fuck yeah Synesthesia

In the Summer of May 2011, I completely abstained from the Internet as an experiment and to lessen my Internet addiction. I have since returned but I have a strong desire to live without Internet. Please let me know if you know of a community that abstains from Internet as I long to join.

I also apologize for the lack of material and relevance to synesthesia.

Jun 13

amandapalmer:

tattoos come into my life a lot, but this one broke my heart open.
neil and i both see a lot of tattoos of our words and works on people’s skin, and we have lots of weird tattoo anecdotes. last night I signed the inside of a girls thigh at the littlefield show and recommended that she walk home bowlegged because seriously that shit will sweat right the fuck off on a hot New York night. neil proudly tells the tale of the time someone got his signature on their arm in a signing line and then returned to the same signing line three hours later with saran wrap covering the freshly inked proof.
some people get my face tattooed on them. that always feels surreally challenging, to look at my own visage staring back at me from somebody else’s arm or back, like knowing I have sister-spy-selves all over the world, hiding under hoodies in the deep winter.
if you hadn’t noticed, i’ve been battling a kind of depression for the last few months. circumstances make it pretty understandable, i’m facing some crushing personal and business problems and feeling lonely and at loose ends in pretty much every department. the last time i was this low i was in college - unable to get out of bed and skipping classes. it wasn’t until i escaped the setting that things turned around. maybe tour will help. it never does.
anyway, i’m not so fucking depressed that i couldn’t write a song, which was the saving grace of last week, and having the house party in nashville actually directly kicked my ass to finish what i’d started, which was a massive blessing because i have a bad habit of finishing songs 59% and then leaving them for years unless i have an active instant-gratification motivator (usually a show, and even better if its a show for 50 people in a house, where i feel safe to fuck it up).
so as i was writing and wandering from the verse into the first chorus, the words “i am bigger on the inside” spilled out and i thought…i can’t fucking use this. can i?
it had ricocheted from doctor who into my incredibly dark mood, and i felt conflicted…on the one side my little sobbing song and on the other side, hoards of people in tardis t-shirts. fuck it. yes.
and i used the lyric.
i played it, two hours after finishing it, for a teeny room of 15 people at the nashville house party and cried through most of the second and third verse.
a few days later i flew to milwaukee to play for pride festival. i was having a rough night. the darkness was getting the better of me. against all better judgment (it was an outdoor festival celebration of YAY) i stuck the song towards the end of my set - a quiet, 8-minute introspective and repetitive ukulele song that I couldn’t play through without my throat getting stuck because it was just too fucking sad.
the crowd had never heard the song, because it didn’t exist anywhere. i cried through verse two and three again and it was fine except that I went straight into the ukulele anthem afterwards and had a giant shiny glean of weeping-snot on my upper lip for the whole song. whatever. yes.
after the show i signed for a few hundred people. a boy asked me to write the chorus lyrics on his chest. the next day, he sent me this picture. he’d had them tattooed.
beat that, neil gaiman, i said, as i showed him the tweet, collapsing into a pile of useless blubbering on the floor of my mind.
but actually…there is no competition.
and this is what i see and understand about him, about me, about you, about doctor who, about coincidence, about the millions of ingredients and chances that lead us to this moment right here where we are facing each other (maybe through a screen, maybe not).
we are all connected - there is no way out, nor should there be.
say yes.
love amanda
p.s. the body & the tattoo belong to gavin michael batker, @shizaminnelli on twitter.
p.p.s. i hope to record the song soon. stay with me.

tattoos come into my life a lot, but this one broke my heart open.

neil and i both see a lot of tattoos of our words and works on people’s skin, and we have lots of weird tattoo anecdotes. last night I signed the inside of a girls thigh at the littlefield show and recommended that she walk home bowlegged because seriously that shit will sweat right the fuck off on a hot New York night. neil proudly tells the tale of the time someone got his signature on their arm in a signing line and then returned to the same signing line three hours later with saran wrap covering the freshly inked proof.

some people get my face tattooed on them. that always feels surreally challenging, to look at my own visage staring back at me from somebody else’s arm or back, like knowing I have sister-spy-selves all over the world, hiding under hoodies in the deep winter.

if you hadn’t noticed, i’ve been battling a kind of depression for the last few months. circumstances make it pretty understandable, i’m facing some crushing personal and business problems and feeling lonely and at loose ends in pretty much every department. the last time i was this low i was in college - unable to get out of bed and skipping classes. it wasn’t until i escaped the setting that things turned around. maybe tour will help. it never does.

