I have decided that words torture me. They swim around in my head like little piranhas attacking each other. One simple word can uplift or sabotage. Not having them is just as bad as having too many. The idea of analyzing sentences as if they make up a looking glass is enough to drive one insane. Look at all the words with which we deal… e-mails, text messaging, blogging, twittering, facebooking… the more significant the printed word becomes is incredibly ironic; whereas technology once was deemed as an emotionless void, it has become the vehicle for all these personal sentiments… the more disconnected we become, the more connected we become through other means… words must be carefully woven not only to make sense, but to convey appropriate meaning, conjure emotion, and free the spirit from the chains within. Words are a responsibility, a privilege, a blessing and a curse. Words are so beautiful but can be so very ugly…
No wonder all the great writers went mad...
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
A Brief Pondering of Twain's Notion that Free Speech Does Not Exist Until You're Dead
Words are quite paradoxical. They can be both powerful and meaningless, depending on the particular context in which they are delivered. Sometimes, they may even be both simultaneously. Mark Twain commented in his essay, “The Privilege of the Grave,” that “It’s occupant has one privilege which is not exercised by any living person: free speech. The living man is not really without this privilege- strictly speaking- but he possesses it merely as an empty formality, and knows better than to make use of it, it cannot be seriously regarded as an actual possession….We may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences.” What more can I say? The master has spoken.
Too often I have witnessed people too meek and cowardly to stand up for their own convictions. The examples I can recall from the recent past were most often involved with a political or religious implication (Mama always said, “don’t talk politics and religion!”). I believe that this is one of the travesties of American culture. We boast all over the place about what a free nation it is in which we live, yet we don’t allow ourselves the luxury. I am a fan, however, of quality versus quantity when it comes to many things. “Empty vessels make the most noise” you know.
Too often voices that could make a difference do not rise to the occasion. These are the voices that fear retribution for themselves, their families, and their friends. While I would applaud their commendable efforts in what they think is an act of protecting their loved ones, I also think that the concepts of justice and righteousness are in great need of a few more outspoken supporters. Even these conceptions are not liberated from corruption.
As Twain suggests, is free speech really not an applicable right? If the direct result of it is vengeance, I feel I would be remiss if I did not agree. Free speech is indeed an optimistic concept, but any kind of freedom, ironically enough, comes with a price to pay. Twain compared the acts of murder and free speech by writing, “Murder is sometimes punished, free speech always- when committed. Which is seldom.”
Too often I have witnessed people too meek and cowardly to stand up for their own convictions. The examples I can recall from the recent past were most often involved with a political or religious implication (Mama always said, “don’t talk politics and religion!”). I believe that this is one of the travesties of American culture. We boast all over the place about what a free nation it is in which we live, yet we don’t allow ourselves the luxury. I am a fan, however, of quality versus quantity when it comes to many things. “Empty vessels make the most noise” you know.
Too often voices that could make a difference do not rise to the occasion. These are the voices that fear retribution for themselves, their families, and their friends. While I would applaud their commendable efforts in what they think is an act of protecting their loved ones, I also think that the concepts of justice and righteousness are in great need of a few more outspoken supporters. Even these conceptions are not liberated from corruption.
As Twain suggests, is free speech really not an applicable right? If the direct result of it is vengeance, I feel I would be remiss if I did not agree. Free speech is indeed an optimistic concept, but any kind of freedom, ironically enough, comes with a price to pay. Twain compared the acts of murder and free speech by writing, “Murder is sometimes punished, free speech always- when committed. Which is seldom.”
Friday, January 23, 2009
What's Up With Wink?
I am the frequent recipient of winks. Yes, the dubious act of batting one eyelid so quickly that it is uncertain whether it was an accidental twitch or an intentional expression. These winks come from ladies, gentlemen, young and old. Whenever someone winks at me, I spend the rest of the day wondering, "what did that mean?" It is as if the winker tries to signify "I know what you're thinking." For all you winkers out there, no. You do not know what I am thinking! Well, now I am thinking, what the heck is up with the wink? Before that, I can assure you- my mind was so far from you and your wink and now you've absolutely distracted me from that previous train of thought!
This is not to say that I do not like people winking at me. In fact, I am frequently amused by the gesture. I will even go so far as to say that sometimes I get warm fuzzies. It is as if the winkers are inviting me into their enigmatic winking club and this fleeting shutter of the one eye is their secret handshake ala cutesy Freemasons style. It is the intention behind the wink that leaves me bewildered. I have observed winks being thrown around all over the place. When one is cast across a crowded bar room, only an alien unfamiliar with our strange human mating calls does not understand what it means. There are, however, so many sorts of winks that are applicable in a myriad of different situations that one would need a winking dictionary in order to fully understand the oddity of it all.
I often contemplate if I should join the legion of winkers out there. The only benefit it holds for me at this point is the satisfaction of knowing that I have encouraged someone else to futiley ponder the origin of my wink. I think for now, though, I will stick with words.
