Before we even begin to discuss Asperger's, Doctor and I, a long period of time is spent just digging out of the depression. Going from 8 years of social isolation to therapy...it's a lot of chiseling. Just slowly, slowly digging away at the mindset that's accrued, settled in.
August 2006
Doctor: We've established two modes of behavior. You either isolate or, when not isolating, utilize the marionette (i.e. mimic the body language and statements of others). This latter is also a form of isolating, a continuation of the hiding.
She writes the word "isolation" and "marionette" at the top of a piece of paper.
D: You've expressed disinterest in a life of pure isolation. You have also expressed disinterest in the marionette. So...
She draws a line between the two categories.
D: We discussed this briefly, months ago, but we are aiming somewhere in between. Our goal is to begin defining a middle path. What are you thoughts on this?
M: I definitely agree that the other two options are out. I'm comfortable when I'm by myself but I have zero interest in that life. It's gotten to where I just can't take that anymore. So, I don't know. A combination of the two...I'm just not sure what that looks like.
D: It's undefined at this point. It will, however, involve being more honest with people about who you are. I think the marionette just fuels the sense of detachment and alienation.
M: Practically, though, what does being more honest look like? Just saying crap about myself?
D: Yes. Speaking plainly about what you think and feel, not altering it for the purpose of mimicry. Not scripting your conversation.
M: I'm not sure if I can do that. I hate talking about myself. I don't know how to do it. Like, there doesn't seem to be room in a conversation for personal stuff. Everything has a pre-existing structure and I'm not sure where to fit internal stuff.
D: That's because you weigh yourself down with self-defeating thoughts. You don't think there is anything about yourself worth mentioning. A lot of what we're dealing with here, M, is depression; not just AS.
M: I don't know. I'm not sure that it's a question of worth. It's just...every conversation has it's own contextual imperative. A person will mention something...work issues or sports or television...I will respond to their statement, they will respond to mine...it goes back and forth like this and the things we say are related to the social context, i.e. where we are (work, restaurant) and what we are discussing (work, sports). Where does personal information fit in with that? The premise here is that I will feel less detached if I'm more open about myself...but the reality is that no one really wants to know what I have to say outside of the conversational boundaries. That being the case, why not just tell people what they want to hear? Agree with them. Or disagree, but purely for the purpose of furthering the conversation, giving it an arc and direction.
D: But you've always done that and it hasn't gotten you anywhere. What we are discussing here is change.
M: Mimicry hasn't gotten me anywhere personally, but it's been extremely effective socially. People respond well to it. People never respond well to my own personal reactions. Again, it's just a matter of structure. I don't know how to be open without disrupting the flow and rhythm of a conversation. Like, if I mention something personal, suddenly the other person is listening. Then what?
D: Then...you talk.
M: Yeah. That sounds awful.
D: Why?
M: Because...it just feels wrong. And if someone listens...if they're like attentive...
I pause for a bit. I'm trying to remember something...
M: There's that Groucho Marx quote. He was invited to join this elite country club or something and he rejected the offer, saying "I would never belong to a club that would have someone like me as a member." So I like that quote. And...I don't know. In terms of my social interactions, it's been very strange to find out that all of my best personal qualities...the listening skills, the mimicry...are defense mechanisms. If I take those away...it just seems like that would feel very uncomfortable.
D: But you don't feel that way when you're alone, right?
M: I guess not. I'm just lost in my head then, but when...
D: Really listen to what you are saying here. This is self-fulfilling prophecy. Textbook. You feel embarrassment around people because you assume they will react negatively to things you say. Therefore you never say anything and this false assumption is perpetuated. It's never challenged.
M: This true assumption is perpetuated by reality. I agree with what you are saying to an extent, but people really do prefer sameness. I mean, come on. Would you like to say, with a straight face, that people like difference?
I look at her. She looks back.
M: Difference makes people uncomfortable, Doctor. So yes, I take my self-defeating thoughts too far. But to suggest that being more open is the answer...
I lift my chin.
M: These little scars...my lip, chin...
She nods.
M: We talk here...I'm open about everything...and you see good qualities. Not everyone reacts the way you do.
D: Understood. And you're right. This is not a kind world towards difference. What I'm really wanting to focus on here is finding that balance. Just being open, being completely open...I'm not suggesting that extreme. But the extreme you're currently at...all of these walls and isolation...it's too much. It'll take time to define this, but a balance...a realistic one...is possible for you.
I swat at my shoelaces. The Doctor waits and waits.
D: By the way, I wanted wanted to tell you: the front desk staff have commented on how relaxed you have seemed lately.
M: The receptionists?
D: They think you're funny.
M: Huh.
D: Is it an act?
M: I don't know. I guess they're becoming familiar faces. Also, they could never remember how much I pay each week, so I taught them a mnemonic device. I wrote out this weird little sentence that rhymes with the price and now they repeat it whenever I see them. So the weekly recitation of gibberish probably has a sedative effect on me. It's a happy thing. I purr.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
session from June 2006: Proust and Pinocchio
Doctor: Good morning. You have a book with you today.
M: Proust! I had mentioned him last week- I find a lot of his material to be relevant to Asperger's- and I wanted to read a few things if that's okay.
Doctor: Of course.