anyway, i’m not so fucking depressed that i couldn’t write a song, which was the saving grace of last week, and having the house party in nashville actually directly kicked my ass to finish what i’d started, which was a massive blessing because i have a bad habit of finishing songs 59% and then leaving them for years unless i have an active instant-gratification motivator (usually a show, and even better if its a show for 50 people in a house, where i feel safe to fuck it up).

so as i was writing and wandering from the verse into the first chorus, the words “i am bigger on the inside” spilled out and i thought…i can’t fucking use this. can i?

it had ricocheted from doctor who into my incredibly dark mood, and i felt conflicted…on the one side my little sobbing song and on the other side, hoards of people in tardis t-shirts. fuck it. yes.

and i used the lyric.

i played it, two hours after finishing it, for a teeny room of 15 people at the nashville house party and cried through most of the second and third verse.

a few days later i flew to milwaukee to play for pride festival. i was having a rough night. the darkness was getting the better of me. against all better judgment (it was an outdoor festival celebration of YAY) i stuck the song towards the end of my set - a quiet, 8-minute introspective and repetitive ukulele song that I couldn’t play through without my throat getting stuck because it was just too fucking sad.

the crowd had never heard the song, because it didn’t exist anywhere. i cried through verse two and three again and it was fine except that I went straight into the ukulele anthem afterwards and had a giant shiny glean of weeping-snot on my upper lip for the whole song. whatever. yes.

after the show i signed for a few hundred people. a boy asked me to write the chorus lyrics on his chest. the next day, he sent me this picture. he’d had them tattooed.

beat that, neil gaiman, i said, as i showed him the tweet, collapsing into a pile of useless blubbering on the floor of my mind.

but actually…there is no competition.

and this is what i see and understand about him, about me, about you, about doctor who, about coincidence, about the millions of ingredients and chances that lead us to this moment right here where we are facing each other (maybe through a screen, maybe not).

we are all connected - there is no way out, nor should there be.

say yes.

love
amanda

p.s. the body & the tattoo belong to gavin michael batker,
@shizaminnelli on twitter.

p.p.s. i hope to record the song soon. stay with me.

Jun 1

The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows: sonder

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate…

May 29

Fireflies

“Fireflies”

Written for my Modernism class in May 2011

Influenced by mostly Rimbaud, but also Baudelaire and Eliot.

Note: I wrote this during my Summer of no Internet.

.

.

.

lying in the velvet grass

in the dandelion trenches

sun perched low in the passive sky

rhythmic flocks soar inadvertently

ideas plummet to the ground

in fiery crimson; sulfur metaphors

stalk the crater,

inciting scalding rebellion among tradition

The purple field is now barren.

Singed mosquitos are green,

as the bluebirds had escaped,

elderly dirt cries out, “Blasphemy!”

The Lions give way,

War has obliterated the pride;

Yet what insects remain rejoice,

Offbeat cadence adopted as motto.

While clover will remain stagnant,

pollen scatters the ideas

carried throughout the wind(west)

like radiation of the next.

Bald scalps of dandelion stalks

reminisce of what once was;

However, three notes chime

in disharmony, as its

burgeoning orchestra ascends

the virgin throne.

The darkest oceans crept

unseen seas met

hurricanes scream in new directions

He wallows in the smoldering alleys

ripening in sweet nectarine

fighting with words

smelling the worlds — never smelt before.

They beget the ideas,

but the ideas — they clash,

fornicating with themselves:

memegenesis

Cascading repression, torquoise falling

White foam as pathways meet

shaking hands not red fists

yet still clenched inside

dark abyss he knows

of a mountain of crickets above

who sing hymns all the same

while their larvae will blame the mountain

fallacies itching to shoot out —

out of the deep red sheets

tenacious in fighting the streets

in and out on the doorstep

Wooden is the doorstep — it creaks

as the skirmish between the

turtle shells and bamboo wages on

all the while losing green

It’s bad, they say, these flashes of color;

“Hold it all in, keep it under, “ (What do they know?)

Curdling desires, smitten —

I vomit. Let it all out.

Then taken captive under the grass.

Blood in the air, my neighborhood.

Hemlock bouquets for her.

Why? Dying cicadas aren’t wanted.

Their bequeathed qualities usurped

by marvelous renditions of halo skies!

