Demagoguery and the Debate

It's hard to believe the way the Iraq issue is being handled in the presidential race. I just watched the debate and it seems McCain's strategy was to equate any mention of withdrawal with "defeat", thereby appealing to the competitiveness of his audience, to Americans' obsession with being a "winner" or a "loser." "What a game American politics is" says Heather, remote in hand, switching from CBS to MSNBC, sitting literally on the edge of her seat, putting her spectacles on and off. But is politics really a game?

And if it is, and if war is a game, then the U.S. can at least ADMIT that it's in Iraq not because of oil, or WMD or any goddamn democratic idealism but simply out of Ego. Whenever people now say "Oh, but we can't leave Iraq now," I just want to say (and only tonight did I really realize how angry it made me): What the Fuck Do You Care about Iraq? If the U.S. government or U.S. citizens cared anything about Iraq they would have withdrawn as soon as possible. Or would do it, as soon as possible. So I don't buy this self-deluding bullshit about let's stay in Iraq to make sure it's okay.

And, I think, neither does anyone else. Because, as the main spokesperson and supporter of the war, McCain and the Republican rhetoric focuses exclusively on the undesirability and Nonexistence of "defeat" in Iraq. In this way the similarities with Vietnam are frightening. You can't acknowledge the fact of defeat, you can't utter these words, even though it is an actual factual reality because it strikes too lethal a blow to American self-delusion, to Americans' egos, because it gets too close to the archetypal American personality's Neurosis.

So tonight I saw how obviously and repugnantly American idealism was coupled with American competitiveness to lull this nation into staying in Iraq. A friend of mine who works at an arts institution said, of her efforts to shmooze rich folks for contributions "I'm really good at serving them their own shit on a plate." Buon Appetito, America.

David Foster Wallace is dead

He killed himself on Friday. I can't believe it people. I can't believe it. I can't believe it I can't believe it. He was such a good writer. So brilliant and sensitive, so gifted in both mathematics and language, all these sos and sos. S.O.S. S.O.S. It brings up all kinds of thoughts-- was this inevitable? Is there anything that could have helped him, including himself? I mean, someone like that, you would think there is nothing you can tell him that he doesn't know. And not just cleverness-wise, but also in terms of insight. Check out the commencement speech he gave at Kenyon college a few years ago. There is so much there, so much knowledge of being human, of what is necessary to be human, both hard-earned and natural insight.

He was a great writer and a respected professor. He had every resource available to him. I know he'd been under medication for a long time and his depression was getting more and more severe. I read a quote from his parents that said he just couldn't stand it anymore. It sounded almost sympathetic, and that clues us into the extent of the misery he must have been experiencing. But god. It just makes me so sad. No one is infallible. Depression is truly a disease. Or is it? I mean, didn't he try everything? He must have tried other things like buddhism or yoga or the non-academic sciences of the soul. He must have, right? Someone so intelligent could not have failed to look into these other ways. So how is it that nothing helped? I don't know i don't know. It definitely makes me think the old-school thought of depression as something that can be overcome by sheer will or something is bullshit. I don't know if DFW was manic-depressive. Probably.

Oh man.


oh man. oh man. It is a huge loss for us. And it's scarier to think someone like that could be so lost to himself.

BUt what does "someone like that" mean? How do I know what he was like? I don't. And even his wife, his mom, his dad, probably are not a whole lot closer to what it was like to BE him. To be inside his head. And that is the great mystery and paradox of this life, of this consciousness. NO ONE CAN SEE INSIDE YOU.

Think about the autonomy! Think about the freedom! Think about the privacy.

No one knows what goes on inside you.





