie, "You can't learn anything." Though I still suck at platformers and games that require precision. Since I find those types frustrating, I probably won't be playing many. Games are about enjoyment, so I'll push myself a little, but not to the point where I can't stand what I'm playing.

The Observer. I like the concept and the art but I don't think I could keep trying to play this game. It's really depressing. My in-game family members all died of illness or accident or committed suicide. I also kept getting executed by the state. In order to keep us all alive I'd have to do pretty terrible things that I have a hard enough time contemplating even in a fictional setting.

Baba Is You. Fun and interesting concept, but I got stuck pretty early on. Don't think I want to push as hard on this one.

#recent media consumed #n00b gamer child #child loves books #child loves movies #child loves shows

14 notes · View notes

ruminativerabbi · 6 years ago

Text

Thanksgiving 2018

For as long as any of us can recall, American Jews have celebrated Thanksgiving out of a deep sense of gratitude to God for any number of different things that define our lives in this place: the great prosperity of this land in which we share; the security provided for us and for all by our matchless and supremely powerful military; the freedoms guaranteed to all by a Bill of Rights that basically defines the American ethos in terms of the autonomy of the individual; the specific kind of participatory democracy that grants each of us a voice to raise and a ballot to cast; the freedom to embrace a minority faith—or any faith—without fear, reticence, or nervousness about what others may or may not think; and the inner satisfaction that comes from being part of a nation that self-defines in terms of its mission to do good in the world and to combat tyranny, oppression, and demagoguery wherever such baleful things manage to take root among the peoples of the world.

None of any of the above strikes me as being anything other than fully true, yet I can’t stop reading op-ed pieces and blog postings that posit that things have somehow changed, that the world now is not as it even just recently was, that it is the past and all its glories that shine bright now rather than the unknown—and unknowable—future, and that every one of the reasons listed above for us American Jews to join our fellow citizens in feeling deeply grateful for our presence in this place could just as reasonably be deemed illusory as fully real. And I hear those sentiments, interestingly enough, coming from people on both ends of the political spectrum as well as from all those self-situated just to the right or left of center. Nor are American Jews alone in their ill ease: if there is one thing vast swaths of our American nation seem able to agree upon, it’s that the age of great leadership belongs to history and that it is thus our destiny for the foreseeable future to be led by people whose sole claim to serve as our nation’s leaders is that they somehow managed to get themselves elected to public office. No one seems to dispute the fact that this is not at all a healthy thing for the republic. But expressing regret is not at all the same thing as formulating a specific plan to address the situation as it has evolved to date.

To keep this creeping malaise from interfering in an untoward manner as we prepare to celebrate our nation’s best holiday, I suggest we take the long view.

Frederic E. Church was a nineteenth century man, born in 1826 when John Quincy Adams was in the White House and dead in the spring of 1900 as a new century dawned. He was also one of America’s greatest landscape painters, a member of the so-called Hudson River School and, in his day, one of the most celebrated artists alive. I mention him today, however, not to recall the larger impact of his oeuvre, but to tell you about one single one of his paintings, the one called “The Icebergs.”

As you can see, the picture (currently owned by the Dallas Museum of Art) is magnificent. But what made it famous in its day was specifically the way in which it was taken by many to capture the surge of self-confidence that characterized America’s sense of its own destiny at the end of the nineteenth century. One author, Jörn Münkner, characterized the painting’s appeal in this passage composed when the painting was put on exhibition at Georgetown University:

Frederik E. Church's "The Icebergs" pictured the Alpha and Omega of time and tide. It reflected the mid-19th century American world-view that was characterized by the belief in a “Manifest Destiny” according to which the United States…was the New Israel that had been prepared for by the divinity. 1861 saw the U.S. reigning from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes. Nature was regarded as holy and science as sanctified. The belief in the American Garden Eden whose very fortunes were guided by the Creator emanated out of the scientifically correct “The Icebergs.” It was the display of the rare and intoxicating American amalgam of science, religion, and nationalism. The relationship of the actual and the real that was concealed in the painting revealed the idea/fact that scientific thinking in America was shaped by a deep religious faith. Providence guided the scholarly painter's hand.

I find those words somehow inspiring and chilling at the same time, but I see what the author means: even after all this time, the painting hasn’t really lost its ability to suggest the majesty of nature or its timelessness. I get a bit lost on my way from that thought to the notion of manifest destiny inspiring America’s nineteenth-century rise to greatness (and, yes, the whole America as the new Israel is beyond peculiar, as surely also is the fact that the artist was thinking so expansively about American destiny on the eve of what in 1861 would still have been unimaginable carnage), yet I really can see the strength, the power, and the sense of ineluctable kismet mirrored in the majestic icebergs in the picture…and so finding in them a symbol both of America’s uniqueness and of its remarkable destiny is not as big a stretch as I thought at first it would be.

