Sixth Week-Term 2

Monday:

In honour of this weekend's Poetry Symposium a friend and I hosted, here is one of the pieces read that night:

Origins and History of Consciousness

(The Dream of a Common Language)

I.

Night-life. Letters, journals, bourbon

sloshed in the glass. Poems crucified on the wall,

dissected, their bird-wings severed

like trophies. No one lives in this room

without living through some kind of crisis.

No one lives in this room

without confronting the whiteness of the wall

behind the poems, planks of books,

photographs of dead heroines.

Without contemplating last and late

the true nature of poetry. The drive

to connect. The dream of a common language.

Thinking of lovers, their bind faith, their

experienced crucifixions,

my envy is not simple. I have dreamed of going to bed

as walking into clear water ringed by a snowy wood

white as cold sheets, thinking, I’ll freeze in there.

My bare feet are numbed already by the snow

but the water

is mild, I sink and float

like a warm amphibious animal

that has broken the net, has run

through fields of snow leaving no print;

this water washes off the scent—

You are clear now

of the hunter, the trapper

the wardens of the mind-

yet the warm animal dreams on

of another animal

swimming under the snow-flecked surface of the pool,

and wakes, and sleeps again.

No one sleeps in this room without

the dream of a common language.

- Adrienne Rich, 1976.

I had a dickens of a time picking just one poem from that night! So I picked the poem about a poem.

The experience of poetry is quite different when read out loud.

Also, played my first round of bells with the other members of the Warwick Bell Ringing Society. I was on bell 4(?). Under Vic's guidance, I started my ringing and before I knew it, the other players had gathered around the other bells and were ringing along. It was so cool. I'm glad I did little beyond just be in the moment.

Tuesday:

No lectures today and tomorrow. One of the interesting things about the lecture structure here is that the term lasts 10 weeks, but the lectures don't. Some last 7 weeks, some 9. Some courses meet once a week, some thrice. The outcome is a slow lecture beginning and end to the term. And might I add, since I'm here, that these are shockingly short terms. I don't, however, think the longer US semesters are any better or worse than the shorter UK terms. It's still a matter of orienting to a schedule and meeting deadlines, regardless.

So here's a true story about a little old lady on a Tuesday afternoon:

In a posh, little English town, where the average age is 65 and coffee shops flavour the soil, a teacher waited with her learners on the street corner. The teacher, tired from a full day of returning pilfered store wears and snatching up hidden joints, stared off in the distance, dreaming of tropical islands and warm briny breezes, and took another long draw off her cigarette. The relaxing smoke swirled around her face then whipped into the air to follow traffic.

"Oy! Teach! Why you smokin', but then say we can't?" This was Kieran, poster boy for the group of rejected learners.

"What are you talking about? You smoke all the time? Since when have you ever done what I ask?" and with that, she took another drag.

*BLURRRM!!*

Everyone, teacher, learners, custodians, and magpies quickly turned in the direction of the blasting horn just in time to see a double-decker city bus barrel on through and nearly side-swipe a little old lady. They looked on with a mixture of awe and horror. It was only for a second, maybe less, but they collectively held their breath for a second more.

After the bus passed, the little old lady looked around for a bit, blinked her tired, wrinkly eyes a few times, took notice of the onlookers and shuffled over. On her short trek she made sure to correct her red scarf, straighten her cashmere shawl, and check the tilt of her Sunday bonnet.

"Did you see that, that my dear?!" she asked the nearest learner.

"I did! I nearly shit me pants!" replied Kieran.

"Me too!" agreed the little old lady.

Wednesday:

Another work in progress...

[Hand in the grinder]

The machine does not think,

The machine performs.

Sometimes, the machine breaks,

And a mechanic is needed.

And sometimes, just sometimes,

The mechanic lacks understanding

Of the machine.

An elbow is carelessly rested,

A lock is poorly secured,

A glance at the most perfectly wrong moment,

In the most perfectly wrong direction.

And the machine whirls again,

The machine performs as required.

With no preamble,

Snatching up the mechanic.

The machine tears flesh,

The mechanic screams.

Nip points reroute tendons,

The mechanic protests.

The machine only works in one direction,

The mechanic can only fight in the other.