It's the second volume of Proust's novel, In Search of Lost Time. I open it up and start reading, I'll re-print a few of the passages here. In the first one, he's describing his loathing of changes in routine...the way they heighten both his perceptions and his discomfort. The narrator is beginning a vacation and has just, for the first time, entered the hotel room where he will be staying (p-245):
"As our attentiveness furnishes a room, so habit unfurnishes it, making space in it for us. In that room of mine at Balbec, 'mine' in name only, there was no space for me: it was crammed with things which did not know me, which glared my distrust of them back at me, noting my existence only to the extent of letting me know they resented me for disturbing theirs. Without letup, in some unfamiliar tongue, the clock, which at home I would never have heard...went on making comments about me, which must have sounded offensive to the curtains, for they stood there without a word in a listening posture, looking like the sort of people who will shrug their shoulders to show they are irked by the mere sight of someone...And in the part of me that is more private than those used for seeing and hearing, the part where one is aware of shades of smell, almost inside the self, an assault by perfume threw me back on my deepest defenses as I tried to repel it, in my tiredness, with a pointless, repeated and apprehensive sniffing. Deprived of my universe, evicted from my room, with my very tenancy of my body jeopardized by the enemies about me, infiltrated to the bone by fever, I was alone and wished I could die."
I'm laughing as I read this, at how self-deprecating it is, but the second quote is more difficult because it touches upon the subject of detachment, introversion. In it, the narrator has met a fellow vacationer named Robert (p-316):
"It was very soon agreed between us that we had become firm friends forever, and each time he said 'our friendship' it was as though he spoke of some important and delightful entity existing outside of ourselves...Such talk saddened me in a way, and I never knew how to respond to it: for, in spending my time chatting with him, I felt none of the happiness I was capable of deriving from being without company...It was only when I was alone that I would be swept on occasion by one of those impressions that brought with them such deeply satisfying feelings. But I only had to be in the presence of someone else- talking with a friend, for example- for my mind to face the wrong way; and thoughts going in that other direction never afforded me any enjoyment. No sooner had I left the company of Robert than I sought words with which to tidy up the disordered minutes I had just spent with him: I assured myself that I had a close friend and that a close friend is a rarity; yet what I felt was the exact opposite of the mode of enjoyment natural to me, the opposite of the pleasure that could come from finding something lying deep within myself, from bringing it out of its inner darkness and into the light of day."
The last two sentences from this passage kill me: "I had no difficulty in convincing myself that I should really be happy about all this, and my hope that such happiness would never leave me was as strong as my knowledge that I had never in fact felt it. The joys we most dread losing are those that have remained outside us, beyond the reach of our heart."
I won't quote them here, but I read from two more sections before finishing.
Doctor: One of those in particular sounds pertinent.
M: Right. The friend.
Doctor: What was it you used to say? "I like the idea of being around people, never the reality."
M: Also I thought the bit at the hotel room was nice, especially in reference to AS: the fear of change, the need for sameness. He was supposed to be on vacation, relaxing, yet felt tormented by all of the new objects. "The clock is talking about me." It's a funny section, but it's...I don't know.
Doctor: Familiar. Thanks for sharing that. Is there anything in particular you were wanting to discuss in reference to it? You've never brought in a book before...I'm just wondering if there's a specific goal you had in mind.
M: There's no goal. I just thought you might enjoy some of the sections that relate to our discussion. It's always nice to find inner experiences articulated in a good description. Speaking of that...
I hand the Doctor a few typed pages.
M: I'm sick of how resistant and repetitive I've been and I wanted to try a thought experiment. I re-wrote our last session. It's our words, but the conversation is between Pinocchio and the Blue Fairy. I thought that might be funny.
(It's this session)
Doctor: You know, that story never even occurred to me.
M: Me neither...and it's strange we haven't referenced that. A marionette who hates his condition, wants to become a "real" boy? I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the Blue Fairy were to push Cognitive-Behavioral psychology instead of magic.
Doctor: Did you want to read this today?
M: No. I just wanted to give you a copy. I'm trying to think of it as an exorcism, a way of getting the toxins out; lighten some of the suicidal stuff by having a fictional character say it.
I laugh a little bit. I'm talking about "getting the toxins out"- I'm trying to be more positive- but I'm also thinking of the history behind the writing of Pinocchio.
M: Do you know anything about the story? How it was originally supposed to end?
Doctor: I don't.
M: Pinocchio was not supposed be a children's book. It was very grim, very bleak, and the first version of the story ends with Pinocchio's murder.
Doctor: Er. Was he transformed at that point? Was he killed as a marionette or a child?
M: He was a marionette. Which sort of seems less dark, since he wasn't a kid, but on the other hand he dies having never achieved his one goal. All he wants is to be a real boy and he's killed before that can happen. I'm trying to remember what happens at the end. He has these gold coins or something and these thieves beat him, steal his gold and execute him. They hang him from a tree. Actually, this scene is still in the book. It's Chapter 15. It was supposed to end there, but apparently the author was talked into continuing the story and ending it in a happier, more saccharine way. Like an editor or somebody talked him into making it an upbeat children's book. Ugh.
Doctor: A story with two endings. I wonder which one M prefers?
I stare at the back of my hand.
M: Proust! I had mentioned him last week- I find a lot of his material to be relevant to Asperger's- and I wanted to read a few things if that's okay.
Doctor: Of course.
It's the second volume of Proust's novel, In Search of Lost Time. I open it up and start reading, I'll re-print a few of the passages here. In the first one, he's describing his loathing of changes in routine...the way they heighten both his perceptions and his discomfort. The narrator is beginning a vacation and has just, for the first time, entered the hotel room where he will be staying (p-245):
"As our attentiveness furnishes a room, so habit unfurnishes it, making space in it for us. In that room of mine at Balbec, 'mine' in name only, there was no space for me: it was crammed with things which did not know me, which glared my distrust of them back at me, noting my existence only to the extent of letting me know they resented me for disturbing theirs. Without letup, in some unfamiliar tongue, the clock, which at home I would never have heard...went on making comments about me, which must have sounded offensive to the curtains, for they stood there without a word in a listening posture, looking like the sort of people who will shrug their shoulders to show they are irked by the mere sight of someone...And in the part of me that is more private than those used for seeing and hearing, the part where one is aware of shades of smell, almost inside the self, an assault by perfume threw me back on my deepest defenses as I tried to repel it, in my tiredness, with a pointless, repeated and apprehensive sniffing. Deprived of my universe, evicted from my room, with my very tenancy of my body jeopardized by the enemies about me, infiltrated to the bone by fever, I was alone and wished I could die."
