Words To Play With

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Laterality

noun.

Dominance of one side of the brain in controlling particular activities or functions, or of one of a pair of organs such as the eyes or hands. (Oxford)

I wrote a short story called “Laterality” for my last creative writing class. The most common note I got on that story was something along the lines of, “What the fuck is this word?” I guess nobody felt inclined to look it up. Maybe not everybody in the world feels an overwhelming urge to grab their dictionary when faced with a new and potentially exciting word. I won’t waste space by printing the story here. Honestly, I just reread it, and it’s kind of shitty. It was based vaguely on a relationship. I really didn’t have a whole lot of reason for choosing “Laterality” as the title other than an indistinct feeling that it was appropriate, but I still sort of self-righteously thought I was being very clever. There was some great metaphor there that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but I was certain it was very insightful. I remember sitting in the workshop listening to my classmates wonder about what it meant and feeling very disheartened that nobody got it, or even tried to get it.

I think I have a better understanding of what I was trying to say now, almost two years later.

When science-y folks talk about laterality, what they’re mostly referring to is the dominance of one side of the body over another, as in being right-handed or left-handed. One side has developed specialized functions that the other lacks.

You know me, I’m not particularly scientifically-inclined. I make shit up as I go along. Here’s what I think of when I think of laterality. Instead of talking about the right side or left side of the brain or body, I’m going to imagine our emotional side and our intellectual side. Most people will agree that one is dominant over the other. Emotions control your actions, or intellect does. I have always been a person ruled by feelings. I’ll follow my emotions to the bitter end, regardless of reason or sanity. When I wrote a shitty story called “Laterality”, that’s what I was trying to express. When I wrote a story based vaguely on a relationship, that’s what I was trying to get at. The logic of the affair was running out, and the entire thing was fueled purely by emotion. Two-years-ago me had a little more awareness than she wanted to deal with.

These days I’ve discovered that 99% of the time, it’s better if I don’t act on my feelings, or at least not on my feelings alone. That doesn’t mean that they don’t haunt me day and night, trying to get me to do something stupid and make an ass out of myself.

I’m hoping someday I’ll become a little more ambidextrous.

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Compresence

noun.

The simultaneous presence together of properties or experienced qualities. (Oxford)

I don’t know about you, but I’ve often felt as if I were at least 2 different people. At least.

I’ve talked about this a lot in the past, mainly because I’ve been in a lot of therapy. I talked about how I couldn’t decide if I was a good person or a bad person. My gut told me that I was a bad person. I kept doing things I knew were wrong, and I couldn’t stop myself. I said to my therapist, “Amy, it’s like I’m two separate people. It’s like there’s Good Katie, and there’s Bad Katie. Good Katie knows what’s going on, and she know’s what’s right and what’s wrong, but she’s stuck in a glass box. She sees everything, but she can’t do anything about it. She bangs on the walls and screams, but nobody can hear her. Or, maybe Bad Katie can hear her, but she just doesn’t care. She does what she wants.”

I’m going to tell you a little bit about Bundle Theory, because someday you’re going to be at a party and there’s going to be one of those awkward lulls in conversation, so you’ll want to know. The question is, “What constitutes an object?” There are those who will say that an object is a substance which possesses certain traits or characteristics. In other words, my mug is a distinct substance which has the properties “being made of ceramic”, “being filled with tea”, and “possessing a picture of a cat”. Then, there are those who will say that my mug is literally nothing but its bundle of properties. My mug is not a substance which has characteristics. It is, simply, its characteristics.

The former folks are called Substance Theorists, and the latter folks are called Bundle Theorists. I suggest you read more about it so you can wow your buddies with the breadth of your knowledge. My purpose at the moment is not to provide more evidence that Metaphysics was the only class I ever paid attention to in college.

Let’s get back to talking about me. This is my identity crisis for the day. I have a hard time taking responsibility for things I’ve done sometimes, because often when I look back it seems like someone else was doing them, someone who was immoral and didn’t give a shit about anything. I generally like to think that I have something resembling a moral compass, so who was that person, and why are we occupying the same body?

And what constitutes a person anyway? Maybe a person is a substance which possesses characteristics like Goodness and Badness. Maybe a person is something separate, that is not necessarily defined by its properties. Or, maybe a person is simply Goodness and Badness, and red hair and thoughtfulness and insecurity and social ineptitude, all mushed up together. Sometimes, I can’t imagine myself without my Badness, the same as I can’t imagine myself without a cat.

I don’t know about you. Maybe you have this all figured out.

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Commination

noun.

The action of threatening divine vengeance. (Oxford)

Have you ever tried to move a bed in the psych ward? Maybe you’ve never been in a psych ward, so you’ve never had an opportunity to try. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s damn near impossible. They actually weigh the beds down specifically to prevent people from moving them, and there are some very good reasons for doing that. I tried to push on mine, and I swear the thing moved me more than I moved it.

Well, apparently a 900 pound bed is no match for divine inspiration.

You can always tell which are the ones that are going to snap. It could be the way they curse at the nurses about giving their 72 hour notice to sign themselves out. It could be the way they curse at the nurses when the doctor decides that the extra snacks delivered to their room during the day were getting a little extraneous. With this guy, it was the way he held his Bible. He stalked up and down the halls holding the thing as if it were his own personal Excalibur. This wasn’t some humble pocket edition. Nope, this Good Book was giant, about four inches thick. It was fucking intimidating.