But other nineteenth-century types saw different things in the image of these gigantic icebergs afloat in an endless sea.

Edward Bellamy, once one of America’s most famous authors, has been almost completely forgotten. Yet his 1888 book, Looking Backward, was the third most popular American novel of nineteenth century, exceeded in fiction sales only by Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Ben-Hur. An early utopian novel, the book tells the story of one Julian West, a young man from Boston who goes to bed one night in 1887 and somehow manages only to wake up from his sleep in the year 2000. Some of the author’s predictions are uncannily correct—he depicts West as enjoying the almost instant delivery of goods ordered without having to visit any actual stores—while other things West finds in 2000, like a universal retirement age of 45, have not turned out quite as the author imagined they might. But it is the author’s postscript to his own work I want to cite here, as he imagines America in the future and uses his own version of the iceberg symbol to express his dismay. Almost definitely thinking of Church’s painting and the expansive optimism it inspired, he wrote as follows:

As an iceberg, floating southward from the frozen North, is gradually undermined by warmer seas, and, become at least unstable, churns the sea to yeast for miles around by the mighty rockings that portend its overturn, so the barbaric industrial and social system, which has come down to us from savage antiquity, undermined by the modern humane spirit, riddled by the criticism of economic science, is shaking the world with convulsions that presage its collapse.

This line of thinking I also understand: for all it appears mighty and invincible as it rises from the sea, icebergs are, after all, just so much frozen water. They melt as they float into warmer waters than can sustain them, which may (or may not) dramatically affect the ocean into which they dissolve but cannot affect the iceberg itself once it disappears into the sea and is no more.

So one image and two distinct interpretations. Of course, both are right. An inert, uncomprehending iceberg was powerful enough to sink the most sophisticated ocean liner of its day in 1912. And the semi-famous iceberg rather prosaically named B-15, which broke away from Antarctica’s Ross Ice Shelf in 2000, is about to melt into the South Atlantic Ocean. At 3,200 square nautical miles, B-15 is larger than the island of Jamaica. Yet its doom was sealed not by weapons of mass destruction or acts of God, but by the sea’s slightly too-warm water. (To read more, click here.) From this we learn that strength and weakness are not as unrelated as their antithetical nature makes them at first appear. Indeed, they are each other’s twins…and from that thought I draw the lesson I wish to offer to my readers for Thanksgiving Day in the Age of Anxiety.

Our nation is currently divided down into people who see America’s great and mighty presence in the world pointing to a remarkable destiny framed by our nation’s ongoing commitment to the foundational principles upon which the republic was founded and still rests. Such people look at Church’s painting and are heartened by what they see because solid, powerful, majestic icebergs afloat in the sea remind them of our nation, its strong moral underpinnings, its commitment to (the American version of) tikkun olam, and its invincible military. This group includes members who vote red and who vote blue, but others see our nation coming apart at the seams, a country divided down into warring factions in which personal liberty is increasingly defined in terms of the sensitivities of the majority and in which justice is meted out entirely differently to people of different races and social strata. Such people look at Church’s painting and hear Bellamy’s warning that even giant icebergs that look stable and impregnable can be undermined by the gentle, unarmed presence of a warm current in the sea. Nothing lasts forever. Every Achilles has his heel. No garden thrives because it was once watered.

So who is right? I propose we give the last word to Bellamy himself, whose afterword to his own novel (which I am currently reading for the first time) closes with these words: “All thoughtful men agree,” he writes, “that the present aspect of society is portentous of great changes. The only question is whether they will be for the better or the worse. Those who believe in man’s essential nobleness lean to the former view, those who believe in his essential baseness to the latter. For my part, I hold to the former opinion. Looking Back was written in the belief that our Golden Age lies before us and not behind us, and is not far away. Our children will surely see it, and we too who are already men and women, if we deserve it by our faith and by our works.”

Despite it all, that’s what I think too! And I offer that thought—part prayer, part wish, part hope—to you all on this Thanksgiving Day, a day on which all Americans are united by the desire to recognize the good in ourselves and our nation, and to be grateful for the potential to do good in the world that derives directly from that noble sense of what it means to be an American.

#Frederic Church #Thanksgiving #Edward Bellamy

5 notes · View notes

tessatechaitea · 5 years ago

Text

Scarab #2

This looks like the original cover to a Philip K. Dick book where you just knew the editor and publisher had no idea what was happening so they commissioned some artist to just paint some "crazy fantasy shit."

Boredom warning: the protagonist of this comic book is still a super old guy.

