After writing, there is writing. Deadlines and word counts and reading lists have framed my work for the past eight months, but now there is some space to look at the fragments that were cut and cast aside, the questions and leads that pressed in on me from the amorphous recesses of the margins, to the tune of my hurried "Not now, not now." Today there is nothing pressing, so I let them press away.
Another degree near completion [and this might be a bit of a stretch], and I am feeling the pull of the blogosphere. I just joined Twitter. Facebook is bursting at the seams with links and videos and photos and updates from all the things I have bothered to "like." I was missing the anonymous thought missives of virtual life. I can set ideas adrift here. I can hope or dread their return. I can sink into forgetfulness when they are out of earshot. But Twitter did not satisfy. I want something more than 140 characters, and less than a dissertation. What is there in between?
I want to spend time with my fragments without the urgency of a closing date, the distant eventuality of a product. I want to see what can germinate in this nebulous thing called cyberspace. There must be something there. I don’t think it’s only procrastination that drives me to refresh my Facebook homepage while I write papers. I don’t think it was perverse curiosity that somehow brought me to Twitter two days after Osama bin Laden’s death, and one day after the Canadian federal election. What do I hope to find? What do I hope to make?
Can I plant my fragments here, or am I only burying them?
06 May 2011
24 January 2010
Bureaucratic Waltz (Remix)
I have to open an account to collect funds for the trip to Delhi. Sounds simple enough. A trip to the bank is in order. No sooner do I sit down with a burly, accented man, than I find out that I am in fact applying for a small business account, and must visit the Government of Quebec Enterprise Registry. The man gives me vague directions, and a paternalistic warning that it is cold, and I should not walk there. Except for the advice of bank managers, how would I know to wear my mittens? Life is certainly bewildering for little old me.
I set off to Bleury and Sherbrooke, arrive at the intersection to find no government bureau. Do I walk North or South? I pick South, checking my watch to see that I have to be at work in about an hour. Almost a block down the street, I almost rethink my impetuous sense of direction, but remain steadfast when I spot in the distance the blue sign and white typeface of a Quebec Government institution. (The 18th Century architecture should have tipped me off, amid the neighbouring buildings which look like they were built in the uninspired, rectangular '70s.) By the way, Mr. Bank Man, sir, this is Bleury and de Maisonneuve.
I haul open the heavy glass doors (by their polished, brass handles) to find myself in a lobby. Bottles of sanitizer abound. (I know this has to do with H1N1, but I can't help reflecting on the infected proletarian masses...) I check the directory to orient myself, to find that the office I need is indicated by some apparently arbitrary letter-number code. I sigh in exasperation, and turn around to find the elevators -- and the room I seek is right in front of me, behind plate glass windows. (There are fairly common in government buildings, I have learned. I think they're supposed to represent the transparency of our wondrous system, or something to that effect. Instead, they bring to mind Foucault's notion of surveillance.)
Inside the office, I exchange words with an armed security guard. (I wonder, what do they think can possibly happen inside the Enterprise Registry? Some rogue small business owner losing it over the confounding administrative details? Hm... maybe that's not so far fetched after all.) The guard points to the nearby information desk. I approach, and give them the same information I gave to the guard. The attendant asks me if I've filled out the form. I am perplexed. I thought I came here to fill out forms. What form? Where would I get the form, if not here? And why come here at all, if I could have filled out the form elsewhere. So I await the form. Instead, I am issued a number.
I turn the corner to see what the queue situation is. The room is full. There are about twenty booths with attendants processing people, but, as always, this doesn't seem to cut it. The people look restless and confused. I look at my number, and compare it to the sign that shows who is being served. I am B93. A101 and D75 are currently being helped. So either I missed my turn, or it hasn't come up yet. I give up trying to make sense of this, and take a seat.
