Stuart Vyse

My TEDx: A Mind At Play

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Tue, 13 May 2014 13:54:00 +0000

On April 12, 2014 I was honored to participate in a TEDx event at Connecticut College with the theme "Not All Who Wander Are Lost." The video of my talk has just been released:

The Unsent Email

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Wed, 04 Sep 2013 12:59:00 +0000

Miranda July’s project “We Think Alone” has been a rather up and down experience. A collection of emails from the sent mail folder of famous and semi-famous people’s email accounts. A blast of emails on a particular topic arrives in subscribers’ inboxes on successive Mondays. Go here to sign up.

This week’s contribution struck me as well above average. The emails were all drafts of messages that were never sent. This concept is rather exciting because it is even more voyeuristic than the earlier topics, and it highlights a kind of emotional frailty and difficulty in communicating effectively on the internet. The drunk email not sent. A healthy hesitancy at the urge to go negative.

Here are some selections:

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Etgar Keret

To: z

Subject: Nostalgia

Date: 15:30 6/11/2012

Hey z.,

Sitting home and remembering the good times when you still liked me.

Etgar

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Lena Dunham

Date: May 12th, 2013

Subject: book

To: J

Hi J,

I'm a big fan of your work and the book. I am so grateful L sent it to me. It's a truly meaningful work that young feminists should have the chance to engage with.

But after a few lovely exchanges, L wrote me a series of very upsetting, paranoid and accusatory emails. I was saddened that our interaction became so bitter suddenly and without warning. She questioned my interest in, and understanding of, the book and my relationship to feminism as a whole. I'd love to meet you but I am not comfortable engaging with L in any way. It was just too disorienting and mean. Sorry to write that in an email, but I guess modern times require us too!

Yours,

Lena

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Sheila Heti

Date: December 11, 2009

Subject: ps

To: Margaux Williamson

I *am* feeling pretty sensitive obviously this week.

The other thing is: Sometimes you f

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Rodarte

Date: Monday, October 17, 2011 3:37 PM

Subject: Questions

To: L

This is just so crazy to us. We can’t even deal with this question.

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Deborah Morales

Subject: Week 10: an email you decided not to send-Sent on Behalf of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

Date: June 24, 2013 11:30:26 PM PDT

To: Miranda July

Hi Miranda,

I don’t save emails that I think better of sending. Once I decide not to send an email, I delete it because I’d rather not have someone dig it up later and think that it expressed my real sentiment. If I decide not to send it then it’s not what I ultimately believe.

P.S.—I almost didn’t send this email. Does that count?

Yours Truly, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

---------- Note----------

Danh Vo and Catherine Opie were also unable to find an email they decided not to send.

Advice from Sheila Heti

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Wed, 10 Jul 2013 03:56:00 +0000

This extraordinary message is from Miranda July's project We Think Alone, which has just released its second round of emails.

----------------------------------------------

From: Sheila Heti
Date: Wed, Jul 29, 2009 at 1:54 PM
Subject: Re: fridge
To: Kathryn Borel

sprinkles the wonderhorse is the best thing you've ever called me.

i haven't read the piece yet -- i'm sorry. moving around, writing, self-involved. now in the motel.

i wish i had words of advice about S. i have been thinking about M (and N!) excessively for the past week. how exhausting. i know just how you feel. these are the things i have been thinking / doing to calm myself down. here is my wisdom so far.

1. why am i so anxious? i've been feeling like half a soul without a man. so i'm realising that maybe who i want to meet is actually myself, and not some guy. this has been a pretty relaxing realisation. i sort of see my face in front of me (not as in a mirror, but in a soul or metaphysical way) and it cheers me up. i am not alone. i don't need anyone.

2. loving someone means loving their ugliness. if you do not love also what's worst in them, you do not really love them. it's hard in a new relationship because every bit of ugliness is a surprise; but these are the parts that must be loved. or else it's not love. it's icon-worship or something like that.

3. i sort of feel exhausted; like i have had so many years of relationship anxiety. i want to be on the road for six months, going from place to place and developing no attachments and forgetting all the boys that didn't work out.

4. what do you really *feel*? do you really want or need him?