Eleanor isn't dead like everybody who read the first issue believed by the end of it. That means about ten people were surprised when they picked up Issue #2 of this series. Logically, I know more than ten people purchased Scarab #2. But if we lived in a world where comic book readers didn't just constantly shrug their shoulders and keep buying every issue of a series simply because they picked up the first issue and actually limited their purchases to comic books that had an entertaining previous issue, my estimate would probably be pretty close to the mark. Louis has brought Eleanor back into the Labyrinth of Doors to keep her alive because time doesn't work there. I mean, it does work there because people can move around there and movement is a symptom of time. Symptom might be the wrong word but when have I ever cared about my word choices? You either have time or you have stasis. You can't have both! Unless you live in the Phantom Zone and then I don't know what the fuck is going on. Sometimes kids grow up there and other times dogs roam billions of miles unchanged to find their stupid boy. If Louis wanted to be more accurate, he'd point out that life functions seem to slow down to imperceptibility inside the Labyrinth of Doors. If Eleanor seems like she didn't age for fifty years while living there previously, she probably won't bleed out until he can figure out how to work Scarab's super life saving powers on Eleanor, the way he used them after he was thrown out of a second floor window and became an undulating sack of blood and broken bones that somehow wormed his way up two flights of stairs and opened the bottom drawer of a dresser (which is the biggest impossibility. Go lie on your stomach on the floor right now and try to open your dresser drawer. If you were successful, now go belly flop off the roof of the house and try again, smart ass). Louis admits that Eleanor's soul has left her body so he's really just taking care of a naked empty vessel. The naked part is the most important part of Eleanor's current description. Why else would he want to prolong his grief when he knows she's dead? Now this pervert just gets his kicks off bathing her every twenty minutes.

See? He admits it.

The Phantom Stranger arrives because why not. A writer has to throw something into this thing to attract buyers. Fans of The Phantom Stranger would have been all over this comic book when they saw him on the cover, probably doubling the amount of people who purchased it. Yes, I'm saying there are only ten Phantom Stranger fans. The Phantom Stranger really is a genius idea for a comic book character. If you call your character a stranger that means you can't divulge too much about that character lest they stop being a stranger. Which means you don't actually have to do any real work building the character, or giving the character motivation, or making any kind of sense at all! You can just have him poke his nose into other people's business every now and...um...help? Maybe not help? Maybe just judge. I don't really know what he does because he's been written so well over the years! I wish I could write a character this popular without ever giving it any defining characteristics or motivation. Oh, excuse me, I suppose The Phantom Stranger does have some defining characteristics. I forgot about the fedora and the trench coat. Meanwhile, a beam of light that used to be somebody (Eleanor? The Sicari?) flies through God's eye, circles Hell, and winds up coming its brains out in the Internet. I don't know how sexually exciting the Internet was in 1993. It was mostly just AOL chat rooms, bank account draining Neverwinter Nights, and Star Trek bulletin boards. Okay fine. I admit it. Just typing that gave me a boner. Once DC's Vertigo line was fully up and running with a few major titles leading the way and proclaiming, "This is what Vertigo is!", other titles with newer writers came along and all produced exactly the kind of shit that Vertigo apparently was. I don't know if I can fully articulate what that was, sort of a mash-up of Milligan's weirdness and sensitivity from Shade the Changing Man combined with the stark, metaphysical horrors of Moore's Swamp Thing and the shitty, grim reality and politics of Delano's Hellblazer with a sprinkling of the intellectual topsy-turvy re-tellings of mythic unreality of Gaiman's Sandman. But even unable to really describe it, I fucking know when I read something written to be a Vertigo title rather than written to be a story worthy of being a Vertigo title.

This might as well be a Polaroid of writer John Smith wanking himself off.

The early nineties were full of these kinds of Vertigo titles that just strung together words and phrases trying to invoke some kind of profound weirdness. Even the previous series I discussed, Milligan's The Extremist, came off as one of these books that was just putting on the clothing of Vertigo to make it seem more important. But at least The Extremist used the weird and outlandishly adult story to portray flawed humans considering their lives and how they got to where they were and what the fuck do they do now? There were some really bleak and gut-wrenching moments in The Extremist that I truly loved even if the plot didn't matter much to me. But it was the plot that pulled and pushed the characters to those moments, so who am I to complain? Also there were plenty of titties. I know, I know! All you high-falutin' comic book nerds don't read comic books to get boners like I do! Well la dee da! Just remember that I'm not judging you for getting your kicks by sticking your genitals in Blue Bonnet ice cream and putting it back in the display case. Um, anyway, this comic book still has a lot of space so I'm not giving up on it providing me with great moments. And since my tone in this commentary says I'm casually beating the shit out of Smith's writing," I should probably show something I sort of liked. The Phantom Stranger has touched Louis's head to make him relive some of his memories as Scarab. And while it's an easy way to present a bunch of "weird" story fragments that John Smith doesn't have to expound on, I still like this one:

The Non-Certified Spouse tells me "Weltschmerz" means, literally translated, "world pain."