“Take a gander,” he says, “at my — ,”

runs out, splattered to the shaven floor

golden brown and amber.

Turtle shell streets for endless hands

as far as the lashes can see.

Galloping now, she passes

the red and white upright boards;

but these statues are soon not extant,

will be hostages of facade wearing

men, indiscernable to even their

own lashes. (It has no marbles.

Hiding in the cups, now inside,

she tumbles to the turtle shells,

which are ripe with a rusty coat

of olives. Behind her facade

a heron! Yet she is shrouded

in clouds: remnants of coal.

Awakens in the blue (no longer royal)

as a chorus of fireflies

blankets over her. Dandelions trampled

consume existence, siblings to the

crimson grass sliding next to skin:

crystal (sharp, phallic crystal)

evidence — that the ethanol beast

has came and left.

A toppled steeple limps above burlesque (now crumbled) angels,

replaced by sublime chimeras. Slithering between the pews,

provoking parishioners with the pome. Dare I take it? Dare

I dip my oars under the waves? Splashes of sermon

my face. I squint, keep one set of lashes open and one set

closed. Darkness is the hairy simian. Light is my mother, my

father, my embarrassing childhood, forest mocking me, fields

upbraiding me, lashes lashing me — Oh! those blues, greens,

hazels, and browns! Burning my skin red, memories never black.

Da Vinci didn’t tell: this is a distance that won’t turn white.

Such myriad visions sire the third eye of darkness and light,

open and closed lashes, burning the brow. If the fire is not

extinguished — explosions protrude in sparkling heaps, cracks &

snaps, and impossible volume pouring over the hollow cavern.

Bats fly out — no feathers to singe — flattened by the

boiling liquor. Even the rabid bats will perish.

This is where the dance begins,

one for her, two and three for him. .

But.

Shout to your partner

and your partner shouts back.

Empty eyes, course of soot, ashen and dull

while it continues.

But it ends, of course; rattles and slithers away.

Back to private trenches we’ve dredged.

Sprint in shadow, in night, in bush,

Austrian kisses, then subsequent Wastelands.

Clouds are no more, trumpets

are muted, wings clipped,

golden rings shattered:

Serpents sing instead, sulfur tells

me that he’s here to stay. Sand nods

in dry, dry agreement, it

feels rough to the eyes. Burning rocks

argue back and forth, tossing fallen

hymns to and fro. Bloodied swords

banter with the dripping tridents

while eternal night caresses Venus

and Mars.

But — halt! I tripped, stumbled

over my own teeth there.

We weren’t intended to dance with Hell,

nor even converse as carcasses.

Grass is grass is grass. Metaphor

attributes meaning. Synesthesia cements

significance. Yet such symbolism is only

that — it’s illusory. Imaginary apparitions

frighten our eyes, cast spells of Escher,

tear apart perception — mutilate, disintegrate,

deconstruct, and reconstruct

without hand in reins. The horse is

wild, but the cover isn’t realized.

If you believe you’re free there’s

no hope for escape. I want to

obliterate my perspective — ad infinitum.

Discovering and removing blankets —

that is the job of the teacher. Blinding

yellow into eyes, out of bonds, out of

black red darkness, returning only to

liberate. Over beer or brawn, whiskers or

skin, though terror persists, passing through kin.

Tree rings spooning, forever locked in embrace,

carved into the writer, justice, or bartender.

Sharing what they know, drink after drink, pouring

carbonated milk to rabbi, priest, and saint.

Full of water, not morally vapid, we tremble as

bees, persistently concocting sweet virtues for tongues to share.

Hearing chocolate, we bow down in grace,

tasting the heat, we row our boats under forgiving fireflies,

I feel your stare, common uncommonalities ask why I care;

It’s because I see the music; these waltzes are swirls of

lemon, sacks of orange joy, gifts of rose scented fur.

C♯ is neon purple, B♭ stands for deep burgundy, E screams in

the brightest yellow, and F wallows in the brownest of mud,

— for some. For me, though, I truly own the seasons (Rimbaud’s Hell).

Rimbaud invented the color of vowels — master at carving

language into ornate sonnets. But, I, I invented the color

of the months and seasons, and took a leap more and sliced

them into space. Time is commanded to

cascade clockwise in color, and eternal ring. Summer, yellow, orange,

then red, transcends the curve upward, begetting a meandering

autumn of reds, browns, and deep oranges. December speaks of green,

usurped by frost bitten blues, greys, & whites of whites of Winter months,

curving down and left into vernal April & May, both

simultaneously yellow and blue/grey. Time is at my front.

