ground gears and crammed craws

Ether, good morning, how are you? I am well. You will be proud, I have borrowed from your Nothingworld. Copied and pasted from Amorphilacious-Antaginons. Facebook, as we call it. It happened like this: a Facsimilarion (FB friend in this case, real friend in all others. Thanks, Mark.) posted a link which got stuck in my craw, whatever that means, though I suspect it's related to grinding one's gears. I commented as is my wont when craw-crammed; and, being lazy by nature and indolent by nurture, I have used the exchange as a post below. How does it feel to plagiarize myself verbatim, you ask? It feels good, real good.

First things first . . . homework. Read this article.

Seriously, you have to read the article first.

Well, I suppose I can't make you read the article so here was my comment in response: [Commence potential alienation]

"Grrr. I would rather kids read something else than have nonesuched-knuckleheads tweak works of art like so much play-dough. He talks as if he's translating a foreign language into English--advisedly using updated parlance over outmoded idiom. ... But he's not. He's translating English into English--absurd in most cases, harmful in this one. The TBS example is questionable. The inoculation of strong language in The Godfather was not, I'd warrant, a function of a will to proliferate the appreciation of art to a broader audience; it was a function of TBS's subjugation to the FCC and obligation to squeamish advertisers.

"Let us read the "n" word in context. If in context, it's use is still objectionable--let us be offended. Let us put the book down or press on, suspending our distaste, pending the outcome, and make our value-judgments as mature, capable readers. Let's not revise our literary history for the sake of our guilt. Let us feel our guilt in all of its reddening force. or just read Berenstain Bears and call it a day."

Now, Ether, that I have killed two platforms with one grumpy stone, I hope I don't change my opinion on this subject. The redaction process is an arduous one--not the least bit hospitable to my lethargic noggin. May I be as stubborn as usual. That being said, I would love to consider an argument less brittle than the Godfather one.

I don't mind changing my mind, it's the effort that irritates me.

appropriateness

Here is an excerpt from The Gist of Elijah chosen for its seasonal appropriateness. (What an awful, ugly word--appropriateness--I shall never use it again, not even when it is appropriate.) Reminder: The narrator (Justin Latterly) is writing the biography of a poet--one Elijah Stenson; and here, Justin is fresh from a fight with his off-again, off-again girlfriend.

With several hours to kill before my session with Stenson, I drove to Klieger Park. The parking lot was empty except for two cars—a brown station wagon and a blue Civic like mine. I parked under a maple as far away from the other cars as the small gravel lot allowed and sat for fifteen minutes too sapped of will to budge. The speakers crackled Johnny Cash. I brooded and let the music sink me deeper like a bullet weight on a fishing line. The day was clear, sun bright in the rearview, one cloud trolling the sky through my windshield. I should get out and let the early autumn do its trick.

If I was a poet, I’d write of autumn. If I was Elijah Stenson, I’d cast my lines in the reds that begin to bruise beneath the greens of summer. In Virginia, as a child, when poetry was still possible, I cherished the distinct flavor of fall. Each breeze brought the burning of leaves or the barks of front-yard football. You stepped out the door and life welcomed you, still so young, in on the secret of its seriousness. Not much. Not enough to quell the thrill of the pirate you’ll be come Halloween or the Indian come Thanksgiving. But just a tinge of decay, a redolence of the grave. Something that, at the time, smells pumpkin-spiced and feels hackled with cold weather.

I got out of the car. The gravel crunched and gave way beneath my heavy working boots—the ones with steel toes for protection against dropped boxes or the collapse of heavy equipment. In my rush to skip Dodge, those shoes were the readiest at hand but they made for sore hiking. Nevertheless, I tromped across the lot, past the other two cars, and onto to the paved walking track. I headed for the river against the direction of the cartoon duck feet painted on the asphalt. I almost turned to go the long way—the pull of arbitrary obedience absurdly strong—but gathered courage and continued counter-clockwise, blue and yellow duck feet be damned.