On the left hand, this is just more of that "here's some weird stuff to stick into this magazine to make it Vertigo!" But on the right hand, I'd love for this to actually be a story that Smith thought out and formed into a coherent, deep, and touching two to four issue arc. Maybe Smith jotted it down and thought, "That's really all that needs to be said about that." But isn't that also how pitches start? This is a pitch. The story that could grow from this could be tragic and heartbreaking with all the nihilistic elements to ultimately provide evidence of the uplifting and hopeful nature of mankind. I think maybe this one panel should have been the pitch for Scarab. Some more of Louis's memories ("Frozen in ice on the dark side of the moon, summoning the Breathing Trees for help" and "Teaming up with Sargon the Sorcerer against the dreaded double menace of Doktor Vortex and The Quote") help establish that the Scarab had weird adventures that, while extruding the essence of Vertigo phrases, also helps ground the Scarab in the Golden Age. Because that's weird shit that you can absolutely see on the cover of comics with huge price tags hanging on the wall behind the counter of any local comic book shop. No difference exists between the two scenarios I just quoted and Batman and Robin battling "The man who saw with his fingers!" Smith is definitely evoking the Golden Age here. And, of course, Vertigo because that Auschwitz thing.

Look at me! Reading into and explicating the evidence of the text when I could have just kept reading ahead and had John Smith say it to me plainly.

The Phantom Stranger tells Louis he needs to become the Scarab again because "the world skin is diseased" and "the wheels of chance are turning too fast" and "disorder corrupts the physical plane." But then when Louis is all, "So that's why all this shit is happening!", The Phantom Stranger says, "Well, I mean, it's hard to tell for sure. But, you know, maybe somebody sent the Sicari. It's a possibility. But then, maybe not. Who knows? But just do what I say, just in case! I'm sure if Madame Xanadu were here, she'd totally agree with me." Meanwhile, the light that actually is Eleanor isn't in the Internet at all. When it said it had entered "the Net" while orgasming harder than it's ever orgasmed before (take that, Louis!), I simply assumed Smith was being all cutting edge in 1993. But he just meant the "net of life" or whatever. She's just connected to everything now. That's probably a better path for this story since the Internet wouldn't get interesting for another year when Geocities came along and The X-Files fan pages started to proliferate like cancer cells. Louis's only desire is to find Eleanor again so if becoming Scarab can help do that, he'll take it back and maybe he'll get around to saving the world too. The Phantom Stranger just remains silent because that's what he does best. As if he knows anything! He's totally acting like he knows stuff by not saying stuff but really looking like he knows that stuff while he really don't know any of that stuff. Like knows like, my man, and I see you! The Phantom Stranger leaves and Louis asks the scarabaeus (that's the thing that turns him into the Scarab which I also probably spelled incorrectly) to make him young again and it works! Issue #3 is going to be more exciting simply because the protagonist isn't an old man anymore! Me and six other people can't wait for it! Scarab #3 Rating: B. Enh, it wasn't so bad! Sure, I had plenty to criticize. But in the end, it's a story about mortality and longing for the expansive freedom and possibility that fall further and further into a person's past until all they have left is the end of fatigue promised by death! I can totally relate to this shit.

#Scarab #John Smith #Scot Eaton #Mike Barreiro #Vertigo #DC Comics #DC

0 notes

thetravelingresearcher-blog · 8 years ago

Text

A Catch Up! Frustrations, Research, and Travels May 30th - June 19th: From developing my research to traveling from Cadiz to Seville to the Sierra Nevada mountains and back again

Well! I have certainly lacked a bit here. The past 2 weeks and some change have been a whirlwind of excitement, adventure, life lessons, delicious food, incredible views, and intense research! Before I dive into the nitty-gritty, I want to point out some important lessons I have learned along the way.

