a stroll down mainstreet.

those almost human voices glide above the concrete. they travel up in waves tangled in helices with the lines of heat distorting the concrete like the image of a distant oasis. a mirage. the asphalt becomes liquid before quickly recomposing itself. the boiling viscous tar is always ten steps ahead. with each step, the world is rocked and ripples cascade through the foundations of skyscrapers and the bases of lamp posts and screeching sagging bottoms of rubber tires. reflections -- of the walking, the running, the hobbling -- quiver and float beside their four-dimensional counterparts in the polished panes of glass. somehow, these vapid distortions of passersby seem a more accurate portrayal than the figures themselves. the reflections, the silently howling ghosts of the living, float on. they are reflected momentarily in those behemoth structures of glass and steel and concrete until they disappear forever. a microcosm of mortality. a sea of simulacra.

our structures will outlast us.
ars longa, vita brevis.

skeleton keys

don't fret
about those fraying strings
those mislaid notes
old fingers clamoring to strike a
familiar or agreeable chord

but these pangs go beyond dissonance
or percussionary use of strings
or acceptable creative liberties

and the sharp notes keep wailing
piercing the air around them
and the flat notes howl
louder than the
silence that precedes death
-- until that treble clef unfurls

and becomes
a straight
black
line.

I fear it's been long enough.

Long enough since some remnants of my fleeting existence have found their way onto paper via pen wielded by an overworked hand -- OR perhaps just text -- an infinite number of ones and zeros arranged in such away that it might mean something to someone.

I find that it's easier to write when I am overwhelmed with an excess of emotional energy. Over the past few months, I've been juggling two jobs, a relationship, and a fairly regimented drinking schedule. I've learned I can't do anything in moderation. Since I moved back to this fair state of Deseret, I've lived about 20 lives. I've gone trail running, traveled 70 hours on a greyhound bus, dabbled in a few substances, learned how to play the melodica, perfected my dough-tossing skills, practiced my French and Spanish with native speakers, and made a heaping ton of mistakes. The question I get asked most frequently is this:
"Are you happy?"

I've come to realize that it's usually myself doing the asking.

I ask myself when I reach the bottom of those bottles, the taste of whiskey fighting with the question on the tip of my tongue. I ask myself when I walk through that looming shadow cast by the temple, when I'm faced every day with a macabre family history masked by a legacy. I ask myself on days like today, when it's overcast and the mountains roar as the thunder tears through the desert heat.

Time to get back to work.

hiatus

I'm going to be taking a wee break from blogging (note the keyword, BLOGGING, not WRITING).

I've discovered that the pressure of having a dedicated readership makes me less inclined to be honest and accepting of the imperfections in my ideas. Thank you all for your support over the last year or so.

Don't worry, I'll be around.

expect the unexpected.

Sixteen blocks to the liquor store, each way. It was strange that night. The air was still save a hint of wind spreading rumors of winter. I didn't feel cold. My landscape was decorated with flickering construction signs and chain link fences. Once manicured-turned-feral trees defiantly pushed up sections of the cracking sidewalk with their elephantine roots. Splintering mailboxes and tilted phone booths bowed in reverence as our royal procession moved past. I marched alongside of you -- the cadence of your cowboy boots hitting the concrete. Jokes flew back and forth between the three of us. We were soldiers, travelers, vagabonds. Nomads wandering through the urban desert. I felt simultaneously young and immortal.

You kept asking if I was cold,

The more you asked, the warmer I felt.

Before I knew it, we were sipping Bushmills out of red plastic cups and swigging Newcastles that had become almost sufficiently chilled just from the walk home. And I was singing with you as you strummed.

She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe
"I thought you'd never say hello" she said --


I held the whiskey to your lips


"You look like the silent type"
Then she opened up a book of poems

I felt the corduroy hugging your legs between my fingers

And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue

And later those lyrics became promises as you curled around me like a treble clef --

It was two a.m. and you lit your cigarette while standing on the wraparound porch -- snow drifting through the air. Streetlights illuminated circles of air around them. Snowflakes made their brief debut in the spotlight before permanently settling on the ground. There they were, melting into the frozen asphalt. Icy particles fusing to one another for the chilly duration of their brief existence. I could barely make out your voice over the roar of my own heartbeat. We talked -- first it was "pick one: Arlo or Woodie Guthrie?" and a summer ahead of hitching and camping and train jumping and before I could finish my sentence --

Your lips tasted like Marlboro twenty sevens and familiar song lyrics and Irish whiskey.

It's like finding home
In an old folk song
That you've never ever heard
Still you know every word
And for sure you can sing along

My Future Ex Husband: Andy Hull

Instead of posting my usual "Critical Theory Tuesday" post, I denied myself the intellectual masturbation and settled for actual masturbation. I just rediscovered Right Away, Great Captain! in my music collection and I fell in love all over again. What is Right Away, Great Captain! you ask? Well, it is the folk side project of indie rock front-man Andy Hull. I had the fortunate pleasure of seeing him perform live last March with his main band, Manchester Orchestra. He is so damn talented, and when that man is on stage, he rocks like a god. Also, did I mention that I'm salivating just thinking about it? Musically gifted, an elegant wordsmith, beardy as all hell. I want to get lost in the mountains with him. And a guitar. And a bottle of whiskey. And hypothermia... so he is forced to keep me warm...

Now for some gratuitously irrelevant photos. Oh and maybe an obligatory embedded youtube video.

