James Holmes, madman

The New York Times article "Before Gunfire, Hints of ‘Bad News’" unfolds for us the life of James Holmes leading up the massacre. It pins him down, makes him a subject of analysis, takes us down a path that runs parallel to his even while he diverges from his own. We learn how witnesses remember him, forming a cohesive picture of the subject we can use as a collective memory from which we draw out the identity of James Holmes, an identity through which we can say, "That was something James would do" or "That was not like James," until we know when the madman appeared. So it goes: James was normal when he was quiet and shy, attending school, and, at times, acting goofy and awkward; but then he became a loner and, more troubling, unconcerned with school, which is abnormal. Normal James worked, was willing to work, assumed a career, a productive life. And so his divergence was here--not in the movie theater.

On July 20, 2012, James is said to have killed 12 people and wounded 58 at a midnight screening of "Batman: The Dark Knight Rises". The movie depicts the saga of a crime fighter, Batman, and James allegedly referred to himself as The Joker, Batman's nemesis, a powerful and enigmatic villain, a clever perpetrator of crimes. But James likely will not be judged to have committed a crime, and therefore not be labeled a criminal. He will exist outside the binary of law. The judicial system shines a light on the accused, and they are judged innocent or guilty. James performed his violence in the dark, and his mind just may remain beyond the light. His peers and the experts may decide that James was a madman before he entered the theater. A sane man doesn't just shirk off his ambitions, lose all interest and sympathy for civil society, and abandon his social pretensions. Lock him up. Society must be defended.

My man

He always cuts briskly through the office, efficient and determined. Like a man who just learned his plane started boarding at a different gate some 150 feet away. He looks together, but he dresses nicely, which only feeds my suspicion that he's a wreck. Today, dark gray wool pants and maroon shirt. Long sleeves, naturally. Like all the men in his family, he prefers stalls to urinals. Now, picture a cell buried in the flesh around his armpit; this is where cancer slumbers through the day. Some 3000 days from now, just after sipping the last of the coffee, seated in his kitchenette, it will wake and begin its spill through the lymphatic vessels. He will regret nothing.

The ones who say what is

Scientists recently gave the octopus consciousness. What a nice thing to do. Also, they mistook perceived patterns of central nervous system matter for a thing called consciousness, and themselves for the only ones qualified to say what they see.

The greater suffering is the better suffering

Maybe twice a year for most of his adult life, Samuel Clemens met a mysterious but familiar girlfriend in his dreams, according to some notes of his published in Harper's. Of the first time he lost her in a dream, he wrote, "I turned around, and the log house was gone. I ran here and there and yonder down the lanes between the rows of tombs, calling Alice; and presently the night closed down, and I could not find my way. Then I woke, in deep distress over my loss, and was in my bed in Philadelphia". The published notes close with a final comment on her death in a later dream:

That was a terrible thing to me at the time. It was preternaturally vivid; and the pain and the grief and the misery of it to me transcended many sufferings that I have known in waking life. For everything in a dream is more deep and strong and sharp and real than is ever its pale imitation in the unreal life which is ours when we go about awake and clothed with our artificial selves in this vague and dull-tinted artificial world. When we die we shall slough off this cheap intellect, perhaps, and go abroad into Dreamland clothed in our real selves, and aggrandized and enriched by the command over the mysterious mental magician who is here not our slave, but only our guest.

I like this. The dream life is real because the sense of loss and misery felt there, and felt upon waking, is complete; none of our expressions, including feelings and imagination, are compromised by reason and its accounting for competing obligations and practical concerns; such so-called harsh realities make life "unreal" because they make us "artificial"; and they make us artificial because they make us check our impulses, make us plan and act in strategic interests that are foreign to our nature, so to speak, and that feed into life's complex network of power relationships, the ultimate game of pretend. In dreams, imagination and feeling reign, and they are felt and exercised honestly and fully. The very vividness of their creation is the character of the real.