The river was strong with recent rain. Fallen limbs and plastic bottles rode the rapids like a rodeo cowboy on a bronco. The water was high against the jutting banks; thick tree roots cut extra eddies into the roil. I wished for a kayak. At the mere thought, my bowels cramped and grew warm. Just shove off and dive in. Parry the rocks and fight the flumes. Then somewhere down the line, smash into the Cahaba River and go and go and go. I had never kayaked in my life. The fact didn’t even faze me. By the time I heard the dog bark, I had nearly reached the Gulf of Mexico.

iMbecelic iDentity

There are two kinds of people in the world--those who believe there are two kinds of people in the world and those who don't. If, like me, you are in the latter group, feel free to move along to the Nothingworld, or Amorphilacious-Antaginons, or wither-soever thou please. After all, as a member of the latter group, you are at least moderately aware of your autonomy and therefore capable of directing yourself elsewhere. (If you see any crows, tell them to bugger off . . . just not this way. . . matter of fact, leave them be--I have work to do.) If you are in the former group, stick around, because I'm only going to say this once.

First some benign examples:

There are two kinds of people in the world--those who like World Cup Soccer and those who don't. Well and good. No real harm there (outside of being fallacious on at least two levels but no harm there either because everything, including this statement, is fallacious on at least two levels--call it a push.)

I'll go local:

There are two kinds of people in Alabama--those who root for Auburn University and those who root for the University of Alabama. Now, things are getting shakier. Still no harm (outside of being annoying) but one can begin to see a problem. To wit: obviously there are people in Alabama who don't really give a care, ya'll. To those who give mucho care, such a position is inconceivable and therefore, as we treat all things beyond our scope, the position is ridiculed and pressed until one randomly picks a team or simply leaves the room.

Now national:

Democrat or Republican

Now international:

Conservative or Liberal

Now galactic:

Matter or Dark Matter

Now (and here is my tipping point) the absurd:

Mac or PC.

So there I am at Best Buy a while back, checking out computers to replace the paleolithic one at home, when, as if from a trapdoor, a guy in a blue shirt appears, leans into my personal space, and asks, in the tone of voice I assign to sexual predators in my mind, "So, you must be a Mac-Guy."

I immediately dismissed the possibility that he had mistaken me for Richard Dean Anderson, for I look nothing like him. (My loss.) But still, the statement did not register. Three awkward seconds go by. He'd recently had onions and less recently showered, that much I did know. Then, my mind caught up with my situation and I realized what was going on. I was being labeled. And to make matters worse, I was being labeled an i. As in iPhone, iPad, iPod, iCarly, etc.

I shrugged him off and left him to his diametrical view of life, the universe, and everything. (props to Mr. Adams.) So, whatevs. No big biggies, I chalked it up to my metro-sexual eye-wear and post-modern (read unkempt) hair-do and went home with a PC. Not because I AM a PC or that I was beholden to Windows 7 as it was, after all, my idea. In fact, being a PC- guy or a Mac-Guy had as little to do with the decision as being a Bama fan or not. The primary aspect of my person-hood at play in the decision was me being a Poor-Guy--an actually measurable fact.

Since that fateful day, my ears have been a'keened and my eyes have been a'widened-- full of these instances of soul-smooshing, mind-cinching cubbies into which we flop the societally-bundled but otherwise variegated aspects of our Being like so many Buzz Lightyear and Tinkerbell tennies at the neighborhood Chik-fil-A play palace.

So, what's the big deal, J. Scott? Well, Kierkegaard puts it this way: "Once you label me, you negate me." That is, I am not such a thing as can be called a thing by you because to you such a thing is X and to me such a thing is Y. Or any other algebraic unknown as long as the value of the one can never equal the other because each are devised then deciphered by independent consciousnesses that cannot, by virtue of the universal rule of subjectivity in matters of mind, communicate perfectly with each other in perfect terms. Which is to say, to label me is to take a formula of your own devising, applicable only to you and fundamentally meaningless to others, and try to plug me in where I won't fit.