Please note the range. He can go from being heartbreaking and improvising lines about BEING A SHIP CAPTAIN to rocking my fucking ass off. Thank you, Andy Hull, for making me all hot and bothered. 

sigh.

and now, a little bit of fiction.

falling in love with strangers

There should be four feet -- bumping and sliding around each other like smooth stones in a river bed -- under the blanket of cotton rubbing atop one another warmed by the friction

My mind won’t stay empty and my heart won’t stay full. 

I imagine that I know you and that I would pretend I didn’t like your facial expressions, especially the one that precludes those crumpled wads of bills left on chipped Formica countertops after hours of inhaling burnt diner coffee and then I’m driving through the desert and your skin is between my fingers as I traipse across the scaly sea of Joshua trees as my hands reach lower than Jericho I can decipher the message in your pores like Braille with my pillowed fingerprints and your back is like a novel I’ve read one hundred times before where my heart stops when I digest my favorite lines and when I remember the punctuation of a freckle or the narrative of a scar now I can feel each ridge built into your hands from the hours of wood chopping and guitar playing and your skin has the same clear, crisp, and daunting audacity of my favorite song on vinyl and I want to lay here forever even though nothing could trick me into staying still it’s funny, facing the sky, confirming my worst suspicions to an audience of stars:

I’m better off this way. 

But suddenly, I don’t know you and I imagine that I do-- I can anticipate that you like the smell of fresh guitar strings and that you know how to play the mandolin. You like your eggs not unlike your women -- over easy and properly dressed -- and you prefer Jameson to Johnny Walker but you won’t say no to the latter. You pretend not to be chivalrous but you can't not open a door for any woman and you never drop hints about how you'd like to undress and ravage all those desperate girls and you say you gave it up but you can roll a joint with one hand while your strong hands dance across your worn-out frets and you let a Nat Sherman hang from your cracked lips. The melody of your breathing hangs with a sweet twang like major chords from Arlo or maybe Woodie Guthrie and you don’t speak Spanish but you can sing along to the Gipsy Kings and you laugh when words you shouldn’t understand reach your eager ears and you’d never admit that you cried when you watched Once alone and realized that all ships are built for sinking --

I drank too much and wore a party dress. You looked at me twice and that was all it took for my awkward knees to be sprawling and adjacent like leafless tree branches in the midst of winter but I’d like to know you better, maybe a picnic or an illicit outing or a late-night serenade you whisper to me as I smell milk and honey on your breath You’re the kind of girl I’d want to marry as you kiss me on the forehead and leave me with my dress rolled down and my collar bones and pale skin and breasts exposed and tears roll down my cheeks like molasses or maple syrup or something else slow and sickly sticky sweet just like a riff from Hendrix if only I’d known better. 

The Misanthrope's Guide to Being a Gentleman

How to keep chivalry alive in the gilded age of meaty bros and skanky hos. 

Let me preface this by saying that I consider myself somewhat of a “forward” thinker. I’m not a militant feminist, because let’s face it, that sort of mentality just encourages reverse discrimination and hate-speech against men. I happen to like men; so much in fact that I’ll sleep with them on occasion. I may not be a feminist, however, I do believe in the equal intellectual capacity of both genders. I’d like to make as much as my opposite-gendered counterpart whether I wear a suit and tie or show off my fantastic gams in a fitted pencil skirt. Anyway, back on point. Chivalry may not be dead, but it’s damn near extinct. I can’t remember the last time a guy opened the door for me. Now, I’m not talking about significant others, or those I’m courting either. I’m talking about those guys who aren’t bound by the obligation of exclusivity (and the promise of blow jobs if they behave). I’m talking about the average man. These simian creatures who parade under the guise of humans nowadays are completely devoid of manners (this goes for many women as well!). Seriously, what happened to social etiquette? I don’t recall riding an elevator in the recent past where any man has let me step in before them instead of pushing me to the side. Holding the elevator for a woman in a hurry? Forget it… unless I’m running toward it in a low cut shirt. In this circumstance, I immediately see six cuff-linked hands fly up to the door jamb. That’s right. I swear, to get anything done around here…

Anyway, gentlemen-to-be, here are some pointers to keep you from being annoying assholes. I’ve broken them into sections. Read, learn, and enjoy! And, if you’re already a gentleman (e.g., David Hall) feel free to bask in your own glory.

CLOTHING::
When it comes to pants, baggier is not better. Be careful, though – you don’t want to find yourself wandering into nut-hugger territory. Too loose? Wear a belt. It’s called underwear for a reason. Revealing your buttocks and boxers is not appealing in any setting. T-shirts are acceptable, however, they should fall just below your waist. The seam of the shoulder should always be parallel with your shoulders. For your nicer clothes, find a good tailor. When dressing up, always leave the bottom button of your vest undone. Own at least one pair of black lace-up dress shoes. Nothing beats a good hat, so long as it is removed when indoors. Ties are meant to complement a wardrobe, but they should never be a main focal point. Cufflinks when appropriate are never optional. Watches always belong on the left wrist.

SMARTS::
If reading books the size of War & Peace seems daunting, peruse different types of magazines. In addition to more “bookish” publications, find issues that cover art, architecture, design or photography. Try not to go straight to the sports section of the newspaper. Being open-minded and aware of the world around you shows class and sophistication, but avoid seeming pretentious. Be modest instead of showing off what you know. Don’t spend hours looking at pornography and trolling facebook. Spend a little while each day making yourself smarter. Learn about things out of your comfort zone. Don’t forget to remain humble about this newfound intelligence.

