Medievalist Grousing

With every passing year, I become more of a "neo-Luddite". I resent the increasing dominant role technology plays in our lives, as it seems the relationship between the user and the used has changed.

Take television, for instance. I grew up in a religious sect that barred them to keep its members more easily controlled, and after I left that sect I started watching cable television on a regular basis. And then I realized I didn't like my schedule being dictated by the television set: I didn't like the emotional investment I sunk into shows (knowing I would enjoy them, and thus anticipating them ahead of them) forced me to watch them so I would not be disappointed. As I have grown more a student of philosophy, my disdain for television has increased: I dislike the constant racket and the insulting attitudes. I do not care for the ignorance and shallowness. I especially do not like the obnoxious advertisements. Now when I want to watch a show, I watch in on DVD, when I damn well want to. The shows are there for me, not the other way around.

The same goes for Facebook. Every single time I access the site, I feel a guilty twinge because I know I'm subscribing to the same addiction for information and attention as everyone else there.I do not like so much of my time being invested in a place, especially since its creator clearly profits by harvesting the information people place there. That is another great problem I have with technology, that it serves more the people who create it than the people who use it -- and the people who use it do not know that it is they themselves who are being used, for their reliance on the technology turns them into an abundant food source for the predator who created it. Economics is a big example of this: the technology of production is in the hands of a few who profit by preying on the many.

Talking to Myself

Over the weekend --

 This is the weekend. You're in it.


Oh. Yesterday, a friend introduced me to Sidereel.com, a site that links to videos of television shows and movies.

 He told you about it before, but you ignored it.


Yeah. Anyway, I've been using it to watch Firefly and Aliens in America. The former is a seven-year old science fiction show, which I did not know was that old. I remember hearing the phrase "browncoat" during high school and applying it toward a girl I used to like because she wore a brown coat. Not the girl I used to like, but the girl I developed a crush on after she won the third-grade spelling bee and I realized she was pretty cool.

 You wrote her a note.

Yeah! In...sixth grade.I remember I gave it to her right before we left for spring break, because I was afraid of what she might say.

 What did she say?

Well, she didn't say anything. Not really. We exchanged Christmas cards for a few years after that, though. Anyway, Firefly. It's cool. My favorite character is Kaylee, who is adorable.

She just sat there, twirling that cute little umbrella. Anyway, I'm enjoying Firefly. The captain, Mal, is a bit moodier and more rude than I'd like, but he's an occasional bad-ass, which I like.

 Because?

Because I like bad-asses. They embody strength and the will to use it.

 Not bad qualities in themselves, but problematic. 


In what way?

 Strength can be used for selfishness, and will may triumph over good reason or conscience.


Will triumphing over good reason sometimes leads to good results, though.

 At times. It can inspire to both good and evil purposes.

Yes, which is why we cannot be quick to judge. Anyway, the other show, Aliens in America -- it's about this Pakistani exchange student who lives with an American family. They're the stereotypical sitcom family, very shallow. The mother sounds like Sarah Palin, which is annoying.


  It is unwise to be bothered by that which you cannot control.


I'm aware. I'm talking...visceral response. I don't like it. It's not like I sit around all day being irritated by her voice. I just finished an interesting episode in which the family partakes in their weekly Sunday trip to Wal-Mart, and Raj -- the exchange student -- notes that going there is like her religion. Consumerism is an American religion, I think, along with patriotism and a person's professed religion. The three typically run together, but I think spirituality drives out all three.

> Religion may be too strong a word, but I understand your meaning. Each penetrates a person's life, tying them to outside concepts and to other people. It gives them a sense of purpose, of belonging. 


Yeah. And I don't like looking for outside purpose, external belonging. I want to be...independent, a spiritual anarchist.

 Using, of course, the idea that you are your own law.


Right.

 That, too, can be problematic. The will is a powerful thing, and may lead to you making mistakes.


I'd make mistakes bowing before outside idols, too. This way the mistakes are mine. I'm responsible for them.

 Indeed.


Anyway, back to Aliens in America. The mom is really bothered by Raj -- that's the Pakistani student's name --'s comment, which seemed strange at first but made sense later. I found out while watching that she used to go church, and finds meaning in it, so the idea that it's been supplanted bothers her. She orders her kids to get back in the van so they can go to church, and they're reluctant because they've not been in ten years. I don't like her ordering her kids --

 - Teenagers. 