I lovingly referred to this guy in my head as Crazy Jesus Dude. God was his answer for everything. He was always praising Jesus or thanking Jesus for something, anything. We played a game once where you pick a card and answer the question printed on it. His question was, “What would you do with a million dollars?” Without missing a beat, this dude said, of course, he would give it to God. If you’re wondering what the fuck God needs a million dollars for, you’re not alone. I guess the guy’s reasoning was that God could better distribute the money to the various Poor People of the world. Me and my buddy with the reconstructed septum, we just shook our heads. We knew what we’d use that million dollars for. When all the crazies in the room are giving you the side-eye like you’re the crazy one, you should know that something’s up.

Crazy Jesus Dude wasn’t happy about taking the pills. He thought that the doctor was trying to control his mind, and that his contact with God was being interrupted. He was comfortable in his mania, religious or otherwise. He wanted out.

So, do you remember those 900 pound beds I was telling you about? Well, the power of Christ compelled him to push his in front of his door to barricade himself in his room. Everyone was baffled as to how he managed to do it. They spent a good long while trying to coax him out, then trying to yell him out, and finally they wound up using a battering ram and some wooden beams to pry the door open. Four orderlies carried the man out, one on each limb, gave him a nice fat shot of Ativan and locked him in the Quiet Room.

They still let him have his giant Bible when his quiet time was up though. I guess nobody wanted to deny a righteous man his Bible.

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Hamartia

noun.

A fatal flaw leading to the downfall of a tragic hero or heroine. (Oxford)

I haven’t written in a long time. There were a few other things I was focusing on that, at the time, seemed direly important.

It’s kind of like this: the oil light in my car was on for a while. I knew that it was something I needed to deal with, but I kept telling myself I could put it off for a little longer, that I would make it a little longer. It’s not like I didn’t have a bottle of oil in my backseat. It’s not like I didn’t know where to put the oil. But who’s got time to put oil in a car when you just overdrew your bank account another hundred dollars and the dopeman’s saying “I’m good”?

The result of all that was my car very nearly falling apart. Take that metaphor and stretch it as far as you like.

So, I haven’t written in a long time. Forgive me if I’m a little rusty.

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Cogitation

noun. The action of thinking deeply about something; contemplation. (Oxford)

There’s this joke my Grandma tells, and I’ve heard it more than a couple of times, so you’d think I’d remember how it goes. Since I don’t, I’ll just tell you the important bit. 

One day, at some point, for whatever reason, somebody says, “I am, therefore I think.” After that, some smug bastard emerges from the shadows, where he’d been biding his time and doing god-knows-what while he waited for his moment. I imagine he’s wearing a hat so he can remove it and brush it off a little bit like he’s all nonchalant during his blatant dramatic pause, all the while making somewhat uncomfortable eye contact with the poor fellow who will soon become the helpless victim of his wit. He returns the hat to it’s rightful place on his head, tipped ever so slightly, and very slowly, very clearly, he replies, “Well, don’t ya think yer puttin’ Descartes before de horse?”

He was met with groans and the sound of palms hitting foreheads. A lone chuckle could be heard somewhere off to his right. 

It was after this man slinked back into the shadows amid the pained reactions of his peers that he felt a sudden clarity which slowed the shuffle of his legs until he was stopped dead. Instead of basking in the joy that should have come from finally being in a situation where his beloved punchline was appropriate, he began to painfully reevaluate what it was exactly that his searingly clever response actually implied. He had waited so long, bided his time, and remained hopeful against all odds that the correct moment would arise if only he remained diligently alert and always ready to strike. Now that his bit of glory was over, he was faced with the harsh realities that so many of us try to ignore, the realities of semantics. Cogito noun. The principle establishing the existence of a being from the fact of its thinking or awareness. (Oxford)

In other words, cogito, ergo sum, by which is meant, “I think, therefore I am”. Descartes being responsible for this catchy little phrase, it’s easy to see the comedic logic behind the joke. 

Or … well, if thinking is necessary for being, and we consider the possibility that maybe horses don’t have thoughts or consciousnesses, then where do we find a horse that even exists, let alone one that can be placed  behind Mr. Descartes.

Hmm. I suppose that since we can only ever be really certain of the existence of our own consciousness because, practically speaking, that’s the only consciousness we experience, which is where our thoughts come from, which we’re taking as proof of our being. So, we can’t really prove or disprove the existence of our horse, since we can’t really be certain of it’s capability to think. I mean, let’s be real here. 

I’ll allow the horse to be on the same plane of existence as Mr. Descartes, and we’ll lead it so they are arranged with our good man in front and the horse behind. This arrangement is used as a response to the statement that being or existence is required for thought, not the other way around, hence the humorous use of a well-known cliche to suggest that the guy has things backwards. 

Well, I don’t know, but I’m not sure I really see a connection between de horse and Descartes and their locations in space, at least as it relates to the problems of existence and consciousness. Anyway, having the philosopher stand in front of the horse rather than behind certainly seems like a safer location for him. Placing the horse in front of Descartes doesn’t really make me think much about consciousness either, because maybe I’m too focused on the possibility of getting kicked in the face. 