I'm laughing as I read this, at how self-deprecating it is, but the second quote is more difficult because it touches upon the subject of detachment, introversion. In it, the narrator has met a fellow vacationer named Robert (p-316):
"It was very soon agreed between us that we had become firm friends forever, and each time he said 'our friendship' it was as though he spoke of some important and delightful entity existing outside of ourselves...Such talk saddened me in a way, and I never knew how to respond to it: for, in spending my time chatting with him, I felt none of the happiness I was capable of deriving from being without company...It was only when I was alone that I would be swept on occasion by one of those impressions that brought with them such deeply satisfying feelings. But I only had to be in the presence of someone else- talking with a friend, for example- for my mind to face the wrong way; and thoughts going in that other direction never afforded me any enjoyment. No sooner had I left the company of Robert than I sought words with which to tidy up the disordered minutes I had just spent with him: I assured myself that I had a close friend and that a close friend is a rarity; yet what I felt was the exact opposite of the mode of enjoyment natural to me, the opposite of the pleasure that could come from finding something lying deep within myself, from bringing it out of its inner darkness and into the light of day."
The last two sentences from this passage kill me: "I had no difficulty in convincing myself that I should really be happy about all this, and my hope that such happiness would never leave me was as strong as my knowledge that I had never in fact felt it. The joys we most dread losing are those that have remained outside us, beyond the reach of our heart."
I won't quote them here, but I read from two more sections before finishing.
Doctor: One of those in particular sounds pertinent.
M: Right. The friend.
Doctor: What was it you used to say? "I like the idea of being around people, never the reality."
M: Also I thought the bit at the hotel room was nice, especially in reference to AS: the fear of change, the need for sameness. He was supposed to be on vacation, relaxing, yet felt tormented by all of the new objects. "The clock is talking about me." It's a funny section, but it's...I don't know.
Doctor: Familiar. Thanks for sharing that. Is there anything in particular you were wanting to discuss in reference to it? You've never brought in a book before...I'm just wondering if there's a specific goal you had in mind.
M: There's no goal. I just thought you might enjoy some of the sections that relate to our discussion. It's always nice to find inner experiences articulated in a good description. Speaking of that...
I hand the Doctor a few typed pages.
M: I'm sick of how resistant and repetitive I've been and I wanted to try a thought experiment. I re-wrote our last session. It's our words, but the conversation is between Pinocchio and the Blue Fairy. I thought that might be funny.
(It's this session)
Doctor: You know, that story never even occurred to me.
M: Me neither...and it's strange we haven't referenced that. A marionette who hates his condition, wants to become a "real" boy? I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the Blue Fairy were to push Cognitive-Behavioral psychology instead of magic.
Doctor: Did you want to read this today?
M: No. I just wanted to give you a copy. I'm trying to think of it as an exorcism, a way of getting the toxins out; lighten some of the suicidal stuff by having a fictional character say it.
I laugh a little bit. I'm talking about "getting the toxins out"- I'm trying to be more positive- but I'm also thinking of the history behind the writing of Pinocchio.
M: Do you know anything about the story? How it was originally supposed to end?
Doctor: I don't.
M: Pinocchio was not supposed be a children's book. It was very grim, very bleak, and the first version of the story ends with Pinocchio's murder.
Doctor: Er. Was he transformed at that point? Was he killed as a marionette or a child?
M: He was a marionette. Which sort of seems less dark, since he wasn't a kid, but on the other hand he dies having never achieved his one goal. All he wants is to be a real boy and he's killed before that can happen. I'm trying to remember what happens at the end. He has these gold coins or something and these thieves beat him, steal his gold and execute him. They hang him from a tree. Actually, this scene is still in the book. It's Chapter 15. It was supposed to end there, but apparently the author was talked into continuing the story and ending it in a happier, more saccharine way. Like an editor or somebody talked him into making it an upbeat children's book. Ugh.
Doctor: A story with two endings. I wonder which one M prefers?
I stare at the back of my hand.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
people-sketch: a meeting of the dis-convivial
I.
My college history: I attended a very small seminary for two years, and then a big state college for three years.
The seminary had this deal: anyone could attend for two years, but after that only those officially signed up for the seminary program could continue there. It was less expensive than the state college...had most of the basic classes available...so that was the primary reason I attended. Cheap, got the obligatory stuff out of the way.
II.
This was a strict campus. Conservative dress-codes rigidly enforced. Male and female students were not allowed to touch or be alone together anywhere on campus. R-rated movies? Not allowed in the dorms.
All students...even those not in the seminary program...had to take bible courses. All students had to attend morning church services at least twice a week. The campus held these services every single morning of the school week...and every night just after dinner.
Strict. Not my thing really, but those were the rules. What's funny is that, for the most part, the rules were completely unnecessary. The majority of the students were quiet, well-behaved bible scholars who were unlikely to, god forbid, watch an R-rated movie in the dorm. The rules were preaching to the choir (or the reverse: singing to the preachers; either way).
III.
One day, early in my first semester there: I'm walking down a hallway...heading to class...when I hear a very unusual sound: curse-words. A long string of them. Whoa.