- around like that, partially out of principle and partially out of my own experience. At the same time, I get the need to instill some sort of code in people, because her kids are shallow.

 Shallow?

Vapid, selfish. Like I said, stereotypical sitcom. The daughter has an interesting face, and the son reminds me of a guy I went to school with.

 In personality as in looks.

Yeah.

 Meaning you were friends with someone who was vapid and selfish.

Sort of. He was...like the guy, only popular and not a geek. We're getting off track, and talking about someone else to boot. What's up with you?

 Sometimes I criticize just to criticize.


No shit. Anyway, the sitcom. The mom is worried about her kids not having a moral code, especially her comely teenage daughter who wants birth control pills for Christmas, so she starts making the kids go. Justin, the boy, thinks God is responsible for making a bully trip on a rug, so he's all into praying that God will give his teachers sicknesses and help him have sex with the episode hottie. Raj, a devout Muslim, is disappointed in Justin's vapidness, but Justin is a typical American teenager and Raj is a 'spiritual eastern man'.  It's all stereotypes. I doubt most Pakistani teenagers are as good people as Raj.  He's..exceptional. I think I'd like him if he were a real person, although I'd find the beliefs silly.

 Like?


Like believing in Jesus' virgin birth, believing that a book written in the 600s is all divinely inspired, the literal word of an angel.

 Curious that he believes in the virgin birth but not a resurrection.


You're telling me! I think it's supposed to be a minor concession to Christianity.  Anyway, the girl -- Claire -- falls for a guy at the church they start going to, and the mom becomes increasingly worried about them. At some point Raj tells her that she has raised children with good values, and that with or without religion they will make the right choice.

 An excellent comment.


Yeah! I don't think religion is necessary for morality, or even that particularly helpful. Raj was also wrong, though, in saying she'd raised kids with good values. They have no values. They're teenagers.

 Surely not all teenagers are terrible.


Eh.

 Not a point worthy of discussion?

Not really.

 As you wish.


Right. So. I was thinking of going to an Episcopalian church service tomorrow, but now I don't think I will.

 Why's that?


Well, why should I go? Just to experience a service with some interesting parts and some dull parts?

 Is there no other reason?


Not that I can think of. Episcs are pretty humane, I guess, what with gay and female bishops, but they still hold to mostly-Catholic orthodoxy and the service sounds like it would be uncomfortable. The acid test is, of course, my impulsive answer to the question "Do you want to go", which is --

 "No".

Right. SO...tomorrow I'm going to wake up and just....take it easy.

 And not be potentially enriched in any way.


How would I be enriched?

 You might meet someone. You might hear an interesting idea.


Meet someone? I've seen their pictures. Older adults, young kids. Besides, I'd be a stranger in a community. And I don't want to get dressed, and I don't want to drive to town, and I don't--

 You appear still conflicted about this.


Well, yeah. Maybe. It might --I don't know. I just don't wanna.

 It is, of course, your decision.


Yeah. I'm gonna watch more Aliens in America now.

Registration

Current Music: "Short Skirt, Long Jacket", Cake

My weekend was pretty much a waste, since I was sick (and still am, albiet not as much) throughout it. I didn't write much, nor did I read much....I merely watched television and went through a roll of toilet paper, which I use as tissue paper. I registrered for my classes today. I have a few "requirements" left, mainly: one history class (major), one sociology class (minor), one German class (B.A), two P.E. classes (gen ed), my senior seminar, and one writing reinforcement class. I had planned to create my last semester (hopefully next fall) around my senior seminar. To the seminar, I'd add three fluff classes -- the two PE classes and Urban Geography, which is a difficult class but one I'm confident I'll do well in. That will not be the case.

I was already registered for three classes -- German 201, my German class: History of English since 1688, my history class; and Development of Sociological Theory, my soc. class. I couldn't find a writing reinforcement class, though, and I have to take twelve hours a semester to maintain my scholarship. To that end, I wound up taking THREE one-hour P.E. classes -- one more than I need. Next term I'll be taking "Games", "Beginning Golf", and "Aerobic Exercise". Whee.