Culture is a very interesting topic. While there are wonderful, extravagant, weird, wild, and just plain neat cultures in the world there is one defining barrier that bars one from fully submerging themselves. That barrier can be defined as language.I am just a man who has never ever in his life been thrown into a situation where I have almost no ground but myself with which to refer to. my ability to charm people with words, ask directions, have deep conversations with incredible individuals, and generally submerge myself in a place has been halted by the ever so high language barrier. I came to Spain not knowing a lick of Spanish, which is very frustrating, especially after spending two years learning another European language (German). While my language skills in that Language are average to fluent, I sit at ground zero with my Spanish. I am basically like a 1-year-old. I can say things like:I would like (blank)’, ‘it is hot outside’, ‘how are you’, ‘I am well’, ‘can I have’, and other cursory phrases that help me out when in a restaurant, or simply greeting somebody and talking about the weather(it is always sunny in Spain. I have seen a maximum of 10 clouds since I have arrived). so basically I am at ground zero, which is so very difficult. I will share two experiences since I have been here that have absolutely frustrated me. I will begin with a more comical one:

The “Vodafone Experience” This is something my flatmates and I have a shared experience of... the dreaded recharging of our data plans at the hellhole that is Vodafone. I do not think I have ever had a worse experience while being on the receiving end of customer service. I have never met people who are so opposed and difficult to dealing with foreigners, and who so openly oppose each other. It all begins with walking in and grabbing a ticket that specifically says “recargar”. From there one take a seat in the nice red round cushy chairs in the corner. One might loose themselves in the soft music being played, and begin to relax as they wait in the queue. Keep in mind that I am an obviously American individual. eventually one hears a mispronunciation of their name (Anglo names and Spanish names are quite different, as is their pronunciations ). One walks up to the servicer, expecting the lady/gentleman to help me out, and be patient. They ask, “what can I help you with” in Spanish and I respond politely, “Neccisito recargar mi telefono por favor”..... Not a second later, the servicer bursts into rapid, LOUD Spanish about me not being able to recharge my phone and blah blah blah. They are obviously frustrated, and I quickly pull out my phone to fire off a paragraph of what I would like to do in Google Translate, and I shove my phone in front of their face.... They take a second to look at it, then look up at me with this look of annoyance, and possibly hate and begin the rapid Spanish even louder than before. At this point, I am back in my chair, and pretty intimidated, as I have no clue what this person is saying to me, or why they are so angry and making a scene. People are staring at me and all I can manage is a feeble “yo no se” (I don't understand). To this, the person screws up their face, then shakes their head like I am an idiot. I continue to explain because I have done this process of recharging my phone successfully before in another city. I don't understand why they are being so difficult. The scene is slowly exploding and I get a bit angry. I don't understand why they won't do the same process they have done before. Eventually, I try to explain the steps this person must pursue and they look at me like I am still an idiot, but to this, they understand. The process is completed, and I walk out with sweat beading off my forehead, and not because it is insanely hot outside.

The “I wish I could help this person” experience This experience is a bit tamer than the former. Most days I go to this quaint, cozy, and tucked away coffee shop down a narrow street. The walls are lined with books, the floor is covered with beautiful carpets, and the waiters are incredibly nice. In fact, I am writing this post from the very spot. I typically get a table by the window, adjacent to the bar, so that I can see what is happening inside and outside the shop. Jazz plays in the background and sets the calm mood of this gem of a spot. I order my usual, a Cafe Americano, and open my laptop to begin work. As of late, I partition my time between doing research and planning travel. around 12 o’clock every day a blind man ambles his way into the room, and makes a big entrance, loudly exclaiming, “Hola! Buenos Dias!” He then makes his way to the end of the bar, where he takes a cautious seat, and orders. Every day I see this man come in, and I notice that the waiters will stop whatever they are doing to help him around (He likes to move a lot). He seems like a very nice man, and I can't help but want to introduce myself, but how? I speak next to no Spanish.

I can't help but feel a connection between this man and I. He is blind, and I can't speak the language. I want to help him on his way home every day, but how can I? How could he communicate to me where he wants to go, and how would I know anyways? The streets of Cadiz are dangerous. Taxi’s buzz by, with no heed to your safety, even if you have to press yourself against the wall. Scooters come out of nowhere to surprise you, as they cut you off around a corner. People will basically walk over you if you do not keep moving. How does this man do it? He must be some kind of scientist, who has broken down how to get around a chaotic, narrowly streeted, loud, smelly, and generally intimidating city? I cannot fathom. Thus, I cannot help but want to help. I get the most joy out of life by helping people. It is the best feeling in the world, and almost always leads to a wonderful story and a cool adventure. I cannot help but want, alas I can't. The language barrier bars my way.

I hate saying I can't. and there may seem a repetition of that word in this section. Please take note, because I have. Learning a language may be difficult, but it is an awarding endeavor. The one I plan to pursue. I hate the expression and I wish to rid myself of it because I can.

So there is that.... Now onto the...

The research I don't want to bore you guys to death with my academic endeavors here, but I am very excited about them. Overall they are going well, and the research is chugging along and formulating itself beautifully. It feels great to be an undergraduate, doing lead research in a field that is in large unexplored (at least in the area I am studying). I will give you a basic rundown of how I have progressed, and we will call it at that.