SOCIAL INTERACTION::
When meeting new people, always look them in the eyes and shake their hand. Don’t ever hold conversations at the same time someone else is speaking. Don't ever talk over people. Let the person finish his or her point before giving yours. In social settings, be prepared to ask questions or make statements of courtesy, like "may I help you?" or "let me get that for you" or "I'll take care of that". There are several things that should never occur in public: farting, belching, speaking too loudly, being overly demanding/offensive, or drinking heavily (well, I could never be a gentleman…). A gentleman is always in control of himself, body and mind. In conversation, don't talk about yourself at length. You have two ears and one mouth for a reason. Get a basic idea of what's going on in music, sports, and politics. Study at least one piece of art extensively. In meeting new people, learn to avoid politics and religion until you know the person better. Learn how to be neutral if someone else brings it up. A simple shrug will do wonders. I cannot stress the next point enough: a gentleman never makes other people uncomfortable. Always provide correction/criticism in private and praise in public. There is a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and the latter is not attractive in the least.

DATING::
If you initiate a dinner date or meeting, then you should expect to pay. This rule works both ways. Avoid unnecessary use of expletives in public, especially in the presence of a woman you’re seeing. Always put your napkin in your lap at dinner. Stuffing it in your shirt is grounds for getting slapped. When eating, avoid looking like a caveman. Use utensils, avoid chewing with your mouth open, and don’t leave a messy plate. When at a restaurant, always tip more than 20 percent. You never want to make other people at your table reach into their pocket to cover your cheapness. When walking, always have a woman stay on the inside of the sidewalk and on the side of parked cars in a parking lot. This protects us from harm and makes us feel safe.

CASUAL ROMANCE::
Yes, casual sex is allowed if you're a gentleman. After all, why wouldn't you want to use some of your new-found swagger to charm the ladies? Always make sure to brush your teeth, gargle, or have a breath mint before getting up close and personal. If the opportunity presents itself on the first night, don’t excitedly pull a condom out of your wallet. She’ll get the impression that you’re premeditated and will be turned off. Even if you’re having a one-night stand with a woman, be respectful. Jay-Z might brag about kicking women out five minutes after having sex with them, but he’s not having sex with your date. You are. Casual sex doesn’t have to be disrespectful. In fact, it’s more fun when it’s not.

RELATIONSHIPS::
Are things getting serious? Remember to keep doing nice things for your girlfriend when you're around her. If she's carrying something, pick it up when she puts it down and always kindly let her know by saying "oh, let me get that for you." Remember, being selfish is never attractive. There are some things you shouldn't rush to bring up in conversation. These include how hot other girls are, or anything at all of that nature. It's fine to talk about that stuff with your guy friends, but a gentleman doesn't do that. Do not talk down to women ever. It's acceptable to engage in friendly or flirtatious teasing but cruelty is not the way to go. Teasing does not mean calling them vulgar words, however. No matter how joking your tone is, it hurts a woman when a so-called "gentleman" calls them a dirty word. This rule has one exception: in the sack. Make sure she’s okay with dirty talk, though, before you start busting out the four letter words.

LAST WORDS::
A gentleman can recognize when he loses a fight. Know the difference between standing up for yourself and being a fool. In the words of the immortal Kenny Rogers, “You really do need to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.”

Critical Theory Tuesdays: In Between Two Deaths with Lacan, Zizek, and Zombies

As humans, we are defined by our end. Every breath is drawn in the face of that daunting ubiquity of flesh sinking back into the earth. Each heartbeat echoes the inevitability that our remains will become the fodder for an orchestral chaos of decomposition. Every day, we are faced with the unavoidable dissipation of our bodies – our permanent expulsion from the Eden of the Real. In accordance with Lacanian psychoanalysis, however, death is far more complex than just a finite biological timeline. Lacan’s conception of life and death extends beyond the dominion of physical mortality. We die once, at the end of life, when our years have dwindled and our faculties have fallen into ruin. We die again, emblematically, in the face of our imploding Symbolic universe. It is here that ourselves, as subjects, face extermination and extinction. A living death occurs when we become excluded – ostracized – from the symbolic order. Without the property of a subject, without an identity, we can no longer exist for the Other. The recognition of this symbolic death has manifested itself through our obsession with the undead.

In the abyss between symbolic death and actual death, a space emerges. This space consists of pure death drive – a paradoxical drive without desire. The primary disparity between desire and drive is that, while both remain insatiable, desire remains as such because that persistent lack acts as a catalyst. Desire is defined by that very lack. Desire emerges obsessively in search of an object to fill the absence. This is an object that, by nature, cannot and does not exist. Conversely, drive understands the prevalence of this lack and is pleasured by the act of attempting to fill it. In the symbolic realm, the insatiable cannibalism of Zombies represents the death drive as incessant consumption without satisfaction. Drive is about the Sisyphean motions, not the false ideal of ultimate fulfillment. In Lacanian terms, the death drive is defined as the innate impulse to return to the immaculate state of quiescence that precedes birth. According to Zizek, this cavernous void between the two deaths is filled by manifestations of the monstrous, the beautiful, and the grotesque.

This death-driven compulsion is blatantly cannibalistic. Freud argues in his later writings (Beyond the Pleasure Principle) that humans are drawn to repeat painful or traumatic events, despite an apparent contradiction to the human pleasure instinct. The traumatized individual, like a zombie devouring flesh, attempts to consume the trauma. This allows the subject to return into a state of quiescence – a limbo between the finality of death and the reality life. In this “undead” state, the binary opposition between dead and alive is undone. Zombies are symbolically representational of humans existing in the space of the death drive – they are neither dead nor alive, and they are simultaneously both dead and alive. In this fashion, zombies reject all meaning. Zombies represent precisely what is impossible to represent within the complex sphere of human nature: they resist any stable signification through paradoxically signifying too much.