For my last semester, I'll be taking my senior seminar, a writing reinforcement class (probably ethics) , and...well, we'll see. I'm not sure exactly how many hours I still need. I probably need a full semester, so I'll take Urban geography and a history class. It will be unfortunately busy, and I'd hope to avoid that in regard to my senior seminar.

Mahna mahna

Jock, to Jock 2: I felt like such a whore today.


Today was...interesting. More eventful than most days, not that that's hard. It started out fairly routinely: I went to breakfast, then classes. During German, though, we were served some sort of German dessert -- apple slices sprinkled with rum and beer, and lightly fried. I'm not sure what they were called, but they were scrumptious. Scrumptious, I tell you. After that, I went to European History, where we discussed Europe after the second world war. I left early to go to a SCRUM meeting.

SCRUM is "Students for Constitutional Reform at the University of Montevallo", and it's a chapter of Alabama Citizens for Constitutional Reform. Alabama has a dismal Constitution: it was written by racist planters who created a regressive tax system, disenfranchised non-whites, and made the entire state subject to the whims of Montgomery. Local laws have to be passed by the state legislature and through state-wide ballots. This is inefficient and injurious, as people in Selma have no clue about affairs in Huntsville. The result is that the legislature spends all of its time legislating on bingo ordiances in Podunk and not on important stuff like...oh, say, education.

I encountered SCRUM last year because I happened to work for people who are involved in it. Reforming the state constitution to make it better fits in with my desire to see democray improved -- to make it more responsive to the needs of people. Democracy in Alabama isn't, really. Tonight the local chapter showed a movie about the constution, and I attended to see it. The documentary was funny, but most of the information I already knew. Only two members (including myself) were male. The talk/movie was being held in a building I've never visited, and so I didn't know the way there. I followed some other guy, as it looked as if he knew where he was going, but it turns out that both of us were clueless. We were directed to the proper place, though.

One of the attendees was an adjuant instructor in the BSS department -- she teaches intro-level history courses. We talked about history and history classes until the movie started. Afterwards, food was served -- strawberries, grapes, nachos, chicken tenders, and some other stuff. I had grapes, cheese cubes, and chicken tenders. After a while, I left to find a restroom. The building's interior is sort of a mess, I think, because it used to be the library and it had to be re-done once the library moved to another location. Consequently it has a weird layout and I couldn't find the male restroom. I did find the female restroom. After realizing I was deep in the bowels of a building and would not find a bathroom soon, I said "Aw, screw it" and went to the female bathroom and opened the door. "Housekeeping," I said. I felt for a lock, realizing to my immense joy that the door could be locked. I crept in, locked the door, did my business, and left quickly -- after flushing and putting the seat back down.

As I walked back to the conference room I passed a male bathroom. Figures. Still, I got to defile a female bathroom. Yay. Also, free supper -- I didn't have to go to Subway tonight.

A morning's meditation

Current Music: "Water Music", Handel

On Sunday mornings, as I walk back across campus to my room from breakfast, I like to stroll leisurely, looking at the sky and into trees. I often see squirrels running about. The school's main 'quad' is across the street from Napier Hall, where I live, and the quad is a beautiful place -- filled with trees and crisscrossed by red cobblestones. There is one particular tree that I like to sit under and read. The tree is quite tall and round, and its roots are developed such that it provides a perfect crook for my back, allowing me to sit -- or recline -- comfortably.

I have sat under this tree many times this semester, developing a fondess for it to the point that I think of it as "my" tree. The first time I did so was nearly at random: on a Sunday afternoon, similar to the one today, I made my way across campus from lunch and happened to decide to sit down. I sat there for an hour or so, reading The Blood of Flowers, and enjoying it immensely. Ever since then, it has been my custom to find time on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday to sit under the shade of my tree and read.

The experience is always delightful. The scenery is gorgeous. The main quad is beautiful, but if I sit under the tree and look up into the heart of it, I see the multitide of brown limbs with their all their green leaves, and through them I can seethe blue sky. It's a beauty that can't really be described, at least not by me. Perhaps someone with a more poetic soul could. I can only invite you to try it for yourself one day -- to find a broad-leafed tree sometime in the early fall and sit under it for a while.