To pass the time, I flip open a back issue of The Economist and skim an article on diseased Dutch goats, and the emotional toll this has taken on farmers in the Netherlands. I'm not sure why I read The Economist. Sometimes I find the coverage of global issues extensive and even-handed. Sometimes the Conservative slant drives me up the wall. (More on that later, I'm sure.) Meanwhile, I check frequently (between the goat article and one on bullfighting) in case my number comes up. The D counter switches to B sometimes, so I guess I have a chance in hell after all. But it switches back, too, so B88 doesn't mean there are 5 people ahead of me. It doesn't mean much, actually. What's the point of numbers if they don't have any order? Why not assign everyone a colour, or a zoo animal? It would certainly help pass the time. I turn the page again. Oh great, an analysis of Britain's rise from the recession. This should be cautiously self-congratulatory, which a side of warning the government off socialist-type reform. But I digress. There is substance here for a whole other post.
B91. Getting close. Check my watch. I have fifteen minutes to get to work. Maybe I'll just wait it out a bit longer and run to work. B92. 10 minutes. Oh, damn it all, I don't have time for this. If I lose my job, I'll have to go to the unemployment office and do this all over again. I leave, and plan to try again on Monday. These offices are never open evenings or weekends. Of course. Because small business owners and aspiring entrepreneurs have so much free time on their hands...
You can't make this stuff up.
I set off to Bleury and Sherbrooke, arrive at the intersection to find no government bureau. Do I walk North or South? I pick South, checking my watch to see that I have to be at work in about an hour. Almost a block down the street, I almost rethink my impetuous sense of direction, but remain steadfast when I spot in the distance the blue sign and white typeface of a Quebec Government institution. (The 18th Century architecture should have tipped me off, amid the neighbouring buildings which look like they were built in the uninspired, rectangular '70s.) By the way, Mr. Bank Man, sir, this is Bleury and de Maisonneuve.
I haul open the heavy glass doors (by their polished, brass handles) to find myself in a lobby. Bottles of sanitizer abound. (I know this has to do with H1N1, but I can't help reflecting on the infected proletarian masses...) I check the directory to orient myself, to find that the office I need is indicated by some apparently arbitrary letter-number code. I sigh in exasperation, and turn around to find the elevators -- and the room I seek is right in front of me, behind plate glass windows. (There are fairly common in government buildings, I have learned. I think they're supposed to represent the transparency of our wondrous system, or something to that effect. Instead, they bring to mind Foucault's notion of surveillance.)
Inside the office, I exchange words with an armed security guard. (I wonder, what do they think can possibly happen inside the Enterprise Registry? Some rogue small business owner losing it over the confounding administrative details? Hm... maybe that's not so far fetched after all.) The guard points to the nearby information desk. I approach, and give them the same information I gave to the guard. The attendant asks me if I've filled out the form. I am perplexed. I thought I came here to fill out forms. What form? Where would I get the form, if not here? And why come here at all, if I could have filled out the form elsewhere. So I await the form. Instead, I am issued a number.
I turn the corner to see what the queue situation is. The room is full. There are about twenty booths with attendants processing people, but, as always, this doesn't seem to cut it. The people look restless and confused. I look at my number, and compare it to the sign that shows who is being served. I am B93. A101 and D75 are currently being helped. So either I missed my turn, or it hasn't come up yet. I give up trying to make sense of this, and take a seat.
To pass the time, I flip open a back issue of The Economist and skim an article on diseased Dutch goats, and the emotional toll this has taken on farmers in the Netherlands. I'm not sure why I read The Economist. Sometimes I find the coverage of global issues extensive and even-handed. Sometimes the Conservative slant drives me up the wall. (More on that later, I'm sure.) Meanwhile, I check frequently (between the goat article and one on bullfighting) in case my number comes up. The D counter switches to B sometimes, so I guess I have a chance in hell after all. But it switches back, too, so B88 doesn't mean there are 5 people ahead of me. It doesn't mean much, actually. What's the point of numbers if they don't have any order? Why not assign everyone a colour, or a zoo animal? It would certainly help pass the time. I turn the page again. Oh great, an analysis of Britain's rise from the recession. This should be cautiously self-congratulatory, which a side of warning the government off socialist-type reform. But I digress. There is substance here for a whole other post.
B91. Getting close. Check my watch. I have fifteen minutes to get to work. Maybe I'll just wait it out a bit longer and run to work. B92. 10 minutes. Oh, damn it all, I don't have time for this. If I lose my job, I'll have to go to the unemployment office and do this all over again. I leave, and plan to try again on Monday. These offices are never open evenings or weekends. Of course. Because small business owners and aspiring entrepreneurs have so much free time on their hands...