I think I’m overthinking this.

I apologize for that perversion of Philosophy. Please don’t read it.

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Titular

adjective. Holding or constituting a purely formal position or title without any real authority. (Oxford) It was a long time ago, way back when I first started this little project, and I don't expect anyone to remember. To be honest, if it weren't for my substantial level of self-involvement I probably wouldn't have thought of it myself. It was in one of my first couple of posts, and I only just mentioned it. I said I'd tell you about my name. 

So I will. If nothing else, I try to be a lady of my word... or any word, I guess, as long as it's a good one. 

Names have a lot of power, I think. If you’re into the Bible, you know that God told Adam to name all the animals as a roundabout way of telling him he was the boss. More importantly, people can’t find you on Facebook if they don’t know your name. 

I go by Katie. It seems pretty straightforward. It's also not technically right. On the books, my name is Katherine. 

That's it. Katherine.

I don’t know about you. I don’t know how you feel about your name.

When I was much younger than I am now, I asked my mom about it. I imagine most kids want to know what their names mean. It’s one of our most basic personal identifiers, an organized cluster of letters assigned to you entirely without your input, and sometimes it feels more than a little arbitrary. Nobody wants to be arbitrary.

I asked my mom why she named me Katherine, but called me Katie. She told me that she had always wanted a Katie. She also wanted me to have a "professional" name, one that sounded cultured and refined and intelligent. 

So, my name is Katherine.

I hated it. I found it immensely irritating when people fucked up it up. No, I’m not Katherine; just call me Katie. I’d always correct teachers if they got it wrong when they were doing roll call. Katherine didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like my name fit me, or maybe I didn’t fit it. 

I wanted to be Katherine. I wanted desperately to be smooth and sophisticated, to be respected and desired. I tried, and every attempt ended in failure and embarrassment. My efforts seemed hopeless. Katherine felt like a slap in the face. It felt like a cruel taunt. It was too good for me. I wished it wasn’t my name. Just call me Katie.

Really, they each have their ups and downs. Neither is very simple, and both are quite common. When you’re called Katie, you have to take certain precautions. Over the years I’ve trained myself not to turn my head whenever anyone shouts Katie on the street or in a crowded room. They’re almost always not looking for me.

When I was a freshman in high school, this is what happened. I was getting my first yearbook, and I was excited to have my friends sign it and to to look through it and everything. You can imagine that it was a bit of a shock to open the book and find that I wasn’t there. My picture was missing. 

It turned out that there was a girl two grades ahead who had my same first and last name. I got deleted because they thought I was a duplicate. One of my friends drew me in, a little stick figure with a big smile and curly hair. I looked at the picture, which was finished off with an arrow pointing to the slot where I should have been, and I couldn’t help but feel like my name, even though it didn’t owe me anything, had betrayed me.

It must be nice having a unique name. It must be easy to make an email address. 

By now, I’ve almost come to accept my given name, probably because I’m getting old. I have to admit that I appreciate my mother’s foresight, by which I mean, I appreciate her belief that I would become a useful enough member of society to warrant a professional name. Katherine might look pretty nice on business cards, or on the cover of the book that I may never actually write. 

I was taking art classes at a studio for a while. Like always, on the first day of class, the teacher was reading out the names of all the people in the class. He got to me, and there it was: Katherine. I didn’t correct him though, so everyone called me Katherine. Hi, I’m Katherine, I would say.

I got some kind of perverse pleasure from it. I was a shitty artist, but maybe these extremely skilled people thought I was sophisticated or a little more intelligent because I was Katherine. That probably wasn’t the case, because I’m not sophisticated and I don’t have nearly as many brain cells as I used to, but still, it was a nice thought to have since I was such a shitty artist. It was like a dirty secret, like I was tricking them; wow, they actually think I’m Katherine.

There was a boy who I saw a lot, and he thought I was Katherine. As things went on, he started saying Katie. I would tell him not to, and that he should call me what he’d always called me, Katherine. Looking back, I can’t say his change didn’t make sense. Katherine was just a cover, and Katie was bound to pop up sooner or later. It was fun while it lasted. 

I try not to pretend to be Katherine anymore. It’s just simpler that way. It’s more honest.

Ask me my name, and I’ll tell you I’m Katie. I always have been, and I don’t think it’s ever going to change. Well, maybe someday I’ll get to be Katherine. I’ll be on the cover of that book I may or may not write, and I’ll be incredibly cultured and beautiful, and I’ll be important to everyone. Maybe someday, but I’m skeptical. 

Katie is pretty uncomplicated. Katie doesn’t say the right things, she fucks up a lot and she isn’t very desirable at all. Her head is filled with nonsense that she can’t keep from coming out. She never gets anything done. Katherine, my name, is essentially aspirational. It’s for my future, for who I could become. I’ve learned it requires a lot of work. I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever figure out how it’s done. 

It's true though. The evidence is undeniable.  Katie just seems to be who I am. It’s very easy to be Katie.

So, call me Katie. Everyone else does, anyway.

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Palpebral

adjective. Of or relating to the eyelids. (Oxford)

I’m scared of monsters. Yes, I am 24 years old. I’ll be 25 in April. That’s irrelevant. 

