-
Category archives for 'soc'
-
Wine and Sweet Words
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
—Alfred Lord TennysonAs you no doubt recall from last year and the year before, Kiki Krismas is an ever-so-slightly Jesus-centric, winter mix I do this time every year. Well, this year I had the pleasure of collaborating with my beloved Mr. Handsome Pants, aka Spencer, aka Crusty. See, we’re in that disgusting phase of beginning all sorts of traditions together to cement our togetherness and collective disgusting cuteness. It’s all quite adorable and gross, concomitantly.
We had a blast selecting and arranging the songs for this year’s mix, and naught but Wayne Newton himself could cause us to disagree on its contents. (Better luck next year, Wayne.) The result is Kiki and Crusty’s Krismas, and I dare say Spencer is now as into it as I am.
Listen at work with the nifty player below (track list) or download the whole dang thing right here.
Until next year … may you be happy, may you be well, may you be free. May we all be blessed with loving-kindness.
Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Dead Guys I Like, Part 8
Steve Jobs
Proof that being a world-class executive doesn’t mean you have to be a chode.
- Bill Gates’d be a broader guy if he had dropped acid once or gone off to an ashram when he was younger.
- Simple can be harder than complex: You have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple.
- Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Hear Me on That
I’m not supposed to be awake yet.
Well, in the strictest sense of shoulds and shouldn’ts, it makes sense that I am awake … it’s morning, my eyes are open, and I’m clacking away on my laptop. What I mean is, it’s only 5:30. My alarm is not set to go off for another hour and a half. When I made my five-year plan back in 2006, I remember very distinctly setting the intention to be asleep at 5:30 a.m. on January 6, 2011. In life, though, it is very important to roll with the punches. If you glean nothing else from this post, hear me on that one.
Anyway, I’m doing what I used to do back in Boston when I woke up before dawn: writing. It’s a situation that’s not come up in a long while, as the insomnia that plagued me for the last few years happily did not follow me to California. Still, I enjoy every now and then getting a jump on the day and firing some neurons when they’re at their most potent. The down side of this approach, though, is I rarely have a topic planned. Xtreme Morning Posts™ can be rambling and diffuse, like my neurons at their most potent.
Just spitballing here, but we’re still in the opening days of a new year. It only seems logical to write about that … new beginnings and resolutions et cetera. The thing is, I wrote a pretty good post about all that last year, and my views remain largely unchanged.
One thing I can add is that—at long last—I’ve reached such an advanced stage of mental and emotional maturity that I’ve made a health-related new year’s resolution, in place of my more vanity-based resolutions of the past. That is, I’ve given up sugar for the time being. No, not because my ass is getting giggly. (We established long ago that my ass is bangin, and as far as anyone’s concerned my ass will remain forever 35.) No, no. I gave up sugar because it’s bad for my pancreas. See, too exciting for words. I realize now, simply being able to add something doesn’t necessarily make it worthy of inclusion. If you glean nothing else from this post, hear me on that one.
In all seriousness, it is a new year, and my days of minimizing the importance of this particular milestone are over. Many of you followed along last year as I embarked on what was, for me, a monumental journey. And, bumpy as last year may have been at times, this New Year’s Eve I found myself looking back on 2010 with pride, and, what’s more, I’m looking forward to 2011 with … optimism. Not guarded optimism or cautious optimism, just straight-up, genuine, hold-your-chin-a-little-higher optimism. I can’t even remember the last time this was the case. Literally.
I don’t know what this year has in store, but I will endeavor, insomuch as is humanly possible, to make the retelling of the mundane details of my life worthy of your mouse click. I remain grateful for your loyalty and support. In short, you are the best readers a blogger could ever dream of having. If you glean nothing else from this post, hear me on that one.
Well, here goes that alarm I mentioned … my stolen time is over. Now, I am off to run repeatedly up and down a very long set of stairs (and not because my ass is even the slightest bit giggly.) Happy New Year, all.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Good Will to Man
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
—T. S. Eliot
This year’s Kiki Krismas has arrived! As you may remember from last year, Kiki Krismas is an ever-so-slightly Jesus-centric, winter mix I do around this time. I’ve endeavored to include a little something for everyone. Click to see the track list here or right-click to download the whole mix.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
My Year in URLs
I’m not a big fan of year-end wrap-ups, as they are normally executed.
Wait … don’t tell me … the top songs of 2010 include those shitty songs you played ad nauseum ALL FUCKING YEAR LONG? Wow. Good one, guys.
No, no. If you’re sick to death of My Year in Status and The Top Ten Celebrity ___________, try making your own Year in URLs list using the Chrome or Firefox auto-complete address bar feature. It may give you some insight into where your 2010 actually went … as mine did.