This is not to say that I do not like people winking at me. In fact, I am frequently amused by the gesture. I will even go so far as to say that sometimes I get warm fuzzies. It is as if the winkers are inviting me into their enigmatic winking club and this fleeting shutter of the one eye is their secret handshake ala cutesy Freemasons style. It is the intention behind the wink that leaves me bewildered. I have observed winks being thrown around all over the place. When one is cast across a crowded bar room, only an alien unfamiliar with our strange human mating calls does not understand what it means. There are, however, so many sorts of winks that are applicable in a myriad of different situations that one would need a winking dictionary in order to fully understand the oddity of it all.
I often contemplate if I should join the legion of winkers out there. The only benefit it holds for me at this point is the satisfaction of knowing that I have encouraged someone else to futiley ponder the origin of my wink. I think for now, though, I will stick with words.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Liberation
Yes! The Blonde Philosopher has been liberated. As I walked through the market today (why are all my posts about the supermarket all of a sudden? I feel like I have become one of those old ladies to whom the activity of going to Stop and Shop is a significant social excursion...), I made my way through the fruit aisle to approach my banana dilemma once more. Having pondered for much too long over which species of apple I would like to eat this week (I decided on Fuji), I came face to face with a mountain of greenish and yellow bananas. I scanned my immediate area quickly and made a decision. I WOULD break the bunch. I WOULD go home with only three bananas because I knew I could never eat six before they turned brown and mushy.
Then... I did it. I detached the bananas from their cluster. No one thought I was strange for doing so. I did not feel an impending sense of guilt about it. Only liberation from a wasteful society.
When I approached the self-checkout counter, my experience of banana liberation immediately went down hill. Why is it that one frequently requires MORE assistance at the self-checkout? Does that not defeat the purpose of having SELF checkout? I called on the clerk at least a half dozen times. Between the automated woman's voice nagging me not to place items on the belt and my yogurt not scanning due to the container's awkward rounded barcode, I made a vow to deal with human being cashiers from now on. Hell may be "other people" as Sartre remarked, but all of Dante's nine circles of it are surely comprised of automated systems.
Then... I did it. I detached the bananas from their cluster. No one thought I was strange for doing so. I did not feel an impending sense of guilt about it. Only liberation from a wasteful society.
When I approached the self-checkout counter, my experience of banana liberation immediately went down hill. Why is it that one frequently requires MORE assistance at the self-checkout? Does that not defeat the purpose of having SELF checkout? I called on the clerk at least a half dozen times. Between the automated woman's voice nagging me not to place items on the belt and my yogurt not scanning due to the container's awkward rounded barcode, I made a vow to deal with human being cashiers from now on. Hell may be "other people" as Sartre remarked, but all of Dante's nine circles of it are surely comprised of automated systems.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Blonde Philosopher Goes to the Market... Again...
I was the open minded recipient of many decent anecdotes and antidotes for my banana dilemma. A friend suggested I might make banana bread. Several others remarked that it is not necessary to purchase all six bananas; it is perfectly legal to break off bananas from the greater bunch.
Today, during my escapade to the market, I strolled down the fruits and vegetables aisle. I saw a plethora of luscious leafy greens with questionable labels assorted above the display. Boston Lettuce? Is it imported from Boston? I have never heard of such a lettuce species. I am not even going to attempt to discover the mystery of how Iceberg Lettuce got its appelation. It does not resemble an iceberg, nor is it scientifically possible to harvest such a vegetable in the kind of climate that fosters icebergs. In any event, I shall ponder the lettuce mystery another day....
Excitedly, I thought I might go ahead and purchase some bananas with the recent knowledge that I am in fact not committing a moral wrong doing by breaking off bananas from the remainder of the bunch. I was shocked and dismayed to find when I reached the mountain of fruit, not one bunch of bananas looked edible in the least. They were all a sickly shade of pale yellow, in a jaundice sort of way.
What does this mean? The banana metaphor continues to imprison my thoughts in the little chambers of contemplation.
Today, during my escapade to the market, I strolled down the fruits and vegetables aisle. I saw a plethora of luscious leafy greens with questionable labels assorted above the display. Boston Lettuce? Is it imported from Boston? I have never heard of such a lettuce species. I am not even going to attempt to discover the mystery of how Iceberg Lettuce got its appelation. It does not resemble an iceberg, nor is it scientifically possible to harvest such a vegetable in the kind of climate that fosters icebergs. In any event, I shall ponder the lettuce mystery another day....
Excitedly, I thought I might go ahead and purchase some bananas with the recent knowledge that I am in fact not committing a moral wrong doing by breaking off bananas from the remainder of the bunch. I was shocked and dismayed to find when I reached the mountain of fruit, not one bunch of bananas looked edible in the least. They were all a sickly shade of pale yellow, in a jaundice sort of way.
What does this mean? The banana metaphor continues to imprison my thoughts in the little chambers of contemplation.