Notes:

• How amazing to me that he felt such a sense of loss over a dreamed of girl. Grief dreams about real persons, understandable.
• People wake and interpret dreams, introducing the artificial into the real, dressing themselves in reason.

only in dreams

Sneaking into a series of small, connected utility rooms built between the high school and the track, you seemed to know the way, and led me into what seemed like a large maintenance closet, oddly furnished with only a bed. After awhile, we heard people moving somewhere in the complex, coming our way. We started dressing and I was mad at you, thinking, "How careless, to not prepare!" But in a hurry it was forgiven and we started plotting our getaway, having fun, and you looked more beautiful than ever.

something by Tagore

In the Dusky Path of a Dream

   -by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love who was mine in a former life.

Her house stood at the end of a desolate street.

In the evening breeze her pet peacock sat drowsing on its perch, and the pigeons were silent in their corner.

She set her lamp down by the portal and stood before me.

She raised her large eyes to my face and mutely asked, "Are you well, my friend?"

I tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten.

I thought and thought; our names would not come to my mind.

Tears shone in her eyes. She held up her right hand to me. I took it and stood silent.

Our lamp had flickered in the evening breeze and died.

About a Dostoevsky short story

In Fyodor Dostoevsky's short story, "A Disgraceful Affair", we're introduced to a hoity-toity General having drinks with his buddies and running his mouth about how Russia will thrive in an age of what he calls "idealism". That, he imagines, is everyone respecting and caring for one another regardless of class. After one too many, he starts for home. Finding that his coachman isn't there waiting for him, he cusses a storm and forgoes a cab, content to hoof it all the way, mostly to spite his missing servant.

While straying through the ghetto he passes one of his lowly, wretched clerk's wedding receptions. The stewed General daydreams about classing up the party with his presence, in the process blowing everyone's mind with what a kindly superior human being he is. Sounds like a plan, so he stumbles in and, after the initial awkwardness, he settles himself, and even sees a few other underlings in attendance. But soon he is swilling vodka and champagne until he finally gets too drunk and passes out. But not until after making an ass of himself, rambling about idealism and spitting all the time.

At this point we learn the groom--the lowly clerk--shoulders all kinds of misery in his quest to make his way.

Anyway, the party breaks up, and the General thrashes and pukes a little until finally an old boarder woman assumes the job of cleaning him up. In the process, the General promptly sobers up enough to hightail it home where he stays in bed for eight days, laid out with a bad case of humiliation.

On the ninth day, no longer able to bear not knowing how much he's damaged his reputation, the General returns to the office where he finds, to his amazement, that nothing appears to have changed!

At the story's end, we find the General sitting pretty in his office, reflecting on the fact that, not only will he come through with reputation intact, but he's had a pretty awesome productive day to boot. Just then another clerk enters with the day's final paperwork and a transfer request from the new groom. Rather than grant the transfer immediately, the General actually says he'll forgive the young man. At this news, the clerk blushes and excuses himself. This inspires in the General the greatest wound, as

He felt more shame, more heaviness at heart, than he had experienced even during the most unbearable moments of his eight days of illness.

"I have failed to live up to my own ideals!" he said to himself, and sank into his chair--helpless.

I see this conclusion at least two ways: (1) I think there's a triple move there, a series of realizations: first, the General realizes his reputation is shot; second, he realizes that, by party crashing, he only added to the groom-clerk's misery, of which, until then, he had been completely unaware; and third, he realizes that, just now, at the moment when he could have spared the injured groom-clerk the insult of having to work for such a cruel boss, he instead chose to humor the prideful delusions of his own reputation. Or, (2) the General remains oblivious to the sufferings of the inferior folk, and is concerned with his own problems.


Notes:

• I told this guy at work about Dostoevsky's life and themes and he said it sounds like "Tales from the Hood" but earlier. An awesome comparison. But "Tales from the Hood" somehow seems like an older reference point than Dostoevsky does.