A: att.com
B: bit.ly
C: chicagomanualofstyle.org
D: …
E: en.wikipedia.org
F: facebook.com
G: google.com
H: hulu.com
I: icanhazip.com
J: jobs.berkeley.edu
K: kp.org
L: latimes.com
M: maps.google.com
N: nytimes.com
O: …
P: pinboard.in/u:kikipedia
Q: …
R: radiolab.org
S: salon.com
T: therumpus.net
U: usps.com
V: virginamerica.com
W: wunderground.com
X: xkcd.com
Y: yelp.com
Z: zappos.com
1: …
2: 24hourfitness.com
3: 3point5.com
4: 4chan.org
5: …
6: …
7: 7×7.com
8: 826valencia.org
9: …
0: …
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Kiki’s Big Adventure: End of the Road, Part II
I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning.
—J. B. PriestleyIncredibly, it’s been just over a month since I pulled into town. Feels like I’ve been here for ages. I still can’t say for sure what it is that’s so different about where I’ve chosen to plant myself or what makes it so damned enchanting. Is it something inherent to the place … the fact that it’s not Boston … the simple act of starting over itself?
In all likelihood, it’s a little from columns A, B, and C.
When I was 17, I had a falling out with my father that led to a long estrangement. The following year, I decided to legally change my last name to the one I have now, Hammann.
It was weird, at first, signing my new name and answering to it in class. I found myself having to explain the change to people fairly often, as my old acquaintances crossed paths with the new ones. I don’t recall exactly what I told them, but as I wasn’t terribly fond of people knowing my business, I’m sure it was some stripped-down version of the truth.
When I got married, I kept my “maiden” name, and nearly everyone assumed it was a feminist statement. I let people believe what they wanted. The truth of it, though, was that my new name had become very precious to me … because, in the whirl of hormones and college and family tragedy that defined my eighteenth year, I’d chosen the name for myself.
That’s a difficult thing to describe to someone who’s never felt the need to be completely divorced from someone or something, to begin again from scratch. Of course, at 18 … and even 26, I was just too immature to realize that everyone feels that way sometimes, to varying degrees, or that we all go about forging ourselves every day, through decisions big and small. And things that we choose … that we create ourselves … well, they often have a special beauty only we can appreciate.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
And Why Are You Waiting?
I’ve always been a bit morbid. Not Wednesday Addams morbid, really, but definitely somewhere on that continuum. I attribute my morbidity, such as it is, to another quality of mine, which when I was a kid people called “being sensitive” … taking things very much to heart, worrying about stuff most children didn’t seem to be aware of in the least, and generally railing against the unfairness of, well, just about everything.
My mom flipped out once when she caught me in the backyard handling a dead bird, over whose funeral I was just about to preside. I was outraged that she valued my health more than the poor avian soul. I could go on: My first existential crisis … at age four. The group home for homeless folks I designed when I was 14. (I was to be the architect and director of the non-profit I would found and run. Naturally.)
I felt pain very acutely. That’s how I think of it now. Me. Birds. The homeless. Wherever there was pain and angst—or the potential for either—I found it and assumed responsibility for it.
Not much has changed. As one of my oldest friends said to me recently on my visit back home for my high school reunion, “You’re still Kirsten. Just more so.” I still fret over problems of the soul and the human condition and things like that.
What has changed, though, is that after decades of trying not to be so sensitive, I’ve finally just accepted it. I’ve learned to cope with it, to see that it’s one of the things that makes me me, mainly by learning to laugh at myself … and letting others do the same without assuming it’s an indictment of my character. Case in point, a recent exchange with Em Em:
Em Em: oh shit! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Em Em: i mean, i already said it, so it escaped me
Kiki: well, you already wished me happy birthday on facebook … that’s where it counts!
Em Em: true dat! i love facebook birthdays
Kiki: me too!
Em Em: it makes up for all the other 364
Kiki: is it too grim that i feel like it gives me a good sense of what the turnout will be at my funeral?
Em Em: i wouldn’t say grim, i would say … optimistic
Kiki: you don’t think that guy i worked with 4 years ago who i never talked to then, and still don’t, won’t come to my funeral?
Kiki: or the girl who i was in brownies with?
Em Em: i mean, i’m sure you’ll have a good turnout, but i don’t think all the FB randos who wish everyone a happy birthday will be the main contingent
Em Em: wait – is that a jinx?!
Kiki: oh, i’ll give it to you
Kiki: it’s a pity jinx tho, so long as we’re clear on that
Em Em: no, my jinxes are just more philosophical than yours. i mean, you’re so CONCRETE
Em Em: my jinxes are CONCEPTUAL
Em Em: jeez
Kiki: genuine LOLWhat got me to thinking about all this was a plaque a saw this morning while walking little black dog.
I’ve read or heard the sentiment before, but something in seeing it framed in such a way really struck me. I turned it over in my mind … more than once, if you must know. Is there someone out there I’d regret not talking to, an apology owed maybe, a confession, a proffer of forgiveness?
