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After struggling to create a post with a few inserted images, I finally got fed up with Blogger. I've migrated this entire blog over to a wordpress, which can be found at

https://craquelure.home.blog/

The quality of life improvements have been tremendous. Fonts are consistent, I don't have to struggle with text color, images are handled smoothly, and it's overall a much more polished process. I originally made the Silent Sidebar for my high school Academy of Science and Engineering class, but soon appropriated it for different material. I've enjoyed writing here, but honestly. I'm glad I'm switching.


This Silent Sidebar will remain up, but will no longer be updated. If you want to see any of my new stuff, come check out Craquelure.

Dystopian Rant

Our kids are screwed. They're going to be doped up on ADHD meds because schools will have eliminated all forms of art or phys ed, have terrible posture from hunching over glowing screens of whatever size we end up having, paltry immune systems and allergies because of our systemic elimination from any kind of dirt or grime, clinical depressions and insecurities if they're lucky, and eating disorders and body dysmorphia if they're not, for which they will be summarily medicated because any deviation from the mean determined by Health and Safety and a school board so out of touch they might as well start a space program has determined. They're going to be living on a dying planet in the literal and metaphoric heat of this antropocene, as the finality of a sixth and possibly last Great Dying event takes away what we didn't know we needed, let alone wanted. The water levels will lap at homes that previously were built on righteous solid rocks, but they will not be waters of vitality. No, not the water of life, but only of death, as overfishing, pollution, garbage patches, deoxygenated zones, algae blooms, and acidification eat away at the bedrock of everything that we hold dear. And their conception of beauty will not be determined by the blossoms of flowers or the shadow of mountains, no, it will be cultivated carefully, by impeccably coiffed men, women, and every shade of in-betweens that will exploit those insecurities and needs, promising ways to fill those holes with things that they know will fall through just so they can sell it to you again. And at the end of the day, they'll go home to apartments on top floors of their towers of Babel, cranking the AC so they can ignore the fact that the world is getting hotter. There will be people, destitute, homeless on the streets, but we won't care then any more than we care now. The plight of the unfortunate was always Lady Fortune's fickle responsibility anyway. No, from our ivory towers the problems of the world seem small. Oh, if only we could all love each other and get along, but how can we show love when we would have forgotten how to love ourselves? Self harm in the name of beauty. Self harm in the name of worth. Self harm, placed at the feet of idols called Image. Success. Achievement. On our knees, purging anything that fills us lest we feel hunger, or feel anything at all. The cold, gaunt, hollow eyes of society will find their marks and strike with ruthless democracy. Anything will be called oppressive. Anything will be called intolerant. Values? Bigoted. Priorities? Discriminatory. Opinion? As the kids say, "You're on fucking thin ice." Don't you dare open your mouths. Don't you dare even think. In fact, until you can make your mind entirely vestigial, we'll do the thinking for you. Madison said "If men were Angels, no government would be necessary." And well, we can't yet make men into Angels (but trust me, we're trying), so instead we'll just stop you all from being men. Don't ask questions, and you'll have all the answers you'll ever need. Oh and Love? Prudence? Chastity? Temperance? Forget about it. These virtues are too hard. We'll give you soft ones instead. So soft babies can chew on it. Soft virtues that can be stuffed into the cookie cutters of profitability. Soft virtues that can wear a push up bra and suck in its belly so a venture capitalist will give her a place to sleep for a night. Soft virtues that people who long ago forsook anything that resembles objectivity and truth can wrap themselves in, like smothering shrouds as they get on televisions to tell fake stories about fake people that reinforce fake values, so that people on their morning commute or sitting after a hard day's sitting at the office can have fake feelings about the fake news so that their fake friends can fake care when they make fake conversations at the water cooler in the morning. And we won't need the sun. No that fickle thing? We shan't need it at all! Look down. Look around you. Here's a nice cave. Get back in the cave, where's its warm and it's dry, you'll be safe. And if you lean against that there wall yourself we won't have to chain you to it. The shadows on the walls, old inscribed pictographs, it's really just a spectrum from Hieroglyphic to Emoji. Here, have a phone. Text away! Oh, no, don't run. At least don't run too far. Your phone will die, and you won't have anyone to talk to. In fact, if your phones die, you won't be able to talk to anyone. Not anyone in this group of people will be able to talk to anyone else. But why would you want to? They don't get you. We get you. Don't worry, fam, here's a hat, a bra, a sock, a shoe, a tie, a purse, an ostrich jacket, that you can have instead of a personality. Don't pretend like you don't want it. Don't pretend like you're better (but if you do, here's something you can wear to let everyone know). Sit down. Shut up. Pay your taxes. Protest. Rally. Be "woke" if you want. We'll give you causes to show that you care. Here's a left and a right you can pick from. You can fight to your heart's content, but at the end of the day, you need us. You need us to feed you and hold you and rock you to sleep because we were never stupid enough to let you learn how to do that yourself. And god forbid you'll meet someone you love, and devil forbid they should love you back, because then you'll want all the things we can't sell you. You might find out that he or she isn't an instagram post, with pouty cosmetics and perky camera angles. You'll have to contend with what a human is, and what we've made it. You'll want love, but only get lust. You'll want companionship, but only get followers. You'll want promise, but only get viral caprice. Like casting pearls before swine- bloated, GMO'd, bred, and breaded bacon machines that live from the ground, to be ground. And you'll wish that he or she were better, but worst of all, you'll wish that you were better. You'll want to be someone for that person that you wouldn't in a million years dream of being for yourself. And well, we simply can't have that. I'm sure you understand. So what we'll give you is romantic stories to screw with your expectations, pornography to screw with your sex drive, Hero archetypes that screw with your desires, and a thousand other things you can have instead. But that's all short game. The long game is this. Maybe we can't stop you from trying to be better, so we'll control what is Good, with a capital G. Because you know in your heart of dying hearts as well as we do that if we can control that, we can control anything. And we will not stop until this dystopia, this no-where, is Every. Where. And there will be no "out" for you to run to.

