The Linguists

Today I joined a William & Mary linguistics class' viewing of The Linguists, a documentary showing "David and Greg [...] circle the planet to hear the last whispers of a dying language." That's the official website's catch-line for the film, and it sounds more theatrical than documentary. It's an apt description, however, because the presentation of the featured languages resembles the Food Network's approach to regional cuisine. I have learned more about a culture and people from Fight Quest than this documentary. This isn't to say that The Linguists should be about people and culture, but if a series about fighting styles around the world can understand the integral role of culture to combat, then it's fair to expect a documentary of this nature to do the same.

Unfortunately, the film does not make up for this glaring omission by giving greater attention to the technical aspects of language documentation, nor the character and nuances of the featured languages. Maybe this comes from an executive decision to produce the film for a general audience. But that seems to both insult and misidentify one's viewers. First, the average viewer can handle greater technical depth than the documentary provides. And second, the "general audience" who watches a documentary film about language extinction isn't the same "general audience" that Hollywood caters to.

The redeeming qualities of The Linguists come from the nature of field of language documentation. That is to say, it's a mediocre presentation of an enthralling subject. I wish it had done more, and maybe I'd be happier with the film if I didn't think that The Linguists could have been so much better.

Putting In Work

It's been over five months since I started work as a cook. Shit can be hectic, and I rarely have time in the kitchen to stand still - nevermind sit down. It reminds me of what I wrote when I started judo, about the need to be both calm and fast at the same time. Back then, I thought of how that same "mode" is important in boxing and classical guitar. Now I see it as crucial to any skill.

Two Bobs, one E and one D, responded to my original post, pointing out the role of technique and practice. In the case of cooking, however, I never had a chance to practice. Instead, I needed to be fast right away or I'd be fired. No hard feelings - the people need to eat. So even though I've certainly become faster and more efficient with experience, I think there's a certain temperament or mental "mode" that is just as important as practice.

Panic never seems to help people, especially when they're trying to unlock their car door because a serial killer is quickly approaching. Or when they fall into a bog, as Bear Grylls demonstrates. But not many of us can practice evading serial killers or escaping bogs. Instead, we can practice a mindset that stays both relaxed and responsive. Like a samurai.

Haters Gonna Hate

I remember an interview with Celine Dion, around the time of Titanic's success, in which she stated that it's impossible to have everyone like you. And she would know. In the face of that, however, I've also thought that it's impossible to not want everyone to like you. Who doesn't want to be universally accepted and appreciated? Alack, two inevitables in conflict.

Fortunately for me, I'm getting better, with age, at paying less mind to whether people like me. For example, there's a jerk who works at the recycling center in town. Whenever I roll in on my bike to drop off recycling, he's resting his overweight, lazy self on the back of his pickup. I imagine he eyes me and thinks to himself, "damn long-haired (to be fair, I should cut it) yankee (he's seen my NH plates) and his stupid hippie (recycling) ways."

He has begrudgingly spoken with me a couple of times, usually to point out the station's policies, and I was certainly polite at first, saying "hello, sir", following his directions, and all that. I may have even been tempted to somehow demonstrate that we're not so different, to strike up a conversation. Now, though, I want nothing to do with that self-righteous, working-class identifying layabout.

In&Out

This is human, to be in an empty room and a playground. With worlds inside, celluloid ribbon both raveled and rolled. Recorded negatives, some developed and others decomposed.

Bicycle

This is my sky blue Schwinn, feat. Orange the pudgy cat & her Trader Joe's bags:



I've planned to buy some canvas to cover the seat, but the main problem with the bike has been flat tires. Mysterious flat tires. In the past few months I've had six flats, and all but yesterday's have had no known cause (yesterday I ran over a very un-mysterious piece of metal on my way home from work). So when I was in Philadelphia last week, I considered buying a new bike. Unfortunately, I got a flat tire while test-riding a bike for two minutes. It was cool, though, cause the tire went "pssshhhh" as I dismounted the bike. Like some neat hydraulic system that lowers about an inch. As a result, I decided to just get my Schwinn's tire fixed again, and instead of a new bike I bought this hooded sweatshirt:



It's also blue.

Dikembe Mutombo'd

Neither Boston University nor William & Mary accepted my graduate school applications. As my sister said, it seems that graduate schools need you to apply two years in a row to prove that you're serious. So now I plan to return to the classroom as a teacher. Even though the rejection hurts, I'm not too upset. The more I considered the possibilities of being a graduate student or secondary school teacher for the next five years, the less I worried about graduate school acceptance. I want to get back to teaching.

In the meantime, here's something I would have loved to study in graduate school: cultural neuroscience. Maybe I'll try to attend a few lectures about it, and pretend that I'm a student.

15 Solid Albums

Wild

A bellow in solitude:

1) The fear of reprimand

2) The surge of freedom

3) The silence of isolation




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A Trade

I love to see people work at something they've mastered. It's especially enjoyable to watch someone do something that I'm also into, but it's the adeptness that matters. Maybe that's why I didn't get museum fatigue yesterday at Colonial Williamsburg - all those master craftsmen. Whether we were at the Gunsmith or the Joiner, I could have watched any of them work all day. Well, except the Wigmaker.

My admiration for skilled work has increased because of my job in a kitchen, where I'm surely the least experienced and skilled. The gym, too, has made me appreciate the fluidity and sureness that comes with mastered technique, especially when it means a kick in the ribs or an armbar. In fact, my generalist tendencies seem to keep me from any real mastery. So maybe it's an appreciation born from envy. Or just straight-up envy.

Rebel Rebel

I clearly remember the first time I fully considered my mortality, my death. My eighth grade math teacher walked by my desk to see if I needed help with a worksheet, but when she looked at me and said "is everything alright?", she wasn't talking about arithmetic. I was either twelve or thirteen. Because of this, I would brush off the suggestion that teenagers think they're invincible, that they'll live forever. Maybe I didn't calculate risk as an adult would, but I certainly felt the full weight of my mortality.

This all sounds grave to me now, overly-dramatic, but those are also apt descriptions for most of my adolescence. And it's not as though I became obsessed with death as a figure or concept, earnestly drawing skulls and macabre scenes, nor with my own death in the way that some people fantasize about their funerals. I just remember thinking: this isn't permanent, and eventually all that I know and am will cease to exist for me.

It's silly to assume that I was alone in this realization. And now it seems a natural and crucial part of developing a sense of self, a period in a process that psychologists have probably laid out neatly. But those models of individual development always seemed like challenges to me. As though psychologists dared me to defy their predictions, like the freshmen orientation at college when they tell you to look to your right and left because only a certain percentage of you will graduate. When you say, "Not me, but I bet this homely-looking dude next to me won't make it."