It's coming from the cafeteria. Female voice. Heavily-accented English. I'm curious, so I peek into the crowded cafeteria and see an Asian student digging frantically through her bookbag. This is what she's saying: "Fuck! Son of a bitch! Oh son of a bitch!".
Quite a few students are looking at her with disdain. There's even a table of professors openly scowling. People react negatively...but no one says a word. Infuriating, because 1. I know...we're all incredibly proper here and have delicate seminary ears...but grow up. People curse. And 2. it couldn't be more obvious: she doesn't know.
I walk up to her and say, "Hi. The words you're using...I don't mind at all...but they can be...you know, offensive. To some of the people here. Really offensive."
She looks mortified. She slowly places a hand over her mouth. She looks around the room and says, "Sorry everyone. I apologize. Sincerely. This will not happen again." She collapses into a chair and whispers, "How bad is this?"
"I don't know. It happens."
"Is this...?" She pauses...looks very upset...says, "Thank you" and walks rapidly out of the cafeteria.
IV.
Over the course of that school year, I had several conversations with her. She had only been in the country a few weeks when I met her...and all of her knowledge of the United States, it's culture, had come from a few classes she had taken in Malaysia. "They taught us customs, basic history, traditions".
She was a Taoist...had no knowledge of Christianity other than what they had taught her in this class. "They told us the bible story...the core beliefs. They never mentioned 'Oh, avoid this word. And that word.' They just told us about Jesus, the concept of the cross. Nothing about words." The day I met her, she had lost an expensive textbook.
At that point in time, she did not speak a great deal of English. And because she was a perfectionist, she seldom initiated conversation. Her preference was to say nothing unless she could say it well. She was adamant about this. Kept to herself, politely avoid others as much as she could.
V.
In that setting, she didn't fit in. I...being me...also did not fit in. Consequently, we developed a habit of sharing tables or booths if we ran into one another. This was not a friendship thing: we rarely conversed, due to the language barrier. It was a social camoflage thing. Sitting alone in a crowded setting is no fun. So, if she saw me at a table, she would nod...say "Hello. May I sit here?"...and we would quietly sit, study our books and then go our seperate ways.
Second year at the seminary: she did not return. She had started there for the same reason I did, the price...and was really caught off guard by the bible classes and church services. She mentioned several times that they were strange to her. I just assumed I would never see her again.
Third year, I began at the state college. After a month or so...out of the blue...there she was. We crossed paths in the library. She had transferred to this college the year before. Her English was drastically improved. Her grammar: precise, much better than my own. Suddenly, she talked...was much more comfortable interacting...and a nice (but always distant) friendship ensued. We would walk around campus together, go out for lunch, and so on.
Jen-ling. I've had up a few of our conversations, from the last semester: here, and here. Our interactions evolved along with her language, but one thing never changed: she cursed like a sailor when upset. Which...once we were in a more open setting...was funny. State colleges: a little more down with that sort of thing.
My college history: I attended a very small seminary for two years, and then a big state college for three years.
The seminary had this deal: anyone could attend for two years, but after that only those officially signed up for the seminary program could continue there. It was less expensive than the state college...had most of the basic classes available...so that was the primary reason I attended. Cheap, got the obligatory stuff out of the way.
II.
This was a strict campus. Conservative dress-codes rigidly enforced. Male and female students were not allowed to touch or be alone together anywhere on campus. R-rated movies? Not allowed in the dorms.
All students...even those not in the seminary program...had to take bible courses. All students had to attend morning church services at least twice a week. The campus held these services every single morning of the school week...and every night just after dinner.
Strict. Not my thing really, but those were the rules. What's funny is that, for the most part, the rules were completely unnecessary. The majority of the students were quiet, well-behaved bible scholars who were unlikely to, god forbid, watch an R-rated movie in the dorm. The rules were preaching to the choir (or the reverse: singing to the preachers; either way).
III.
One day, early in my first semester there: I'm walking down a hallway...heading to class...when I hear a very unusual sound: curse-words. A long string of them. Whoa.
It's coming from the cafeteria. Female voice. Heavily-accented English. I'm curious, so I peek into the crowded cafeteria and see an Asian student digging frantically through her bookbag. This is what she's saying: "Fuck! Son of a bitch! Oh son of a bitch!".
Quite a few students are looking at her with disdain. There's even a table of professors openly scowling. People react negatively...but no one says a word. Infuriating, because 1. I know...we're all incredibly proper here and have delicate seminary ears...but grow up. People curse. And 2. it couldn't be more obvious: she doesn't know.
I walk up to her and say, "Hi. The words you're using...I don't mind at all...but they can be...you know, offensive. To some of the people here. Really offensive."
She looks mortified. She slowly places a hand over her mouth. She looks around the room and says, "Sorry everyone. I apologize. Sincerely. This will not happen again." She collapses into a chair and whispers, "How bad is this?"
"I don't know. It happens."
"Is this...?" She pauses...looks very upset...says, "Thank you" and walks rapidly out of the cafeteria.
IV.
Over the course of that school year, I had several conversations with her. She had only been in the country a few weeks when I met her...and all of her knowledge of the United States, it's culture, had come from a few classes she had taken in Malaysia. "They taught us customs, basic history, traditions".
She was a Taoist...had no knowledge of Christianity other than what they had taught her in this class. "They told us the bible story...the core beliefs. They never mentioned 'Oh, avoid this word. And that word.' They just told us about Jesus, the concept of the cross. Nothing about words." The day I met her, she had lost an expensive textbook.
At that point in time, she did not speak a great deal of English. And because she was a perfectionist, she seldom initiated conversation. Her preference was to say nothing unless she could say it well. She was adamant about this. Kept to herself, politely avoid others as much as she could.
V.