-- J. Henry, Feb 2011

12 Reasons Why Coffee is Better than a Boyfriend

 

It’s complex.

It doesn’t leave a bad taste in your mouth.

You don’t have to worry about it smelling disgusting.

It’s okay to share.

When adding liquor, it becomes tastier – not militant and weepy.

It’s always hot when you want it to be.

With a fine grind, pleasure is guaranteed.

You don’t have to pretend to be excited when it’s inside you.

You can have it around your hot friends without worrying that it’s imagining them naked.

It’s always pleasant to swallow.

Coffee never complains about spooning.

You never have to fake an orgasm while drinking coffee.

a secondhand moving mountains

Right now, the world is being serenaded to sleep by a symphony of ticking clocks and all I hear is silence. It’s a mechanical, logistical silence; the kind that permeates even the stillest of evenings. It’s a synthetic synesthesia. I can hear the cold reverberating off the walls in a minor key. The aroma of the icy dripping faucet is pungent and melancholy – a sweet floral cadence. It’s a bouquet of wilting chrysanthemums punctuated by brown baby’s breath. The space heater sends acrylic waves of metallic heat over my frigid body as I begin to thaw. I get up to pour a glass of tepid water – I am a corpse reanimated. My pallid toes crack and collide on the linoleum like ice cubes under a stream of warm water. My limbs feels stiff and brittle. In that moment, I become a tree in winter hibernation. My eyelids keep drooping heavy and sticky like molasses and I force them to stay open until it’s too blurry to see. I crawl in my bed, under the covers, and habitually move to one side. I subconsciously bunch my blanket behind my back like a body, like arms, like pulsing warmth. As I close my eyes I let Chopin penetrate me. I move closer to my space heater and imagine moisture, moths, and mosquitoes. I imagine dirty feet and soft skin and smelling of earth. Suddenly, my limbs are not my own. I become strong and tall and I envelop myself – only to wake, startled, that I’m thousands of miles away. I look outside and there’s snow on the ground. After being kissed by the desert air, my lips are cracked and bleeding.

I’m cold. I’m sure the warmth was just a dream. That sea of insects, of trees, of drugs – the thousands of unread pages. That ocean of opportunity: vast, tidal, unwavering. My mind is warped like those books left in the humidity to fend for themselves. I reach back to that mental place, not of clarity but of peace, and it’s gone.

But I'm home. I’m writing again. I’m reading again. I’m painting, drawing, thinking, creating again. I am myself again.

Suddenly my thoughts become waterfalls and I’m right back where I started.

I am beginning to embrace Kafka’s brand of enlightenment.

borrowed profundities.

"For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness." -- Herman Hesse

Critical Theory Tuesdays: Descartes, Wittgenstein, and the Fallacy of Skepticism

The notion of skepticism in regards to the existence of an external world – a concrete, finite, tangible world beyond the jurisdiction of human senses – is based on the actuality that any knowledge claim can be doubted. In the face of doubt’s omnipotence, even the endeavor to justify a knowledge claim becomes futile. Traditionally, epistemology has sought a fundamental architecture of certain knowledge, or in Kantian terms, an objective a priori truth. This post-Cartesian climate of western philosophy, however, has made it impossible to envisage any knowledge that is impervious to all potential skepticism. Descartes changed the face of modern thought through doubting the truth of everything. He blatantly rejected evidence acquired through the senses – which eventually lead him to question the fundamental process of reasoning ad infinitum. Theory itself was catalyzed by Descartes’ revolutionary thought. Because of Descartes, critical theory has become a multi-faceted discipline that acts as the driving force behind the edge of skeptical criticism in modern academia.

But Wittgenstein flagrantly challenges Descartes’ notion of doubt. Wittgenstein states that declarations like “here is a hand” or “the world has existed for more than five minutes,” exhibit more commonalities with logical propositions despite possessing the form of empirical ones. These specific statements appear to reveal something factual about the world, and according to Descartes, they would therefore be susceptible to doubt. Wittgenstein, however, believes that they serve a function within the architecture of language. Within this linguistic structure, empirical propositions are granted the ability to make sense. The idea is not to claim certain knowledge of the aforementioned propositions, but rather to recognize that these propositions extend beyond the realm of doubt, uncertainty, and questioning knowledge.

In other words, such propositions are assumed by users of language as absolutes to aid in the ability of speech. Through the assumption of these truths, it is possible to speak with a greater accuracy and understanding of the world. These propositions aren’t intended to be scrutinized – they are merely building blocks – enablers of communication. Wittgenstein metaphorically compares these propositions to door hinges – tools which must remain fixed in order for the door of language to be functional.

