Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Fully Poseable Wayne
Another piece de resistance (literal translation: "piece of resistance") by our own Ryan "Deano" Deane!
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Lightening Bolts
(This is a bit of a longish essay, but I quite like it, and hope you'll be so good as to read it. )
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the Flash. More specifically, I'm intrigued by the story of how he obtained his powers. This bit of modern mythology unfolds as follows: Barry Allen is a twenty-four year old police scientist who laments the fact that he is hopelessly slow at completing work, at making appointments, and at making a move on Iris, the object of his affections. He has wished, since childhood, that he could be the fastest man alive. One stormy night, a lightning bolt crashes through the window into his laboratory, hits a shelf of beakers, and showers Barry in a flood of now-electrified chemicals. Somehow, instead of being electrocuted, Barry is granted the ability to move at super-speed, an ability which he decides to turn to the benefit of mankind by donning red tights and fighting crime as The Flash.
This is a fairly well-known story to most students to modern pop culture. However, one version of the story adds an intriguing twist to the Flash’s origin. In writer Robert Loren Fleming’s re-imagining of the tale (published in Secret Origins Annual #2), the lightening bolt destined to hit Barry freezes in mid-air – and speaks to him. It explains that Barry has a choice to make: he can stand in the path of the lightening bolt and become the quicksilver he’s always wanted to be, or he can avoid the bolt and continue his dull, snail-paced existence. When Barry asks for some proof that the bolt will not kill him, the spear of energy cautions that “nothing in life is certain,” and that Barry is “free to choose his own destiny.” It also explains that, should Barry live and gain super-speed, his life will be shortened by a considerable number of years in the process. Despite the sacrifices involved in the deal, isn’t this what the young scientist has always wanted, more than anything?
The situation is a wonderful allegory for those big decisions in life we’re all confronted with at one time or another. More specifically, it suggests the scary challenge of realizing your own potential. Are you willing to do what it takes to become the most fully-realized version of yourself possible? These questions are particularly germane to those of us in our twenties, when we feel the pressure of making decisions that will shape the course of our lives and who we will be for much of them. Should I switch jobs? Should I get married to this person? Is it a good idea to move? Barry Allen is twenty-four when he’s forced to make a life-altering decision, and many of us experience the same thing at his age. Barry hesitates.
I’ve done some hesitating of my own. The only thing I can say I ever really dreamed of becoming was an English professor. I began an M.A./PhD in English, but stopped after completing the master’s, having heard more than enough horror stories of underemployed academics searching years for that elusive tenure-track position. Feeling that I didn’t have the resources to gamble a few years of my life on the slim chances of finding a post-secondary teaching position, I decided that teaching at the high school level would be a far less risky option.
But although I’ve come to hold high school teaching in incredibly high esteem, I still feel that some of my personal strengths rest in the kind of work English professors do: connecting and summing up ideas (as opposed to the more disciplined teacherly work of breaking those ideas up into discrete, accessible units that students can learn piece-by-piece). For this and other reasons, I sometimes think that, if I had a lightening bolt of my own, it might whisper to me, “go complete your PhD and become the man you’ve always wanted to be. But be warned, should you live and gain a doctorate, you will have lost several years of your life in the process.” In the face of such a decision, I’ve hesitated.
And like I said, Barry hesitates too. He wonders if he will live through the process, and what he stands to lose if he does. The notion that the whole super-speed deal is a “miracle with strings attached” that will shorten his life is tough to swallow. But Barry takes a gamble, places the jar of ammonium sulfate on the chemical cabinet, and (after recovering from the force of the ensuing electro-chemical blast) finds himself zipping around his native Central City faster than any man alive.
But here’s the really novel bit of Fleming’s version of the story. The Flash’s greatest challenge occurs when the villain named the Anti-Monitor threatens to destroy the universe with a weapon powered by a faster-than-light tachyon particle. In order to deactivate the weapon, the Flash has to run fast enough to capture the tachyon particle. As he races towards the crackling ball of energy, our hero breaks the light-speed barrier and becomes a being of pure energy in the process. As he successfully stops the deadly particle, his form continues to change mysteriously. In the last few panels of the story, Barry’s super alter-ego is shown gradually taking on the shape of a lightening bolt, about to touch down somewhere in Central City. The final full-page panel shows Barry Allen running from his lab, out into the horizon –he’s just been hit by the lightening bolt he always eventually becomes. In this version of the story, Barry is the lightening bolt, the source of his own transformation.