A poem

Toes in Wet Grass

  -by me

Wince

or sigh,

a pity.

Ozymandias

     -by Percy Blysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".

about Jonah Lehrer, making meaning, not making sense

Recently, audiences were disappointed to learn that author-journalist Jonah Lehrer fabricated and misrepresented quotes and self-plagiarized. His crime spurred a couple soul-searching response pieces, most of which are summed in Salon's "Jonah Lehrer throws it all away". Here, Roxanne Gay hits a few angles and floats the hypothesis that a guy like Lehrer "fits the narrative we want about a boy genius" because he can "make us feel smarter for finally being able to understand the complexities of the human mind"; he is the product of, and answer to, "a cultural obsession with genius, a need to find beacons of greatness in an ordinary world".

Because there must be some deeper reason he did what he did. Symptomatic of some disease rooted in our culture and in our souls that caused this thing. This fucking thing.

Doesn't this kind of ponderous speculation, this pathologizing, just create, replicate, and self-serve our need for meaning and significance in this "ordinary world"? Or our need for a need for meaning? Couldn't it just be that Lehrer is dishonest? Or that maybe he got lazy? Or that he tried to produce too much too soon? Or maybe we don't know. And it doesn't matter.

Finding the work of guys like Jonah Lehrer and Malcolm Gladwell interesting is one thing, but to mistake these pop-sci/pop-soc writers for preeminent thinkers of relevance and genius undermines the fearlessness, moral courage, and intellectual vigor of the better writers (and artists) who act as critics, stewards, and producers of culture.

Note:

• I'm not convinced self-plagiarism is a thing or that, if it is, it should be so damnable an offense. But in Lehrer's case, if nothing else, it's sort of ironic considering his big theme was creativity.

Gore Vidal, 1925–2012

A few months ago I wrote of a trend in which people write critically of the newly dead. With Gore Vidal now gone, one such item appears in Salon with the clever title "Stop Eulogizing Gore Vidal". But this writer gets it all wrong. He accuses Gore of aristocratic WASP-ish snobbery. Well, yeah, but that's not a damnable offense. The writer's main charge is antisemitism. Gore clearly took a political stance against Zionists; that is not antisemitism. Moreover, in the early eighties Gore urged American Jews to team up with gays and work together to get mainstream acceptance.

Anyway, knocking Gore for condemning a people is like accusing water of hydrating Nazis during World War II. Condemning is what he did. Criticism was one of Gore's biggest talents and he practiced it most of the time. Hell, he looked down on anyone he didn't hate.

This was not a good anti-eulogy.

Notes:

• "Stop Eulogizing Gore Vidal" wins the gold for most crusty, crotchety title.

About "Going Solo: The Extraordinary Rise and Surprising Appeal of Living Alone" by Eric Klinenberg

Klinenberg wants us to know this is a big deal--"the most significant demographic shift since the Baby Boom—the sharp increase in the number of people who live alone". And the volume and proliferation of these people, annoyingly called "singletons" here, has never happened before. The book attributes the shift to four eco/techno/socio-cultural developments: (1) women's lib, (2) conveniences of technology, (3) longer lifespans, and, the biggest factor, (4) increased urbanization.

Klinenberg's revelation is that, rather than worry about this increased atomization making a nation of shut-in brats, we should see this as a neutral or even ultimately positive thing because these singletons are healthy, happy, and engaged. Indeed one of the book's big goals is to dispel myths and assumptions about people who choose to be alone. In support the book rallies scores of miniature profiles of singletons, quoting and amassing their differing and converging impressions and reasons. These mini bios also try and humanize the subject, to make flesh and blood out of a growing mass of loners.

The book's message is inherently anti-climactic: Hey, this is happening but it's OK (as long as we govern accordingly). I guess this is why I found the book so dull.

Good technical documents

The American Institute of Certified Professional Accountants' summary of their study on corporate ethics (May 2012) is very pleasing to peruse.