Earlier today, one of my nurses asked me if I had instructions in my living will regarding life-saving measures. I told him that that there were no specific instructions and that I’d appreciate any efforts to revive me. He paused and then asked me, “Can I have your iPod if something happens to you?”
He knows something; I can tell. After years of suffering under my petty tyranny, my nurses are planning their long-overdue uprising. I’m sleeping with one eye open from now on.
Yesterday, I was walking home from a movie with a friend when we passed a middle-aged couple having a smoke on the sidewalk. The woman gives me a startled look and turns to her companion. “Man, count your fuckin’ blessings,” she said.
Mark Siegel: making perfect strangers feel better about their circumstances since 1973.
This quote from a recent JK Rowling commencement speech at Harvard is lovely:
You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.
The world would probably be a better place if we tended the gardens of our imaginations a little more frequently. But as Rowling said, our capacity to imagine is also one of our saving graces. Our imaginations give us glimpses into the foggy realm of the possible, even while our more rational selves fold their arms and shake their heads disapprovingly.
A freak show is coming to Minnesota, featuring a woman with one leg and a little person who eats broken glass. Amateurs. Put me on a stage with a blender, a bowl of live cockroaches, and my feeding tube. That ought to sell some tickets.
My deadline for reporting my continuing education compliance is coming up fast and I’m still short on credits, so yesterday found me at a day-long seminar on improving one’s legal writing. Even though I fancy myself a better-than-average writer, the class did point out some gaps in my knowledge. Like the proper usage of that versus which in sentence clauses. How could I have not known that that is used in restrictive clauses and which is used in nonrestrictive clauses? I mean, it’s so obvious. Observe:
The CLE that I attended yesterday was mildly interesting and somewhat overpriced.
The CLE, which was mildly interesting, was somewhat overpriced.
Reality television is gimmicky. I get that. It’s entertainment and depicts a distorted, artificial reality that doesn’t exist in the world that you and I inhabit. Still, the gimmickry can be overdone at times. 30 Days is a documentary series that profiles various people in month-long experiments that might have been dreamt up by a slightly daft social studies teacher. Past episodes have featured scenarios like a staunch immigration opponent being sent to live with an undocumented family and a computer programmer whose job was outsourced sent to live with a family in India. Lessons are supposed to be learned and eyes are supposed to be opened.
Last night’s episode featured an ex-NFL player who agreed to use a wheelchair for thirty days. The cameras followed him around as he struggled to maneuver through his palatial but minimally accessible house, competed with a wheelchair rugby team, and met with people in a rehab hospital who had experienced spinal cord injuries. The whole thing seemed silly to me. A television audience isn’t going to learn much about living with a physical disability by watching a wealthy, able-bodied athlete get around in a wheelchair for a few weeks. In fact, the episode came close to portraying the wheelchair as the sum total of the disability experience.
I’m probably expecting too much of a television show, but the episode’s tone left me frustrated and depressed. Its superficial voyeurism did little to give viewers any real insight into the lives of people with disabilities. The producers could have chosen a more interesting route and focused on someone with an actual disability who goes to live with, I don’t know, just about any family in America that’s clueless about disability; it’s not like they’re in short supply. Instead, we get this tripe that probably had most viewers think, “Holy crap, glad I’m not a gimp.”
This is both strange and disturbing: in Tanzania, people with albinism are being hunted and killed for their body parts, which are believed to possess magical properties. The practitioners of this particular variety of the black arts don’t seem too interested in hearing their victims’ opinions on the matter.
Just so we’re clear, none of my body parts should be used as good luck charms or ingredients in love potions. You’ll be sorely disappointed in their effectiveness.
I haven’t been a fan of the writing-as-therapy model. Writing about one’s feelings and experiences as a way to work stuff out has long struck me as self-indulgent and narcissistic. But perhaps I’m too harsh a critic of people’s motivations for writing, especially in light of studies that show that expressive writing–including blogging–leads to better health.
I still have a tendency to roll my eyes when I come across writing that seems overly confessional or breathless. I like my blogging to show some restraint, thank you very much. That said, I can’t deny that I receive some therapeutic benefits from writing and keeping this blog. Not long ago, a friend rightly pointed out that underneath my charming exterior lies a pretty melancholy person. Actually, she might not have used the word “charming”, but that’s beside the point. I’m not melancholy to the point where I dress in black every day and sprinkle my speech with quotes from nineteenth-century poets, but I do live inside my head and there’s lots of shadowy nooks and crannies in here. Writing for an audience (however small) is how I get perspective. It’s my way of letting in the sun.
Futurist Ray Kurzweil has glimpsed into his crystal ball and, if he’s to be believed, the twenty-first century might not be as grim as we fear. Here are some of the things he foresees:
But I still get my brain implant that lets me control my wheelchair and assume control of the entire Internet, right? Because I’ve got all kinds of great ideas about what to do once I take over the Internet.
Having these songs on your iPod might make you almost as cool as me:
“In the City” by Chromatics: Hypnotic, synth-driven pop that you want playing in your car as you drive home from a party late at night, sleepy and maybe a little stoned. I have no idea what the lead singer is going on about when she sings of “shining violence, shining victim”, but I don’t really care.
“With Every Heartbeat” by Robyn: A Swedish artist with a knack for crafting pop songs that don’t make adults cringe, Robyn uses strings and drum machines to dramatic effect in this song about a failed relationship that will have you crying on the dancefloor.
“Distant Dreamer” by Duffy: Rounding out today’s set is this bit of power pop from another British artist fond of that classic diva sound from the era of transistor radios. She demonstrates more of a vocal range and mastery of style than Amy Winehouse, especially in this soaring orchestral track.