I regulate the form and movement of the seasons, and, with

instinctive visual patterns, I pride myself on inventing a

colored geography of space-time accessible someday to all

the senses. I reserved translation rights.

Ushered through my window by synesthetic breeze, the taste of air

so fresh and clean pulls out memories of grassy sleep. The soft

murmur of fans quilts my unconscious mixed-sense dreams. Billions and Billions

of light years away, the fireflies continue to blanket the sky in existential

dance — if we want to; dance safely with her, firefly friends of mine.

May 26

The point isn’t that all of society will decay to this but some of humanity will suffer. Rejected and marginalized, the Internet addicts of the future will be shrugged off as side effects of a system that benefits most.
In fact, most dystopian speculation shouldn’t be interpreted literally. Authors and futurists alike express their ideas through metaphor and story, which has the benefit of inspiring many different interpretations as opposed to just one, cultivating an environment wealthy of dialogue and questioning.
A Brave New World society, for example, likely wouldn’t sustain itself as such a culture might consume the earth into an ecological catastrophe and those in power may become corrupt to resemble 1984 bludgeoning and torture.
Moreover, today’s society has facets of several dystopian fictions like BNW’s consumer addicted culture, 1984’s masses distracted by hyped up wars over seas, the nightmarish bureaucracy of Kafka’s The Trial, the fascism of the religious right in The Handmaid’s Tale, and killer storms as a result of climate change in Ship Breaker.
This medley of dystopias existing simultaneously reminds us the problem of totalitarian regimes is systemic, permeating throughout our whole culture, affecting every way of our lives, oppressing the oppressed on several fronts. To liberate the oppressed requires systemic and radical cultural change. Putting a bandaid on the issue through donation is commendable and humanizing, however it is a temporary fix to a chronic problem.
As an Internet addict, how can I liberate myself from the shackles of the web? I wish to create a dialogue and inspire activism to tackle this problem. Nobody should be required to use the Internet to live as a participating member of society. And to participate means to engage with the problem of the oppressors directly, through words with my peers, addicts and non-addicts alike, and through action with every member of society. I should not be marginalized or spoken for, I should have my own voice and action together with Internet users and non-users alike. The voice and action of the people should not be restricted to the sole medium of the Internet.
I fear that the Internet will become the only thoroughfare of information of the oppressed, restricting lateral communication between the oppressed.
If I choose not to use Internet, I should have voice and action worthy of any Internet user.
These thoughts are infantile and need to nurture. I hope I can return to this thinking to grow them strong and act on them.
These thoughts are inspired from reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed.
And I ask again: As an Internet addict, how can I liberate myself from the shackles of the web?

The point isn’t that all of society will decay to this but some of humanity will suffer. Rejected and marginalized, the Internet addicts of the future will be shrugged off as side effects of a system that benefits most.

In fact, most dystopian speculation shouldn’t be interpreted literally. Authors and futurists alike express their ideas through metaphor and story, which has the benefit of inspiring many different interpretations as opposed to just one, cultivating an environment wealthy of dialogue and questioning.

A Brave New World society, for example, likely wouldn’t sustain itself as such a culture might consume the earth into an ecological catastrophe and those in power may become corrupt to resemble 1984 bludgeoning and torture.

Moreover, today’s society has facets of several dystopian fictions like BNW’s consumer addicted culture, 1984’s masses distracted by hyped up wars over seas, the nightmarish bureaucracy of Kafka’s The Trial, the fascism of the religious right in The Handmaid’s Tale, and killer storms as a result of climate change in Ship Breaker.

This medley of dystopias existing simultaneously reminds us the problem of totalitarian regimes is systemic, permeating throughout our whole culture, affecting every way of our lives, oppressing the oppressed on several fronts. To liberate the oppressed requires systemic and radical cultural change. Putting a bandaid on the issue through donation is commendable and humanizing, however it is a temporary fix to a chronic problem.

As an Internet addict, how can I liberate myself from the shackles of the web? I wish to create a dialogue and inspire activism to tackle this problem. Nobody should be required to use the Internet to live as a participating member of society. And to participate means to engage with the problem of the oppressors directly, through words with my peers, addicts and non-addicts alike, and through action with every member of society. I should not be marginalized or spoken for, I should have my own voice and action together with Internet users and non-users alike. The voice and action of the people should not be restricted to the sole medium of the Internet.