The machine will never be reasoned with,

The machine does not think,

The machine only performs.

The mistaken mechanic can only succumb,

To the machine.

Blindly and painfully entwine with the machine.

The mechanic was never meant

To bend that way.

Thursday:

Have you ever heard of the "hedonic treadmill"?
You should, you're chained to it. And you will continue to be until you die.

"Freedom and autonomy are critical to our well-being, and choice is critical to freedom and autonomy. Nonetheless, though modern Americans have more choice than any group of people ever has before, and thus, presumably, more freedom and autonomy, we don't seem to be benefiting from it psychologically."
- Barry Schwartz, The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less

With that in mind, the hedonic treadmill helps partially explain Mr. Schwartz's claim why we're failing to psychologically benefit from such desired freedom and autonomy. It seems to be a very human thing to want to be happy, and happiness is unquestionably vital to personal well-being (though difficult to pin down). So we do things to achieve that happiness. We move in some sort of forward progression toward happiness. However, for most of us (and don't think you're so removed that you don't fall into this trap yourself) under most happiness-pursuits, we simultaneously acquire a new concept of 'happiness'.

For each of us, at least one idea has formed about an experience or achievement that will bring more happiness. To date, you've experienced and achieved many things that brought happiness. You laughed, felt elated, smiled uncontrollably, what-have-you, but those initial feelings of happiness didn't last. That joy of achievement didn't last. The initial palpable goodness of the desired experience didn't last. But you've had a taste - or a banquet - of that good thing, and now that *thing* is required to maintain happiness.

Why is that? You were happy before the acquired good, but now you won't be as happy without. That is because you are not progressing forward toward happiness. You are walking a treadmill that gives the illusion of forward progression. This is due to a sick joke innate in humans. We walk toward happiness, but inevitably balance back to a *neutral* state, which feeds the desire for more pursuits of happiness. As we pursue, we equilibrate, as we equilibrate, we pursue. However, we never actually sustain a single forward step.

Sounds awful, but do realise it works in the other direction, as well. Sadness does not last. Pain does not last. The crushing blows of life and living, do not last. We eventually find an equilibrium. Such is the life of a human.

Friday:

Nothing happened other than everything. Enjoy a great song :)

oh yeah, finally successfully chased down my research professor!

First - Fifth Weeks-Term 2

WEEKS 1-4

Bloody nose.

Horrible.

Exams.

Qualifiers.

Depression.

Winter.

Discontent.

Alien dreams of electric sheep and machine screams.

Tears.

Rain, not rain.

Shut out.

Sickness.

Viscous emotions.

Tap tap.

Scratch.

Scribble.

Red ink.

Sweet hunger.

Wrecked.

Waxed.

Hail scarred.

Broken shoes.

Swallowed smiles.

Hidden fears.

WEEK 5

Monday:

I had the pleasure of sitting behind an elderly couple on the bus headed downtown (city centre). We were on the second level (double-decker bus). They were occupying my favourite seat, front row, left. A young woman occupied my second favourite seat, front row, right. So I sat second row left, just behind the old man, the old woman was all the way to the left, in the corner seat. At first I mistook the old woman’s mumbles for the general bus-indigestion. Her persistence, however, quickly clarified any ambiguity in background noise.

I didn’t mean to stare. But her soft, protruding cheeks – cheeks only possible when teeth are nothing, but a memory – reflected the late morning sun so perfectly. I couldn’t help myself. The warm, slanting sun illuminated each strand of peach fuzz on her round, jiggly cheeks so completely. Her incoherent mumblings continued, but not in vain. The old man answered with a request for her to spy something of interest out the window – pointing in one direction or another – or a question about her state. This seemed to satisfy the old woman for a bit each time.

The old man giggled and shared jokes. He kissed the old woman on her soft cheek, with a sweet, delicate *peck* each time. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a kiss delivered with such unquestionable, true love. When we think of a lover’s kiss delivered with unfettered honesty predicated on true love, our thoughts often (if not exclusively) turn to such kisses seen in movies; when the music swells, and hearts are jumping; when she’s forcefully pulled toward her lover; then locked in some form of face-smashing excitement. However, the old man’s gentle peck on the old woman’s cheek far surpassed Hollywood’s tired attempts.