In that setting, she didn't fit in. I...being me...also did not fit in. Consequently, we developed a habit of sharing tables or booths if we ran into one another. This was not a friendship thing: we rarely conversed, due to the language barrier. It was a social camoflage thing. Sitting alone in a crowded setting is no fun. So, if she saw me at a table, she would nod...say "Hello. May I sit here?"...and we would quietly sit, study our books and then go our seperate ways.
Second year at the seminary: she did not return. She had started there for the same reason I did, the price...and was really caught off guard by the bible classes and church services. She mentioned several times that they were strange to her. I just assumed I would never see her again.
Third year, I began at the state college. After a month or so...out of the blue...there she was. We crossed paths in the library. She had transferred to this college the year before. Her English was drastically improved. Her grammar: precise, much better than my own. Suddenly, she talked...was much more comfortable interacting...and a nice (but always distant) friendship ensued. We would walk around campus together, go out for lunch, and so on.
Jen-ling. I've had up a few of our conversations, from the last semester: here, and here. Our interactions evolved along with her language, but one thing never changed: she cursed like a sailor when upset. Which...once we were in a more open setting...was funny. State colleges: a little more down with that sort of thing.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Book Reversal
(This is non-Asperger's related. I am also sounding the language alert. F-bombs! S-bombs! All of the good ones.)
I hear smart people ask, "Why don't more people read?"...and I find it to be ironic. Answer, smart person: because you ruined it. Reading. You did that.
Like...wait a minute. I'm losing track of my point. (I just injected coffee directly into my heart. Hoo.)
When I was 15 I decided that I wanted to read 'The Metamorphosis' by Kafka.
I read a lot as a kid...big reader...but in junior high I went into my Idiot Phase. I read nothing, I watched unimaginably stupid television shows, constantly, to the point that I developed a brain cavity. It's like a tooth cavity, but with dumbening and forgetting.
Anyway, I kick-started the reading in high school and basically followed the Alienated Teen formula: the requisite 'Catcher in the Rye' phase ensued. Kerouac followed. 'The Fountainhead', like shit, happened. But I started with Kafka.
So I pick up a copy of 'The Metamorphosis' and it's much larger than I had anticipated. It's supposed to be a short story yet the book I have is hundreds and hundreds of pages long. So I open it up and find: an author bio; a translator's introduction; another introduction by...I don't know, some guy. I just know he's not the translator and that he summarizes, explains and analyzes every single aspect of the story before you even start it. This guy is annoying.
After making it through this second intro you are then subjected to the torture of several long, dull essays that deal with god knows what. Finally the story begins...only it's littered with footnotes, translator notes and tiny little numbers that refer you to the back of the book where lengthy explanatory notes await. The story itself? 50 pages long. I'd worked through all of this totally unnecessary horseshit when 'The Metamorphosis' itself was just this tiny little sliver hiding in the middle of the book. Boop. There he is. There's Kafka.
I flip back through all of the intros and essays and think, "Fuck these people." Here's who can understand Kafka: humans. Period. I want the translator to translate...but then I want him to go away. Introduction guy? Die. And if you happen to share an office with Explanatory Note Guy, take him with you.
I'm even more infuriated when I see all of these barnacles attached to the works of Shakespeare. Shakespeare! If, in order to the understood by people, he needed the help of clinging, mediocre academics, he wouldn't be Shakespeare. However, being who he is, I'm pretty sure he doesn't need the assist. He's got this one. Like Kafka, Shakespeare is not an acquired taste. Anyone can read him.
People have been brain-washed into believing that truly good books are dense and inaccessible. Consequently, our best seller lists are filled with crap. By elbowing it's way onto the pages of great literature, academia has sent the message: "Stephen King? Dan Brown? Yeah, read that you morons. Go crazy. But Proust? Kafka? Leave those guys to us. I mean come on, it took is years to get these fucking degrees!"
I wanna see King and Brown analyzed to death by the academics...and Cervantes in every single grocery store right next to the celebrity magazines. Lit majors: read Twilight. Fatties on the beach: read Tolstoy. I will be in the world I want to live in when Chaucer is fluff and Kafka is bathroom reading.
Intellectuals, don't worry, I've got your back...here's a one word review of 'Ulysses' by James Joyce, okay? One word. Are you ready?
Flun.
I know, it's whorish. It's not even a word. Hurt me.
I hear smart people ask, "Why don't more people read?"...and I find it to be ironic. Answer, smart person: because you ruined it. Reading. You did that.
Like...wait a minute. I'm losing track of my point. (I just injected coffee directly into my heart. Hoo.)
When I was 15 I decided that I wanted to read 'The Metamorphosis' by Kafka.
I read a lot as a kid...big reader...but in junior high I went into my Idiot Phase. I read nothing, I watched unimaginably stupid television shows, constantly, to the point that I developed a brain cavity. It's like a tooth cavity, but with dumbening and forgetting.
Anyway, I kick-started the reading in high school and basically followed the Alienated Teen formula: the requisite 'Catcher in the Rye' phase ensued. Kerouac followed. 'The Fountainhead', like shit, happened. But I started with Kafka.
So I pick up a copy of 'The Metamorphosis' and it's much larger than I had anticipated. It's supposed to be a short story yet the book I have is hundreds and hundreds of pages long. So I open it up and find: an author bio; a translator's introduction; another introduction by...I don't know, some guy. I just know he's not the translator and that he summarizes, explains and analyzes every single aspect of the story before you even start it. This guy is annoying.
After making it through this second intro you are then subjected to the torture of several long, dull essays that deal with god knows what. Finally the story begins...only it's littered with footnotes, translator notes and tiny little numbers that refer you to the back of the book where lengthy explanatory notes await. The story itself? 50 pages long. I'd worked through all of this totally unnecessary horseshit when 'The Metamorphosis' itself was just this tiny little sliver hiding in the middle of the book. Boop. There he is. There's Kafka.
