Oddly Encouraging Moments

In my daily flow of distractions, I rarely take the time to notice the things that have caused me to pause involuntarily. One way that is changing is in my attention to book. I read an article for "Introduction to Graduate Studies" that highlighted the significance of random browsing in library research. All researchers who spend much time reading outside of that which is strictly relevant to their project have had the experience of stumbling across a text that is peripherally relevant, otherwise helpful, or somehow moving. Thus it is that, as my thoughts have wandered while I walk among the stacks, I have just begun to notice and remember the moments when I pause. And my unconscious actions are now a source of some small, odd encouragement.

Today, walking through the fifth floor on my familiar route from carrel to elevator, I paused to look at some particularly attractive editions of the complete works of Victor Hugo. Bearing in mind that I have never read any Hugo, why pause? Last Wednesday, in the same "Intro to Grad Studies" class, we discussed various scholarly editions that we brought to class. I was encouraged today when I realized that the class, which has often been frustrating, had informed my continued enjoyment of old and intricately-designed editions. Or, my enjoyment of the gorgeous old editions has survived our class's clinical analysis of scholarly editions. Either way, I was glad to know that small beauties catch my eye, even when the books in question are irrelevant to my current studies.

It reminded me of another oddly encouraging moment almost exactly two years ago: a sunny Fall morning at Borders, my favorite of the large chain bookstores in the US. I was reading two stories by Nikolai Gogol, "The Overcoat" and "The Portrait", and really enjoyed them in way I hadn't enjoyed homework for a while. I've had similar moments this Fall sitting outside on benches around the Notre Dame campus reading Irish Literature. I can't help but remark how much it helps to not just enjoy the reading, but the circumstances of that reading: the air and rustling of the leaves. Now, I'm sitting in a tiny little carrel and have decided to go downstairs to more comfortable chairs with a view of the outside. Hopefully, something small will distract and encourage me as I notice the details required to help me along the way.

Stendhal Syndrome

I was already in a sort of ecstasy, from the idea of being in Florence, close to the great men whose tombs I had seen. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty, I saw it up close—I touched it, so to speak. I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations…leaving Santa Croce, I experienced palpitations…my spirit was exhausted, I walked in fear of falling.

- Stendhal

Stendhal Syndrome is triggered by beautiful works of art and characterized by “loss of hearing and the sense of color, hallucinations, euphoria, panic and the fear of going mad or even of dying.”


        Is it possible to have a great work of art that can be measured by your reaction to it? I knew someone who did an art project, the sole purpose of which was to induce a headache. It was kind of ridiculous, a sort of hood that covered your whole head in tinfoil. A fan blew in your face and a bunch of white noise was produced. The darkness and close space paired with airflow and noise created a sensory deprivation and overload at the same time. It was ridiculous, but it still caught my attention. I created a theoretical idea for a similarly ambiguously artistic work of art: a painted canvas that immediately caused the viewer to vomit. Could that canvas be framed and referred to as art? Is the reaction important to the definition of art? The conversation over the sensory-overload-tinfoil-hood and whether or not it was art went on for some time, but no one agreed. The problem was that the conversation would be endless.

        I took a brief class at AS-level called “General Studies.” During our fifteen weeks in that class, taught by an eccentric but brilliant music teacher and composer, we spent at least four weeks looking into the question: What is Art? (The capitalization always seemed significant to us.) Can we put the judgment of what is or is not Art into the hands of the artist? …or the audience? Is there some intermediary? Can you refer to the artistry of natural beauty as Art, creator or not? Does subjective quality affect the degree to which a painting can be referred to as Art? Again, is the reaction important? Or perhaps the reception of Art is less important than its intention. Frustrated by weeks of discussion, I decided to come up with my own definition of Art. I identified it as “Beautiful Expression.” I allow for infinite variations in opinion of what applying ‘beautiful’ to anything actually means. Equally, and without knowing if this completely makes sense, I assert that ‘expression’ does not rely upon intentionally defined expression as in the case of an artist. I am even willing to make allowances for that which can make a beautiful impression because it allows nature to be included as Art even though the presence of ‘one who expresses’ is not as clear.