Wittgenstein doesn’t attempt to refute doubts about the existence of an external world so much as he seeks to circumnavigate them. He illustrates that the doubts themselves do not function as they are intended. Wittgenstein gives propositions a structural role in language by assuming that said propositions are logical by nature. According to Wittgenstein, they define how language, and therefore thought, functions. “Here is a hand” is an ostensive definition. This statement explicates how the moniker hand is to be merely functional rather than assuming an empirical claim about the actual presence of a hand. If humans begin to doubt this fundamental linguistic structure, then the whole structure of language, internal and external, comes apart. If two individuals cannot agree over the existence of a hand, it therefore becomes impossible to assume that they can agree on anything – this includes common understanding that could serve as shared ground upon which they would be able to debate the matter. Rational thought and communication are only possible between individuals when there is some sort of mutual understanding, and when one doubts such fundamental propositions as “here is a hand,” that common ground dissipates into the ether. Skepticism purports its occurrence within a framework of rational debate. Through extensive doubt, however, skepticism undermines rationality itself, and thus undermines the very basis for doubt. In regards to the external world, doubt is never more than hypothetical and, as such, it cannot really be classified as ‘doubt’ at all. Doubting, as an action, negates the ability of the doubter to doubt.

-- J. Henry,  February 2011

Works consulted:

Meditations -- René Descartes
On Certainty -- Ludwig Wittgenstein

weekend warriors

 I'm still not used to the cold.

I could feel the dry, frosty air biting every inch of bare skin that I foolishly left exposed. My high heels clicked over the red carpet of cracked concrete. But what spectacle was I attending? Tall buildings and miniature skyscrapers boasted from the sides of the too-wide streets. Wide enough for a ox cart to turn around, is what Brigham Young intended. There were no oxen here, no rickety wooden handcarts or carriages. There were expensive cars purchased with blood money; with the tithes of the righteous saints. The streets were flanked with M3s, M3 coupes, M3 convertibles, M6 coupes, M6 convertibles. Standing guard outside the church office buildings, there were the 4-wheel models BMW X5 M & BMW X6 M.

Suddenly, a bible verse echoed in my head and that ancient guilt resurfaced, curdling the contents of my stomach like lemon juice poured into heavy cream.

“And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” (Mt. 19:24)

But, who am I to point out hypocrisy? I fancy myself an atheist but I spend some Sundays sitting in the back of the spanish-language catholic mass at the Cathedral de la Madeleine. I feel moved by religious architecture and I feel immediately reverent the moment I step inside any basilica or abbey.

I prayed yesterday for the first time in ten years. my prayers were different this time -- I wasn't begging for safety or for understanding or for patience or for my family to stay together or for my father to be "fixed".

No, calling it a "prayer" is a misnomer. It wasn't reverent or pious. It wasn't respectful or ritualistic. It was more like a challenge, a throwing-down-the-gauntlet with the universe. The abyss and I have been having a prolonged staring contest, and instead of standing unblinkingly still, accepting the absurdity of this meaningless life, I decided to get angry. I was screaming, enraged. I gnashed my teeth.

This is Sisyphus, abandoning his rock.

I will not accept a death sentence. I will embrace my life sentence.

This is me, declaring the following:

Universe, I don't give a FUCK about your absurdity, about the futility of life and death, about the lack of good in people. Call me a reformed nihilist, whatever.

I'm making my own meaning. I'm living my life in a way that will make my death have gravitas. I'm being good, for the sake of being good, whatever that means.

I may not be able to believe in anything else. I can, however, believe in myself.

WHISKEY 101: THE HOLY SPIRIT

The last time I turned down a whiskey, I didn't understand the question. Because of my undying love for whiskey (and my Irishness!) I felt the need to compile a concise list of facts, quotes, quips, and witticisms about my favorite holy spirit. Additionally, after reading this, you'll become an expert on all things whiskey.

There are five basic classifications of whiskey. I have listed my favorites of each classification:
Irish Whiskey (Jameson, Bushmills)
Scotch Whisky (Johnny Walker, Glenlivet)
Bourbon (Maker's Mark)
Canadian Whisky (Crown Royal, Seagram's) 
American Whiskey (Jack Daniel's, High West)

As you all may have gathered from your traipses through the world of liquor, there are two legitimate spellings of this distilled grain spirit. The first is whisky - as spelled by Scots and Canadians. The second, whiskey - as spelled by the Irish and Americans. After much deliberation, I have chosen the latter for my preference. Hindsight being 20/20, it seems like the obvious choice.

Scotch and Irish whisky are made the same way, with the exception of malting and distillation process. Whiskey was first produced in Ireland by missionary monks (who make the best booze and beer because the secrets are given to them by God) as early as the sixth century. Along with spreading The Word of The Lord, they also began distilling whiskey, or as it's called in Gaelic, uisce beatha, meaning "water of life." Occupying British soldiers in the 12th century bastardized the pronunciation (as well as the country), and it eventually came out "whiskey".

Whiskey's dark, syrupy hue comes from the wooden barrels in which it is aged. During the aging process, the wood expands and contracts with the change in temperature. Many barrels are charred; this causes more of the woodsy flavor to be imparted on the distilled liquid. It also accounts for the depth smokiness in many aged spirits. During this process, the liquid moves in and out of the wood, absorbing the compounds and flavor from the barrel. Side note: This is why I love Peet's Aged Sumatra coffee-- the woodsy flavor notes from the casks remind me of a great aged whiskey!

The "Angel's share" or "Angel's tax" refers to the 4% of whiskey that evaporates every year. As the story goes, angels "steal" 4% of barreled whiskey. Once you bottle whiskey, though, it's safe. The angels can't touch it. It doesn't evaporate.

The oldest whiskey in the world is almost automatically rarest whiskey because of the annual 4% "angel's tax." The buyer of a very old bottle is drinking a huge percentage of the only whiskey left on the earth from that year. Here's how to calculate how much whiskey is left over from each year. (It works like interest rates, but backwards.)