I think I have some lightening bolts of my own – possibilities that have dangled themselves out in front of me, difficult questions begging to be taken up. I was in my fourth year of university when I decided that I wanted to attend graduate school and pursue my M.A./PhD. I had to collect reference letters as part of my application package, and I asked the professor from my sophomore Satire class, Julia Creet, to write one of the letters. I distinctly remember the moment I caught up to her, in the concrete wind-tunnel gap between the Stong and Bethune college buildings. I asked her, nearly breathlessly, whether she would be willing to write the letter, and she conceded gracefully to do so. I walked away contentedly, but just before I was out of conversation range, Professor Creet turned her head and called out over her shoulder to me, with as much earnestness as a Satire professor can muster. “Are you sure you want to teach English? It’s not the most lucrative way to make a living.”
I was sitting down the other day in a coffee shop when I remembered this moment again. Having finished two degrees in English, spent a year teaching English for far too little money in a private school in Pittsburgh, then spent (wasted?) another year running snot-nosed and broken-walleted after a Bachelor of Education degree so that I could teach English in a public school, Professor Creet’s question struck me with all the force of a proverbial lightening bolt. But much like the one that struck Barry Allen, the source and effect of my lightening bolt is more than a little peculiar. First, the source: I admired Professor Creet a great deal, both for her mastery of the body of literature she professed and for running the most thought-provoking, energetic, exciting tutorial discussions I had ever sat in on. Whenever I think of the kinds of discussions I want to have with students, I think of the chats we all had in her classroom. If Prof. Creet had any doubts about having spent her life becoming a professor...well, she had almost created another one in me. It’s probably a bit of a platitude to say that every great teacher spawns another one (or at least someone hopeful of becoming a great teacher), but it’s true.
Second, the effect. Although Prof. Creet meant to strike a subtle, sarcastic cautionary note with her question, I plunged on ahead into the literary/academic life. It turns out she was entirely correct. I own depressingly little: my wealth consists mostly of experiences and books and quotes just right for any occasion. But sitting in the coffee shop (the living room of the dispossessed) that day, I realized I didn’t care too much about my typical literati’s lack of lucre. In fact, inspired by Barry’s lightening bolt, I was excited by the thought that I might become the source of the things that have transformed me: that I might write out thoughts profound, to make someone think “I never thought that before”; that I might help a student or two believe there are arguments that cannot be proven and spirits that cannot be broken so long as you can invest yourself in something besides the acquisition of wealth.
Like my old hero, I ran off out of the coffee shop, into the horizon.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the Flash. More specifically, I'm intrigued by the story of how he obtained his powers. This bit of modern mythology unfolds as follows: Barry Allen is a twenty-four year old police scientist who laments the fact that he is hopelessly slow at completing work, at making appointments, and at making a move on Iris, the object of his affections. He has wished, since childhood, that he could be the fastest man alive. One stormy night, a lightning bolt crashes through the window into his laboratory, hits a shelf of beakers, and showers Barry in a flood of now-electrified chemicals. Somehow, instead of being electrocuted, Barry is granted the ability to move at super-speed, an ability which he decides to turn to the benefit of mankind by donning red tights and fighting crime as The Flash.
This is a fairly well-known story to most students to modern pop culture. However, one version of the story adds an intriguing twist to the Flash’s origin. In writer Robert Loren Fleming’s re-imagining of the tale (published in Secret Origins Annual #2), the lightening bolt destined to hit Barry freezes in mid-air – and speaks to him. It explains that Barry has a choice to make: he can stand in the path of the lightening bolt and become the quicksilver he’s always wanted to be, or he can avoid the bolt and continue his dull, snail-paced existence. When Barry asks for some proof that the bolt will not kill him, the spear of energy cautions that “nothing in life is certain,” and that Barry is “free to choose his own destiny.” It also explains that, should Barry live and gain super-speed, his life will be shortened by a considerable number of years in the process. Despite the sacrifices involved in the deal, isn’t this what the young scientist has always wanted, more than anything?
The situation is a wonderful allegory for those big decisions in life we’re all confronted with at one time or another. More specifically, it suggests the scary challenge of realizing your own potential. Are you willing to do what it takes to become the most fully-realized version of yourself possible? These questions are particularly germane to those of us in our twenties, when we feel the pressure of making decisions that will shape the course of our lives and who we will be for much of them. Should I switch jobs? Should I get married to this person? Is it a good idea to move? Barry Allen is twenty-four when he’s forced to make a life-altering decision, and many of us experience the same thing at his age. Barry hesitates.
