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.