Aren't you exaggerating, Jonny? It's just a computer. True, until it isn't. And it isn't when not only am I not a Mac I am also the bundle of prejudices associated with my non-Mac-essence . So now what else am I? I am unsophisticated, boorish, crude. I am a relic, a lag-behind, a nitwit. And not for being any of these things in particular but for being one thing in general.

And that's just the superficial crud--objectification of a lower order. Technology, sports, interstellar matter.

But what about . . .

Politics. You are what your party is. Straight ticket, toe the line, no deviation or find yourself aisle-less, buddy.

No thanks, Madame President.

Race. You are what racists think you are. And not just regarding one aspect of your personality. Personality? What personality? You are your race. It's one thing, one object; it is all and you are it.

I'll pass, Cracker.

And the list of irrational anathemata goes ever on. But leave me out of it, please. And take a shower, Blue Shirt, you're giving all Blue Shirts a bad name. Don't sell me you, sell me a computer . . .

Because I am iNexplicable, iNeffable, iNdeterminate, and, above all, iNdividual.

Because I'm cool like that.

Roll Tide! Go Blazers! War Eagle! Whatevs. No biggies.

wait . . . what?

Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers.

There is a special on aisle 5. Buy one Heinz Ketchup and get the loofah beside it for regular price. And be sure to check out the beer section. Grab a case of Miller Lite and while you're at it, consider purchasing the open package of Fig Newtons sitting on top. Already done shopping for dairy but forget the cottage cheese? Look between the Burger Buns and Hoagie Rolls. Of course don't forget that last second impulse buy--Cosmo, Altoids, Bic lighter, beef jerky, Duracells, head of lettuce,wait . . . what?

Oh and by the way, while we do have clearly marked and entirely obvious corrals for your carts, please also feel free to take advantage of our other options: against the curb, in vacant parking spaces, in occupied parking spaces with a little wiggle room, or even on the grass adjacent to and flush against the clearly marked, sufficiently empty, and touchably-close corrals provided for the return of carts.

Ether? Are you there? Can you hear me? Please tell me I'm dreaming. Tell me it's just the mint jerky salad not sitting well. Oh, dag-snubbit, I knew the Pepto by the Lysol was a sign!

regarding the periphery

Good Morning. Have I missed you, gone these three days? Seems like it but it's too soon to tell. But I will tell you this. I went to Six Flags yesterday. Not to ride anything (my mutinous brain disallows frenetic mobility. Perhaps, I will talk about my brain some day--its acts of sedition, its pill addled neurons) but to spend time with my family and watch my nieces and nephews while the grown-ups played. More fun for me than it sounds--the kids are wonderful, beautiful, and HI-larious!

However, regarding the periphery, I have contention. To wit: For the sake of Pete, heaven, and goodness and for the love of God, nature, country, decency, medium-rare rib-eye, anything sacred, I'll even accept the thoughtfully profane; but geez-loise and hells bells--put some clothes on people! If the most nauseating thing at an amusement park full of loop-the-loops, centrifugal swings, and body odor is actually the pair of shorts on the lady in front of you in line--no, not pair of shorts, call it the pair of miniscules--those bursting gourds of fabric, those flesh-enfolded fig-leaves, those mustard-stained swatches plaid-ish denim, then we have a problem. Rule of thumb, if it would be a tight fit on your three year old daughter, leave it at home. Better yet, give it to said daughter for the comfortable coverage of her dolly's derriere.

Oh Ether, how enviable your Nothingworld now.

I believe, as I try to recover, I will leave you with this soothing poem. Short though it is, by the time you finish reading it, I will be in the shower futilely scrubbing my eyes with battery acid.

Mid-Morning Well-Spent

If I tried (and I have)
To enumerate
The songs
Of the mockingbird
On the guttered eave,
He would fly (and he has)
To another house
And sing
His song of songs.
If I wait (and I will)
For him to forget
I am here, he will
(and he does)
come back.