I fear that the Internet will become the only thoroughfare of information of the oppressed, restricting lateral communication between the oppressed.

If I choose not to use Internet, I should have voice and action worthy of any Internet user.

These thoughts are infantile and need to nurture. I hope I can return to this thinking to grow them strong and act on them.

These thoughts are inspired from reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed.

And I ask again: As an Internet addict, how can I liberate myself from the shackles of the web?

May 6

Internet Addiction

Addiction.

It’s become a nightmare. I waste at least six hours a day online, usually more.

I cannot control it. It’s comparable to a drug. Cocaine. Heroin. The porn, social media, the upvotes, red-orange notifications on reddit, red ones on Facebook. The innumerable articles on wikipedia. The Internet is huge, an endless sea of distraction I get lost in for hours. I’m addicted to novelty. I have hundreds of articles I save to read but never get to because I’m always looking for the newest hit. Hyperlink to hyperlink to hyperlink, my life has become a blur as I fester in my parent’s house.

It’s as if I’m swept away by a coursing river. I can maneuver myself in the water, swimming side to side, diving under, examining the endlessly changing underwater terrain, but I cannot climb out to dry land. This is why I can type this response. I’m trapped in here, but I can at least write on the walls.

I’ve gone days without food, staring at the screen until my eyelids drop. I’m used to being thirsty and hungry as I won’t even get up for the essentials. I’m pretty sure I have a bladder problem as I don’t get up to go to the bathroom when my body yells at me to. I do not have a functional sleeping schedule. Lack of sleep has destroyed my memory, especially my working memory. It’s as if I’m constantly high. I also go weeks without bathing or brushing my teeth. I have a job as a swim team coach, which is in the evening so it’s hard to sleep in for that, and the chlorine probably masks my smell. I’m halfway to a BA degree, but $200k in debt mostly due to wasting hours online instead of going to classes or studying. I’m currently taking a break from school but I hope to go back once I get control over my life.

I dream of living in a world or even on a hippie social commune where the Internet does not exists. Maybe I’ll run away to a Buddhist monastery in the Himalayas. I would give up so much for that life, even my family. I dread for the future of humanity as Internet exists as soma in a Brave New World like society, shredding our lives into meaningless triviality. I want to advocate for a law that will protect future generations: it is not required to be on the Internet. I fear that one day it will be impossible to live without the Internet, so I want to protect the freedom to not have to use the Internet.

People don’t realize how horrifying an Internet addict’s life is. It cripples me with depression and anxiety. It has replaced my emotions, my heart races without it. I’ve seen dozens of therapists over the years and tried multitudes of medications but nothing helps. Internet addiction is too new for anybody to understand, even the doctors.

Think before saying things like, “Just snap out of it!” or “Just turn off the computer and walk outside!” You’re not in my shoes. I just want understanding and awareness.

Please join us on /r/nosurf

We need more support.

Edit: future plans. I hope to find that social commune. Or travel, backpacking and hitchhiking with some friends from college. Most of my friends are scattered throughout the country. Reddit has been my surrogate friend in the meantime. I occasionally get out but the Internet is a black hole that’s hard to escape.

“Now I don’t want to be that guy, but a subreddit for being addicted to the internet seems counter-productive.”

No doubt we at [1] /r/nosurf agree with you.

But let me repeat what I said earlier:

It’s as if I’m swept away by a coursing river. I can maneuver myself in the water, swimming side to side, diving under, examining the endlessly changing underwater terrain, but I cannot climb out to dry land. This is why I can type this response. I’m trapped in here, but I can at least write on the walls.

In this manner, [2] /r/nosurf acts as an underground safe-house for the those suffering in a city that oppresses us. The walls are falling apart, the plumbing is leaky, and it’s difficult to sustain, but it remains as a beacon of hope in which addicts can comfort, support, and identify with each other. Moreover, it’s hard to find other addicts in the “real world,” as the Internet’s shackles inhibit venturing outside and shame prevents people from coming out as an Internet addict in public. There are few support groups outside of the Internet, so we have to make one within.

Apr 30

Some concluding thoughts and answers to questions.

Anonymous asks:

Boys are doing significantly worse in school than girls, did you know that? Comparably, in terms of writing and reading, boys are doing as worse than girls than girls where doing worse than boys in science and math in 1950. That’s right, 1950. When was the last time you heard someone talk about this? You probably never have, so I’ll keep talking. Current college enrollment numbers are 60-40. Even if huge campaigns start tomorrow this gap won’t close minimum 30 years. This is just one issue.