I’m scared of monsters. Well, to be honest, most of the time I’m only mildly concerned about monsters. The feeling I get when in a Monster Danger Zone isn’t usually fear in the strictest sense. It’s really more like nervousness or apprehension or something like that. Then there’s the attempt to suppress the monster thoughts because they’re obviously irrational. That endeavor tends to fail pretty quickly. 

I go through phases with it. I have periods of vague distress, nothing too exciting really. Then I have a spell of full-blown panic and terror, and I can barely get out from under the covers or go downstairs to get a snack. Downstairs is the Danger Zone, where monsters could jump at me through the kitchen windows or the screen door, and going out on the screen porch to smoke a cigarette is like an invitation for them to run out from the trees and tear me apart. Monster time is after 11pm. I have to make sure I get my smoking in before then.

How scared I get really depends on my level of belief in the whole thing. It’s whether or not I see a monster attack as a remote possibility or as a real, honest-to-god threat to my life and wellbeing. A monster lull is no reason to screw around though. There’s always some small part of my brain dedicated to monster awareness,  always cognizant of the chance that a big hairy fucker might chase me down and rip me to shreds.

 The Monster Danger Zone has gotten smaller as I’ve gotten older. When I was a kid and it was dark I would get worried that they would come and eat me in my bed. 

My only defense was to close my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look. Maybe if I can’t see them, maybe they won’t be there, or maybe it won’t hurt as badly. Maybe I’ll be safe with my eyes closed. Maybe they won't know where I am.

I still close my eyes sometimes just in case it might actually make the monsters disappear. I can't tell you whether or not it it really works. I don't know.

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Noetic

adjective.  Of or relating to mental activity or the intellect. (Oxford)

So I graduated from college. Actually, that’s not completely true. I’m going to be straight with you. I jumped through all the hoops and completed all my requirements to get my degree, but I haven’t actually graduated yet. Every time I check my Graduation Status on my NYU Home page, it still says, “Applied for Graduation”. Yeah, I did that in October. Thanks for reminding me. 

Apparently I have to wait until January 27th for all my hard work and not-so-hard work and tears and stress and hangovers and questionable life choices and numerous trips to various inpatient institutions to be translated into an official college degree. 

I still tell people I graduated anyway. I only feel a little bit bad about it. I know it’s not technically correct, but it’s going to be correct soon, and it’s just easier for everyone, you know, not to get dragged into the unnecessary details. Also, I get to tell people I graduated from college, and that’s kind of cool.

I’ll have a degree in English and American Literature with two minors in Philosophy and Creative Writing. After I tell people that I generally say something like, “So, basically, I majored in homelessness”, and everyone has a good laugh, and I still don’t know how I’m going to get a job.

But it’s over. All of the papers I wrote the day before they were due and the reading assignments I couldn’t concentrate on, the lectures I sat through, those insufferable Spanish classes, everything, all the nonsense, it’s over. Somehow I managed to keep my grades up to a 3.76. Not quite sure how, but that doesn’t really matter.

It’s over.

I need to let that sink in. School was always a painful experience, from my first days in kindergarten right up until my very last final. When I think of school I don’t really think of the academic stuff. It’s everything else that haunts me. I’d go into more detail but I don’t really feel like thinking about it right now. 

I mention my graduation and the resulting lack of school because hopefully it will allow me the extra brain space needed to actually write in this goddamn thing. So, I resolve to be a better blogger, even though I honestly hate the word “blogger”. It sounds so … puerile. I’m too lazy to come up with an alternative though, so I’m just going to pretend I didn’t write this paragraph. I’ll leave you guys to decide whether any of this is ironic considering the definition of my word, which you can see at the top of this post, if you haven't looked at it. I don’t feel like thinking about it, honestly.

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Vitreous

adjective. like glass in appearance or physical properties. (Oxford)

The first time I ever went through a police checkpoint was also the first time I had ever smoked weed. It was high school (I can't remember the year), and I was with my friend and her then boyfriend. I think we picked the shit up from a McDonalds, where her boyfriend’s friend dealt from. 

I didn't question the logistics of this transaction. Up until that point I had only perfected the art of binge drinking and blacking out, so I was the definition of drug-naive. Hell, I can't say I even knew anything about weed. (To this day, I don't know much at all about weed. I used to joke with my friends that I “only did hard drugs”.) 

I had no idea what to expect. I remembered a story my mom used to tell about her getting passed a joint at a Led Zeppelin concert and then spending the rest of the show in the bathroom puking her guts out. Other than that, I was pretty sure that Taco Bell was involved in the smoking process somehow, but I wasn't sure if this was required or if it was simply ceremonial.

Long story short, taking after my mother, this particular drug did not agree with my system in the least. I’m pretty sure we went to Taco Bell, where I might have enjoyed a particularly tasty chalupa, but after that my head reacted as if I’d been knocked unconscious, and I passed out cold. 

We had made it to the now defunct Izzy’s by then. My friend and her man were inside enjoying the tableside jukeboxes I imagine, and me, I was in the backseat of the car, incapable of coherent thought.

In the backseat I remained, lying down and only vaguely perceiving what was going on around me. It was in this state, boyfriend driving, best friend in the passenger seat, and me curled up in the back, that we ran into one of those police sobriety checkpoints going down Center Street. Boyfriend, being as charming as he was, got us through without a hassle, but I think we all, even I in my compromised state, experienced some anxiety-induced tachycardia at that moment. Well hell, we made it though, didn’t we?