You can't make this stuff up.
24 July 2009
Bureaucratic Waltz
Today I went to the passport office to apply for a new passport. I brought a book to pass the time, as I was sure the place would be a maze of lines. And also because I never leave the house without a book.
I found the building without too much difficulty, which surprised me because in my experience government offices are rather elusive. But once I got into the building -- a pretty big affair with two towers and many corridors and elevators -- I was astounded to find that there were no signs indicating which offices were on which floors. So I walked around the ground floor a bit, and found after turning some corners that Suite 103, the one I was looking for, was not far away.
I went through the glass doors and had to stop to get my bearings; to my left was a man consulting with people and directing them to various lineups, to my right was a lineup marked "pre-sorting" and ahead of me was a row of counters and attendants, facing a room full of chairs where people sat. There was another lineup, apparently for the counters, to my far left. I joined the pre-sorting line since I wasn't sure where to go. I wondered as I stood there what the attendant near the door was doing, if not sorting, and why there wasn't a line in front of him, and whether I was just a sheep joining an apparently redundant cause. In any case, my turn finally came, my documents were reviewed and I was directed to line 20.
As I joined this second line, I noticed that there was a row of monitors facing the seated people, showing which client number was being served by which agent. This seemed strange, since no one had issued me a number, and it seemed that most everyone was going straight from pre-sorting to line 20, and seated people were not moving much or quickly. A man standing next to me asked if this was line 21, I said no and then he disappeared, I don't know where.
When my turn came, I was directed not to booth 20, but to booth 11. I wondered why the line I had stood in was 20. Why not just a general lineup? Or why couldn't I take a number and sit? It's very uncomfortable to read standing up! Anyway, the attendant read through my form again and pointed out that I had skipped over a section. I filled it out while he waited. I wondered why the attendant at the pre-sorting line hadn't noticed it, since I could have saved a lot of time by filling it out while I was in line 20. (Of course, it wouldn't have been easy, since I would have had to do it standing up.) Once I finished, he took my photos and slipped them into slots on a new form. A passport application requires two identical photos. He cut a sliver off one of them. But not the other. They were exactly the same size! Then, as I turned to go, I noticed that in the five or ten minutes that I'd been facing the counter, the seats behind me had become virtually empty.
Having finished, I walked out of the building feeling bewildered and, vaguely, like I'd been a ridiculous pawn in an incomprehensible human comedy. All of this being amusing because I was reading Kafka.
Sometimes the world conspires to make your literary experiences more vivid.
I found the building without too much difficulty, which surprised me because in my experience government offices are rather elusive. But once I got into the building -- a pretty big affair with two towers and many corridors and elevators -- I was astounded to find that there were no signs indicating which offices were on which floors. So I walked around the ground floor a bit, and found after turning some corners that Suite 103, the one I was looking for, was not far away.
I went through the glass doors and had to stop to get my bearings; to my left was a man consulting with people and directing them to various lineups, to my right was a lineup marked "pre-sorting" and ahead of me was a row of counters and attendants, facing a room full of chairs where people sat. There was another lineup, apparently for the counters, to my far left. I joined the pre-sorting line since I wasn't sure where to go. I wondered as I stood there what the attendant near the door was doing, if not sorting, and why there wasn't a line in front of him, and whether I was just a sheep joining an apparently redundant cause. In any case, my turn finally came, my documents were reviewed and I was directed to line 20.
As I joined this second line, I noticed that there was a row of monitors facing the seated people, showing which client number was being served by which agent. This seemed strange, since no one had issued me a number, and it seemed that most everyone was going straight from pre-sorting to line 20, and seated people were not moving much or quickly. A man standing next to me asked if this was line 21, I said no and then he disappeared, I don't know where.