And so I sit with a jug of water and my book, reading quietly. I will often pause to listen to the wind blow through the trees and admire the leaves falling. I stick a leaf into my book at this moments, and lean back to enjoy the experience. Sometimes I close my eyes and just...exist. I sit there quietly, not think of anything in particular, just listening to the wind and feeling the sun on my face. It's completly peaceful.

On a Sunday morning like the one day, I listen to the footfalls of people on the cobblestone paths as they make their way across the quad and into town -- where they are going to church. I am not attracted to the idea of going inside a building and sitting, not on days like these. I am perfectly content in my cathedral of nature -- posts of tree trunks and a roof of green and blue wonder. I would not mind, however, being joined by other people in my spot under the tree. We could all enjoy it together. We could talk, tell jokes, play board games or something like that. .

As the sun climbs in the sky, it moves into my eyes and distracts me from reading. It's nearing ten o'clock: I have only spent an hour and a half out here today, but it's time to go in -- and so I do. I stand up, brush the dirt and leaves off of my jeans, and walk across the quad and down the steps and across the street. Someone I don't know is standing on the elevated porch of Napier Hall: he is dressed casually formally (khakis and a long-sleeved shirt) and is holding a bible. He asks me what I'm reading, and as it happens I'm reading Asimov. We talk for a few minutes, and then his ride to church appears and he goes off.

I go upstairs, where I watch From the Top -- a classical music program. I relax for a bit, and then watch an episode of Star Trek, the original series. It always comes on channel 47 for me, which is amusing given that 47 is the Star Trek franchise's version of Douglas Adams' "42". It's ubiqutious and sort of an inside joke for trekkies like myself who catch references to it in the scripts.

This is the Sunday morning routine I enjoy.

Malaise?

I woke up this morning feeling very lethargic. I did not want to get out of bed, I did not want to get dressed, and I certainly didn't want to hike across campus for breakfast --- and yet I did, if thirty minutes late. The sky was covered in grey clouds: overcast. I don't mind it being overcast, but it is also unseasonably warm. I should say "seasonably if irritatingly warm" given the climate the past several winters. It's the middle of November, and yet people could be perfectly comfortable walking around the nude. Breakfast -- usually heartening and enjoyable -- did not wipe way my lethargy. I did not have much of an appetite, and after eating in silence for several minutes and finishing my grits and corn beef hash, I left for the library.

I collected a few books relating to my two term papers. Both are due next week, and while I have the majority of the notes I need, I still felt that I needed more. Although I did collect a number of books, I took few notes. A line from Froissart's Chronicles, a table from The Arming of Europe -- but that was really it. I spent the morning reading an Asimov book, and incredibly even IT did not make me feel the way I do the overwhelming majority of the time. I felt tired, listless. I curled up in the chair and read the collection of short stories, occasionally going for water and then getting rid of the water once my body tired of it.

The fatigue and thirst -- and later, the inclination to gag -- visit me infrequently these days. They usually come with a sinus headache, although (praise Athena) not today. I finished the book at 12:30, which is good timing, and made my way across campus to the dining hall. Usually I stride quickly, head high and looking at the sky and into trees and all around me at the world -- but today I kept wanting to stare at the bricks as I walked.

As I made my way closer to the dining hall, the want to gag subsided -- although there were a few instances when I thought I would have to take cover behind a tree and er...provide subsentence to the fungi spores at its roots. The cafeteria's offerings were slight -- fried chicken, which I find repulsive -- and a few other dishes. I got the chicken stir fry. Lately, I have started avoiding my usual eating place in favor of the gallery, which is used for special functions and is not too popular with the students. It consists of a long, wide tiled room with round tables here and there. It is quiet there. Today, though, I felt drawn to the sun room.

The sun room is a special part of the dining hall: it is surrounded by glass walls and an arching glass ceiling. The room is only lit by sunlight, hence the name "sun room". At night flourescent lights come on. I almost always sit there, despising the crowded, artificially bright, and noisy dining hall. The sun room is also crowded, but usually not as much. I found an empty table and began eating my pork stir fry and reading a book by Peter Singer on ethics.

After dinner, I felt restored. My lethargy was gone. I had craved sunlight, and either it or the food did something for me. I felt much better now.

