Rage Against the Machine

It’s the first of October, the room is decked out in Halloween garland, and I am sniffling. The pavement has a sheen to it because of the rain, and the air is peacefully gloomy. Happy October!

I could go on about the chilly autumned city and the anticipation I feel every October, but I wanted to write about the gadgets that distract and often spoil these simple giddy moods, that test our patience, and create unnatural glitches in our social expectations and relations.

Like this morning. I was getting in the spirit, chatting with a friend over granola about October poems. I was feeling good. Then I strolled to the computer lab to do some research on how different media outlets covered the debate for an inclass discussion. I was copying and pasting away to an unsaved word document while simultaneously working on a paper for my evening class. Gradually, the internet sites start taking longer to download. My one document does not respond every now and again. And finally, everything freezes. I lose my wordpad of article headlines and quotes, the last paragraph in my second document, and my good ol’ autumn bliss. I start communicating to the computer as if it were personally responsible for its actions and my distress. As if its unresponsiveness was a deliberate jab at my sanity. I grip the face of the monitor on either side and yell WHY? I realize I am trying to scold a machine.

Monday, I was standing outside my journalism classroom, waiting for the professor to arrive. I was bordered by at least 7 other students. I looked around, and each of them had some technological contraption in hand, whether a cell phone or ipod. No one knows each other very well in the class, so we usually turn to texting or fidgeting with playlists to absorb the lack of interaction. I looked around and felt so incredibly compelled to pull out my phone, I guess to show everyone I had someone or something with which to occupy this time too. Then I thought, has texting become more contextually prompted these days? More and more triggered by stillness, inactivity, delays in our daily, familiar momentum? I mean, I felt that I needed to interact with a phone to alleviate this hovering tension. I felt like everyone was engaged in some sort of interaction, and I wasn’t, so I became the 15th wheel.

Every day, at least once a day, I can’t hear someone on the phone. The call drops, it’s windy, he’s mumbling, I’m distracted, we keep talking at the same time, a motorcycle rumbles by, someone else beeps in. What happens next? One person calls the other back, now unconsciously or consciously directing his/her frustration mostly at the other person, not the device that created this conflict. These palm-sized instruments create unnatural resentments towards the people we love. They’re supposed to be channels through which we communicate, but instead, become obstacles when they fail "to do their job." Treating them like human beings from whom we expect dependability and faultless performance.

But humans aren’t perfectly dependable, faultless beings. So, why do I expect a human-made object to be? Maybe I need to be more patient. Yes, I do need to be more patient. But maybe I also need to really consider this unique technocentric trend. Why has it become so common to experience feelings of betrayal or real anger when we “interact” with things to interact with people? Why is it a social symbol to be in constant association with my phone? Why do I feel better, more at ease, when I am? Why do I curse Verizon like it’s an ex-boyfriend out to make my day miserable? Why do I delicately grip the sides of my computer and tenderly encourage it to make mommy proud today?

Gusher Academe

I assume my blog readership has suffered a detrimental blow these past few weeks, but hopefully this installment will rekindle what was lost of late.

I’m typing out this post in my cozy nook that overlooks Broad Street and Temple’s cafeteria. (I'm in Philadelphia for the year, p.s.) The leaves are changing shades already; fall is slinking towards the city. I feel at ease, and city life I’m learning.

Here’s what I’m taking this fall: World Urban Patterns, Writing for Journalism, Urban-Eco Footprints of Post-Metropolis Life, Anthropology & Social Policy, and Visual & Material Consumption.

I feel both incredibly challenged and invigorated by my classes. Tonight, I sat in our quiet study, and mulled over James Ferguson’s “Anthropology and Its Evil Twin: ‘Development’ in the Constitution of a Discipline.” When I explained to my roommate how “my mind has just been blown,” she equated my brain to a gusher, and I chuckled in concurrence. Ferguson’s essay completely deconstructs the discipline and says our vision of a world divided, of primitive versus modern, “has been constitutive of the anthropological domain of study” since its conception.