I flip back through all of the intros and essays and think, "Fuck these people." Here's who can understand Kafka: humans. Period. I want the translator to translate...but then I want him to go away. Introduction guy? Die. And if you happen to share an office with Explanatory Note Guy, take him with you.
I'm even more infuriated when I see all of these barnacles attached to the works of Shakespeare. Shakespeare! If, in order to the understood by people, he needed the help of clinging, mediocre academics, he wouldn't be Shakespeare. However, being who he is, I'm pretty sure he doesn't need the assist. He's got this one. Like Kafka, Shakespeare is not an acquired taste. Anyone can read him.
People have been brain-washed into believing that truly good books are dense and inaccessible. Consequently, our best seller lists are filled with crap. By elbowing it's way onto the pages of great literature, academia has sent the message: "Stephen King? Dan Brown? Yeah, read that you morons. Go crazy. But Proust? Kafka? Leave those guys to us. I mean come on, it took is years to get these fucking degrees!"
I wanna see King and Brown analyzed to death by the academics...and Cervantes in every single grocery store right next to the celebrity magazines. Lit majors: read Twilight. Fatties on the beach: read Tolstoy. I will be in the world I want to live in when Chaucer is fluff and Kafka is bathroom reading.
Intellectuals, don't worry, I've got your back...here's a one word review of 'Ulysses' by James Joyce, okay? One word. Are you ready?
Flun.
I know, it's whorish. It's not even a word. Hurt me.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Overheard
Doctor, one week ago.
"I met her for the first time earlier today. She's sixteen. Had previously received a diagnosis of Asperger's, but was here for depressive symptoms. Her mother was with her. I talked to the mom for a bit about general history info. The daughter sat with her shoulders slumped...looked off to the side the entire time; flat affect. She was silent for awhile. It was about mid-way through the session that she began talking. Very articulate...her vocabulary was amazing. She described high school, her experiences with it. The various cliques, the social structure of it. Her theories on group behavior, personality mechanics. Why...from a 'purely anthropological standpoint'...she had no chance in life. 'My neurology is such that it's a lost cause.' And it was so striking. The words she chose, the analytical descriptions. I thought, 'I've heard this exact phrasing before.' She sounded just like you. Word for word."
She pauses, thinks.
"Analysis in place of emotions. Depression masking itself behind seemingly-detached statements. Asperger's...I've learned this from our discussion and seen it time and time again: Asperger's lends itself to certain types of defense mechanisms. 'I'm not depressed. It's just that factor x...combined with factor y...equals futility.' Particularly with teen clients, when their social context is beginning to overwhelm...I hear that pop up. With the kids, I'll hear the very structured thinking of AS. 'The world has to work this way...and that way. Always. Period.' But if depression works it's way into the picture over time, it just latches on to the structured thinking like a parasite, hides behind it."
She looks at the floor, shakes her head.
"The mom...when she heard the daughter talking...reacted with genuine shock. She had described her daughter as 'shy'. As far as she was concerned, the daughter just lacked confidence. And you could tell that she had never really had a discussion about it. She mentioned that her daughter 'never talked'...was 'too shy to join in with others'. The mom had signed her daughter up for school clubs...church groups...band, and so on. Never saw her interact with others, just assumed she was anxious, hesitant. At first, when I asked the daughter questions, the mom repeatedly talked over her. Tried to answer for her. 'I just think she has so much potential. If she'd just open up.' Diplomatically, I had the mom not respond for a bit. And when the daughter began to describe school, analyze it ...the mom was really stunned. Her jaw hit the floor. She said, 'Doctor...I've never heard her talk this way before.' She had no concept of her daughter's internal life. You know...she basically viewed her as a shy little girl. Consequently, she could not see the alienated young woman. When she said, 'I've never heard her talk this way before', I felt like I was introducing two strangers. 'Mom...I'd like you to meet someone...this is your daughter. This verbal, intelligent young woman.' Quite a bit more going on there than shyness. Time to update the construct."
"I met her for the first time earlier today. She's sixteen. Had previously received a diagnosis of Asperger's, but was here for depressive symptoms. Her mother was with her. I talked to the mom for a bit about general history info. The daughter sat with her shoulders slumped...looked off to the side the entire time; flat affect. She was silent for awhile. It was about mid-way through the session that she began talking. Very articulate...her vocabulary was amazing. She described high school, her experiences with it. The various cliques, the social structure of it. Her theories on group behavior, personality mechanics. Why...from a 'purely anthropological standpoint'...she had no chance in life. 'My neurology is such that it's a lost cause.' And it was so striking. The words she chose, the analytical descriptions. I thought, 'I've heard this exact phrasing before.' She sounded just like you. Word for word."
She pauses, thinks.
"Analysis in place of emotions. Depression masking itself behind seemingly-detached statements. Asperger's...I've learned this from our discussion and seen it time and time again: Asperger's lends itself to certain types of defense mechanisms. 'I'm not depressed. It's just that factor x...combined with factor y...equals futility.' Particularly with teen clients, when their social context is beginning to overwhelm...I hear that pop up. With the kids, I'll hear the very structured thinking of AS. 'The world has to work this way...and that way. Always. Period.' But if depression works it's way into the picture over time, it just latches on to the structured thinking like a parasite, hides behind it."
She looks at the floor, shakes her head.