Death and Acceptance

Current Music: "Dela", Johnny Clegg

I'm waiting for a phone call from my mother. She and my father spent the day in the hospital with my grandfather, who has a blood clot in his right arm. I don't know much about blood clots outside of that if the clot travels to his heart it would probably lead to an attack of some sort. According to my mom, whatever they're doing to him today could go either way -- that is, he'll live or he may die. I don't put much faith in that, though, because my mother is prone to worrying.

My grandfather, being aged, has had a number of health problems in the past year. In July 2006, he was hospitalized and the family thought he would die. Even though at times were very confident in that the end was near, I didn't feel all that heartbroken. I love my grandfather and respect him, and will miss him when he passes away, as he and as we all inevitably will. The only pain I feel at the possibility is that of sympathy for him and the family: I imagine that he may be frightened or fearing death, and of course everyone else is reduced to tears -- but not me, for some reason.

It's not as if I'm a cold person with no affection toward him, it's just that I realize that death must come to all of us. In my opinion, he has lived a long life, cared for a large family that loves him, and has based on my knowledge had a lengthy and enjoyable retirement in a comfortable house in the country, surrounded by relatives and other loved ones. His death, for me, is simply the gracious end to that. If he dies, he will not die in a fiery car wreck or of cancer or even alone: he will die in a warm hospital room, surrounded by the people who love him. I don't see why we should be mourning, even if he does die.

I've had this acceptance of death ever since I was a child. I don't know where it came from, but I realized it at a young age. And all I wanted out of my life was to have a family and just enjoy a simple existence with him -- and that is what my grandfather has done. He has never expressed disappointment with his life, and since he is a Christian he believes he will go off to eternal glory -- as do most of the family, with the exception of me. And even though I do not believe that he will go to Paradise, I'm still not broken up about he. He has created a paradise of family: what more can be asked?

BORN of love and hope, of ecstasy and pain, of agony and fear, of tears and joy -- dowered with the wealth of two united hearts -- held in happy arms, with lips upon life's drifted font, blue-veined and fair, where perfect peace finds perfect form -- rocked by willing feet and wooed to shadowy shores of sleep by siren mother singing soft and low -- looking with wonder's wide and startled eyes at common things of life and day -- taught by want and wish and contact with the things that touch the dimpled flesh of babes -- lured by light and flame, and charmed by color's wondrous robes -- learning the use of hands and feet, and by the love of mimicry beguiled to utter speech -- releasing prisoned thoughts from crabbed and curious marks on soiled and tattered leaves -- puzzling the brain with crooked numbers and their changing, tangled worth -- and so through years of alternating day and night, until the captive grows familiar with the chains and walls and limitations of a life.

And time runs on in sun and shade, until the one of all the world is wooed and won, and all the lore of love is taught and learned again. Again a home is built with the fair chamber wherein faint dreams, like cool and shadowy vales, divide the billowed hours of love. Again the miracle of a birth -- the pain and joy, the kiss of welcome and the cradle-song drowning the drowsy prattle of a babe.

And then the sense of obligation and of wrong -- pity for those who toil and weep -- tears for the imprisoned and despised -- love for the generous dead, and in the heart the rapture of a high resolve.

And then ambition, with its lust of pelf and place and power, longing to put upon its breast distinction's worthless badge. Then keener thoughts of men, and eyes that see behind the smiling mask of craft -- flattered no more by the obsequious cringe of gain and greed -- knowing the uselessness of hoarded gold -- of honor bought from those who charge the usury of self-respect -- of power that only bends a coward's knees and forces from the lips of fear the lies of praise. Knowing at last the unstudied gesture of esteem, the reverent eyes made rich with honest thought, and holding high above all other things -- high as hope's great throbbing star above the darkness of the dead -- the love of wife and child and friend.

Then locks of gray, and growing love of other days and half- remembered things -- then holding withered hands of those who first held his, while over dim and loving eyes death softly presses down the lids of rest.

And so, locking in marriage vows his children's hands and crossing others on the breasts of peace, with daughters' babes upon his knees, the white hair mingling with the gold, he journeys on from day to day to that horizon where the dusk is waiting for the night. -- At last, sitting by the holy hearth of home as evening's embers change from red to gray, he falls asleep within the arms of her he worshiped and adored, feeling upon his pallid lips love's last and holiest kiss.