I’ve done some hesitating of my own. The only thing I can say I ever really dreamed of becoming was an English professor. I began an M.A./PhD in English, but stopped after completing the master’s, having heard more than enough horror stories of underemployed academics searching years for that elusive tenure-track position. Feeling that I didn’t have the resources to gamble a few years of my life on the slim chances of finding a post-secondary teaching position, I decided that teaching at the high school level would be a far less risky option.
But although I’ve come to hold high school teaching in incredibly high esteem, I still feel that some of my personal strengths rest in the kind of work English professors do: connecting and summing up ideas (as opposed to the more disciplined teacherly work of breaking those ideas up into discrete, accessible units that students can learn piece-by-piece). For this and other reasons, I sometimes think that, if I had a lightening bolt of my own, it might whisper to me, “go complete your PhD and become the man you’ve always wanted to be. But be warned, should you live and gain a doctorate, you will have lost several years of your life in the process.” In the face of such a decision, I’ve hesitated.
And like I said, Barry hesitates too. He wonders if he will live through the process, and what he stands to lose if he does. The notion that the whole super-speed deal is a “miracle with strings attached” that will shorten his life is tough to swallow. But Barry takes a gamble, places the jar of ammonium sulfate on the chemical cabinet, and (after recovering from the force of the ensuing electro-chemical blast) finds himself zipping around his native Central City faster than any man alive.
But here’s the really novel bit of Fleming’s version of the story. The Flash’s greatest challenge occurs when the villain named the Anti-Monitor threatens to destroy the universe with a weapon powered by a faster-than-light tachyon particle. In order to deactivate the weapon, the Flash has to run fast enough to capture the tachyon particle. As he races towards the crackling ball of energy, our hero breaks the light-speed barrier and becomes a being of pure energy in the process. As he successfully stops the deadly particle, his form continues to change mysteriously. In the last few panels of the story, Barry’s super alter-ego is shown gradually taking on the shape of a lightening bolt, about to touch down somewhere in Central City. The final full-page panel shows Barry Allen running from his lab, out into the horizon –he’s just been hit by the lightening bolt he always eventually becomes. In this version of the story, Barry is the lightening bolt, the source of his own transformation.
I think I have some lightening bolts of my own – possibilities that have dangled themselves out in front of me, difficult questions begging to be taken up. I was in my fourth year of university when I decided that I wanted to attend graduate school and pursue my M.A./PhD. I had to collect reference letters as part of my application package, and I asked the professor from my sophomore Satire class, Julia Creet, to write one of the letters. I distinctly remember the moment I caught up to her, in the concrete wind-tunnel gap between the Stong and Bethune college buildings. I asked her, nearly breathlessly, whether she would be willing to write the letter, and she conceded gracefully to do so. I walked away contentedly, but just before I was out of conversation range, Professor Creet turned her head and called out over her shoulder to me, with as much earnestness as a Satire professor can muster. “Are you sure you want to teach English? It’s not the most lucrative way to make a living.”
I was sitting down the other day in a coffee shop when I remembered this moment again. Having finished two degrees in English, spent a year teaching English for far too little money in a private school in Pittsburgh, then spent (wasted?) another year running snot-nosed and broken-walleted after a Bachelor of Education degree so that I could teach English in a public school, Professor Creet’s question struck me with all the force of a proverbial lightening bolt. But much like the one that struck Barry Allen, the source and effect of my lightening bolt is more than a little peculiar. First, the source: I admired Professor Creet a great deal, both for her mastery of the body of literature she professed and for running the most thought-provoking, energetic, exciting tutorial discussions I had ever sat in on. Whenever I think of the kinds of discussions I want to have with students, I think of the chats we all had in her classroom. If Prof. Creet had any doubts about having spent her life becoming a professor...well, she had almost created another one in me. It’s probably a bit of a platitude to say that every great teacher spawns another one (or at least someone hopeful of becoming a great teacher), but it’s true.