Basically, anthropology's founding key idea of social evolution has entirely shaped and stratified our “fields” of study, intensified by modernization theory, technology, capitalism, notions of progress, etc.etc.etc. That we seek to study “less developed” societies only reaffirms “developmental” distinctions among us, ones rooted in capitalistic progress and the idea that “there is a normal pattern of economic development that some countries fall ‘under’” (from Frederick Cooper and Randall Packard’s essay “The History and Politics of Development Knowledge”).

Ferguson challenges us to consider anthropology's disciplinary identity and “engage in some foundational work.” Does this sound like a colossal undertaking to anyone else? Is your head gushing sweetened liquidy goodness right now? Mine is. I think that’s a good thing. But, I am more than bemused as to how I engage the discipline right now, how I work for the wellbeing of others without seeing myself as modern me versus underdeveloped or "less privileged" them, how I defeat the binary that so saturates anthropology's roots and work.

Hoarding is Caring

I finally had to empty out the few chockfull college bins I never got to during the summer…and my car... so I could pack them up again today. The living room is a disaster zone. If I could get an aerial view, it’d look like a very intricate topography map with multiple layers and uneven edges of shirts, pants, plastic bags, books I wanted to keep from last year, etc.

My room has always been a disaster zone because, as already demonstrated above, I hoard. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the term “hoarder” as much as I have these past few days. Jason keeps saying I’m ‘such a hoarder.’ Things like receipts, too short and too tight shirts from the Disney Store in London, half-used bottles of Bath and Body hand creams from middle school, a handmade “I am Batman” foam visor, piggy socks whose snouts have fallen off, my portable cd player.

Some might look at me and say I’m lazy, or careless, for hoarding as much as I do. But, I hate to just toss things out because these things have individual meaning for me. In a recent Psychology Today article called “Magical Thinking,” Matthew Hutson wrote “What makes something sacred is not its material makeup but its unique history.” I believe that. I am living, hoarding proof of that. Hutson talks about things having unique essences we ascribe. Yeah it's just "stuff," but it's stuff I value because of its personal, historical merit--because of the people, memories, and comfort associated with it.

Throwing out receipts from 3 weeks ago means throwing out the security they bring…even if I know I won’t return anything. Throwing out my Mickey and Minnie England shirt means tossing aside the goofy, kiddy magic I found in London that day. Dumping my pre-teen cucumber melon bottles means dumping memories of carefree, jobless summers with girlfriends. There’s something uniquely special about each piece of stuff, so I hoard because I care.

I suppose I’ll have to get rid of a lot of hoarded goods someday to make room for, well, the rest of my life. But until that day, I want to keep rediscovering and reliving those invisible meanings I’ve made. Hoarding is Caring, I say…and would no doubt make a great bumper sticker slogan.

3 Disjointed Mini Musings

1.) Yesterday I passed a truck lugging a dolly of construction equipment. On the backside of the truck it read “Construction Vehicle. Keep Alert for Sudden Stops and Turns.” I thought, hey, why don’t I get one of these stickers? What makes a construction driver more prone to hasty breaking and turning? I assume the vehicle’s not the thing under construction, so what’s the deal? It sounds like a liability scheme to me. Situation: construction driver breaks suddenly and irrationally in the middle of an intersection. I total my car and heatedly confront the cause of this whole mess. Flinching not, he or she just points to that sticker. I say we all get those stickers, customized to fit the defense we would use. “Premenstrual Vehicle” or “Worked 14 hours today Vehicle” or “Parent with cranky offspring fighting in back seat Vehicle” or “This truck’s about the same size as a Construction Vehicle Vehicle.”

2.) On the cover of the latest Cosmogirl issue, one of the main headers read “959 Style Tips to Reinvent Yourself.” I thought, what kind of fashion pointers did Cosmo get its hands on to be able to offer me such a bold return? Personal rediscovery and reinvention? But if that was truly what Cosmo could offer, then I probably wouldn’t have read this “tip”: -Study our picks, and by year’s end, you’ll be voted Most Likely to Set a Trend- or this one–Study the looks on the runways, find similar pieces you can afford, then the whole world will be your stage.-

So, I’m not sure if nearly 1000 style tips are as much about individual reinvention as they are marketing and adaptation techniques. There’s more to our whole selves than style or what Cosmo editors tell us style is. The whole world might become my stage someday, but won’t it be a disappointment when everyone in the audience is wearing the same thing as me because they too studied this issue? If we truly yearn to reinvent who we are, it’s going to take a lot more soul-searching than what we might learn from CG’s “School of Style” blurbs.