"The mom...when she heard the daughter talking...reacted with genuine shock. She had described her daughter as 'shy'. As far as she was concerned, the daughter just lacked confidence. And you could tell that she had never really had a discussion about it. She mentioned that her daughter 'never talked'...was 'too shy to join in with others'. The mom had signed her daughter up for school clubs...church groups...band, and so on. Never saw her interact with others, just assumed she was anxious, hesitant. At first, when I asked the daughter questions, the mom repeatedly talked over her. Tried to answer for her. 'I just think she has so much potential. If she'd just open up.' Diplomatically, I had the mom not respond for a bit. And when the daughter began to describe school, analyze it ...the mom was really stunned. Her jaw hit the floor. She said, 'Doctor...I've never heard her talk this way before.' She had no concept of her daughter's internal life. You know...she basically viewed her as a shy little girl. Consequently, she could not see the alienated young woman. When she said, 'I've never heard her talk this way before', I felt like I was introducing two strangers. 'Mom...I'd like you to meet someone...this is your daughter. This verbal, intelligent young woman.' Quite a bit more going on there than shyness. Time to update the construct."
Sunday, June 14, 2009
-
I always liked the film Baron Munchausen...by Terry Gilliam. This film, The Fall, reminded me of that...playful, sad. Very beautiful. The director, Tarsem: gold star awarded. The Romanian girl in it is great...her tiny voice, missing front teeth...makes the film.
Also, the other main actor has an actual southern accent. Nice, nice. Fake southern accents...which tend to be the norm in films...are really difficult to listen to. Like being punched in the ear. I have a friend who is watching the HBO show Tru Blood...I tried to watch an episode. The southern accents in it were vocal cartoons, really painful. And it's about vampires. Culturally, that's apparently our thing right now. Vampires. I'm saying "no" to it, but collectively speaking, we're into that.
Also, the other main actor has an actual southern accent. Nice, nice. Fake southern accents...which tend to be the norm in films...are really difficult to listen to. Like being punched in the ear. I have a friend who is watching the HBO show Tru Blood...I tried to watch an episode. The southern accents in it were vocal cartoons, really painful. And it's about vampires. Culturally, that's apparently our thing right now. Vampires. I'm saying "no" to it, but collectively speaking, we're into that.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
people-sketch: Night Flight to Lisbon (pt. 2)
I.
The central hub of Terminal C...the international terminal...is easy access. You can go into it, leave it, without a problem. However, to get into the offshoots...the huge corridors where the departure gates are located...you have to go through security. Once you do that, you're committed. Locked in. Hubless.
I find the right offshoot. The security line is long...winding...slow. Gives me time to examine my wardrobe. I look down... realize that I chose the wrong t-shirt for today. It reads, in big letters, "I Accept Packages From Strangers." Fuck! What was I thinking?!
No, no. Untrue. This is my airport joke.
Up front, where the scans are taking place, it's chaotic...people are bunched up, there's a lot of movement. I put my glasses on...squint...try to make sense of what's happening up there.
I see shoeless travelers feeding portable debris into the mouths of rectangular machines. The travelers are then walked through detectors. Some move on. Some get red lights...step back...try again...get red...go to the side for a once over with hands and magic wands. The travelers look bored, tired. The employees look focused, lively.
Most everything beeps.
I've never traveled much. But watching this, I get the essence of airport travel. It's just processing. Giving papers to people, receiving passes, being scanned, placed, shipped. The entire thing, from start to finish: processing. I look around at the line and think, "This is what mail feels like".
II.
A lot of line-time passes, which is fine. I'm indifferent to waiting. On some level? I even like waiting. What else is there? I subscribe to the Godot Philosophy For Living. It's...you know. What we do. As humans. We wait.
Fat guy behind me starts complaining. "I mean, come on. I've seen shorter lines at Disney Land. Seriously. We haven't moved in ten minutes."
He tries to make eye contact with people around him...looking for a sympathetic audience. He looks at me and says, "Can you believe this?" I take a cell phone out of my pocket...slowly raise it to my ear. It's turned off. I start uttering random words into it. "Right, right. Definitely. Uh-huh." He stops talking, looks away. I put the cell phone back in my pocket. His mouth opens. I take the phone out and start texting. His mouth closes. I put the phone away.
III.
After about thirty minutes in line...it happens. The bright spot in the day arrives.
For whatever reason, a lot of travelers are setting off the metal detectors. It's just one of those things. One after another, they get the red light, have to try again. Things get slower, grind to a halt.
A security guy behind a monitor stands up. He surveys the scene...rubs his hands together...and walks away from his monitor. He stands in front of the growing line...hops up and down...and starts to moon-walk. He goes one way, across the floor...then the other. Hundreds of people go quiet, watching. The guy stops...faces the crowd...and starts talking.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome! My name is Marcus! I will be your security coordinator on this lovely afternoon! May I draw your attention to several points of interest surrounding our friendly perimeter. Here you will find postings that contain relevant...even helpful...information. Please feel free to study in detail the content of said postings. Do! Read these carefully. Do! Stroll right on past our detector. Hit green and you are guaranteed a pleasant visit to our humble airport. However. Fail to remove ANY metal item from your person...items such as belts, watches, earrings, bracelets...fail to breeze right on past our detector...and you will be introduced to our star employee. There she is! Working hard! My girl. Say hi Bernice."
Bernice...who looks busy...rolls her eyes.
"That's right! Lucky contestants hitting red on the detector will receive...free of charge...a very skilled and thorough massage courtesy of Bernice."
He wiggles his fingers...looks around.
"Please note: you will not enjoy this massage! Nine out of ten travelers agree: it's weird. The postings, ladies and gentlemen. The rules and regulations. Highly...highly...recommended."
He moon-walks back into position...sits behind a monitor.
We get processed.
IV.
I put my shoes back on, walk into the corridor. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Jews! Everywhere! Wow!
The international terminal: different from the south.