x

Review of Go Set a Watchman

One of my strongest memories of high school was my freshman, and senior, year English teacher, Mrs. Sheridan Briggs. She seemed to be a polarizing experience for my classmates and the people I knew who had her other years. She taught the Gifted-Talented English program freshman year, then the AP literature class senior year. Expectedly, this group of kids remained more or less consistent. Because high school classes are generally arduous endeavors, the majority of students would hate a class not because of any sin the class had committed by doing anything than being itself. The subject of chemistry itself may be mildly interesting, but repetitive, trite, and/or indecipherable assignments, when compounded with 90 minutes of confinement, a surge of adolescent temperaments, and a terrible lunch, would make anyone miserable. Mrs. Briggs English class was no exception. However, she did happen to firstly be an excellent teacher, and secondly an excellent woman. One of my strongest memories of her class was made in my freshman year, reading Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. It was a unit we studied for several weeks, and at the end, she gave each student a Indian head penny, the same kind as Boo Radley leaves for Scout and Jem in the knoll of a pecan tree. One thing that she emphasized about the book was Harper Lee's seclusion. I have kept it to this day. Mrs. Briggs told us that Harper Lee was the master of an author's equivalent of a reigning hide-and-seek champion, having popped up once with this book, which was a rousing success, and then secluding herself ever since. 

Needless to say, I was very surprised when Go Set a Watchman was announced to be released. Alice Lee, Harper's sister, who had for a long time been her confidant and defender, passed away a mere three months before the book was announced, and Mrs. Briggs and I both smelled perhaps a little foul play. Regardless, I'm ashamed to say that even if that were true (which it has never been proved to be), the glint of this blood diamond was too alluring for me to resist. I, however, did decide that I would wait until Harper Lee passed to read it. This meant that I would have heard about it far before reading it myself. While I managed to avoid any major spoilers, I did pick up on a general destain that people seem to have. Certainly, no one I've talked to would claim that Watchman was as better than or as good as Mockingbird, and there seemed to be an uneasiness and reluctance to accept it for what it is. Having read the book, I believe I understand why.

The charge often indicted against Watchman is that it Atticus is a racist. This is undeniably true. The character of Atticus believes that there are fundamental differences between African Americans and White Americans, which lead to their segregation being advantageous for both races. He believes that they are unfit to and incapable of holding public office, conduct matters of governance, or even really fulfill the responsibilities of being a citizen. He believes that integrated schools would lead to the falling of their standards, and that they are intellectually inferior to White Americans. While he it is a little more hazy whether or not he believes this inferiority can chance, it is obliviatingly obvious that Atticus is racist. I can understand why people would push back against this. In Mockingbird, Atticus is made into a sort of hero for his defense of a black man against charges that are false. He is the character that proclaims that rule of law, truth, and legal equality, are more important than the racial prejudices of town. This sentiment is not contradicted in Watchman, so much as it is qualified. Atticus gives a reasoned defense of his actions, and while I do not agree with him, I believe that this reasoning is consistent with the characters presented in Mockingbird. 