We answer to ourselves, ourselves only. To our own conscience. That is the ultimate judge, the ultimate god. But maybe we can get to know our god. Get to know how our conscience is formed (how much of it is the superego, paternal authority figure, etc),and if any of it is simply irreducibly There. The little voice inside you, your soul, etc. I don't know what any of those really mean but one option is to engage our sense of right & wrong in a dialogue. We do this all the time of course, with various frequencies depending on the person, but maybe a more conscious dialogue. A written one perhaps, with a particular situation from our life as a jumping off point. Alternately (or supplementarily) the Buddhists would recommend that we not engage in a dialogue but step back and observe the edicts of our inner judge and any reactions/responses we have to these. For me, observation is hard because I always think of it as a reporting position. As in-- okay, I'm in the field, collecting data on the mating behavior of these gorillas (which describes my mind quite well) and now that I have the findings-- who do I go to?

A scientist of the mind. I like that. Especially since Jane Goodall is one of my heroes.

And so was DFW. Maybe that's why it's sad. When your hero kills himself.

Crones and Drones

So I just saw "The Women" starring most of the female actresses in Hollywood. There's Meg Ryan (flappy-floppy as ever), Annette Bening (where Diane Keaton should be), Jada Pinkett-Smith and Debra Messing. Even Bette Midler shows up as a (who else?) loudmouthed multiple divorcee. I'd planned to see the original George Cukor film first but circumstances dictated otherwise. Therefore, I can't offer an informed comparison between the two just yet. Nonetheless, I want to record my initial reactions hot off the movie seat.

It's telling that the last words of this version of "The Women" are: "It's a boy." This is a reason for joy, an ultimate fulfillment in the storyline for one of the characters. And though there are NO MEN in the movie, the patriarchal, old boys' style of thinking (manifest in the shameless commercialism and googly-eyed admiration of all things high-society NYC) permeates the movie like musk. From the first shot of the movie, you know there's nothing new to expect. A camera tracks fast over a blue body of water to reveal... the Manhattan skyline! It doesn't help that the first shots of the movie are straight-up product placements as an unidentified female protagonist struts into Saks Fifth Avenue and surveys the store through Terminator-like vision, pinpointing items of desire Prada Shoes --Must Have! Cartier Perfume...New Line!. The woman is revealed to be Annette Bening whose body language is a direct imitation of Samantha from Sex and the City and whose next encounter reveals the other side of the movie--- false female empowerment. As she strides through the store she is interrupted by a sales girl who asks her if she wants a facelift in a bottle. This is my face. Deal with it. Says Bening, tossing her head saucily.



And yet soon enough we see Candice Bergen (who is pretty fucking good I must say) in a post-facelift relaxation room looking for all the world like a burn victim and telling her daughter that she had to get one-- "Haven't you noticed? There are no sixty year old women in New York. I was the only one." It's funny but as her daughter admits, she will be in her place in another 20 years. So it's just a matter of time before we must stop asking the world to deal with our aging faces.

To make things worse, Bening is the high-powered editor in chief of some women's magazine who is having crises of conscience about the messages they are giving women. WHAAA? This whole movie is like a video-stream of Cosmo magazine. Not only is the hand-wringing about the models not being real people hypocritical, but it's also tired and cliche. Speaking of which, the writing in the movie is predictable to eye-muscle-fatigue-inducing levels. When Meg Ryan tells her mom she has no idea what it feels like to be betrayed old Candice (bless her sporting heart) heaves a deep sigh and says: "Let me take a guess... You feel you've been struck right in the stomach." No WAY! "You feel like you're in a dream... you know the one.. where you're falling and you can't stop." Get OUT Candice Bergen! Oh man, I bet YOU were betrayed too once! It all makes so much sense now.

Meg Ryan is "a good person. You know, I give money to homeless people. I recycle." Both these quotes had an invaluable third to strenghten their triptych of association, but I don't remember what. Suffice it to say, you've heard it before.

So I feel disappointed. I don't know what I was expecting. But this makes me feel depressed. Oh yes, when Meg Ryan takes a hit off of a joint she says-- you'll never guess! "I haven't done this since freshman year in college." Which is interesting ultimately because that's the level of maturation that any of these women have. That's the level of thought that this movie is aimed at. Which is not to diss college freshwommmyns, many of whom, I know from being their teacher, are way more articulate and composed. Add to all of these the fact that the women of the women are all your two-dimensional Sex and the city stereotypes, you find yourself nodding in beleaguered approval to people all over the world who announce "It's a Boy!" with something more than parental joy.