100 x (0.96) ^ ^{years old} = % of whiskey left on earth from that year.

How to drink it: 
I prefer it neat (straight up, whiskey and glass only, no ice, no water). Ice dulls the flavor. It reduces the temperature too much, inhibiting the flavor and freezing its aroma. If you're a lightweight (a.k.a, a pussy) adding one cube is moderately acceptable. Technically, taking it "neat" is not the proper way to impart the full spectrum of flavors onto your palate. Adding a small splash of water is ideal. Soft still spring water will enhance the aroma and flavor of a whiskey. This prevents the strong alcohol content from numbing your senses. Be careful -- some tap water contains high levels of chlorine that can easily spoil the flavor. Honestly, though, it is all about taste and preference. One person might prefer their whiskey neat, but as I said, a small amount of water or ice will bring out more subtle, nuanced flavors. Give it a try -- just stay away from the mixers. You're a man now.

I will leave you now with some words of wisdom. Erin go Bragh!

“The last time I drank whiskey, I started returning things I never stole.” - Unknown

“What whiskey will not cure, there is no cure for.” - Irish Proverb

  “I'm a simple man. All I want is enough sleep for two normal men, enough whiskey for three, and enough women for four.” - Joel Rosenberg

“Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite and furthermore always carry a small snake.” - W. C. Fields

“There are two things a Highlander likes naked, and one of them is malt whisky.”
– Scottish proverb

“My God, so much I like to drink Scotch that sometimes I think my name is Igor Stra-whiskey.” - Igor Stravinsky

“The water was not fit to drink. To make it palatable, we had to add whiskey. By diligent effort, I learnt to like it.” - Winston Churchill

“My friends, I had not intended to discuss this controversial subject at this particular time. However, I want you to know that I do not shun controversy. On the contrary, I will take a stand on any issue at any time, regardless of how fraught with controversy it might be. You have asked me how I feel about whiskey. All right, here is how I feel about whiskey:

If when you say whiskey you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame and helplessness, and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it.

But, if when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools, then certainly I am for it. This is my stand. I will not retreat from it. I will not compromise.” - Judge Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr.
 

Critical Theory Tuesdays: Foucault, Social Networks, and the Panopticon

 I decided to post something a little more scholarly today. I'm going to try to write and something deconstructive/in the vein of critical theory every Tuesday. Here's my first one. Enjoy!

Many 19th century prison systems in the United States utilized Jeremy Bentham's design of the panopticon (from Greek, pan “all”+ optikon, neut. of optikos “of or for sight” ). This was a groundbreaking architectural structure that allowed all prisoners to be under constant scrutiny of one another. On the level of basic functionality, this eliminated the necessity of many prison guards. This structure, however, created a mental internment as well as a physical one. Additionally, the panopticon permitted an observer to survey those incarcerated without them being aware of whether or not they were being watched. The architect Silke Berit Lang has called this phenomenon the "sentiment of an invisible omniscience." Bentham himself described the Panopticon as "a new mode of obtaining power of mind over mind, in a quantity hitherto without example." The unmodified design of the panopticon forced the prisoners to work and live while all in sight of one another, therefore merging the watched and watchers into one.

In Discipline and Punish, Foucault presents the idea of the panopticon as an allegory for Western society and its emphasis on normalization and observation. According to Foucault, the exposed inmate becomes an object of information. In all circumstances, panopticism replaces the collective effects of crowds with “collections of separated individualities” (201). Like facebook, the panopticon induces in the “inmate” a state of conscious and permanent visibility that “assures the automatic functioning of power” so that the effects are perpetual and internalized (202). This “machine for dissociating the seeing and being seen dyad” can be operated by anyone, increasing the likelihood of, and anxiety regarding, observation (202). The panopticon was more than a prison; it was also a laboratory. The nature of the converging viewer and viewed transformed this structure into a privileged place for experiments with humans as variables.

Facebook functions as a 21st century panopticon. Like the prison scheme, it can be understood as a generalizable model of functioning. It is a way of defining power relations in terms of the every day. It is numerically efficient. It functions without the necessity of intervention despite its perpetual ability to do so. Like Foucault’s notion of the panopticon, it acts “directly on individuals” regardless of the scale. Facebook and the panopticon both demonstrate ways of “making power relations function in a function, and of making a function through these power relations” (206-207).

This is where the watchers become the watched, and vice versa. This structure forces humans -- as self-perceived hyper-individualists -- into a state of perpetual fluctuation, unrest, and self-creation. We exaggerate ourselves and create elaborate facades constructed of streaming photos and movie titles and pithy status updates. Somewhere, in the midst of all this calculation, the entropy of our being diminishes. It is here, in fully establishing our online personas, that we negate our physical existence.

*Foucault quotes cited from Discipline and Punish : The Birth of the Prison by Michel Foucault ; translated from the French by Alan Sheridan. New York : Vintage Books, 1979.

Locally Brewed Utah Beers With Names That Sound Like Sex Positions

10. The Devastator

The Devastator is an intense, amber lager (8% alcohol by volume). It has a fluffy white head with a bready malt aroma and a rich body that leaves you with a warming feeling.

9. Chasing Tail

Chasing Tail Golden Ale is a delicious English Ale, made from traditional English malt and hops. Well-balanced for easy drinking.

8. Sit Down, Shut Up, & Hold On

Sit Down, Shut Up, & Hold On is an unfiltered Belgian wheat bier, spiced with coriander along with bitter and sweet orange peel. A sharp wheat flavor and heavy citrus tones. Enjoy with an orange slice.