When my turn came, I was directed not to booth 20, but to booth 11. I wondered why the line I had stood in was 20. Why not just a general lineup? Or why couldn't I take a number and sit? It's very uncomfortable to read standing up! Anyway, the attendant read through my form again and pointed out that I had skipped over a section. I filled it out while he waited. I wondered why the attendant at the pre-sorting line hadn't noticed it, since I could have saved a lot of time by filling it out while I was in line 20. (Of course, it wouldn't have been easy, since I would have had to do it standing up.) Once I finished, he took my photos and slipped them into slots on a new form. A passport application requires two identical photos. He cut a sliver off one of them. But not the other. They were exactly the same size! Then, as I turned to go, I noticed that in the five or ten minutes that I'd been facing the counter, the seats behind me had become virtually empty.
Having finished, I walked out of the building feeling bewildered and, vaguely, like I'd been a ridiculous pawn in an incomprehensible human comedy. All of this being amusing because I was reading Kafka.
Sometimes the world conspires to make your literary experiences more vivid.
24 April 2009
Slow Progress to the Score of Summer
I am still trudging along in this thesis. Sometimes it stops making any sense to me. I've worked the argument over so many times. Some days it is painfully obvious, and I'm afraid I'm really not contributing anything novel at all. Other days, it seems convoluted and contrived, and I'm afraid it's full of dead ends and unsubstantiated claims. Some days it drives me to distraction. Some days I am certain that this is my calling.
In any case, I'll hand it in within a week's time. Whether it's a turning point in my life, or just an eight month nightmare, it is soon coming to a close. Unfortunately, something as seemingly inconsequential as a letter grade will decide which way this goes. I'm sure I want to keep going to school, but I may shelve Heidegger for some time, lest I start writing like him. That ship may have sailed.
As I work away at it on a Friday night, my window open to relieve the stuffiness in this room, I can hear the sounds of cars bringing partygoers into the city. I can hear expensive shoes beating the pavement, and slurred speech creeping through the still night air, into my window, into my brain. A man is playing harmonica down the street.
During the day, I can hear children playing. On Sunday, if the weather is nice, I will sit here typing away to the beat of drums from the park as Tam Tams gets under way to mark the beginning of summer. At the worst of times, this is downright torture. But at least I have some distant company while I labour to finish this work.
I belong in the city. I am a people watcher, and now also a people-listener. If it gets bad, I will be a people-water-balloons-thrower.
In any case, I'll hand it in within a week's time. Whether it's a turning point in my life, or just an eight month nightmare, it is soon coming to a close. Unfortunately, something as seemingly inconsequential as a letter grade will decide which way this goes. I'm sure I want to keep going to school, but I may shelve Heidegger for some time, lest I start writing like him. That ship may have sailed.
As I work away at it on a Friday night, my window open to relieve the stuffiness in this room, I can hear the sounds of cars bringing partygoers into the city. I can hear expensive shoes beating the pavement, and slurred speech creeping through the still night air, into my window, into my brain. A man is playing harmonica down the street.
During the day, I can hear children playing. On Sunday, if the weather is nice, I will sit here typing away to the beat of drums from the park as Tam Tams gets under way to mark the beginning of summer. At the worst of times, this is downright torture. But at least I have some distant company while I labour to finish this work.
I belong in the city. I am a people watcher, and now also a people-listener. If it gets bad, I will be a people-water-balloons-thrower.
12 April 2009
Some Rhymes to Pass the Time
I wrote this because it's important to have a sense of humour about oneself. Ironically, it was about the same time that I realized I really want to pursue philosophy as a profession.
Cheers
"Cheers!" says a man
Holding up his glass and sloshing ceremony on his friends
Why cheer?
Why have I friends? To what ends?
Why gather in dankness and drink down the time?
What is time?
As it passes, as I pass, as we pass away
As it twists and turns and flies and burns
What are we?
What am I?
What is "I"?
The I, the eye.
What is? What is Being?
Is there anything? Can nothing be?
What is "What?"
What?
"Cheers!" says a man
And glasses clink, and we drink
And in a blink it's reasoned all away
Cheers
"Cheers!" says a man
Holding up his glass and sloshing ceremony on his friends
Why cheer?
Why have I friends? To what ends?
Why gather in dankness and drink down the time?
What is time?
As it passes, as I pass, as we pass away
As it twists and turns and flies and burns
What are we?
What am I?
What is "I"?
The I, the eye.
