Sometimes I teach myself something. One day we were talking about happiness. We were far enough along in the semester that they had noticed I was invariably cheerful. By the way, this is one of those things that I don’t think you can fake. Although contemporary students may have been rendered ignorant about their culture, they strike me as psychologically acute about attitudes, self-presentation, and the like. It’s true—and they can tell—that I like being with them, having the conversations we have, figuring out the answers to the questions, even though most of the questions in metaphysics don’t have answers.
Alternate technology for homeowners Porcelain painting Adult il/literacy Proposal writing Share memories of Kruger National Park, South Africa Genealogy research Mental health, addiction, social service & health development and strategic planning, international social service and health development, Africa, China, hiv/aids World politics and american politics Coping with hearing loss
Day six the dogs died; Cedric “neglected” to put out feed for them. We ate the huskies, threw their bones aside. Day seven polar bears, attracted by the remains, began to stalk us. Day eight: Cedric mauled. The rest of the camp sat appalled, gnawing maps, the catgut from snowshoes. Day nine, blizzards and no water.
Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen . . . I know of no other place where Princes assemble to pay their respect to molecules . . . Because of you, our wives hesitate for just an instant before summoning us to do the dishes. John PolanyiChemistry, 1986
Never use hair dryer while sleeping. Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover. Do not close your eyes while driving. Sled may develop high speed under certain snow conditions.
He knows, he’s always known, that if he’s not careful he’ll fade into the corners of this town that has so many cute girls with such short memories. He does what he can. He wears that stupid hat he got as a gag gift one birthday. He says mean, woman-hating things, just so people will stop in their tracks and stare right at him. He listens to grievances. Cloud-gazes with the guys at the beach. Hears desire dripping off their voices. I want her, man, I want her so much I can’t stand it.
Right back to the bright, clear days of New York in the fifties, backslapping double shots of Jack Daniels at the Cedar Tavern with Pollock and de Kooning and Kline and all the rest, Jack had always enjoyed the company of painters.
On Friday I began lugging stuff from the basement and contriving its artful display on planks laid between boxes and that old set of speakers (themselves on sale) in the yard and garage, enjoying the twin pleasures of spring cleaning and junior capitalism, spiced with a dash of gypsy élan. But these mainstream yard sale feelings were followed by a mood that surprised me. Once out of storage and onto the lawn, the clutter looked different: each thing emerged from the general mess into its own identity. It was as though the monetary concern (how much can I ask for a dysfunctional Lawnboy?) triggered a wider sense of value, one that had to do with our connection and shared experience (lotta grass through the old blade, eh?) over the years. Walter Benjamin claims that ownership is the most intimate relation we can have with things; but I wonder if that intimacy is not, like marriage, shadowed by familiarity’s dead hand. Of course Benjamin is thinking of connoisseurship, but I have it on good report that a painting or a first edition can become as invisible as a kettle.