Hey! This is going to be a very long answer, anonymous, so I hope you come back to read it. This is also a general statement to commenters and those who might take issue with the video. Anonymous, your answer is in the second paragraph after the break if you are impatient. Not all of this is addressed to you necessarily.

Read More

Original video here:

http://vimeo.com/64941331

Apr 18

neoliberal democracy in a nutshell: trivial debate over minor issues by parties that basically pursue the same pro-business policies regardless of formal differences and campaign debate. Democracy is permissible as long as the control of business is off-limits to popular deliberation or change; i.e. so long as it isn’t democracy. The neoliberal system therefore has an important and necessary byproduct - a depoliticized citizenry marked by apathy and cynicism

“
—Profit Over People - Noam Chomsky

neoliberal democracy in a nutshell: trivial debate over minor issues by parties that basically pursue the same pro-business policies regardless of formal differences and campaign debate. Democracy is permissible as long as the control of business is off-limits to popular deliberation or change; i.e. so long as it isn’t democracy. The neoliberal system therefore has an important and necessary byproduct - a depoliticized citizenry marked by apathy and cynicism

“

—Profit Over People - Noam Chomsky

Nov 21

The Big Lebowski is a film about masculinity and what it takes to be a true man.

The Dude is most certainly not a loser. See, one of the great things about the Big Lebowski is that it is a film that transcends a single genre. You can watch the film simply as a light hearted comedy and have a good time. You can watch the film as a semi-serious neo-noir. Or you can watch TBL as a movie that exists to answer a single, relevant philosophical question in today’s modern age. A lot of people watch TBL and say at the end of it: “What the hell was that movie about?” Watch a little closer and you’ll see.

Anyway, like I was saying, the film answers a single, very important philosophical question, a question that is posed at the beginning of the film by The Big Lebowski (the character): “What makes a man?”

The rest of the film is devoted to answering this question. Or, if I were to rephrase this in a way relevant to reality, the film questions the conventional notion of a “man” or masculinity in today’s society. Sorry, that was really wordy. Let’s get concrete. Men in the past proved they were “men” by going out and hunting, providing for their family, doing typical strong manly man stuff. If I were to ask you “What’s the first thing you think of when I say the words “masculine man”?” I’m willing to bet many will picture a 6ft tall, muscular fellow, who has girls hanging off of his bulging biceps like moths to a lamp.

But isn’t this idea kind of ridiculous when you think about it? That what we define to be masculine, what society defines to be masculine, what “makes” a man is nothing more than good looks and well-maintained body?

Back to the scene in the study. The Big Lebowski asks The Dude “What makes a man?” And The Dude doesn’t know. He says the technically correct answer “a pair of testicles”. Again, the theme is that masculinity is defined by body image. The question is set there for the whole audience to see, and the rest of the movie is spent delving into this question. Sorry, I lied when I said a single question is asked and answered. The secondary sub question is: “How do men prove that they are “men” in today’s society?” Surely there aren’t anymore animals to hunt in our suburban neighborhoods, no more gangs of roaming bandits to defend our land and women from. So how are men in the 21st century to prove that they are men?

The film takes all pre-conceived societal notions about masculinity being defined as body image, and turns all of that on its head with Jeff Bridge’s character The Dude. Here we have: an unemployed slacker and stoner, physically unfit, cowardly, poor, etc. etc. As far from society’s (and the audience’s!) notion of what a real manly character should be.

And yet. By the end of the movie, one can certainly make the claim that The Dude is NOT cowardly. Doesn’t he spend the film trying to dive to the bottom of a mystery that he doesn’t even want to be a part of? Despite what he may appear to be on the outside, by the end of the movie The Dude is definitely more courageous and willing to do what’s right than at the beginning.

Remember that scene at the bowling alley? When The Dude converses with The Cowboy? Watch that scene very closely. Before that scene occurs, The Dude is cowardly. After that scene, there’s a marked change in character. He’s more daring (investigates Jackie Treehorn), and more assertive (dealing with his friend Walter). The scene was representative of the inner monologue his character battled with himself.

And that, is the answer to the both questions. What makes a man, and how are men in the 21st century able to prove that they are men to society. The answer isn’t a hot body. The answer isn’t wealth. The answer isn’t fame. The answer is courage and integrity. Willing to do what’s right in the face of danger, never compromising in your ideals. The Dude certainly isn’t perfect in this, but then again, who is?