Second, the effect. Although Prof. Creet meant to strike a subtle, sarcastic cautionary note with her question, I plunged on ahead into the literary/academic life. It turns out she was entirely correct. I own depressingly little: my wealth consists mostly of experiences and books and quotes just right for any occasion. But sitting in the coffee shop (the living room of the dispossessed) that day, I realized I didn’t care too much about my typical literati’s lack of lucre. In fact, inspired by Barry’s lightening bolt, I was excited by the thought that I might become the source of the things that have transformed me: that I might write out thoughts profound, to make someone think “I never thought that before”; that I might help a student or two believe there are arguments that cannot be proven and spirits that cannot be broken so long as you can invest yourself in something besides the acquisition of wealth.
Like my old hero, I ran off out of the coffee shop, into the horizon.
Monday, June 18, 2007
"God is a concept by which we measure our...."
This past Saturday night, Lisette, Louis, Massy, and I were having a chat about God and religion and all that. Louis expressed his dissatisfaction with the Church alongside his continued belief in the existence of some kind of God. Mass and I, however, voiced our doubts about God: the idea of God is an old certainty of mine that's been called into question a little bit over the last few months. Not for any deep emotional reason, but moreso because of the climate of thought regarding faith: Richard Dawkin's has his book The God Delusion and has been sharing his thoughts on talk radio; the proponents of intelligent design have made theism look a bit blind and foolish; and the marxist critique of organized religion (that it's an excuse for building hierarchies) is difficult to ignore.
But despite all the evidence that accumulates as I continue listening and reading and thinking, I still want to believe. I have a few reasons. First, there's always the threat of the big sandalled foot coming from on high to squish you like a bug if you stop believing. But more substantially, God is our idea that pure goodness exists. He's also our idea that there is something ordering the chaos of the universe and our own small world.
John Lennon wrote that "God is a concept by which we measure our pain" (i.e. think of any time that you've been completely anguished and wrenched out the words "oh god, why?"). But in my happier moments, I think God may also be a concept by which we measure our thanks, for the breaths we take, for cups of coffee in the morning, for the songs of birds, etc. That is to say that, as opposed to the Marxist idea that megalomaniacs invented God so they could invoke his power as their own, perhaps we believe in God because we are at times so thankful for life that we need someone to thank. I think this is the impulse that produced the following poem:
Poem in Thanks, by Thomas Lux
Lord Whoever, thank you for this air
I'm about to in- and exhale, this hutch
in the woods, the wood for fire,
the light-both lamp and the natural stuff
of leaf-back, fern, and wing.
For the piano, the shovel
for ashes, the moth-gnawed
blankets, the stone-cold water
stone-cold: thank you.
Thank you, Lord, coming for
to carry me here -- where I'll gnash
it out, Lord, where I'll calm
and work, Lord, thank you
for the goddamn birds singing!
(You can find this in Garrison Keillor's great new collection, Good Poems - worth picking up.)
But despite all the evidence that accumulates as I continue listening and reading and thinking, I still want to believe. I have a few reasons. First, there's always the threat of the big sandalled foot coming from on high to squish you like a bug if you stop believing. But more substantially, God is our idea that pure goodness exists. He's also our idea that there is something ordering the chaos of the universe and our own small world.
John Lennon wrote that "God is a concept by which we measure our pain" (i.e. think of any time that you've been completely anguished and wrenched out the words "oh god, why?"). But in my happier moments, I think God may also be a concept by which we measure our thanks, for the breaths we take, for cups of coffee in the morning, for the songs of birds, etc. That is to say that, as opposed to the Marxist idea that megalomaniacs invented God so they could invoke his power as their own, perhaps we believe in God because we are at times so thankful for life that we need someone to thank. I think this is the impulse that produced the following poem:
Poem in Thanks, by Thomas Lux
Lord Whoever, thank you for this air
I'm about to in- and exhale, this hutch
in the woods, the wood for fire,
the light-both lamp and the natural stuff
of leaf-back, fern, and wing.
For the piano, the shovel
for ashes, the moth-gnawed
blankets, the stone-cold water
stone-cold: thank you.
Thank you, Lord, coming for
to carry me here -- where I'll gnash
it out, Lord, where I'll calm
and work, Lord, thank you
for the goddamn birds singing!
(You can find this in Garrison Keillor's great new collection, Good Poems - worth picking up.)
Friday, June 15, 2007
Learning is a human thing
"Learning is mostly about creating a context for motivation."