        Designations for the quality of Art are not included. I would tend toward the idea that quality of art is more subjective than objective, that objectivity is close to impossible when measuring the quality of art. I have had too many discussions over the importance of a work within the context of its time. I would tend to argue that important and significant works gain extra quality through their relevance, but it is impossible to ignore ground-breaking originality as its own sign of quality, where ingenuity enriches beyond the limits of pure skill.

        My thought isn't quite finished because I haven't really talked about Stendhal syndrome, but it's fascinating. It's inspiring just to think about the reality of having an anxiety attack because something is so profoundly beautiful. I almost hope it happens to me some day. Apparently it most commonly happens to men between the ages of 25 and 40, so I'll definitely be in the running soon enough.

"The cocala is Brok 7.9.10"

This coke machine is in my basement and there are no children that live in my building.

Apology Offered

Pain and no answers.

Try to live like worker bees,

all peace and blossoms?

Scrap poetry and leave

public expression to those who’ve felt

flames kiss their necks.

Try to emerge into blistering daylight

because it isn’t any safer inside.

Death isn’t reserved for those who take risks.

But if death is everywhere

it doesn’t matter if inside is a symbol of false security

or if the outside is a strange mixture of fast-paced public service and

a million other calls to arms,

it’s all the same if I don’t understand

the burning trees and insignificance of a thousand words

as the photographer makes headlines on the massacre

and the news never breaks my heart

like the vicarious loss of any trophy or medal

when honor is almost as

meaningless as

shame and now like any

word it is given its grave as justice is

just gavels and life is only

no. it’s about me

why I still need to control

hoping to make sense

Penny-sized Hail

These are my pictures from visiting Colorado for Bethany and Ben's wedding (mostly in reverse-chronological order and starting with my jar of honey that the airport confiscated because I forgot about the stupid liquids rule).

Cycling and Mustaches

Well, I had an interesting couple of days. I spent much of that time wondering how to spell mustache (with or without an O after the U? According to some, there is no definitive answer).

So, I started Friday with a little brushing up on my rules of the road and then went out to Melrose Park (near western suburb, south of O'Hare). Ellen drove me out there, I did the whole driver's test, written and practical and finished in time to grab some celebratory lunch with pie on the way back. I drove us back, but we didn't take the highway back. So, my first licensed drive was very stop and go, lame. We thought it would be faster. It's sort difficult to say.

Then, I did Critical Mass, which is actually an anti-drivers bike ride. It's usually about a thousand to two thousand bikers blocking all traffic for a while as they drive around downtown areas and general feel the freedom of open roadways. That was fun except right before the finish I popped a tire.

It actually started with a one song promotional performance by Tom Morello (sp?) from Rage Against the Machine, which was pretty random.

He's somewhere in that picture. Even cooooler, though, was the various people taking part. I could have taken some pretty ridiculous pictures, but it's hard to take pictures with a camera phone while you're riding a bike. So, I only have one for you. There are some skateboarders and rollerbladers there, but I was not expecting this:

Yesss, awesome...

Then, yesterday was mustache day at work. No pictures... sorry, but not really. I looked pretty ridiculous.

While I was at work, I did get to see this attempt at a parallel park and laugh about how that wasn't a part of my test.

The Same Old Debate

I've had too many discussions about predestination, fate, free will, to be able to really laugh at this comic. So many people I've talked to are totally wrapped up in it. I get really into the conversation when it heads in the direction of how our lives our practically different if we live in the knowledge that everything is predetermined or if we have free will (or something in between... or both). The conversation seems pointless or frustrating at times, but I just came across something that made it more interesting for me. Here's a passage from Brideshead Revisited, by Evelyn Waugh:

"That was the cant phrase of the time, derived from heaven knows what misconception of popular science. 'There's something chemical between them' was used to explain the over-mastering hate or love of any two people. It was the old concept of determinism in a new form."

