July 2011
23 posts
Prospero's Magic
Michael Nyman
Michael Nyman, “Prospero’s Magic,” from Prospero’s Books.
“Care not whether you are cold or warm, if you are doing your duty; or whether you are weary or satisfied with sleep; or whether ill-spoken of or praised, or whether dying or doing anything else; for dying is one of the acts of life; it is enough in this act also to do well what there is to do.”
—Marcus Aurelius, in book VI of his Meditations, 1862 Long translation.
Babelonia
School Of Seven Bells
School of Seven Bells, “Babelonia,” from Disconnect From Desire.
I’ve decided to rewrite my site (I say rewrite because my entire site, absent a script or two, is and continues to be fashioned by hand in a plain text editor), as while I’m attracted to the single-post-a-click aesthetic, I feel that its usability is a little low. I’m looking from input from my regular readers on what works, what doesn’t, and what has worked for you in the past—particularly if you entirely coded your own site, as I know a few of you have. Creativity’s at low ebb. Suggestions?
I prefer to stay out of the three-column Boeing cockpit syndrome tons of buttons and flashy things designs, and I intend to write it all by hand again, so nothing that a self-taught HTML/CSS/some Javascript dude couldn’t master.
“Through not observing the thoughts of another a man is seldom unhappy; but he who does not observe the movements of his own mind must of necessity be unhappy.”
—Marcus Aurelius, in book II of his Meditations, 1862 Long translation.
Rappers mean nothing to me and even if having some reference of pop culture permeate my life is unavoidable, I have an outstanding ability of not registering much at all. On occasion, I compliment myself for hardly ever acknowledging we share the same planet. But I think that makes me tasteful, not a feminist, and now I’m curious. What’s your view on feminism?
That depends on how you define feminism.
If by feminism you mean the egalitarian proposition that women should be treated as equal holders of civil rights, equal before the law, and not demeaned or cut short shrift in economic or social terms on account of their sex, I am a fanatical feminist.
On the other hand, if you mean gender-based feminism—the kind that is responsible for the insidious idea that both men and women have internalized a desire for absolute patriarchy and that denying this unconscious sexism is a symptom of this internalization; the kind that supports affirmative action (in order to prevent sexism and racism, we’ll support one applicant over another based on gender and skin color?); the kind that identified by pithy slogans, spleen, and bile; the kind that believes that the West is complicit in a “rape culture”; the kind that wishes to abolish all gender roles, as if in a perfect world men and women would never act differently; these and so many more splintered views that fracture the reality of gender relations—well, no, I can’t support that.
I think that the reason our culture is one of the most pleasant for women that has ever been is because of feminism. I believe that it is a positive force for social change, and I believe that equivalent movements espousing egalitarian ideals are the just and equal counterparts of the first great republican ideals that gave men democracy, science, the concepts of law and justice. I think it’s a shame that, having accomplished so much, young women are beginning to become disillusioned with the movement and falling away because it’s been hijacked by the vocal malcontents who use it as a platform for personal vendetta. It’s particularly important, now more than ever, to make this distinction, and to retake feminism for logical thinkers, persons who are positive and clear and not fighting for fighting’s sake but for identifiable targets of inequality. So bearing that in mind, I hope you’ll feel no shame in calling yourself a feminist, as do I.
An easy way to tell someone is not a very good or dedicated writer is when they say they “don’t believe in revision” and they are not lying through their teeth.
I don’t think I was strong enough in the last post, so let me put it plainly. You cannot have your cake and eat it too.
Either you are a feminist, or you are a fan of rappers such as Notorious B.I.G., Tupac Shakur, and Eminem. There is no third way.
Maybe if all my middle-class male professional and academic friends start teaching their children to call all women hos and tricks now, then in a generation we’ll all be able to make the argument that “bitch” is a cultural epithet that isn’t misogynist when applied to an arbitrary woman.
Yes, this is about rap.
Okay, remember that time I said I didn’t care about the use of the Oxford comma? That’s a lie, because I just unfollowed someone because of their constant railing against the Oxford comma. So there it is, Internet. I’m that guy who cares about the Oxford comma. Fucking hell.
Also, I unfollow for second offenses of the use of tired, unfunny clichés such as “do not want,” “me gusta,” “this,” and the like. Be warned, nerds.
Listen
Sting and the Royal Philharmonic Concert Orchestra, “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.”
Great things and men have always happened: before advertising—before promoters—before fame itself they happened.
Remember that facts are just theories that no one examines any more.
Air Dream
In the dream he has a cloak and a sword and a horse. He stares down from the crest of the high hill into the valley. Home and yet not. Between stone towers peasants till the fields. Thunder murmurs beyond far mountains, biding its time. But instead of the cool rushing storm of rain that he expects, from the high places down rushes a tide of flame. Hellish brands flung down like the sky itself was charred to pieces. He pulls the cloak about himself and waits for the end.
But upon waking he is naked and covered in sweat. There is no air blowing from the vents. The covers tangled around his legs. He lays still. For that one moment so hot and still he feels fear as a tangible thing. The sheets around his legs were fear, the mattress underneath him the palm of fear, the walls fingers of fear that at any moment could clutch inward on him and pin him. Helpless. Wanting strength and having none.
He stills himself. These images are only phantoms. This place his own. The girl, his girl, rests on his shoulder. He places a hand on her hair; it’s matted with perspiration. She stirs, moaning a word. Not something he understands. He slides out from under her body and walks to the hall. Flicks a finger and the unit coughs, trembles, coughs again. Cool air like a rush of winter from the vents and he sits on the edge of the bed until the moisture wicks from his skin. No nightmares, no fire.
But why when he lays back again does he still feel the weight of the sword at his belt? The girl sighs. Another word, recognizable this time: Lord, she says, lord. And when he drifts to sleep again, settling into her arms uneasily, he blinks and finds himself laying at the foot of the hill, anointed with ashes.
Fourth
The rockets were supposed to be at nine o’clock but it came dark only an hour later. They ascended a ladder to his roof, sweating in the close air of the wooded street, but came down again when it became clear that it was too much effort. Instead, cheap beer in hand, they watched the first lights from the driveway and then walked down the street and sat in front of the white church. The blaze in the sky. Paper lanterns drifting on the breeze, like long-lived fireflies. The child clapped her hands and stared. Eyes wide. He murmured to himself: These are the days you’ll remember.
Yes, said someone else. Lights above the woods like man was trying to hang new stars in the abyss.
What did you say? one of the women said.
He said these are the days you’ll remember. Right? A rocket popped in the hot dark. The sound passing through them like the heavy toll of a bell.
Yes. That’s what I said. The unspoken ending: when all the world falls to dust.