But as I dwelt on the idea of my mortality and possible lingering regrets (if dead people can have regrets), what came to mind were all the little things, well, to be more precise, the things that seem little but aren’t, the things that have meant the world to me, for whatever reason, and were only acknowledged as small kindnesses … or worse, as duties.
Holy Henry James-esque sentence, Batman.
Anyway, I thought of the person who returned my lost $20 bill to the store manager, at a time when I very much could not afford to lose $20. I thought of the person who betrayed a family member’s confidence to tell me my marriage was over. I thought of the first stranger to comment on my blog. I thought of the friends who stuck by me when I had zero to give and could only take, take, take. I thought of the aunt who sends me cards of encouragement whenever life throws me a setback, however minor.
In fact, if I’d not stopped to write this post, I’d still be thinking of people who’ve done me a good turn at one time or another.
As I pondered all this, though, I remembered my exchange with Em Em and it occurred to me that most of the people I’d thought of will be at my funeral one day. (Well, not the guy who returned my 20 bucks, but you know what I mean.) And some loved one will have the sad duty of sending thank you notes to them for coming or for the lovely flowers, the kind card, whatever.
But why leave that task to someone else? What about sending a pre-funeral thank you note … myself?
Okay, maybe I am Wednesday Addams morbid.
I still think it’s a good idea. In the grand scheme of things, coming to my funeral is probably one of the more minor things people will ever do for me. I mean, technically, I’ll get nothing from it at all. But now … now people are doing stuff for me left and right, stuff I know about and things I may never realize, and all of these collective kindnesses are making existence as I know it possible.
Sure, people go to funerals for themselves and for the other survivors, and the thank you notes are for that, not for being a part of the person’s life in the first place. That only means that all that being a part of someone’s life—the fun and the messy, alike—goes essentially unrecognized.
Yeah, there are “Thinking of You” cards and “Just Because” cards, but I think most people reserve those for the VIPs. What about the day players, the character actors? Those are the ones who really fill in the bleachers at a good funeral, and they’re no less important to the fabric of a life than the headliners.
I dunno, maybe it’s a crazy idea to start formally thanking people for their contribution to my life. It sounds a little nutty when I write it all out like this. I’m curious … any of you ever try something like this? Anyone ever get something like this?
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Some Semi-Serious Thoughts on Online Marketing … Er, Dating: Part I
As you may know if you’re a regular reader, I’ve been married. So, naturally, I know how to plan a romantic vacation for two, how to split up household chores, how to select the right tie for every conceivable occasion, how to listen to boring work stories and nod in all the right places. In short, I know how to be with a man, how to be part of a couple.
But in 2004, after my divorce, I found myself (begrudgingly) dating again for the first time in over 11 years. To help you understand just how incredibly long a period that is, the last time I’d been on a first date I was barely out of my teens, e-mail was only for computer science majors, and Sir Mix-a-Lot had a song in the Top Ten. In short, at 31, I had zero knowledge of or experience with dating an adult male.
That’s when I first tried online matchmaking, as it was called then.
I had no choice, really. I owned my own business and worked from home. I wasn’t much of a bar-scenester, though I made valiant, if less-than-skillful efforts in that regard. I had my circle of close girlfriends, and they dragged me to book readings and cookouts and costume parties. But no one asked me out. In fact, in all my time as a single woman in Boston, no one save the occasional cab driver and cable guy ever asked me out IRL. Not once.
Anyway, all this is to say that I stand before you now with a full and robust understanding of what it’s like to be new to the strange world of online dating and to be flummoxed at the prospect of pitching oneself to scores of complete strangers. So, what follows are some thoughts about online dating and suggestions for those who decide to wade into the fray—from a comrade.
Choosing a Handle
Firstly, let’s have a defining of terms. I call online dating user names “handles” not screen names or profile names or any other such thing. As a child of the ’70s, I love Smokey and the Bandit and CB lingo, so maybe that’s an influence. Overall, though, I think handle is a more appropriate way to describe the function of an online moniker, too.
See, a screen name is something that’s meaningful to you, something you can remember … something you use to log into your online banking account. A handle is a nickname, something others will remember, something relatively unique to you and your personality or background.
I don’t think it’s overly dramatic to say that for an online dater, the handle is the first hurdle to true love.
“What about profile pictures?” I hear you ask. “The profile itself?” Obviously, those things are important, but in my experience, the handle often provides the first opt-out opportunity. It is the first exit ramp on the highway of love, if you will allow just one more banal metaphor.
What I mean is, sure, I’m not likely to respond to someone with no picture or profile no matter how brilliant the handle, but someone with a gorgeous picture, a witty profile, and a handle of bedroomsavvy is going in The No Pile. Period. I don’t care if he feeds orphaned kittens with an eyedropper in his free time. Ew. Ew. Ew.