7. Stupid Blonde 

Stupid Blonde ale is a light unfiltered blonde ale. it has low hop character and flavors of barley and wheat. 

6. All the Way

All the Way Alt is an unfiltered German Ale, dry, medium bodied, good bitterness, with little to no hop aroma or flavor.

5. Bone Warmer

Bone Warmer Amber Ale, brewed in the "strong ale" tradition, is a beer of great character, with exceptional malt flavor and warming alcohol content. The resulting ale is the color of roasting chestnuts, voluptuously malty, only slightly sweet, with a hint of toffee and a warming dry finish. Bone Warmer Amber Ale is an ideal accompaniment to rich meaty stews, wild game, roasted fowl or root vegetables, and aged cheddars.

4. Cherry Luv

Cherry Luv is an "Oud Bruin", also known as Flanders Brown style Ale originating from the Flemish region of Belgium. Cherry Luv is a medium bodied, reddish-brown ale with a gentle malty flavor and no hop bitterness. The aroma is a complex mixture of fruits and rich smells of plums, raisins and cherry. Both yeast and red tart cherries were used in fermentation to create an authentic sour Belgian farmhouse ale with cherry accents. 

3. Monkey's Dunkle

Monkey's Dunkle is a European-style dark lager that has a pronounced malty aroma and biscuit like character that dominates over mild hop bitterness. This is a medium body session beer meant to be enjoyed all evening long.

2. Backcountry Cream

Backcountry Cream Ale is a light, unfiltered ale/lager hybrid, low in bitterness and hop aroma, subtle caramel flavor.

Last but not least, the one that started it all...


1. The Park City Steamer

The Park City Steamer is typical steam-style beer that is fermented at room temperature with a lager yeast. Medium body with a full flavor.

vanity

i am really obsessed with my new haircut. that is all.

on the agenda...

today:

go for a chilly run.
do an hour of yoga.
walk to work, sling lattes from 1 - 8:30

also, I am becoming obsessed with filthy dubstep remixes of my favorite songs. here is your daily aural-gasm. I'd put this on my ipod but I don't want to get a boner while I'm walking to work.

let me take a moment to appreciate the little things.

I love picking up a Q and U in scrabble at the same time. I love playing on old and dangerous playground equipment. I love wearing underwear fresh out of the dryer. I love the smell of gasoline. I love wearing jeans tucked into boots. I love discovering the perfect pancake-to-maple-syrup ratio. I love feeling like a princess after walking outside and being dusted with freshly fallen snowflakes. I love achingly scalding showers when it's freezing outside. I love drinking hot coffee on my chilly walk to work. I love being able to wear gloves and scarves and pea coats. I love live music. I love terrible cover bands. I love the roar of 70's muscle cars. I love deciphering archaic text. I love long phone calls with old friends and eating homemade grilled cheese sandwiches. I love being terrible at yoga (but still enjoying it!). I love doing anything that makes me feel like a caveman. I love leftover cake. I love the muscle soreness that follows hard workouts. I love the smell of the coffee aisle in the grocery store. I love swapping smiles with strangers. I love greasy chinese food. I love getting a buzz after a long run. I love crying*. I love smiling and thinking about the past. I love the fact that my future is unwritten.  

I love living. 


*Studies show that emotional crying (versus dry-eyes crying, onion crying, or eyelash-in-your-eye crying) actually releases a myriad of crazy hormones that relieve tension by balancing your body’s stress levels. If you’ve ever heard people say ‘I’m okay, I had a good cry,’ then it could be because crying helps straighten out your chemically crooked self right when you need it most. And let’s face it — that’s a lot better than holding it all in and shorting out all your inner circuitry.

tearing up the streets.

Last night was one of the best nights I've had in awhile. I got to hang out with one of my oldest and dearest friends, Luke. I bought him his first cup of coffee, ever! After we arrived at Coffee Noir (a cool local, independently owned joint) I decided upon a Café au lait as a good introductory beverage.

 

coffee + milk = perfection 

 The blend was an earthy, syrupy, deeply roasted Sumatra. He loved it.

Anyway, to share some background without including the gory details, we were both raised in the same faith but in neighboring cities. He recently defected from Mormonism. Either he's been reading too much, or I'm a bad influence. Or both.

This guy is incredible. He served a Mormon mission in Germany and is fluent in German. He spent the evening telling me about his favorite German poets and authors. I threw in my two cents, but I can only go as far as Nietzsche and Heidegger with a sprinkling of Kafka and Rilke. He has read Nietzsche in German.

He then shared the following poem with me. I listened to it once, he translated it for me, and then I listened to it again. I have provided a translation below. It is devastating.






----------------------------------------------


Paul Celan - Deathfugue

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling, he whistles his hounds to come close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he commands us to play up for the dance.

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
Your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped

He shouts jab the earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play
he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are so blue
jab your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margareta
your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays his vipers
He shouts play death more sweetly this Death is a master from Deutschland
he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise then as smoke to the sky
you'll have a grave then in the clouds there you won't lie too cramped

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland
we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink
this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue
he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete
he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air
he plays with his vipers and daydreams der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Shulamith


----------------------------------------------

So basically, I need to learn German. He tried to teach me the sounds last night, but I failed miserably. Oh well. I need to practice.

I also was able to listen to an absurd amount of Shostakovich. No wonder I'm so moody and introspective today.

I am officially employed!

Applied, interviewed, and hired within five days of moving to a new city. This has to break some sort of record. The coffee shop is right down town too, so I get to walk to work.