I hear, "Gate 27a for Tel Aviv, now boarding".
It happens. I turn giddy around non-white people. The uniformity where I'm from, it's stifling, oppressive. I'm from a land of Large White People. Buffet People. The Dis-international. I wander about, look everywhere, soak up the Terminal C-ness.
Then I shut down for about ten minutes. I sit on a random bench, press my hands against my eyes. This place is all white lights and tall windows with sun. My eyes have steeped in it, feel heavy. I keep them closed and listen to the different languages, accents. A TV plays in the background...CNN. Wolf Blitzer is outraged about something. Plane sounds, shoes scuffling...two kids run by trumpeting sibling drama. "No! She said no, stupid!" And so on. Offshoot noises.
I check my watch: the flight isn't leaving for a long time. Five more hours. The flight itself is 8 hours long. I breathe it in, pull my hair...try to remember the Godot Philosophy For Living. I start hitting the food court for necessaries. I hunt, gather...and at a table, huddle with comfort: eggrolls...coffee...cheesecake.
Bonus info: M stress eats. Copiously.
The central hub of Terminal C...the international terminal...is easy access. You can go into it, leave it, without a problem. However, to get into the offshoots...the huge corridors where the departure gates are located...you have to go through security. Once you do that, you're committed. Locked in. Hubless.
I find the right offshoot. The security line is long...winding...slow. Gives me time to examine my wardrobe. I look down... realize that I chose the wrong t-shirt for today. It reads, in big letters, "I Accept Packages From Strangers." Fuck! What was I thinking?!
No, no. Untrue. This is my airport joke.
Up front, where the scans are taking place, it's chaotic...people are bunched up, there's a lot of movement. I put my glasses on...squint...try to make sense of what's happening up there.
I see shoeless travelers feeding portable debris into the mouths of rectangular machines. The travelers are then walked through detectors. Some move on. Some get red lights...step back...try again...get red...go to the side for a once over with hands and magic wands. The travelers look bored, tired. The employees look focused, lively.
Most everything beeps.
I've never traveled much. But watching this, I get the essence of airport travel. It's just processing. Giving papers to people, receiving passes, being scanned, placed, shipped. The entire thing, from start to finish: processing. I look around at the line and think, "This is what mail feels like".
II.
A lot of line-time passes, which is fine. I'm indifferent to waiting. On some level? I even like waiting. What else is there? I subscribe to the Godot Philosophy For Living. It's...you know. What we do. As humans. We wait.
Fat guy behind me starts complaining. "I mean, come on. I've seen shorter lines at Disney Land. Seriously. We haven't moved in ten minutes."
He tries to make eye contact with people around him...looking for a sympathetic audience. He looks at me and says, "Can you believe this?" I take a cell phone out of my pocket...slowly raise it to my ear. It's turned off. I start uttering random words into it. "Right, right. Definitely. Uh-huh." He stops talking, looks away. I put the cell phone back in my pocket. His mouth opens. I take the phone out and start texting. His mouth closes. I put the phone away.
III.
After about thirty minutes in line...it happens. The bright spot in the day arrives.
For whatever reason, a lot of travelers are setting off the metal detectors. It's just one of those things. One after another, they get the red light, have to try again. Things get slower, grind to a halt.
A security guy behind a monitor stands up. He surveys the scene...rubs his hands together...and walks away from his monitor. He stands in front of the growing line...hops up and down...and starts to moon-walk. He goes one way, across the floor...then the other. Hundreds of people go quiet, watching. The guy stops...faces the crowd...and starts talking.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome! My name is Marcus! I will be your security coordinator on this lovely afternoon! May I draw your attention to several points of interest surrounding our friendly perimeter. Here you will find postings that contain relevant...even helpful...information. Please feel free to study in detail the content of said postings. Do! Read these carefully. Do! Stroll right on past our detector. Hit green and you are guaranteed a pleasant visit to our humble airport. However. Fail to remove ANY metal item from your person...items such as belts, watches, earrings, bracelets...fail to breeze right on past our detector...and you will be introduced to our star employee. There she is! Working hard! My girl. Say hi Bernice."
Bernice...who looks busy...rolls her eyes.
"That's right! Lucky contestants hitting red on the detector will receive...free of charge...a very skilled and thorough massage courtesy of Bernice."
He wiggles his fingers...looks around.
"Please note: you will not enjoy this massage! Nine out of ten travelers agree: it's weird. The postings, ladies and gentlemen. The rules and regulations. Highly...highly...recommended."
He moon-walks back into position...sits behind a monitor.
We get processed.
IV.
I put my shoes back on, walk into the corridor. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Jews! Everywhere! Wow!
The international terminal: different from the south.
I hear, "Gate 27a for Tel Aviv, now boarding".
It happens. I turn giddy around non-white people. The uniformity where I'm from, it's stifling, oppressive. I'm from a land of Large White People. Buffet People. The Dis-international. I wander about, look everywhere, soak up the Terminal C-ness.
Then I shut down for about ten minutes. I sit on a random bench, press my hands against my eyes. This place is all white lights and tall windows with sun. My eyes have steeped in it, feel heavy. I keep them closed and listen to the different languages, accents. A TV plays in the background...CNN. Wolf Blitzer is outraged about something. Plane sounds, shoes scuffling...two kids run by trumpeting sibling drama. "No! She said no, stupid!" And so on. Offshoot noises.
I check my watch: the flight isn't leaving for a long time. Five more hours. The flight itself is 8 hours long. I breathe it in, pull my hair...try to remember the Godot Philosophy For Living. I start hitting the food court for necessaries. I hunt, gather...and at a table, huddle with comfort: eggrolls...coffee...cheesecake.
Bonus info: M stress eats. Copiously.
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