That was the first time I learned that I didn’t like marijuana. There were many more times after that where I was reminded of the same fact, but I’m a little slow, so cut me some slack. 

These days I treat police checkpoints with a little more aplomb; that is to say, I’m not unconscious.

Since I gave up booze for the sake of myself, my country, and all those around me, I have made it my mission to be the Designated Driver for my friends in any situation that might call for it. I figure it’s my way of giving back just a little for all the asshole things I did when I was a drunk.

So my first encounter with a sobriety checkpoint differs just a little from my most recent. 

Caryn was in the car, and we were returning from the bar that we know colloquially as The Inn. We’re driving along chatting, when down the line we see cars slowing down, and cops doing the whole sobriety thing. I’m not worried; I don’t drink! No anticipated issues. 

We pull up next to this youngish looking cop and I roll the window down.

Cop: So where are you guys going tonight?

Me: Oh, we’re going home.

Cop: Where are you coming from?

Me: We were at this bar in Southside called Your Welcome Inn. We’re driving home from there. 

Cop: Have you guys been drinking tonight?

Me: (Gesture to Caryn) My friend here has had a few, but I don’t drink. I’m being the DD. 

Cop: You don’t drink?

Me: No, sir. 

Cop: I don’t know, your eyes look a little glassy. I’m not sure you’re telling me the truth. 

Me: Well, I’m an alcoholic. 

(Cop just looks at me for a second. Caryn jumps in.)

Caryn: A recovering alcoholic! Recovering!

Me: Oh, yeah, I’m not like, an active alcoholic. I don’t drink.

(Cop stares at me a little longer, as if I were a rare butterfly or something. He looks confused.)

Cop: Well, how long has it been since you’ve drank?

(I look over at Caryn and we do some calculating.)

Me: A few years… it’s been a few years.

Caryn: We were in a really smoky bar. (Trying to explain our glassy eyes.)

(I don’t know why this police officer looked so confused! It was really bizarre.)

Cop: So she drank, but you don’t drink.

(I nod)

Cop: Okay… go ahead. Uh … congratulations on your sobriety.

Me: Thanks! (Big smile)

So Caryn and our glassy eyes and I drive on, not quite sure what just happened. Then we looked at each other, and we were pretty sure that whatever happened, it was kind of hilarious.

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Nimbus

noun. 1. a luminous cloud or halo surrounding a supernatural being or a saint. 2. a large grey rain cloud. (Oxford) It’s been a while since I’ve been inside a church, mainly for personal, self-righteous reasons (12 years of Catholic school will do that to you). I get uncomfortable, you know, like something is watching me and judging me, and how can I ever catch up with all the judgment-worthy things I’ve done in the past to atone for my future? You’ll hear the same bullshit from any ex-Catholic, especially us who came from the schools, so I’m not trying to rehash old news. 

I remember sitting in Church and looking at the stained-glass windows. On good days the light would shine through them just right and everything would glimmer and cast red and blue and yellow shadows on the floor. It was nice, and maybe the light would make it all the way to the tabernacle or one of the statues and leave a glint like maybe something was alive.

Our stained-glass showed the Stages of the Cross, if I remember correctly. The holy people like Jesus being tortured and Mary weeping had halos, big circles around their heads to make sure we knew they were extra holy and we should pay attention to them. Sometimes when the light hit just the halos would glow, or mostly just the halos, my memory is a little fuzzy.

I always thought it was funny, that on a sunny day the windows looked so magnificent, but add in one cloud and they looked dull and lifeless and boring. I decided I didn’t want my halo to be controlled by the sun.

Although I can’t say that I’ve done much of a job of earning a yellow circle around my head. 

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Stereotypy

noun. The persistent repetition of an act, especially by an animal, for no obvious purpose. (Oxford)

You’ve probably heard this one before:  “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” A lot of people will try to tell you that it was Albert Einstein who first coined this phrase. Don’t listen to them. Think for a second. It would be a little strange for Mr. Einstein to equate the act of repetition with insanity, considering the fact that Science sometimes utilizes an experimental method wherein a certain trial is carried out many times in order to determine the probability of one outcome over another. At least, I think it would be a little strange. That’s not even to mention the implications of Quantum Mechanics on the validity of this definition. Throw all that nonsense into the mix, and suddenly every time I drop a pen there is a chance, however minute, that it could float upwards instead of falling down like we expect it to. Mr. Einstein wouldn’t like to live with that contradiction, I don’t think.

Do me a favor though, and just like, kick me really hard if I try to start talking about Quantum Mechanics. It never ends well. Trust me.

Anyway.

In actuality, this description of insanity first appeared in literature published by Narcotics Anonymous.

Okay, that makes more sense. If we step inside the 12 Step bubble for a second, it’s obvious that this definition is pretty useful in describing how addiction manifests itself in human behavior. Taking the drink/drug is the repetitive behavior, and the false belief is that anything good will ever come of it; therefore, engaging in the repetitive behavior is considered “insanity”. Their usage of the word is specialized, and designed to shatter the esteemed exclusivity of the Insane Club and make it so that, well, everyone can be insane. It’s pretty simple, actually. Insanity for all. 