So....

I have formulated my hypotheses and theories about how Gibraltar will develop itself concerning nationality, and the cleavages that will show themselves as the wheel of time turns (catch that reference anyone? ANYONE?). I have developed my research, and with the help of my extremely smart mentor, have decided to pursue a comparative study between Hong Kong’s experience with sovereignty change in 1997 and Gibraltar’s upcoming possible(probable) change.

From there I have developed an outline and have begun writing. It is crude, but with time It will be a beautiful essay.

So......

Adventure Two weekends ago, I decided to accompany my flatmate, Peter, up the largest mountain in the Iberian Peninsula, the Mulhacen. sitting at an incredible 11,387 feet, it was the first mountaineering experience I have ever had, and the highest I have ever been. Words cannot begin to describe this experience, but I will try.

Hiking at elevation is more difficult than at sea level, naturally. along with the continued exertion of gaining elevation, there is the small matter that the higher you go, the less oxygen there is. Every 100 meters or so one must stop and catch their breath. This makes the process of summiting the mountain, or any mountain, a labored process.

If there was no risk though, there would be no reward. That reward is the internal satisfaction of achievement, and the external satisfaction of seeing the vast, sweeping landscape beneath you. It is an emotional and personal experience to climb a mountain. While one might do it with people, the challenge itself is a lonely endeavor. One that is only shared when you are off the mountain, and even then it is personal. I have had similar experiences all my life, and especially in recent years with my work at Northern Tier, but even carrying a 70-pound canoe and a 30-pound pack up and down hills, through mud bogs, and across rickety boards for miles doesn't quite compare. Those walks are exhililerating, but they just don't quite compare...

Specifically because climbing a mountain is a more direct metaphor for life. I won't go into detail, as I think one should not read about it and experience it, but if for some reason you cannot climb, hike, or endeavor up a mountain, let me know, and I will share this metaphor with you. It is a good life lesson.

So that is it for now! Other than that, I have had other experiences here in Spain, but they are far less impactful. Until next time, my readers.

1 note · View note

fashiontrendin-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Psychology of Ghosting and Why People Can’t Stop Doing It

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-psychology-of-ghosting-and-why-people-cant-stop-doing-it/

The Psychology of Ghosting and Why People Can’t Stop Doing It

My ghost is named Tom.

He’s persistent, this ghost. He likes haunting my dreams, catching me off-guard in the milk-sweet land of sleep, slipping into my unconscious and rattling the cage of my brain. I dream he’s back in my life, unapologetic and unreformed, still cheating and gaslighting and drinking too much. In these dreams, I am still desperate for answers, asking him over and over why he vanished, why he gave up his flesh-and-blood self and became this ghost that — even after seven years, three new cities, countless dates and the love of a good man, the best I’ve ever known — I still can’t shake.

Ghosting (the term we’ve assigned to the sudden disappearance of a romantic interest) has become synonymous with modern romance: A 2016 Plenty of Fish survey revealed 78% of users had been ghosted. When I did my own Insta-investigation, I received dozens of responses, ranging from righteous indignation to extreme chill. “Rude but inescapable” seems to be the general agreement among those I spoke to about ghosting in the age of online dating.

It’s not that the dating “slow fade” is new (one girl told me she had a friend in high school who called it “two-weeking”: After hooking up with a girl, he’d ignore her entirely for two weeks — just long enough, he said, for her to get the picture), but technology has shifted the landscape by presenting a version of the world that feels both impossibly small and intoxicatingly large. One unreturned letter in the 1800s and you could warm yourself at night with the strong odds that he perished of scurvy; now, we’re able to see our ghosts out in the world, eating brunch, Instagram Story-ing the weird bird they saw on the walk to work. Combine that with the inherent dehumanization of online dating, in which complex individuals are reduced to swipeable avatars, and what we’ve created is a flourishing breeding ground for people for whom honest, direct communication feels not only unpalatable but unnecessary.

F. Diane Barth, a New York-based psychotherapist and the author of the new book I Know How You Feel: The Joy and Heartbreak of Friendship in Women’s Lives, says that while ghosting as we understand it isn’t new, the way we have pathologized it is. “In the past, a person could stop calling or dropping by,” she says, “but now we have so many more ways of disconnecting from a person, like being unfriended or unfollowed.” Online dating also provides the comfort blanket of partial anonymity: There likely aren’t mutual friends to call you out on your callous behavior, nor shared physical spaces that force interaction. “Our communities are larger now,” says Barth, “so it’s entirely possible you might never, ever run into them again.”