- Bill Gates, Time Magazine, February 12, 2007
Gates said this in response to a question regarding the role of technology in schools, education, etc. The interviewer wondered to what degree the internet would impact education in the next few years. Gates very wisely noted that television was supposed to revolutionize education upon its inception, as was videotape, as were computers in the classroom when they were introduced on a widescale.
What ol' Bill implies with the above quote is that technology (even the internet) cannot make people learn. Rather, someone's willingness and ability to learn hinges upon their desire to learn. This is always the difficulty in teaching - how do you make someone want to learn? It isn't easy. And it doesn't necessarily revolve around making the object of study interesting (although that is often important). Instead, students need to believe the possibility of their own success exists. Mastery over something - whether it be a sport, an obstacle, or an idea - feels good. So helping someone learn doesn't involve throwing a lot of information at them, but rather giving them opportunities to succeed at the task of applying and using knowledge.
This is not to say that the internet and computers are not useful tools for learning. They are powerful accessories that facilitate learning in incredibly efficient ways; however, they do not supply the motivation and sense of purpose that are required for learning to occur.
And in case you think I'm a stick in the mud, this doesn't mean I don't like technology (I'm practically married to my laptop). I just think we have to be judicious about how we use it, and how we let it shape our lives.
A very wacky sci-fi story about the internet: http://www.plexus.org/forster/index.html
- Bill Gates, Time Magazine, February 12, 2007
Gates said this in response to a question regarding the role of technology in schools, education, etc. The interviewer wondered to what degree the internet would impact education in the next few years. Gates very wisely noted that television was supposed to revolutionize education upon its inception, as was videotape, as were computers in the classroom when they were introduced on a widescale.
What ol' Bill implies with the above quote is that technology (even the internet) cannot make people learn. Rather, someone's willingness and ability to learn hinges upon their desire to learn. This is always the difficulty in teaching - how do you make someone want to learn? It isn't easy. And it doesn't necessarily revolve around making the object of study interesting (although that is often important). Instead, students need to believe the possibility of their own success exists. Mastery over something - whether it be a sport, an obstacle, or an idea - feels good. So helping someone learn doesn't involve throwing a lot of information at them, but rather giving them opportunities to succeed at the task of applying and using knowledge.
This is not to say that the internet and computers are not useful tools for learning. They are powerful accessories that facilitate learning in incredibly efficient ways; however, they do not supply the motivation and sense of purpose that are required for learning to occur.
And in case you think I'm a stick in the mud, this doesn't mean I don't like technology (I'm practically married to my laptop). I just think we have to be judicious about how we use it, and how we let it shape our lives.
A very wacky sci-fi story about the internet: http://www.plexus.org/forster/index.html
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Action over inaction
You just have to be the type of person who believes that action is generally better than inaction in times of uncertainty.
- Atul Gawande, American surgeon and
author of Complications, the book that
inspired the TV series Grey’s Anatomy
This quote is from an interview with Gawande, in which he speaks at length about the failures that occur in medicine and surgery (e.g. misdiagnoses, failed surgeries, etc.). You can read the entire interview at http://lifeandhealth.guardian.co.uk/wellbeing/story/0,,2100870,00.html. Worth reading, and not only for Grey's Anatomy fans (I don't watch it).
- Atul Gawande, American surgeon and
author of Complications, the book that
inspired the TV series Grey’s Anatomy
This quote is from an interview with Gawande, in which he speaks at length about the failures that occur in medicine and surgery (e.g. misdiagnoses, failed surgeries, etc.). You can read the entire interview at http://lifeandhealth.guardian.co.uk/wellbeing/story/0,,2100870,00.html. Worth reading, and not only for Grey's Anatomy fans (I don't watch it).
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Making Miracles Daily
We gaze continually at the world and it grows dull in our perceptions. Yet seen from another's vantage point, as if new, it may still take the breath away.
(Alan Moore, Watchmen)
This one is spoken by Dr. Manhattan, one of the protagonists of the graphic novel called Watchmen, which was on Time Magazine's list of the 100 best novels since 1923, for those of you who might consider graphic novels kids stuff. In the book, Dr. Manhattan is a young scientist transformed, by a nuclear experiment, into a being of incredible, almost god-like power. Due to his heightened intelligence and understanding of the atomic structure of the universe, he becomes jaded and unimpressed by human life, with its predictable routines, petty conflicts, etc.
But later in the novel, Dr. Manhattan has a realization. He thinks about the miracle that produces human life, and the thousands of factors and nuances and subtle variations that make each human being a distinct individual. He is convinced that humanity is miraculous, if you pause long enough, look closely enough, and give yourself the chance to marvel at what's around you.