Then they tell me that I could be “restored to sanity” by a “Power greater than myself” if I follow the program. So don’t worry, you don’t have to be insane for very much longer. Your insanity can be controlled. That’s Step 2 in case anyone was wondering.

I’m not going to make any assumptions regarding your familiarity with alcohol and narcotics or the mechanics of addiction, but I think it’s pretty obvious that if we exit the 12 Step bubble, the definition and it’s consequences are simply incompatible with everyday life. A quick glance at Behavioral Psychology makes that pretty clear. Useless repetition is everywhere. Addiction is a small part of it.

I don’t want my insanity to be available to everyone. I don’t want it to be minimized by pop culture definitions. I want it to be special. I want it to be unique. I don’t want any random person to be able to stand up and call themselves insane, get high fives for being so honest and open with everyone, and then be showered with promises of relief. That’s not how it really works.

  So, in the spirit of Mr. Einstein, and for the sake of Science, I took it upon myself to look up the real definition of insanity.  Insanity noun. The state of being seriously mentally ill; madness. (Oxford)

I doubt anyone is getting a high five for admitting to that kind of insanity. No one wants to be a card-carrying member of the Insane Club now.

So I’m not going to make any assumptions regarding your familiarity with insanity. That would be incredibly impolite. 

I think insanity is a personal thing. It’s like masturbation. It’s like prayer. It’s like your high school journal. It’s like doing drugs.

Your insanity or your mother’s insanity or your best friend’s insanity, none of it is any of my business. I suppose you could make it my business, but I’d rather you keep it to yourself, really. Save it for your close friends, or for men of God, if you indulge any religious tendencies. Try to explain it. It’s not as simple as the pop culture definition would have us believe. 

If you want to share it with me I guess I’d be flattered, I guess. I’m not assuming you’re so familiar with insanity, because that would be impolite, but I really think it’s best shared with only your most intimate relations. You can raise your hand and shout it to everyone if you want, but real life doesn’t give you a pat on the back; real life throws you in the psych ward and fills your body with medication designed to change you. 

You’re better off if you just keep clinging to whatever control you have.

I’m not sure what 12 Step wisdom has to offer the likes of me. If I call my higher power my anti-depressants, my mood-stabilizers, my anti-psychotics, my stimulants, and my sedatives, then I guess Step 2 still stands. I’m not sure I want to do that though. I take the pills every day and sometimes they do what they’re supposed to and sometimes they don’t. That’s doing the same thing over and over.

So am I even more insane?  Can I ever stop?

You may or may not be insane. I’m not going to try to guess.

I think insanity is a very personal thing. 

  It’s like masturbation. It’s like prayer. It’s like writing in a journal. It’s like doing drugs.

  (The definition for the original word of the day, way up there, references a lack of obvious purpose. Do you have any obvious purposes?

Because I know I sure as hell can't think of any.)

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Convalescence

noun. 1. Time spent recovering from an illness or medical treatment. 2. Recuperation. (Oxford)

  I’ve been away for awhile.

I had hoped I would be able to continue writing this blog during the school year, but it all proved to be a little more stressful than I would have hoped.

It’s summer now though, which means its time to attempt normalcy for the hundred thousandth time. That's not an exact number, but it's around one hundred thousand, I know that.

Hopefully now that I’m finished with school for now, and subsequently  been faced with the horrifying reality of my own inadequacy, I’ll be able to devote some time to my words. 

I wonder, did they miss me?

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Demiurge

noun.  a being responsible for the creation of the universe. (Oxford)

S >> I just don’t think it’s as complicated as you’re making it out to be.

J >> Well, feel free to jump right in then, if you’ve got it all figured out. I think I saw you change a light bulb once, so you must be an expert.

S >> All I’m saying is, you’ve counted all the parts at least 5 or 6 times. They’re all there.

J >> I know they’re all here, I know, but these pictures don’t make any fucking sense. I feel like I’m looking at a Penthouse magazine for horny furniture. I don’t even know what the fuck that thing is supposed to be.

S >> I think you’re looking at it too much. You can figure it out. You’ve got these pieces of wood, and these screws, and whatever, now just make ‘em all … put together.

J >> What the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to do? See, you’re supposed to connect these two together, and there’s supposed to be a hole for the screw there, but do you see a goddamned hole?

S >> Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong spot.

J >> It’s almost like they drilled these holes at random!

S >> Hey, maybe you just got the one in a million, you know. You got the special one. Maybe this means something.

J >> Yeah, or some dude at the factory was having a really pissy day.

S >> C’mon, think about it, we’re unique!

J >> I just wanted a fucking night stand …

S >> But there isn’t anyone ever who’s going to have the same night stand as you. There are hundreds and thousands of this exact night stand, but none of those are like this one … this pile of wood that will eventually be a night stand. What are the odds?

J >> Right. We’re very blessed to have gotten the defective night stand. Hallelujah. That doesn’t solve the whole pile of wood problem. 

S >> Yeah, well just — 

J >> And this manual is absolutely absurd. Have you even looked at these pictures? All those screws going into all those holes… it’s fucking pornographic. I’m getting aroused by pictures of dismantled furniture. 

S >> Here, give me the goddamned instructions. You’re not allowed to look at them anymore; just put the thing together. You’re thinking about it way too much. 