Still don’t believe me when I say that at the heart of it, TBL is a film about masculinity in the 21st century? Watch the film again. Notice how nearly EVERY single male character in that film is flawed? The Big Lebowski is flawed physically, being confined to a wheelchair (And yet he achieved anyway! Surely money makes a man…or does it?). Walter is flawed psychologically, overcompensating for his lack of assertiveness (he doesn’t tell his ex-wife off for asking to take care of her dog) with his overly macho attitude. He represents the whole host of men in society who overcompensate for their real masculinity (again, the film’s answer is courage and integrity) with anything else (arrogance, violence). Donny is cowardly, too afraid to even defend his friends in the fight in the parking lot. Even minor characters, like The Dude’s landlord is just, well, plain weird. None of the male characters in the film are the 6ft tall, muscular and athletic “manly” men image that society perceives masculinity to be.

By comparison, EVERY woman in the film is a strong character. Bunny is young and sexual, and is able to control men through her looks. Maude is successful, a savvy business woman and independent. She tells The Dude her father wasn’t very good at running the business. So much for money making a man.

In short, TBL is really a philosophical film. Body image, wealth or success, those don’t make a man a “man”. Courage, integrity, those inner qualities, those do.

I suppose that themes of this film apply exclusively to men and may alienate women. But like I said before, TBL is a film that transcends a single perspective. There’s a slice of pie for everyone. You may not identify with The Dude, but you can still identify with the great comedy that it is.

EDIT: Forgot to mention, even the song used in the opening montage is applicable. Man in Me, by Bob Dylan. Read the lyrics of that song. It sets the stage perfectly for the rest of the movie.

TL;DR: The Big Lebowski is a film about masculinity and what it takes to be a true man.

Source courtesy of reddit.

Nov 18

Quick theory…

Blogs start out specific and get more and more general over time.

This happens in two ways that I can think of:

1) Makes more money by appealing to more people.

2) The author’s initial specific blog is, at its core, about questioning authority. Whether it’s actual questioning, expressing thoughts, or making something (art) original. Questioning ultimately leads to more questions. More and more questioning leads to less specificity.

2a) In regards to art, look at Modernism. Start making a bold new art form, keep doing that over and over, and everybody else starts making “new” art. Ultimately you have the post-modern condition that every story and artwork has already been done. In a blog, once you have “used up” everything, you move on, seeking to mix your “art” with everything else you can think of.

3) The author is bored with the initial subject and moves on, in the sea of distraction that is the internet. Artists all have “stages” they go through.

Sep 3

“

“Hipster” is a term co-opted for use as a meaningless pejorative in order to vaguely call someone else’s authenticity into question and, by extension, claim authenticity for yourself.

It serves no conversational function and imparts no information, save for indicating the opinions and preferences of the speaker.

Meanwhile, a market myth has sprung up around the term, as well as a cultural boogeyman consisting of elusive white 20-somethings who wear certain clothes (but no one will agree on what), listen to certain music (no one can agree on this either), and act a certain way (you’ve probably sensed the pattern on your own).

You can’t define what “that kind of behavior or fashion or lifestyle” actually is, nor will you ever be able to. That’s because you don’t use “hipster” to describe an actual group of people, but to describe a fictional stereotype that is an outlet for literally anything that annoys you.

The twist, of course, is that if it weren’t for your own insecurities, nothing that a “hipster” could do or wear would ever affect you emotionally. But you are insecure about your own authenticity - “Do I wear what I wear because I want to? Do I listen to my music because I truly like it? I’m certainly not like those filthy hipsters!” - so you project those feelings.

Suffice it to say, no one self-identifies as a hipster; the term is always applied to an Other, to separate the authentic Us from the inauthentic, “ironic” Them.

Edit: I didn’t write this, it’s copypasta from 4chan’s music board. But I think it really hits the nail on the head.

”

Jun 4

(via charismatism)

(via charismatism)

“Life becomes easier when you learn to accept an apology you never got.” Robert Brault (via heartmindawakening)

(via charismatism)

Jun 2

“School is the advertising agency which makes you believe that you need the society as it is.” Ivan Illich (via lifeofgenius)

(via lifeofgenius)

May 31

A picture in 365 slices. Each slice is one day of the year.

A picture in 365 slices. Each slice is one day of the year.

(via summerkins)

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