The Inner Fascist

Talking to Sol the other day I whipped out the phrase "the inner fascist." That is what I call the side of me that does not tolerate weakness or failure. That reveres strength and power in a fanatical way.

I suppose we all have an inner fascist. I mean, how can you have ideals without value judgments? Unless you're a Taoist, in which case you know that being "weak"-- i.e. small, flexible, humble like a blade of grass-- is real strength. Just think of how a big oak gets uprooted and falls in a storm. Ah but I'm no Taoist, as you can see from my inadequate explanations of that line of thought. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that we privilege certain parts of duality like Strength, Beauty, Intelligence, Light, Height, etc. But I guess when we become slaves of this qualification instead of its masters, then we are fascists. But look at my word choices! Slaves vs. Masters. And I privilege the latter.

This stuff is entrenched. Ain't no easy way out. I'm just writing stream of thought here so I'm myself surprised that Taoism came up. But it does seem pretty relevant.

So, a Taoist approach may help with keeping the inner fascist under control but for me, the best antidote to the inner fascist is compassion. And empathy. Of this I am sure. When Murat was trying to quit smoking he was being really hard on himself during his lapses. I told him to be nicer, and mentioned the inner fascist. He imagined it as a dictator of small stature-- little Hitler, he called it. He would give reports on little Hitler's behavior throughout the days, laughing at him and occasionally falling prey to his moods. Mostly, though, he learned to be kind to his little Hitler-- and I think at some point little Hitler jumped into his arms.

I watched a documentary a long time ago about the Holocaust and it was made by a female psychologist (it was like half documentary interviews, half drama, can't remember the name or track it down) but the central tenet of the movie was that it was the lack of empathy that was the most clear cause of the atrocities in the Holocaust. There are other factors of course, but I was reminded of this film when I watched Elephant the other day and then did some research on the Columbine massacres. There was a good article in Slate that said that Eric Harris, the mastermind of the two youths, was a psycopath and described that condition as having ZERO understanding of what someone else is feeling, or that they are feeling anything at all. Complete lack of empathy.

I guess I'd heard this before but it blows my mind. It's fascinating, and horrible. Then, as I was trying to google-track down that movie I mentioned above, I came across this essay http://www.crisispapers.org/essays8p/empathy.htm which mentions the findings of a psychologist named G.M. Gilbert who studied the Nuremberg trials. Apparently the essay is quoting yet another movie (goddamn! why do movies shape so much of our reality-- it's always scared me) but says it seems a correct representation of the real Gilbert's findings when he says "I told you once that I was searching for the nature of evil. I think I’ve come close to defining it: a lack of empathy. It’s the one characteristic that connects all the defendants: a genuine incapacity to feel with their fellow man. Evil, I think, is the absence of empathy."

So there we have it. Psychopaths and Nazis and You. My friend. Yes, you. Yes, me. I'm gonna take a step further and say this: The reason "Evil" is so fascinating is because it exists in all of us. We all have our psychopath moments. It's actually a really preferable option in many cases to shut ourselves down and not imagine how someone else feels. And if you were to open yourself up, to talk about these things, you expose yourself to ridicule. It's easy to make fun of "feelings." To call this stuff namby-pamby, to characterize it as (oh, what's this?) "feminine." I've been listening to a lot of shock-jock radio recently (don't ask why but it's for reasons beyond my power) and those guys' reverence of toughness is really a transparent terror of facing and accepting any "weak" parts of themselves.

So what I'm saying is, watch out for little Hitler. He comes dressed in all kinds of guises. Often, that guise is You. But when you see the little guy, just ask him to come sit on your knee, and slick his hair to the side and give him a pacifier shaped like a cigarette. He'll start sighing and falling asleep soon enough.