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Blonde Philosopher Goes Bananas
Buying bananas always seems like a good idea. There they are in the fruit aisle, beckoning to me with their cheerful color and humorous shape. I usually stop short at this section of the supermarket and ponder the implications of a healthier lifestyle. Bananas seem to be at the forefront. Yet, it's really not the kind of fruit one should take seriously. It isn't like the apple, with its symbolic connotations of education, teaching and wisdom, coated in a regal shade of crimson. The banana is a fruit frequently disrespected. "He's gone bananas," so the adage goes. "Going bananas" does not necessarily constitute a good thing. Poor bananas. One a day doesn't keep the doctor away, either. It is the food of monkeys that snicker and guffaw obnoxiously as they hang upside down in trees. These creatures are the jesters of the mammalia class. I guess we really are what we eat...
All this thought process just from looking at the stack of bananas I bought last week. They went from speckled and ripe to shriveled, brown and remorseful in just a few days. I felt guilty that I even bought the bananas in the first place. I don't think my bunny likes bananas. She eats lettuce and apples. I am only one and I can't keep up. Should I not buy bananas anymore in their cluster of 6? Who breaks off bananas in the market from their cluster? Doesn't supermarket etiquette say you can't do that? It's like opening your bottle of soda and walking around the store drinking it before you paid for it. Maybe I should not buy bananas after all. They turn brown much too quickly and I cannot possibly eat two or three in a day. Of course, I could buy them when they are still green and wait a few days. By the time they turn yellow, however, it usually happens that I either forget I ever had them or don't really want them anymore. The banana novelty becomes lost.
I pondered the solutions to the banana quandary. I would either have to get a pet monkey to help me eat the bananas in a timely fashion before they turn brown, or not buy bananas at all. I guess that is why some ladies decide to get husbands. Not only can they remember to return past due library books and reach the ceiling to change the carbon monoxide detector batteries -they also help their wives eat the banana surplus. Hmm... maybe I will just stop buying bananas.
All this thought process just from looking at the stack of bananas I bought last week. They went from speckled and ripe to shriveled, brown and remorseful in just a few days. I felt guilty that I even bought the bananas in the first place. I don't think my bunny likes bananas. She eats lettuce and apples. I am only one and I can't keep up. Should I not buy bananas anymore in their cluster of 6? Who breaks off bananas in the market from their cluster? Doesn't supermarket etiquette say you can't do that? It's like opening your bottle of soda and walking around the store drinking it before you paid for it. Maybe I should not buy bananas after all. They turn brown much too quickly and I cannot possibly eat two or three in a day. Of course, I could buy them when they are still green and wait a few days. By the time they turn yellow, however, it usually happens that I either forget I ever had them or don't really want them anymore. The banana novelty becomes lost.
I pondered the solutions to the banana quandary. I would either have to get a pet monkey to help me eat the bananas in a timely fashion before they turn brown, or not buy bananas at all. I guess that is why some ladies decide to get husbands. Not only can they remember to return past due library books and reach the ceiling to change the carbon monoxide detector batteries -they also help their wives eat the banana surplus. Hmm... maybe I will just stop buying bananas.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Where Did Our Role Models Go?
These days, our media is not driven by honesty, righteousness and integrity. It is driven by what sells. Magazines, newspapers, television screens and the internet are plastered with teenage superstars clad in attire their mothers should not have let them out of the house wearing. They are doing what prostitutes do, in a more abstract sense, they are selling their bodies.
Why is it that we as a society continue to feed into this adolescent exploitation? The blame cannot be placed all on the likes of Britney and Lindsay. We, the consumers, must take some of it. We are purchasing these magazines. We are addicted to the TV shows. We click on the links and we peruse the tabloids while we’re on line at the supermarket.
What can we do? We can demand better role models- older, wiser role models for young women. Instead of incriminating Hilary and Condoleezza (and the Dixie Chicks…) for being powerful women, we should be showing our daughters that it is these women who are paving the way for a better future. No, they may not be young and gorgeous, but they have brains. They have gumption and they are educated and successful.
Why do our role models keep getting younger? The Blonde Philosopher can only ponder that it is due to the fear of aging and death in our society. The more modern medicine can do, there is still no magical Tuck Everlasting well. Would we really want one? Instead of running away from the grave, let us face age and the wisdom and wrinkles that it brings.
Why is it that we as a society continue to feed into this adolescent exploitation? The blame cannot be placed all on the likes of Britney and Lindsay. We, the consumers, must take some of it. We are purchasing these magazines. We are addicted to the TV shows. We click on the links and we peruse the tabloids while we’re on line at the supermarket.
What can we do? We can demand better role models- older, wiser role models for young women. Instead of incriminating Hilary and Condoleezza (and the Dixie Chicks…) for being powerful women, we should be showing our daughters that it is these women who are paving the way for a better future. No, they may not be young and gorgeous, but they have brains. They have gumption and they are educated and successful.
Why do our role models keep getting younger? The Blonde Philosopher can only ponder that it is due to the fear of aging and death in our society. The more modern medicine can do, there is still no magical Tuck Everlasting well. Would we really want one? Instead of running away from the grave, let us face age and the wisdom and wrinkles that it brings.
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