If, however, your profile picture is fuzzy or goofy but your handle is radar_oreilly, I just might reply. Same goes if your profile could use a thorough proofing but your handle is fydor.
Clearly, these examples are unique to me … I like M*A*S*H and Dostoyevsky. I Shouldn’t Be Alive and Clive Cussler may be more up your alley, but the point is, a good handle has personality. It tells me something about who you are and what you like. At the very least, it intrigues me enough to want to find out on my own.
In many ways, an online handle should have the same elements as a good brand name. And I’m not talking about social media, personal branding bullshit, but, seriously, would you rather eat at Chinese Restaurant or Happy Panda? Rather date tallfunguy37 or thefunsmith? Yeah. Me, too.
Of course, there’s no simple formula for a good handle. It takes some creativity and wit to come up with one that’s apt, and that’s part of what makes it important. It’s a way to demonstrate not only how you think of yourself but how you then go about conveying that.
For example, I saw a guy recently with the handle ndahole. Golf’s not my thing, but I give that one good marks for creativity in conveying personality. Where this one breaks down for me, though, is in the execution … the wit part of things. I mean, he probably meant his handle to be read as “n da hole,” but I and my warped … warped-ness couldn’t help but see “nd a hole.” Not a great connotation for a dating site, and—rightly or wrongly—I assumed his intelligence was not what it could be.
Another one I saw: rapero. I’m not kidding. Rapero. To attract women. As handles go, I’d say this is right up there with murderisfuno or liketoinflictpaino. I don’t care if your last name is Rapero. I don’t care if rapero means “I like long walks on the beach” in Portuguese. It is, far and away, the worst online dating handle I’ve come across.
I did a little Twitter–Facebook poll recently to check that the root “raper” is as negatively charged as I, personally, find it to be. Bottom line is, yes. Yes, it is. Given the choice, everyone who responded to my poll would rather date a guy named Peter File (say it outloud three times quickly) than one named John Raper.
It’s silly. It’s prejudicial. It’s everything wrong with the world today. But it’s no less real or true. Words matter. Names matter. Choose your handle carefully, boys and girls.
To be continued …
Next time: Know Your Audience and Positioning
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Kiki’s Big Adventure: End of the Road, Part I
Today’s the first day of week two in my new digs, and it’s a busy seven days I’ve had. My plan all along was to hit the ground running here, in every possible way, and I think I’ve mostly succeeded in that.
I’m 90% unpacked. I’ve been setting my alarm and doing “office hours” at local coffee shops to work on job-hunting and the like. There’s been one interview so far, and every day I’m putting out so-called feelers. I’ve also signed up for a couple of social groups, and I’m going on a hike with one of them tomorrow … driving a carpool even!
I know, I know. Who are you and what have you done with Kiki?
It’s the darnedest thing, really. I mean, I love it here, and, now that I’ve arrived and confirmed that fact, I feel I can reveal that I had some deep, deep reservations over whether that would, indeed, be the case. I thought I would love it. Every indication that I could reasonably assess told me I would. You just never know, though. You know?
So, analysis of the whys and wherefores of my new me-ness is ongoing, though in a very un-me, non-obsessive kinda way. I’ll be sure to share whatever life lessons I glean from it all, but, for now, I’m just taking it in and enjoying each day as it comes.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Kiki’s Big Adventure: The Not-So-Mini
-
Cracking Up
It is not down in any map; true places never are.
—Herman MelvilleOnce or twice since I relaunched the blog last December, I’ve alluded to a period last year during which I experienced what in another era might have been called a nervous breakdown. There are more technical terms, of course, and I’m sure at some point I’ll delve—in excruciating detail—into the nuances of how to describe cracking up. At present, the laymen’s term should suffice.
It may seem odd to mention one of the darkest times of my life now, positioned as I am on the cusp of a promising adventure. The thing is, people tell me I’m brave to up and move, to start anew. They say I’m strong. Some insist it takes a courage they don’t themselves possess. Admittedly, I’m not all that comfortable with praise, in general, and nervous breakdowns, specifically, don’t do much for your inner rock star. Still, it feels false to hold myself up as a model of daring. (My plucky acts often seem like little more than the path of last resort after exhausting all the more cowardly routes.) So I demure and chuckle inwardly at the thought my epitaph might one day read:
Brave. Or crazy. (Jury’s still out.)
It’s a fine line, after all.
Naturally, I’ve been pondering this brave-or-crazy question, in the background, as I’ve gone about preparing for the move, but it all sort of came into focus for me earlier this evening. It was during my last DBT group session at McLean Hospital, where I was lucky enough to land a spot for treatment last year. At the end of the session, while saying our goodbyes, several people in the group offered encouragement and support, and those words began popping up again … brave, courageous, strong.