The Anatomy of the Ghosted

Modern ghosting can impart a distinct and isolating feeling of shame for those who experience it. “People who have been ghosted often feel that they are the person who has done something wrong,” says Barth. “You’ve been dropped off the edge of the earth, which is very traumatic. You don’t think about how many other people this has happened to, but rather that there must be something wrong with you.”

Barth notes that shame is the brain’s natural reaction when “something or someone interrupts us in the middle of doing something we are enjoying.” Our natural instinct is to “undo the situation” so we can get back to that feeling of happiness. When we can’t — when we are, in fact, cut off completely from the source of the good feeling — we look for ways to explain away the bad feelings: She didn’t want to commit, he didn’t like my laugh. “No matter how you explain it to yourself, though,” writes Barth, “your psyche is trying to undo the sense of disruption of the good feelings. Shame is a reaction to having a circuit in your emotional system broken.”

Am I not funny? Do people not get my jokes?

It’s a very particular wound and one that is becoming inescapably familiar. Former online dater and ghostee Kelsey says her primary reaction to being ghosted was the feeling that she must be the problem. “We’re obsessed with fine-tuning and laboring over our superficial appearances (both in-person and online),” she says. “So when we’re ghosted, I think we often jump to trying to figure out what in that outer shell wasn’t well-received, and we let that disapproval soak into our inner layers that define us. We cycle through our insecurities. … Oh shit, did he not think that was funny? Am I not funny? Do people not get my jokes? Oh crap, is that what I’m giving off?”

The shame is compounded by a feeling of being duped. Alexandra was ghosted by a guy she’d been dating for a few weeks. “On our first date, we talked for six hours straight and ended it in a moonlit make-out,” she says. “He talked about cooking together after we had sex in my kitchen. We went on mini field trips — to the beach! to the cliffs! — and had after-work check-ins where he’d call me on his way home to hear about my day. And then, one day, he went from telling me he was addicted to me to only speaking if spoken to. He would weasel out of committing to a plan. He would hit me with a ‘Hey!’ on the Sunday evening of a weekend where he’d assured me he would be seeing me.”

Eventually, she says, she’d had enough. “I told him I was an adult and needed planning, that I couldn’t just keep my schedule endlessly open for him on the off chance he was free. He apologized, promised he’d do better, promised we’d see each other with more regularity. But it dwindled until our interactions were reduced to him watching my Insta Stories while I was halfway across the world on a hiking trip.”

She’s now happily cohabitating with someone else but still has trouble shaking the experience. “I think he was dishonest about how he felt about me, which made me feel like a fool. And yet he didn’t have the strength to just tell me.”

The Anatomy of the Ghoster

To state the obvious: It’s rude, plain and simple, to fail to consider another person’s feelings. We’re talking preschool lessons, the golden rule. We all learned this. So why do the ghosts ghost?

“For me, the motivation was rooted in a strong aversion to being honest about my emotions, usually for fear of hurting feelings,” says Andy, reforming ghoster. “I found that it was easier to let silence do the talking than force myself to utter, ‘I had a nice time, but I don’t feel a connection’ or whatever you’re supposed to say.”

Others, like the man I have decided to spend my life with, are less apologetic. “It was the path of least resistance,” he says. “It was often because I’ve met someone else [Author’s note: It me.], and I’m just anticipating that awkward conversation and want to avoid it. When it’s someone you haven’t been dating long or you’ve been casual with, I think that there is this emerging establishment of a new norm, which is just — that’s now the way we break up with people. I do think that it’s kinder than telling someone you’re not interested in them or that you met someone better.”

He’s not alone in this; numerous people I spoke to said that in our dating universe, ghosting is both acceptable and even considerate. “It’s almost polite if the relationship was casual enough,” says Aubrey, a former ghoster and ghostee (now married). “There is something humiliating and patronizing in a dude I’ve gone out with twice ‘breaking up’ with me.”

Ghosting seems like a cop-out for people to avoid adult conversations.

Andy, turning over his new leaf, says he gives himself a pep talk before communicating his emotions to keep himself from ghosting. “The question I ask myself when the situation arises is: What’s the absolute worst thing that can happen after telling someone you don’t want to go out again? Maybe they’d be like ‘Fuck you!! You’re a sad pathetic loser! Boy bye.’ I can live with that.”

Barth agrees that some explanation is (almost) always better than none at all. “People say they ghost because ‘they didn’t want to hurt feelings.’ And yes, people who are broken up with directly will likely experience some hurt, but the thing about ghosting is that there’s no closure.” Ghosting, she says, leaves the person who was ghosted with the humiliating impression that whatever relationship they believed existed was all in their head, that they were not worth so much as a farewell text.