On the note of consistency, I believe that this book does a remarkably good job. Despite necessary changes to the cast, the recurring characters are accurately preserved, the newly introduced are realistically constructed, and the ones who are left behind are treated with dignity. Other criticisms of the book include that characters are not as well developed. The plot is nowhere as riveting as Mockingbird, and that it lacks the idyllic pastoral quality that Mockingbird excelled at. It has none of the childhood innocence, the slow progressions of seasons, the balled fists and angry tears of pedantic childish rivalry. And these are all things that I agree with. However, I believe that Watchman is valuable for several reasons, the strongest of which is this. It gives a glimpse into the psychology of the Jim Crow southerner. It shows the perspective of two characters which present the matter of southern post-war racism from two angles. Henry is a child from poverty, whose greatest impulse is to find a place in the tapestry of the community in a way that is befitting and beneficial. He is juxtaposed with Atticus, a man who has lived most of his life in the privilege of the community's graces on the merit of his conduct and family name. By building compelling narratives, Lee shows the reason why people of different upbringings would support an institution in the ways that they did. This perspective, I believe, is indispensably relevant to modern discussions on race and heritage, and I believe has a lot to offer. Of course, this is not to say that the racism, however justified, of this book is to be condoned. It is merely to provide another way in which the motivations and origins of racial thinking in the American south can be understood, and how it can then be effectively discussed. In short, far from pushing away from this book because Atticus is a racist, I believe that people ought to read it because Atticus is a racist, because he is not alone. 

Unfortunately, I live in a country filled with racists. They inhabit not only the corner stores and community meetings of Maycomb county, they are teachers, doctors, policemen. They are grocery store baggers. They are fast food servers. They are juries. And they are people. To be dismissive of them because of the views they hold is to be likeminded in their ignorance, only differently focused. The most important lesson I believe Go Set a Watchman has to offer is to listen. Listen to the writing. It is quite beautifully written. Listen to the characters themselves. Listen to their struggles and opinions, their hopes and fears. Walk a mile in their shoes. And listen to the voice of the other, not to embrace it as your own, but to grow in perspective and understanding. 

Father Gary Gurtler

Father Gurtler is probably the closest thing to a living archetype I have ever met. He is a small, careful man, I can probably count on my fingers the number of times I've seen his elbows have left his body. Well along in years, a crop of grey hair sweeps across his forehead, framing his round, bespectacled eyes. His skin is rather pink, though not quite ruddy. He has a small, well defined mouth and sagging jowls, which can give him the appearance of a permanent frown. Overall, his face is rather ovular and seems to emanate a balance and propriety. As you have probably assumed from the name, Father Gurtler is a Jesuit. As such, he dresses traditionally, in black jacket, vest, shirt, slacks, and shoes, with the white collar. On two occasions I have seen him deviate from this garb, both times simply exchanging the colors of his clothing, not his clothing himself. The exception to this is that when the collar is absent, he wears a necktie. He always wears a black pin with a gold symbol on his left lapel, the significance of which I have yet to discern or summon the courage to ask about. His shirts always have french cuffs. He has a habit of wearing jackets which seem a little too long for him, as his waistline tends to end at or above the highest button. However, I'm not sure these jackets could truly be described as ill-fitting, for the length of the sleeve and the width of the shoulder seem to fit him. Perhaps he just wears his pants much higher than most young men these days could comfortably think about, let alone consider adopting. 

When he speaks, he speaks softly and intelligently, looking at each student in the classroom in turn. A habit I have fallen into in his class is to tell time by observation. As the class progresses he is wont to write on the chalkboard. As he does, chalk inevitably dabs onto the sleeve of his jacket and shirt, then when his hands return to his side, the chalk then enlightens the side of his black coat. By looking at the amount of chalk on his side, one can reasonably deduce how long the class has been going on. Father Gurtler's classes have no real beginning. He simply walks into the classroom, sets his things down, puts on his glasses, and begins speaking in his measured way. Vowels such as "a" and "e" tend to be just a little exaggerated, and sounds like "s" or "t" are almost swallowed. One would do well to listen carefully to his soft voice, which although somewhat monotone, regularly intones the phonemes of wisdom. He has a habit of calling on students that seems to not be paying attention to him to answer questions, but doesn't seems to be doing it judgmentally. Rather, he seems to be saying "pay attention please. This is important." One thing that a student of his must accustom themselves to is the rarity with which he smiles. I have seen it a few times, each time a natural, jocular, good natured smile, but these are rare. It was only when I went to his office hours to consult with him on a paper topic that I realized that his visage doesn't betray his true feelings. Indeed, his visage betrays quite little about him at all. 

He seems especially versed in the teachings of Aristotle, and will commonly relate the other authors and thinkers we study back to him. Whether he does this for the sake of effectiveness or convenience is more or less unknown. This is not to say that he is not knowledgeable about other philosophies and histories. He is a fount of knowledge when it comes to greek, latin, epicureans, stoics, and many other pertinent subjects, and his teaching reflects that. He has a way of taking the frantic, fervent, frenetic answers we provide to his questions and understanding what they were originally trying to say. He is likewise able to translate texts that are thousands of years old into a vernacular with which his students can relate and understand. I have found him to grade rather fairly, rewarding original thought more than mere regurgitation of what was taught in class. I have never found myself wanting to fall asleep in any of his classes (yet).