J >> My therapist always says that to me. Maybe I should call my therapist …

S >> Focus, focus; back to the night stand. So the manual is useless and distracting, who cares? We’re special! We’re one of a kind! There’s a one in a trillion chance that we would get this night stand — this random, somewhat implausible night stand — with all of its pieces at this very moment in time, but against all odds, it’s here, and you can build it. You don’t need the manual. Build it the way it wants to be built; everything you need is there. Start the process, man, start the chain reaction, and let the night stand guide you, let it lead the way …

J >> Okay, now you’re just starting to freak me out.

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Apotropaic

adjective. supposedly having the power to avert evil influences or bad luck. (Oxford)

Before you get in your bed, you go over to the little light plugged into the wall next to your nightstand. You flick the switch, and the little light bursts into existence, like it could have been a dormant volcano that suddenly decided to erupt. But it couldn’t have been,  because this happens every night, and volcanoes don’t have enough lava to blow up every night. It was an all right metaphor, though.

The bulb’s got a star covering the front of it, and it makes it glow kind of blue. You like blue.

Looking over at your light, you feel a little pride. This is yours, you picked it out yourself, and you’re the one who gets to turn it on and off. You have control.

So you climb in your bed and you feel safe, because when you switch off the big light, that little one is still going to be shining. It’ll still be protecting you. 

It’s a known fact that monsters are scared of the light. That’s why they invented night lights, any idiot can see that; they’re dim enough so’s you can sleep, and they’re bright enough to keep the monsters away.

You sleep just fine knowing that you’ll never have to see a monster, because your little blue star night light will shine on and on and keep you safe.   

You have found a cure for the problem of monsters.  

Well, until the bulb burns out. But you’ve got another one, right?

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Sprezzatura

noun. studied carelessness, especially as a characteristic quality or style of art or literature. (Oxford)

I didn’t choose the word for this post. I’ve decided that it might be more interesting if I have someone else pick them for me. That, and I’m pathologically incapable of making decisions, so having to choose the perfect word was stressing me out. So I wrote a bunch of good options on index cards, and I’m going make other people do the dirty work for me. My little brother Kevin is responsible for this one.    

At some point in my life, I was in college, and by “in”, I mean “at”. I’ve been enrolled as a student at New York University for around five years now, but my “at college” years, when I was living on campus, come to a grand total of three. 

Questionable decision-making and multiple leaves of absence account for the time from then until now, but I’m not here to talk about taking the non-traditional route. 

What I want to do is give myself a little high five, because apparently when I was At College I actually learned something besides all the various ways I could be self-indulgent.

Sprezzatura. I remember this one from a literature class I apparently attended pretty consistently. 

I sat in the lecture hall — always on the end of the row, in the same seat, because I’m anti-social — and I learned about some book by some guy who sounded like a real asshole. 

That’s actually pretty much the definition of being an English major, though, so here are some specifics.

The idea of sprezzatura came from this guy named Baldassare Castiglione, which may or may not be the best name ever. If I ever really fuck up real bad and have a kid, that name would be amongst my top choices for the thing.

Mr. Castiglione wrote a book called The Book of the Courtier.  

Courtier noun. a person who attends royal court as a companion or advisor to the king or queen. (Oxford)  

Basically, this book is a guide on how to most effectively make people think you’re a lot more awesome than you actually are. This was especially important to the courtier, because in order for him to maintain his position as the king’s dancing monkey, he had to be a pretty fucking cool dude. 

I assume everyone is familiar with the vintage TV show Happy Days. You know how The Fonz does that thing where he struts into the room and whacks the jukebox and it magically starts playing?

Seriously, don’t you think it would have taken Fonzie a really long time to figure out the exact right spot to hit the jukebox to trip the circuit and make it start cranking out that rock and roll music? No one seems bothered by it in the least though, because Fonzie’s just fucking cool, so naturally he possesses special cool kid jukebox powers.

That’s the point of sprezzatura. You have to make complicated and difficult things, like playing the mandolin, being devilishly witty and charming, or abusing jukeboxes, seem completely effortless, like you didn’t have to think about them at all; but you probably spent hours standing in front of the mirror trying to perfect your signature subtle little slouch that just screams “nonchalance”, you badass mother fucker. 

You can go read the sprezzatura Wikipedia article if you feel like it. Go be academic.

Personally, I kind of prefer the versatility of the Oxford definition over the historical context of the word. To me, it sounds like it could be pretty nefarious.

“Studied carelessness” seems like it might mean something like, “I don’t give a fuck, but don’t worry, I thought really hard about it first”.

It would be like someone putting the baby seat on the top of the car to load the groceries, and the pausing to think, “Hey, I have a reputation for being absent-minded, so maybe I’ll just leave the baby up there and drive away, and then everyone will think I truthfully did forget the baby because I’m just kind of careless like that!”

I’m a little twisted though, so there are probably more reasonable ways of interpreting the definition. 

So think about it. Think about being careless.    

This post seemed pretty casual right? Did it seem like it came naturally, like I sat down and it just kind of flowed real easy?

Fuck no. Sprezzatura?

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Polysemy

noun. the coexistence of many possible meanings for a word or phrase.  (Oxford)

There was a girl who lived in a house made of eggshells. Everywhere she went, from her bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen or wherever, she was followed by the relentless sounds of crunching and cracking, each footstep advertising her movements with devastating accuracy. As careful as she was, her feet — attached to a body she was halfway convinced was too large for silence — always made her presence known.