Reading this, it occurred to me that I had never thought about a scientific approach to predestination, a chemical attraction that forces two people together or any number of other little electrical signals that we don't have control over that determine whether or not we smile or look disappointed or take an instant disliking to a stranger. Now, I do believe in free will and I don't believe my actions are chemically or divinely predetermined. The interesting thing for me is that there is a connection between the scientifically discoverable free will and the divinely sanctioned free will that puts them at odds with the chemical and divine predeterminism.

Growing Pains

Not long ago, I decided to start a blog with a friend and called it, "Everything is Terrifying!" The idea started after he spent a whole morning drinking caffeine and reading frightening New York Times articles about E. coli and various toxins that we ingest daily. I arrived in the middle of his heightened state of environmental worry, ringing the doorbell. Having not yet figured out the buzzer system, he ran down from the third floor and threw the door open, eyes wide and breathing heavily:

"Garrett," he gasped, "Everything is Terrifying!"

Growing up, we become increasingly aware of the horrors of the world. I'm not trying to be dramatic, it's how I remember it and how I have observed it in others. We are introduced to various disturbing things as we grow up, slowly coming to terms with the things we don't understand. War is the easiest example because no one understands war. If you want to see a really good illustration of how no one really understands war, watch the documentary The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara. The title, Fog of War, is enough, for now, to illustrate what I mean. Defining the purpose or consequences of a single war is like trying to define the ocean; it doesn't matter what angle you approach it from, you will never understand it's vastness or depth, let alone explain it in tangible terms to the youngster who asks naive question.

When I was a young teenager, I asked Grandpa how many people he killed in World War 2. That's probably not true. My guilt over past naivety has rearranged my memory. I probably asked him something more like: "Do you know how many planes you shot down?" To which he replied that it was difficult to tell because at any given point several other gunners would have been shooting at the same plane. In this case, I can say that I am grateful for the fog of war, the chaos that makes ethical parameters shake like panes of glass in a hurricane.

I've talked to a lot of people now about how there is a trendiness right now in the attempt to recapture the innocence of youth. Childhood innocence certainly seems attractive when I think about violence on the news, on the streets of Chicago or in far off countries that I don't have the luxury of considering "far off". The truth is, that childhood innocence in adults is dangerous and the pursuit of it is mainly valuable as an artistic contrast to reality. I prefer some level of awareness, no matter the terror, and feel that the more accurate my big picture gets, the better equipped I am to deal with life as it comes at me.

The problem with that mentality is that the world never stops coming and I have to step back and breathe occasionally when my mind becomes too entangled in the problems I would like to tackle. In addition, for me, this overwhelmed state of powerlessness is brought about too easily, too quickly. For example, I have read a number of convincing articles about how vegetarianism (or some level of mindfulness in the selection meats) is necessary because of the state of the slaughterhouses and the food industry in general. I don't need to watch Food, inc to understand that I should stay away from boneless chicken wings, but I still eat them sometimes because I'm perpetually stuck between a desire to eat meat and a demoralizing sense that I really can't make a difference by changing my eating habits.

While I slowly work through that particular issue, my life decisions regarding career future surround me. The frequent biblical references to "gnashing of teeth" always made me laugh, but secretly gave me mental images of sharp teeth and raspy voices challenging me. So, now my inner voices challenge me to justify my path.

I'm off to study Literature at a Research University. While the atmosphere of a Research University appears perfect for Graduate studies, I am painfully aware that it is probably not where I want to teach. As a professor, I imagine myself more interested in teaching than research. I invested a lot of myself into my college experience and so much of me has been influenced by that experience. From the first professor's rant that the whole class's papers were "a steaming pile of excrement" to being locked in an elevator with my least favorite professor threatening me, I have had my share of negative experiences. Through various inspiring examples, however, I have come to admire the profession and the responsibility that is put on these individuals to shape the future. That's why I'm excited to start my Freshman Year Composition class in my second year at Notre Dame when many of my classmates will want to be over before it begins. I'm excited by the opportunity to be an example to others because nothing is more motivating for me than knowing that I can really make a difference in that person's life. As short as it may be, the hope to use my time with my students so that it is a thousand times more significant than adjusting my diet or holding a sign at a rally.