Julia, happily single and dating, made it a practice to always offer an explanation after a blind date called her out at a party six months later for not responding to her texts. “I had to sneak out of the party because she wouldn’t drop it,” she says. “I have a hard rule now that I always send a text to say if I don’t want to hang again. It’s awkward, but it saves the drama.”

When I was first dating in New York, I found myself making up excuses and dodging calls to avoid telling guys I didn’t want to see them again. At the time, I was terrified of seeming rude or unlikable, and the attention I received (whether wanted or not) felt like an affirmation that I was worthy and wouldn’t be alone forever. Eventually, the stress of trying to be likable while simultaneously dodging contact became absurd. A few friends and I collaborated on a standard text we’d send when we didn’t want to see someone again (please feel free to borrow, copyright not necessary, works for all genders, just trying to do the lord’s work): “Thanks for a great night! I didn’t feel any romantic energy between us, but I wish you all the best out there.”

Some (again, I’m MARRYING this man) argue that silence is, in fact, an answer of its own. “If you text someone once, twice, and they don’t respond — I mean, that is a response. That speaks very loudly. You just don’t want to hear it.”

The Anatomy of Closure

But the problem with silence is that it leaves a deep, dark hole — one it is all too easy to fill with a foggy combination of insecurity, self-loathing and confusion.

Lauren was platonically ghosted by someone she considered one of her closest friends. “I literally did almost everything with her,” she tells me. “And then one day, she just quit calling and texting and responding to me. And then she unfollowed me on all social. … It was heartbreaking.” There were signs, in hindsight, that this woman had a callous streak; still, Lauren said, she’s unable to come up with any explanation for her behavior, and years later, it still feels like a betrayal. “I feel like I’m a pretty nice and reasonable person, so if something were wrong, I feel as though she should have discussed it with me,” she said. “Ghosting seems like a cop-out for people to avoid adult conversations.”

In the absence of closure, what we are left with is a bewildering array of questions — questions that, it’s important to remember, might never be answered even if the relationship had ended on our own terms. “Relationships are always two-sided, and we can’t know everything that is going on in the other person,” reminds Barth. “If you’ve asked for closure and they haven’t been able to provide it, you’re going to stay stuck if you keep asking. You need to give up the idea that it can be solved.”

Barth recommends talking openly to friends about your experience. “Keeping [ghosting] to yourself increases the feeling of hurt and pain and isolation,” she says. “The more you can talk about it, the more you can get feedback that will help you process it.” Building this support system can also remind you of all the connections you do have: strong, beautiful friendships, a loving family, coworkers who respect you — relationships that rely not on superficialities, but on another person seeing you fully and embracing who you really are. “You need to work really hard to remember that it isn’t about you,” says Barth. “The reason that someone [ghosted] — it’s their difficulty in having to be honest.”

After multiple ghostings through online dating, Kelsey deleted her apps. Getting over being ghosted was going to require a new outlook, she realized. “It took some time and a lot of distraction, but I was finally able to ask myself the underlying question — why were these strangers making me feel bad about myself? Why was I giving up my sense of worth as a companion entirely to this pool of bachelors? Why was my vulnerability extending to all aspects of self, instead of just limiting it to what it actually was — the viability of compatibility with this particular individual?”

When she did start dating again, she says, it felt completely different. “I wasn’t checking the app constantly. I wasn’t eager to swipe and double-tap and labor over the wittiest retort. I didn’t feel the need to calculate the perfect time between responses and, most importantly, I didn’t fill the idle time with all of the reasons I had come to believe he thought I wasn’t worth it. I went out on dates and gave myself one rule of my own — hang out with guys if it sounds fun, and if it doesn’t sound fun, then don’t.”

And when she wasn’t interested? “I would tough it up and politely decline a follow-up date,” she says. “I did that both in-person and over texts, and both are uncomfortable but important. And every guy I did that to replied with appreciation and understanding.”

My ghost and I dated for eight years, and then we didn’t. Tom stopped coming home at night, stopped answering the phone and moved all of his belongings out of our apartment while I was out of town. It wasn’t as linear as all that, of course — he’d call crying or show up unexpectedly and then disappear again over the course of a few months — but when he finally did leave for good, when I found out he had been sleeping with his best friend’s girlfriend, the closest I ever got to an explanation was, “I just can’t do this anymore.”

He’s still out there — married, balding, in the city where I left him — but we haven’t spoken since. I do not imagine he ever thinks of me. I hate that I am the one left with these questions, although maybe what I am really left with is simply my own obstinate feeling that I was owed more than what I got. I have filled the space he left behind with narratives I wrote to suit my own purposes, but the truth is, humans are just bad sometimes. We do bad things — things we said we’d never do. Sometimes, the simplest, kindest thing you can do is try to explain why.

Illustrations by Gabrielle Lamontagne.

0 notes