It struck me then just how much my time in that room, with those nine people had prepared me for the next chapter of my life. Or, rather, it struck me that I’d never told them how much I’d grown because they’d each had the courage to show up week after week and talk about stuff that can be downright, well, gut-wrenching.
So I told them. And I cried. And they cried. Still, it doesn’t seem enough somehow. How do you ever pay a gift like that forward?
A while back I said, “Being alive to being alive takes a foolish courage.” I still think that’s true. Thing is, sometimes it looks like packing up and driving to California. Sometimes it looks like sharing the details of your darkest days with a room full of strangers.
Thank you, McLean friends, for helping me find my brave fool.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
It’s Not You, It’s Me (Or, Why I’m Leaving Boston)
If choosing a place to live is as important as choosing a mate, like some folks say, I guess it makes sense that walking away from the city I’ve called home for going on 20 years feels an awful lot like a break-up. Exhilaration, sadness, relief, trepidation … check, check, check, check.
Early on in my decision-making process, I thought a lot about exactly why it wasn’t working with me and B. I liked to trumpet B’s shortcomings: The weather, it sucks. The men, they are meatheads. The cultural offerings, they are limited. The T, where to fucking begin? Justifying the choice that in my heart was already made, I guess.
But, I mean, it would be disingenuous to pretend that there’s nothing good about B, nothing to recommend it to others, nothing I myself once appreciated enough to proudly call it home. It’s the same with relationships. Who’s the bigger fool? The colossally “flawed” one or the one who stays for 20 years?
No, no. Once upon a time, B was to me a beguiling city. Even now, there are moments when I catch her in just the right light and I am reminded of the city I chose as The One. Which leads me to the second stage of my decision-making process, wherein much time was spent thinking about whether or not B and I could be saved. Was I trying hard enough? Were my expectations too high? Had I failed B with my rose-colored glasses and castles in the sky?
I wanted to be the kind of person who can thrive anywhere, who placidly makes the most of every situation. In relationship terms, this is analogous to the person who has a marriage of convenience … material entanglements and little more, emotional investment kept to a minimum.
I wanted to be someone who could dial down the ache to be gotten, to be betrothed to their best friend. To my horror, I wanted—apparently—to be a character in a Tammy Wynette song … the stoic, long-suffering, lemonade-from-lemons heroine ideal.
It was a shakubuku realization. B and I didn’t fail each other. I failed myself.
I’m not Mother Theresa or some look-the-other-way politician’s wife. I want to be in love with where I live. Truly, madly, deeply. As Juno’s dad explains:
Look, in my opinion the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what-have-you, the right person is still going to think the sun shines out of your ass.
Sadly, I never believed the sun shined out B’s ass. I thought I could live with that, but I was wrong.
See, I’m all rosy idealism and head-in-the-cloudiness. I want to be the kind of person who’s okay with that. I want that to be my gift to the world.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Shit’s about to Get Real
Here I am, the day before a last-minute trip to California, for what could very well be the most important job interview of my young, okay, youngish life, and suddenly … SUDDENLY … I feel moved to write the post that I’ve been unable—for one reason or another—to write going on a month now. I’ve got résumés to print and tiny toiletry bottles to fill, outfits to try on and Harvard Business Review case studies to cram. Also, I have to practice my enthusiastic-but-not-insane face. Anyway, my pre-interview rituals are neither here nor there. The point is, my writer’s block has chosen the least opportune moment to unceremoniously lift.
Poof.
It makes perfect sense, really. Until now, the move has felt a little like the time I told my second-grade teacher that her colleague, the sixth-grade teacher (aka “my mom”) wasn’t my real mom, that I was adopted, and that I was going to London to visit my birth mother over the summer. You know, the move felt like just something you say, a story of an alternate life, one you try on but don’t buy. Tomorrow, though, all that changes. You might say tomorrow’s the last day of second grade … and my bags are packed for London.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Wherein I Throw Myself on Your Mercy
Okay, technically, I have not let you down. It is “tomorrow” and this is a new post … a post post, no songs. Hoowwwevvvver, this is not the post to which I referred yesterday, and you will see soon enough that it is anything but replete with big words and long-winded explanations. No worries, though. That one’s still in the works, and it will be everything you’ve dreamed of and more.
*digs hole deeper*
Until such time as I’m able to complete said post, I offer a link—for those of you who are into Lost. Jeff Jensen, over at Entertainment Weekly, writes some of the best Lost stuff to be found, and today’s recap was just stellar. (It’s entirely possible I’m dreading the end of his column almost as much as the end of Lost itself.)
SPOILERESQUE: STOP NOW IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE EPISODE
______________________________________________________
______________________________________________________
______________________________________________________
______________________________________________________
______________________________________________________
______________________________________________________Jensen spends a lot of time on two story lines that have always been among my faves (Jin/Sun and Jack/Locke), and … well, see for yourself.