What is? What is Being?
Is there anything? Can nothing be?
What is "What?"
What?
"Cheers!" says a man
And glasses clink, and we drink
And in a blink it's reasoned all away
09 April 2009
Examined Life
"The unexamined life is not worth living." - Plato
Examined Life is a documentary by Astra Taylor. It is a series of ten-minute interviews with various contemporary philosophers in various cities. Notables include Peter Singer, Judith Butler, and Slavoj Zizek. Aside from being chock full of really interesting ideas, it is also an attempt to get philosophy out of the ivory tower and onto the streets. In each interview, the scholar is placed in an environment that somehow reflects his/her ideas. Singer is interviewed on 5th Avenue in NYC, discussing the moral implications of living the sweet life while others don't even have the bare necessities. Judith Butler walks along the streets of San Francisco with a girl in a wheelchair, and they have a conversation about the social construction of disability. In each interview, the subject and the camera never stop moving, which makes for some innovative cinematography.
I highly recommend this film to anyone with any level of interest in philosophy. It can be a teaser or a sampler for the beginner, or a fascinating mosaic of modern thought for the seasoned scholar. It is insightful, creative, and humorous. It is not by any means light, but all of these philosophers seem to have a great sense of humour, so you get a few laughs in the process.
This idea of reviving philosophy as a vibrant social activity, as opposed to a rigorous academic discipline, really struck a chord with me. While I love what I study, I often find myself wondering what the use of it is if it's so obscure and inaccessible to the common person. There are some great ideas out there, but few of them can be grasped without a significant background in the history of Western thought. On the other hand, bookstores are littered with pop philosophy, which is accessible, but often has to sacrifice the depth and breadth of its content. This movie presented a happy middle ground, resurrecting Socrates' idea that philosophy is a constantly evolving discourse, not a dogma immortalized in books.
Examined Life is a documentary by Astra Taylor. It is a series of ten-minute interviews with various contemporary philosophers in various cities. Notables include Peter Singer, Judith Butler, and Slavoj Zizek. Aside from being chock full of really interesting ideas, it is also an attempt to get philosophy out of the ivory tower and onto the streets. In each interview, the scholar is placed in an environment that somehow reflects his/her ideas. Singer is interviewed on 5th Avenue in NYC, discussing the moral implications of living the sweet life while others don't even have the bare necessities. Judith Butler walks along the streets of San Francisco with a girl in a wheelchair, and they have a conversation about the social construction of disability. In each interview, the subject and the camera never stop moving, which makes for some innovative cinematography.
I highly recommend this film to anyone with any level of interest in philosophy. It can be a teaser or a sampler for the beginner, or a fascinating mosaic of modern thought for the seasoned scholar. It is insightful, creative, and humorous. It is not by any means light, but all of these philosophers seem to have a great sense of humour, so you get a few laughs in the process.
This idea of reviving philosophy as a vibrant social activity, as opposed to a rigorous academic discipline, really struck a chord with me. While I love what I study, I often find myself wondering what the use of it is if it's so obscure and inaccessible to the common person. There are some great ideas out there, but few of them can be grasped without a significant background in the history of Western thought. On the other hand, bookstores are littered with pop philosophy, which is accessible, but often has to sacrifice the depth and breadth of its content. This movie presented a happy middle ground, resurrecting Socrates' idea that philosophy is a constantly evolving discourse, not a dogma immortalized in books.
08 April 2009
Disenchantment
April. Snow on the ground. Enough said.
The winter funk funks on, and funks me over.
With every day of bad weather, I think of more summer pastimes: picnics in the park, beer on patios, reading a book under a tree, spontaneous drum festivals, trips to the farmer's market... I could not live in a warmer climate than this. In the summer, I think of winter pastimes. Each season is only as enjoyable as the anticipation for it. Contrast is the essence of life.
The winter funk funks on, and funks me over.
With every day of bad weather, I think of more summer pastimes: picnics in the park, beer on patios, reading a book under a tree, spontaneous drum festivals, trips to the farmer's market... I could not live in a warmer climate than this. In the summer, I think of winter pastimes. Each season is only as enjoyable as the anticipation for it. Contrast is the essence of life.
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