What have I marveled at lately? The fact that I'm alive after rafting the Ottawa river this weekend! Oh, and the ByWard Market in Ottawa... that's some good eatin'.
(Alan Moore, Watchmen)
This one is spoken by Dr. Manhattan, one of the protagonists of the graphic novel called Watchmen, which was on Time Magazine's list of the 100 best novels since 1923, for those of you who might consider graphic novels kids stuff. In the book, Dr. Manhattan is a young scientist transformed, by a nuclear experiment, into a being of incredible, almost god-like power. Due to his heightened intelligence and understanding of the atomic structure of the universe, he becomes jaded and unimpressed by human life, with its predictable routines, petty conflicts, etc.
But later in the novel, Dr. Manhattan has a realization. He thinks about the miracle that produces human life, and the thousands of factors and nuances and subtle variations that make each human being a distinct individual. He is convinced that humanity is miraculous, if you pause long enough, look closely enough, and give yourself the chance to marvel at what's around you.
What have I marveled at lately? The fact that I'm alive after rafting the Ottawa river this weekend! Oh, and the ByWard Market in Ottawa... that's some good eatin'.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
In Search of Serener Palaces
Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know
That finer spirits cannot breathe below
In human climes, and live: Alas! Poor youth,
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
My essence? What serener palaces,
Where I may all my many senses please,
And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?
- John Keats, "Lamia"
I read these lines in Heather's Bakery Cafe in Georgetown not too long after I had returned to Brampton. I was trying to get some romantic poetry under my belt, as I had been studying Yeats, whose work comes very much out of the romantic tradition.
Anyways, the point is that I was not happy to be back in Brampton. I had spent the last four years in some wonderful places (and yes, dammit, I count Pittsburgh among those wonderful places) and had my head buried in literature for much of that time. Then, to top it all off, I had spent the month and a half previous in Ireland, visiting the homes and graves and favourite magical spots of some of the greatest authors in the English language... and here I was back in Brampton. When Lamia (a Greek mythological heroine) said that she could not "breathe below in human climes/and live," I felt the same way: I imagined Brampton to be a completely arid, barren place, with a constricting atmosphere that threatened to choke the life out of me. I felt that there was no art here, no joy taken in anything beyond what you can buy at a strip plaza.
Dramatic, I know - but I had spent the last few months reading pretty hyperbolic poetry.
10 months later, I can report that, while I did not choke on the grimy climes of Brampton, I am pretty certain that this place will never "soothe my essence" or appease all my thirsts. At the same time (and this is something I've realized before but forgotten), I realize that no place can really satisfy or fulfill you - rather, it's the people you know there, and the time you put into relationships, that define any place you find yourself in. You might make any place a "serener palace," if you're willing to try.
That finer spirits cannot breathe below
In human climes, and live: Alas! Poor youth,
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
My essence? What serener palaces,
Where I may all my many senses please,
And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?
- John Keats, "Lamia"
I read these lines in Heather's Bakery Cafe in Georgetown not too long after I had returned to Brampton. I was trying to get some romantic poetry under my belt, as I had been studying Yeats, whose work comes very much out of the romantic tradition.
Anyways, the point is that I was not happy to be back in Brampton. I had spent the last four years in some wonderful places (and yes, dammit, I count Pittsburgh among those wonderful places) and had my head buried in literature for much of that time. Then, to top it all off, I had spent the month and a half previous in Ireland, visiting the homes and graves and favourite magical spots of some of the greatest authors in the English language... and here I was back in Brampton. When Lamia (a Greek mythological heroine) said that she could not "breathe below in human climes/and live," I felt the same way: I imagined Brampton to be a completely arid, barren place, with a constricting atmosphere that threatened to choke the life out of me. I felt that there was no art here, no joy taken in anything beyond what you can buy at a strip plaza.
Dramatic, I know - but I had spent the last few months reading pretty hyperbolic poetry.
10 months later, I can report that, while I did not choke on the grimy climes of Brampton, I am pretty certain that this place will never "soothe my essence" or appease all my thirsts. At the same time (and this is something I've realized before but forgotten), I realize that no place can really satisfy or fulfill you - rather, it's the people you know there, and the time you put into relationships, that define any place you find yourself in. You might make any place a "serener palace," if you're willing to try.
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