I took a break after writing that last paragraph to wipe away some tears and read some other reviews of the episode. It seems everyone is agreed that the married entity that was Sun/Jin was a moving, compelling presence on the show. Their love for each other and commitment to each other was inspiring. Yet there are those who will also say that Lost didn’t quite do justice to Jin and Sun as individual characters, especially over the past two seasons, when their storylines were all about their respective quests across space and time to be reunited. […] What the hell is so wrong with only focusing on Jin and Sun as a marital unit? Let me tell you what’s wrong with that: Nothing. I think it’s awesome that Lost chose to tell us a story about two people who took their marriage seriously, who worked through their problems when their union was in crisis, who forgave each other for their sins and redeemed their transgressions by using them as opportunities to build a stronger relationship (Jin’s admission in ”Ji Yeon” that he was basically responsible for Sun’s infidelity was a powerful expression of grace and reflection), who saw themselves as better and greater when they were together than apart. I am grateful that Lost told that story. Lost is better for telling that story than not telling any other Jin and Sun story. I am not saying it was perfect. I’m saying I appreciate it for what it was, not what it wasn’t.
If you’re not into Lost, this post works less well as a distraction/time-buying vehicle. Unless … unless this is the moment that you decide to see what all the fuss is about and promptly add Lost Seasons 1–5 to your Netflix queue. If that is the case—and, no judgement, it SHOULD be—then this post marks the first day of the rest of your life. You’re welcome.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
On Three
It’s hard to know what to say much of the time.
How do you best comfort a friend in pain? How do you order a steak to get it just the right shade of pink? Or let your boss know
hehis idea lacks vision? Get someone to stop asking you out? Say you’re sorry? Tell your roommate to get her own freakin’ Lucky Charms?I find, if I pause at all before speaking, the “right” words are very often not obvious … even in routine or mundane situations.
My solution, historically, has been to throw everything at the wall, hoping something sticks. As a result, I’ve acquired a reputation as an epic over-explainer. (I hear some variation of “I’m not an idiot, you know … I understand what you’re saying” on a pretty regular basis.) Those with a more kindly bent will sometimes describe me instead as “a natural teacher.”
To think about my way of talking things into the ground as the habit of a frustrated teacher makes some sense, I suppose, and it definitely satisfies that need we all have to find purpose in the odd behavior of others. But to assume the role of teacher, even in this metaphorical way, is to presume your listener lacks knowledge or understanding of some kind.
The thing is, I don’t explain things seven ways from Sunday because I imagine the listener’s ability to comprehend is deficient. It’s more that, the way I see it, language is such a slipshod way to communicate abstract ideas in the first place. I like to cover my bases.
How can I be sure you understood me? Did I choose words that carry the same connotation for you as they do for me? Did I lay out my reasoning in a way that’s compatible with how your synapses fire?
On top of all that, the expectation seems to be, increasingly, that “effective” communication is painfully literal communication. I think of this pernicious literalism as flowing from our bureaucratic and litigious society, wherein abiding by the spirit of an agreement is for simpletons and suckers. Of course, that’s an opinion heavily informed by my personal brand of paranoia. In any event, exploring the cause isn’t nearly as much fun as complaining about the results.
Just this morning, I went to a well-known national coffee shop. I ordered my usual iced tea, whereupon I presented the barista with my nifty stainless steel water bottle to use instead of a disposable cup.
Now, the bottle was about three-quarters full when I passed it to him. He looked back and—I swear to god—asked if I wanted him to dump it out. It did not even cross my mind that this would be an issue or that I might need to explicate the steps involved in turning a bottle filled with water into a bottle filled with iced tea.
Sure, it would be easy to crack wise about how he must have been stupid or high or whatever. He wasn’t, though. He was just a normal guy, clearly applying himself to his work, polite and attentive. It makes me wonder if he was once scolded by a customer in a similar situation …
Did I ask you to throw out my water? I wanted to save that, asshole. Let me talk to your manager.
Okay, that probably never happened, but things not so unlike that happen all the time … a miscommunication and somebody’s gotta be at fault.
I imagine that in days gone by the nuance inherent in language, especially a rich mongrel language like English, was cause for delight. I mean, it’s the basis for poetry, puns and wordplay of all stripes. Nowadays, people largely avoid poetry, groan at puns and possess a limited tolerance for wordplay. Those things, apparently, are becoming the purview of fools and wastrels.
Certainly, ambiguity can be costly, frustrating … scary, even (particularly as the on-demand nature of our culture leads to frames of reference that grow more singular by the day). Even something as fundamental and universal as expressing love is a murky business if left to words alone.
Sure, you say you love me. I say I love you. Do we mean the same thing? Okay, then. I love you very much. You love me very much. Same amount of very? Who the fuck knows?
Of course, I’m exaggerating to make a point. There are, obviously, ways of finding out, ways to be reasonably sure that what we infer is what was intended, but—as much as it pains me to say so—in matters of great import, they don’t involve words.