I know, I'm jealous of my life too.

adventure challenge: day one.

First things first: the following song got me out of bed this morning.



Yann Tiersen is brilliant -- you're probably familiar with him, he wrote and performed the soundtrack for the film Amélie (one of my favorites).

As I described to many of you, I am going to force myself to do something new and challenging every day (thus becoming a modern-day renaissance woman/polymathette).

Two things you should know about me (if you haven't figured them out already): I invent words frequently (just call me Ms. Shakespeare) and I'm quite fond of using (unnecessary) parenthetical citations within my text.

Anyway, enough awkward preambling. Today, I am going to:
successfully use public transportation in a new city*

*the key word here being "successfully" 
I have a paid gig on the university campus at 9:30. After that is completed, the city is mine! 
people of salt lake, brace yourselves.
.

stateside, ready for a new adventure.

there is no reason that life -- even day to day -- shouldn't be lived as an adventure.

i'm back from costa rica, but i've decided that i'm going to continue cataloging my adventures here in this blog. as many of you know, i moved to salt lake city about a week ago.

it's damn cold here. it's an adjustment, and i miss california a lot. but it's good for me.

to all of my fervent readers and faithful friends: please stay tuned for more musings from your favorite misanthrope.

in the mean time, here's a tune that represents perfectly my current state of mind: 

Quinceañera!

A few weeks ago, Liz and I were fortunate enough to experience a real Costa Rican Quinceañera. It was for Amanda (the niece of our neighbors Luz and Guillermo). We agreed to help them prepare (Luz was doing the cooking) so we hiked over to their farm early in the morning. We were prepared to work, and we brought changes of clothes, jewelry, and makeup so we could get ready after the preparations were finished.

We chopped vegetables for hours. Hundreds of onions, carrots, peppers, and garlic cloves passed through my fumbling fingers as I tried to match the delicacy and precision of Luz. These vegetables were thrown into a giant pot of carne en salsa – this metal pot was the size of a kiddie pool, and it was sitting atop a roaring fire for hours. These people know how to cook.

We were able to take coffee in the afternoon before we got ready. Liz and I showered quickly – what was really magical was to see all of the girls in the house getting ready. Even the tiny ones wore a little bit of mascara. 

We rode to the Quince in the back of memo’s pickup truck. I felt like a badass – dolled up, wearing a dress – clinging on for dear life as the rickety cab bumped and bounced over every large rock beneath the tires. 

this was awesome

little Daniela riding like a pro!

The party was so extravagant. I’ve never been to a birthday celebration like that. The only comparable events in my repertoire of memories were wedding receptions I attended when I was young. Amanda looked like a princess. Everything was pink – ribbons, candles, tablecloths, flowers. They even had a live band and a disco ball above the dance floor. There was a red carpet extending down the center of the large room. Also: because of my awesome camera, Guillermo and Luz made me the official photographer of the evening. I have included my favorites in this post. Enjoy!

Luz made a ridiculous amount of homemade liquor. When I asked her what it was called, she smiled and replied “contrabano”. Contraband. She brews massive tubs of this homemade chocolate and coconut cream alcohol every time she has a party. I’ve grown to love it a little too much. Anyway, servers kept bringing out trays and trays of this stuff, so about an hour in, Liz and I were hammered. We meandered over to the kitchen later (one of my favorite things to do) and found Dago, Guillermo’s brother, pouring himself a shot of some really strong homemade liquor. He insisted on pouring us several shots, and by then, I was over the moon. It was clear that this alcohol was not meant for everyone. I felt like a VIP at a very important party. Later on, we wandered outside to get some fresh air and met some older Costa Rican guys who were sipping on imperials. They asked us if we wanted some beers, Liz and I readily accepted. The older one was donning dark washed denim jeans, an exquisitely pressed button-up shirt, and the largest cowboy hat I have ever seen. He explained to us that he was the owner of the local bar, and that if we would come dance with them, they’d get us whatever we wanted to drink. I was ecstatic. I figured Kelly (who had stayed home) would understand me accepting their offer.

We had an open bar – free drinks, shots, and cigarettes punctuated by bouts of capricious dancing. They taught us how to salsa and meringue. Looking back, the whole night has become a blur.

Later we decided to head back to the party (to the dismay of newly-found friends we had made at the bar) in case things were wrapping up soon. Outside, we ran into Luz’s little sister and her boyfriend. They conveniently had a bottle of rum wrapped elegantly in a brown paper bag. After being invited to drink more, we conceded gracefully and passed around the rum.

We ended up giving each other languages lessons – they taught me that I was “muy barracha” and liz and I explained the concept of being “fucked up”.

I’m kind of bitter that we just started making a lot of really good friends here, and now it’s time to go. Oh well.

As a side note – I always get barrata and barracha mixed up. The former means cheap, the latter means drunk. Situations where this has been a problem:

“I am really cheap right now.”

“I don’t want this one, do you have something a little more drunk?”

Eventually, Memo and Luz had packed up and were ready to go. The ride back in the truck bed did not help my stomach, but I could swear in that mindset that I was Indiana Jones. Somewhere I never thought I’d be: drunk, in the back of a pickup, bouncing through the rainforest in the middle of the night.

After we got back to their house, Memo and Luz thanked us for our help and offered to let us stay the night. For some reason I wanted to do the straight uphill two mile hike home at night while I was drunk. Crossing the river was terrifying. We made it home safely though, and I will remember that night forever.