3.) One of the store managers pulled me aside yesterday with a container of brightly frosted sugar cookies in hand. She pulled them to add into one of the many fruit/gift baskets we make up. She had a stern look on her face. “If you make more sugar, can you NOT make them like this?” Her face scrunched up, repulsed by their, in my opinion, truly vibrant and luscious nature. “I mean, these are mostly going to adults” she said, still seemingly appalled. I nodded my head, but inside I wanted to scream “Who died and made you Frosting Queen?” Okay, I actually didn’t think that at the time, but it well conveys my thoughts on the matter. Just because you can’t appreciate or enjoy deep orange and lavender frosting, doesn’t mean other grownups don’t want or need multicolored iced cookies every now and then!

I thought, why are bright, contrasting colors only associated with young kids at birthday parties? What are the more “adult” colors I should frost with? Don’t you think those oranges and lemons are too bright for this 'adult' fruit basket? Maybe I’m being harsh, maybe I was offended because I was pleased with the color I concocted with four different food dyes. But maybe I just don’t want us all to think growing up means suppressing the quirks, the vibrancy, the color we so naturally delighted in when we were kids. Maybe brightly frosted cookies are the variety we adults need to see more, send to each other, and snack on these days.

(Maybe) Take a Chance

For the past week and a half, I’ve been trying to win Medieval Faire tickets from Star 104. I thought my odds were pretty good: I programmed Star into speed dial, listened keenly for the “touchtones” that sound at a superhuman speed between similarly-toned songs, and figured I was one of just a few Erieites eager to partake in a Renaissance-themed festival an hour’s drive away.

I thought wrong. Even though I sat in my car for almost an hour…not driving, used my cell and the work phone simultaneously (Visual: me in a purple apron, cell phone on my left ear, portable on my right, facing the stereo at work, completely in the zone. Audio: Busy Signal), and prepared my phone for dialing near the end of every song just in case, I didn’t win.

You’d think I’d be fed up with this radio giveaway rubbish, and I fully am, but surprisingly, I’m equally compelled to call in whenever I hear those touchtones. I don’t even care what the prize is anymore. Maybe it’s the thrill and ambiguity and objectivity of this chance game. I guess it’s like slot machines or scratch-out lotto tickets. I’m powerless when it comes to knowing how to be the 14th caller. But, so is everyone else.

It’s interesting to think about actively trying to pursue good luck, about putting forth the time, effort, and money towards what I know I won’t be able to control. There are no skills involved, no requisites. There’s no right technique, just chance. Because of that, you’d think I’d put equal amounts of hope and hopelessness into every call. But for some reason, I anticipate the win. Maybe that’s why PA spent $3.089 billion on lotto games last year, why the new casino in Erie is flourishing, why we pay to play those stupid carnival games, why I can never get through after hearing the touchtones.

I don't want to put too much hope in chance, get too caught up in the possibility of winning, get too distracted, even consumed by it because it's out of not just mine but everyone's hands. Even if my failed Medieval touchtones seem trivial, I don't think the lesson in them is. Yeah, I always have as good of a shot as anyone. But when I let that shot become more than just a shot, I let it affect how I spend my time and money--things that are in my hands, things I can control.

I shouldn't constantly buy lotto tickets just because I haven't won yet. I shouldn't make it a habit to linger by the stereo at work, wasting time, near the end of each pop song. Instead, I should enjoy the thrill of chance--contests, bonuses, scratch-off winnings, a 4-pack pass to the Medieval Faire + admisison to Jack Calico's Feast--but also recognize when I don't have the time or money to do so. I shouldn't not try every now and again; I shouldn't not embrace chance when I can, but I shouldn't let it hamper the life I already live without it either.

10:27

Is it unusual to always (twice a day at most, of course) see your birthday date flash on the clock? For the past week now, I have looked at the clock at exactly 10:27 at least once if not both times a day. At first, it was kind of neat. Now, I’m not even fazed and actually sort of peeved when it happens. It’d be different if it was some mysterious number with which I had no apparent association. Like, 4:29. Or 11:01. Then it might be fun. I would start playing the lotto. I would see what letters corresponded with each number in the alphabet… Like, D:BI. Or K:A. Maybe rearrange them. BID! Then I’d get to figure out what I was supposed to bid on. I would ask my parents if 4/29 had any significance in our family, get to uncover some intriguing piece of history. But, no. I see 10:27 daily, and instantly think My Birthday, My Birthday, oh look, My Birthday again.