Most action-comedy tropes are built on just this conundrum. The hero says, “Okay, we go on three.” One. Two. Wait … are we going on three or after three? And it’s funny because it’s true … we all have Who’s on First? moments. I know what I mean when I say “on three” or “love” or “please, use this water bottle.” But do you?
I thought I might make it through this discussion without invoking the infamous “It depends on what the meaning of the word is is.” Alas, no. Clinton’s notorious line raises the specter of intentional deception, but—the alleged blackness of our former president’s heart notwithstanding—the man had a point. Words are slippery. Words, often, don’t mean as much as we suppose they do.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Hyperbole, or Abstract Nonsense
So, when, in my most recent post, I promised in the “very near future” to write about a number of different topics, which I enumerated, I pretty much meant “whenever I feel like it I will be posting on none of the following.” The thing is, what’s most on my mind at the moment isn’t any of that stuff. What’s most on my mind at the moment is the fact that my twentieth high school reunion is coming up this summer.
If you’ve been reading me for very long, you’ve no doubt picked up on my tendency to dwell on milestones and anniversaries and, generally, to obsess over the passage of time. In that context, I feel it would be remiss of me not to comment (at length) on my twentieth reunion.
It’s not like it snuck up on me or anything. 2010 – 1990 = 20, no matter how you slice it. Still, it always comes as something of a surprise when my stubborn denial does not, in fact, alter reality. Every goddamned time.
I’d also like to say that I recognize how trite it is to go on and on about how it doesn’t seem possible that twenty years have passed since graduation. It’s so trite, really, that saying it’s trite is trite. Here, I can only fall back on the defense that clichés are cliché for a reason, which, of course, is itself a cliché. Nonetheless, what is unoriginal is unoriginal, oftentimes, because it contains something universal, something true. Or, as David Foster Wallace said in a 1996 Salon interview:
The idea that something so simple and, really, so aesthetically uninteresting—which for me meant you pass over it for the interesting, complex stuff—can actually be nourishing in a way that arch, meta, ironic, pomo stuff can’t, that seems to me to be important. That seems to me like something our generation needs to feel.
How can you argue with David Foster Wallace? You can’t, that’s how.
So … me being me, I grapple with the importance of the reunion. In case you’re curious, it goes a little something like this:
It’s important.
It’s not important.
It’s important.
It shouldn’t be important.
Why the hell not?
It’s important.
It’s not important.
…
And, the truly, genuinely insane part is that I grapple with the idea of the reunion, not the reunion itself. About the event, I am unambivalent. My childhood BFF long since convinced me to go. I’ve RSVPed and gotten my tickets and all that. As out of character as it seems, I’m even looking forward to it.
I don’t know how to think about the reunion. That’s the problem. Is it meaningful? If so, what does it mean? Is it a rite of passage? Is it just an excuse to go home and see old friends … drink too much … flirt with strangers who, in my mind’s eye, are not strangers and will always be 17?
And right there—entirely by accident—I think I’ve touched upon the heart of the matter. In my mind’s eye, it’s not only the 150 or so strangers at reunion who remain 17. Of course, in my mind’s eye, I am still that girl I was, too.
But, in truth, that girl’s largely gone, replaced by the woman with what was then more than a lifetime’s worth of experience.
I wonder. Maybe the twentieth high school reunion is not so much a chance to recapture youth or even to reminisce about it. Maybe it’s a potent symbol because it serves as a chance to meet that youthful self once again, to say thanks … and goodbye.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Home, Sweet, Bed
After a busy week and an impromptu sleepover at my parents’ this weekend, I’m happily back in my own bed and ready to rumble with the cheese for dinner once again. For this very moment, however … well, that’s between me and my full-body pillow.
In the very near future, though, you can look forward to posts on some or all of the following: the meaning of life (I’ve found it), how to cope when younger siblings get all growed up, Kevin Smith’s girth (I ain’t talkin penises), falling in love v. being in love v. loving, writing about the recession, and—what the hell—my ex-husband.
In the meantime, and in the spirit of Spring and rebirth and redemption and all that jazz, I’ve got two quotes for pondering.
We like people for their qualities but we love them for their defects. —John Myers (Hellboy)
Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength.
—Sigmund FreudPeople who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
The Process of Becoming
In a weird coalescence that would, I think, please Jung himself, lately even my escapist pursuits all seem to drop me at the doorstep of metaphysics. As you know, there’s my torrid affair with Lost and my (now public) admiration-love-crush on Lost blogger Doc Jensen, but there’s the emotion transducers of Torchwood, too, and the Joyce-quoting, thing-flinging artistry of Northern Exposure and … well, it’s a little like the time with my iPod. The universe apparently is keen for me to read up on Kierkegaard.