For everything the old woman lost in communication, the old man seemed to gain. Each time he shot his arm up to point out another person, bird, or tree out the windows, I realised, not only was the old woman following, but I and the other passengers followed as well. The old man had fully engaged our collective attentions. What power he may never know he had.

Tuesday:

I bought a bottle of red wine today. It was cheap and delicious. Not often are we satisfied with sub-par goods, but this was a good bottle, all the same.

I want to say I spent the entire day alone, but that may be misleading. I spent the day, as a matter of fact, surrounded by people. They made wide births for me when I entered the boutique drenched from rain. They ritualistically bumped my shoulders in passing like a strange form of English greeting for the alien in the hallway. They wished me a “cheers” with each receipt. What they don’t know, though, is that they are the aliens, not I. They move across the stores with strange gates, speak in strange tongues “yeah but, no but, yeah but, no but….,” and smell of exotic fragrances, reminiscent of sausages and curry.

Wednesday:

People are still talking today about the sun they saw on Sunday. I can’t say I thought Sunday’s sun was anymore note-worthy than every other day’s sun this month. However, the locals seemed to enjoy it immensely.

I, however, have no time for sun revelry. I was just enlightened on the extent to just how far behind I am in both my course work, as well as my PhD work. Unfortunately, the (very truthful) excuse that I can’t get my work done because I’m too busy getting my work done, won’t fly.

Upside of the day. I sought late afternoon refuge in the Postgraduate Hub to knock out a few hours of reading/writing for a lecture I’ve convinced myself I enjoy. While tap-tapping away, my back reminded me that I hadn’t moved in a while and was in serious threat of forming an impressive hunch. So I sat up straight, raised my arms over my head, then arched over the back of my chair in the hopes of achieving some satisfying snap, crackle, and pops. While stretching backwards into a human pretzel, I spied a series of large sky-lights directly above head. Then I realised that in 5 months of working in the same place, nearly everyday, I just now noticed the luscious amount of natural light feeding into our work space. A lovely surprise, indeed. As well as a wake-up call to my attentional abilities.

Thursday:

Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps I should have eaten before attending morning lecture. Or, perhaps I should never have attended a morning lecture today at all. I could “perhaps” myself until the sweet relief of death, but that won’t change what happened this morning. Strangely enough, a part of me hopes I never live it down, too.

Our new lecturer for Experimental Economics introduced research that assumes there is a difference between men and women with respects to risky behaviour. I sat quietly and listened to the presentation of the work, methodology, and concluding remarks. One great, but dangerous aspect of our field of ‘science’ is that no matter how much we researchers try to control the variables, the results are still open to interpretation. We like to think we have successful control over the research, therefore justifying the strength and validity of interpreted results. HOWEVER, results still require deductive reasoning and guess work. After experiencing a complete absence of questioning from the other students, I spoke up. I questioned the extent to which such research and ‘results’ could be disseminated. I asked if there was a possibility that this research (and its like) were measuring a 3^rd variable, or variables, not originally acknowledged in the design and hypotheses. I asked how clear it was that this research was measuring innate, biological underpinnings, as opposed to social constructs or compliance to fabricated sexist roles.

To his credit, the professor seemed extremely uncomfortable, but attempted to answer as ambiguously as possible. To my credit, I managed to blanket the entire room in a gossamer film of disquietude they won’t soon forget.

In the evening I joined the Warwick Atheist, Secular, Humanist Society and Christian FOCUS Society on campus for a lovely discussion-in-the-round. Similar to speed dating, we sat in little groups and discussed whatever topic was shouted out to us by one of the students leading the event. Each new topic brought the potential for whole new group of people. It was quite enjoyable.

Friday:

More than once, I have found myself in a precarious position, in a strange place, uttering to myself, “I have no idea where I am,” only to quickly follow it with, “…and I’m OK with that.”

Meet a new group: Seabear - Seashell

Abandonment

The different photos may express an array of emotions for you. At the heart of this growing project, however, I am conveying a life alone.

I do find it interesting that I am in a country where the headlines never stop reporting how they're running out of room, yet I continually find myself alone, in abandoned spaces.