When the first thing I can think to write about involves digits on a clock and how often I see them, it’s easy to say there’s not much new going on. Luckily, the head baker’s back at work, and I can rest a little. It’s good to have her back. It got kind of lonely, a tad eerie even, by myself there. *cue Celine Dion singing "All By Myself."* The ice machine would go off at least three times late at night while I was working. It sounded like someone was wheeling a squeaky cart around. I jerked my head every time and peered out from my baker’s door to where people sort the fresh produce all day.

Mostly, I listened to two cds Bobbi left: Supertramp and The BeeGees. Every now and again, I flipped to FM and boogied to pop music. I hid behind the proofer a few mornings in a row (when other workers were there picking through raspberries) trying to win the free massages Star 104 kept giving away. My back was so sore at this point, and a spa massage sounded so glorious. Despite my high-speed redialing, I didn’t win.

The only thing really new in my life is my recent spat with dad. He wanted me to ride with him in “Roar on the Shore.” They predicted 3-5000 cyclists would be riding in this parade. I can’t stand the noise that emanates from one motorcycle. I am not a biker fanatic. I don’t know any of dad’s biker “pack” he was leading from the nearby Country Fair. I arrange flowers, make cards, and like Disney Princess things. So, for probably the first time in my life, I was honest with him about why I didn’t want to go. It just wasn’t my thing, I tried to say as kindly as I could. But, as expected, he got upset and ended the phone conversation on a sour note.

It would have been a lot easier if I lied about why I wasn’t going, but I didn’t. I think sometimes I just have to do things that might not please everyone around me, but they are things that won’t have me feeling guilty or insincere in the long run. Honesty can be murky, but it’s essential when I think about authentic living, about my relationship with the world around me that deserves my sincerity, no matter how trying or disappointing it is at times.

Well, I already saw 10:27 twice today, so I guess I can head off safely. Maybe the trick is going to bed before 10:27, and rising after. I’ll have to try that tomorrow.

Mid-Summer Grumbles

Two years ago, I graduated from high school. A few bob haircuts, more than a few essays, and 7 lbs later, I’m still enjoying the comforts of my plum-carpeted room with pink pull-down blinds and stuffed animals everywhere. All it is is clutter, but it’s so familiar and right. At the same time, I’ve moved on from it because I don’t miss the muddle when I’m at school. I create my own again. I don’t miss sitting at this desk—I’ve actually grown more accustomed to corners of clinical computer labs at college. I have been living out of this room for over fourteen years (mom and I moved from dad’s when I was 6), and it feels weird to miss a place I’ve only been part of for 2 years now.

I think I miss the novelty of splitting a room, walking in my “home” with shoes kept on, strolling only a few feet in red fuzzy slippers to visit close friends. I always thought I loved having my space, and I do, but there’s something so unique and irreplaceable about living in a community with people my age.

And it’s funny how impermanent this is. Every year, I realize moving in is only a temporary adjustment. Maybe I miss it because I’m not used to temporary, if that makes sense; I’m used to the plum carpet, pink shades, and Disney paraphernalia scattered all around. I think change for me, the anticipation of change, can actually be more comforting at times.

It’s scary I only have two years to go, but it’s exciting that these next two years will be packed with change. I’ll be living in a city, RA-ing, delving into studies I love, and who knows what else.

Right now, my days just go so fast, working two jobs, getting little sleep. Is it bad to dread routines? The jobs themselves are wonderful, but the idea of my days’ uniformity agitates me. I want to write more, read more, enjoy the outdoors more, unscheduled. This week I’m working full time and a half, so all of these musings might be a direct product of baggy eyes, a sore spine, and practically zero minutes spent with people outside of work. But, I suppose this is something new for me, a change no doubt, so maybe I need to embrace it just as I’ll embrace the new semester ahead of me. And, maybe I need to get ready for work now…