Her parents didn’t care about their noisy steps and stomps through the eggshells, because they could walk around like they owned the place. Experience, the shame of feeling viscous egg dripping slowly down her face as the price of any misstep, had taught her to attempt a little more discretion. 

She knew that when she heard the familiar thud of a glass bottle on the kitchen table or another wet crash of a carton of breaking shells hitting the wall, the most important thing she could do was disappear.

So she learned to be light on her feet. She tried to be. She practiced walking on thumb tacks and broken glass. When the sun heated the asphalt so hot you could cook an egg on it, she stepped across it barefooted, and imagined herself as a monk walking across hot coals for whatever reason it was that they did that. She stalked squirrels and birds to see how close she could get before they heard her and took off. Once, after a lot of practice, she managed to grab the end of a squirrel’s tail. As the thing freaked out and darted off when she quickly let go, she thought maybe that was what it was like to get raped.

Her bloodied, scabbed, tender feet were wrapped in fabric from an old shirt and hidden under socks. She held in the winces and tried not to walk too funny around anyone who might have cared to notice. There was  definitely a lighter touch to her step though, if her near fanatical attention to any slight variation in her eggshell sounds was any evidence. It was progress, she thought as she unwrapped her feet each night, fabric sometimes stuck to damaged skin, and soaked them in warm water.

At school, she had to make up excuses for not playing tag at recess, or for not skipping rope. Running all over and jumping up and down just didn’t sound as fun when each step ached to her bones. If she was lucky and the weather was right, she could just tell her friends that it was too bright outside; she was white as an eggshell, so it wasn’t unreasonable that she would avoid the sun. She’d watch them chase each other around from under the little shade of the recess yard’s single tree, pulling grass more out of habit than out of spite.

She’d sit under that tree and wonder if somewhere under all the broken eggs her house was made of bricks and wood, like all the other houses on her street, or whether eggs was all it was. She’d wonder about that weather forecast she had heard about another storm coming through the city, and if her house would be strong enough to keep standing.

Really, she could wonder a lot of things, but mostly it didn’t really matter about the house or the whats and the whys of anything or all of it. Mostly she didn’t want to know about the bottles and the loud voices and the crashes at night. Mostly she tried not to care all that much.

What she really cared about was facing her cracked shell of a house, and walking through the door and down the hall and up the stairs without making a sound.

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Phosphorescence

noun. light emitted by a substance without combustion or perceptible heat. (Oxford)

I want to glow.  

Do you think that’s strange? Maybe you can learn a little bit about what kind of person you are from the way you interpreted my statement up there. I’d love to have the opportunity to sit you down and psychoanalyze you, but this is the Internet, and that would be rude.  

So listen.  I want to glow.

I was standing in front of my bathroom mirror today. I do this more often than I’d care to tell you. 

I examine my skin, at first close up, then far away, and squint — my old art teacher told us that if you really want to see what’s wrong with something, you’ve got to squint. I run my fingers over the acne scars on my cheeks, smooth out my eyebrows and remind myself to get them waxed. 

I think about how much time an average person spends looking in a mirror; actually, maybe I don’t want to know.

I lean in close to the glass again; I’m either incredibly vain or incredibly insecure.

The mirror isn’t consistent. It tells me different things at different times. Its opinions change so much that I barely know what to believe. There’s only one thing that it seems to know for sure.

I do not glow.

You know what I’m talking about. There’s that beauty jargon floating around that tells us we should have a “healthy glow”. We should be illuminated, radiant, bright; so add that to the list of all the other things we’re supposed to be. Try to ignore the fact that most of those things are fucking ridiculous; obviously I do.

It’s not surprising that I’d latch on to such a concept despite it’s somewhat radioactive implications. I had horrible skin when I was younger. I grew up with relentless, cystic acne. Looking at myself was an ordeal to be avoided as much as possible. I tried everything to fix the nonsense on my face. After all else failed, I took Accutane and was subjected to monthly pregnancy tests and disturbingly hilarious illustrations of cone-headed babies that covered each individual foil where you would pop out the pill. I was probably 13.

Glowing sounds so nice and pretty, so far removed from the red, ugly, painful skin I suffered with, the skin I feel constantly lurking around the corner, waiting to take control again. Glowing sounds serene, like I’d calm the fuck down for a second and fool everyone into thinking I was sane. Glowing sounds like you’d look across the room and notice me, and maybe want to come over and say hi. Glowing sounds like you’d be able to see me, the inside of me, and if I were able to look good enough then you’d only see the best parts of me.

Naturally, and enthusiastically, I bought into the whole glow-y skin thing. I have a bottle of moisturizer called “Morning Glow” sitting on my bathroom counter right now, along with too many other products that claimed they would make my skin clear and illuminated. They don’t get used because they don’t work.

I do not glow.

So, I think I’m going to try something different for a while. I think I’m going to try to forget about glowing. Glowing hasn’t done me any good.

I’ll try this instead.  I want to sparkle.  Like disco balls and glitter and diamonds, I want to sparkle.

I’m not going to care anymore.  I’m going to be free. I’m going to sparkle.