I dare say, Søren’s a step up from John Parr. Still, I find it ever so slightly unsettling. I can’t seem to find boob-tube enjoyment that doesn’t involve disruptions to the space–time continuum or allusions that have me reaching for … COUGHWikipedia. I mean, what has the world come to when a college degree doesn’t fully equip one to watch TV?
Okay. It’s kinda rad.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
Fifteen Years Hence
Fifteen years ago today, my then future ex-husband and I packed up our cars and moved from Rhode Island to California. I hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but I remember the date quite specifically because we settled on it after a fair amount of deliberation. March 15 was a compromise between when I wanted to go (“right now”) and when he wanted to go (“never”).At 22, a cross-country move is epic. Well, at 22, everything is epic … and quite possibly “life altering” as well. If only I knew then how low the stakes almost always are. Not that I think what we do doesn’t matter, but it’s the accumulation of lots of small decisions, more than one or two big ones, that seems to make or break us in the end.
When I think back on that fateful day, I can’t remember what time we left or what kinds of snacks we packed … or many details at all, really. I do remember that we didn’t have jobs waiting for us. Shit, I’d never even been to California, or farther west than Wichita, Kansas, for that matter. For savings, we had … I dunno … a few hundred dollars each, maybe. Certainly no more than a thousand total.
It’s hard to fathom how much difference 15 years can make in a person’s perception … hard to fathom, that is, until I remember the time I moved to California—a place I’d never been and didn’t know a soul—with no job and less than $500 to my name. Did I mention we didn’t have an apartment lined up either? Ah, good times.
Seriously, though, it’s only as I’ve gotten older that I’ve come to appreciate what a crackpot I can be … and just how equanimous my parents were, given the circumstances. It all seemed very ho-hum to me at the time (something I imagine must have compounded the horror for them).
I was talking with my mom recently about plans to go back to California, and she told me how hard it had been for her right after I moved, how she cried every day for weeks. (Weeks!) I was gobsmacked. I mean, as surprised as I was that my moving had been a big deal for her, what bowled me over was the fact that, in all the years since, she never once told me.
It makes me think about parents and their endless acts of unselfishness, chief among which is sometimes letting us think we know it all.
Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
-
The Furry Trunk
Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.
I’ve always had a tendency to compartmentalize my life into … huh, well … compartments. Duh. What I mean is, for example, I grew up in Missouri, then moved to Rhode Island when I was in high school, then Boston for college. So, there’s the Missouri chapter of my life, the RI chapter, the Massa-two-shits chapter. Single, married, single. No bangs, bangs, no bangs, bangs, no bangs. Carnivore, pescetarian, pb&j-vegetarian, omnivore.
You get the idea. Self-defined chapters, each with its own cast of characters and leitmotif … each advancing the overall plot in some way.
I thought this was a valid, helpful way to view life, like a framework for understanding the narrative arc of a great Russian novel … or a prime-time teen soap.
The heroine set out on a journey. When she left she was but a girl. When she returned … she’d grown out her bangs.
Whatever. The Power of Myth and all that.
Whichever way I sliced it, though, I always seemed to be living in the midst of the crappy music montage bit, in which everyone learns everything they need to know to be happy and Maroon 5 perpetually is the Special Musical Guest Star … in which, moreover, it’s hard not to fantasize about how things will be after the commercial break, try as I might not to.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I read this:
Here is someone who has never seen a cat. He is looking through a narrow slit in a fence, and, on the other side, a cat walks by. He sees first the head, then the less distinctly shaped furry trunk, and then the tail. Extraordinary! The cat turns round and walks back, and again he sees the head, and a little while later the tail. This sequence begins to look like something regular and reliable. … Thereupon he reasons that the event head is the invariable and necessary cause of the event tail, which is the head’s effect. This … comes from his failure to see that head and tail go together; they are all one cat. —Alan Watts, The Book
I tend to be a fan of even the most marginally adequate metaphors. Still, I gotta say, the tail-headed cat really grabbed me. I mean, I am that person pressed up against the picket fence … straining to see … all the while postulating theories about how head leads to tail and what it all means, like, for humanity and stuff. It’s not a flattering thing to admit, I suppose, but there it is. I spend much of my time obsessively trying to understand how tail correlates to head.
I’m not sure I’m quite ready to accept that life’s all one (inscrutable) cat, but I kinda like the idea that this bit now is the less distinctly shaped furry trunk and not some interlude to a phony denouement.
People who read this post also read …
(Possibly) related items
Name's Kirsten. I'm a splitter of hairs, a hillbilly, a rock horns devotee, an ellipses-lovin' fool, and queen of the conceptual jinx. I'm also a geek and the grateful human of littleblackdog. I do this and that and some of the other … up to and including writing this here blog.
random linkage
cheese for dinner by kirsten k. hammann is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
SuperMini by unnerkrunt and nocreativity.