5. are you staying in it to be a *better person*? you are a good enough person. i learned from my marriage (and from watching mark with michelle) that remaining in a relationship to make yourself a better person usually makes you a more odious person; it also can't hold up very long.

I met an amazing choreographer at Yaddo -- an 80 year old woman; Sally Gross. From NY. She told me that I was young. That there was enough time in my life for everything; being alone, being with women, with difficult men, with not-difficult men.

This was soothing. There's enough time in my life for everything.

But I don't know what you are finding so hard about S; is it the distance mingled with you losing respect for him cause he's not a good writer? If you can't find a way to love that about him, then maybe he's not the person for you to love right now. But why twist yourself up into knots about it? You are a curious person, you get excited about people easily (as I do), and you're desirable, sexy and beautiful. There will always be men who want you, which means that you have to call time out when you're not ready.

Of course, it could be the book that's getting you down and you're taking it out on S.

My head is not so clear that I can give you any good advice. I always am temperamentally in favour of breaking up, but intellectually in favour of the rigours of going on. Who knows? It doesn't seem like an easy situation, what with the distance, and if the distance is not going to end within the next two years, it's hard to see why it's so necessary or worthwhile. It happens all the time, doesn't it, that people meet, but they don't live in the same place, so it doesn't work out.

Do you, deep in your heart, feel like he is absolutely so special that these two years of distance are worth it? Or is he simply another amazing guy, of whom you can say, It's really too bad we didn't live in the same place so we could see what a relationship would have been like.

The only thing I can advise is to be a bit easier on yourself. It is not a moral failing not to continue a romance with a man who you knew for two weeks, who lives across the world from you. Unless one of you can move, it seems like a terrible strain.

Another piece of advice: Don't make any decisions when you are overly emotional. Like, don't break up with him in the midst of this feeling. Wait until you have some equanimity, or you may regret any actions you take as impetuous.

Try to ride this panic out. You don't have to decide anything. You're not going to miss anything -- the man of your dreams, etc -- by delaying thinking about it in the midst of your book turmoil.

love,
Sheila

Interview on Big Picture Science Podcast

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Tue, 09 Jul 2013 05:20:00 +0000

Right here you will find an interview I did for the Big Picture Science Podcast. The episode is called "Mummy Dearest."

Memorable Lines from Nathan Englander's For the Relief of Unbearable Urges

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Tue, 02 Jul 2013 13:08:00 +0000

He took a deep breath and ignored his sense of injustice, a rich man’s emotion, a feeling Mendel had given up the liberty of experiencing horrors and horrors before.
—“The Tumblers,” p. 50

The Jewish day begins in the calm of the evening, when it won’t shock the system with its arrival.
—“The Gilgul of Park Avenue,” p. 109

“Eighty-eight dollars’ worth of the blandest food you’ve ever had. The soup is inedible, pure salt. I had a spoonful and needed to take an extra high-blood-pressure pill. I’ll probably die before dinner’s over, and then we’ll have no problems.”
“More and more,” Charles said, taking a yarmulke from his pocket and fastening it to his head, “more and more, you’re the one that sounds like a Jew.”
— “The Gilgul of Park Avenue,” p. 128

“Am I really your second?” she asked.
Dov heard more in the question than was intended. He heard a flirtation; he heard a woman who treated the act of being second as if it were special. He was sad for her—wondering if she had ever been anyone’s first. He did not answer out loud, but instead nodded, affirming.
—“For the Relief of Unbearable Urges,” p. 188

Memorable Lines from Nathan Englander's What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank — stories

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Tue, 02 Jul 2013 12:47:00 +0000

“And tell me this,” Rena said. “When a little bar mitzvah boy says to a pretty girl as a joke, ‘You are my wife,’ and he gives her a bracelet as a token—”
“A divorce is arranged,” the young rabbi said. “We have done it before. Yes, if it is uttered and the gift is received, they are married, the same and any two people in the world.”
“Even if neither really meant it?” Rena said. “Even if an innocent joke between two young adults at play?”
“Even then,” said Rabbi Kiggel.
—“Sister Hills,” p. 65

“It’s a delicate thing being Jewish,” Ace said. “It’s a condition that aggravates the more mind you pay it.”
—“How We Avenged the Blums,” p. 81

44. She is gone. She is gone, and she will be surprised that I am alive to write this—because she, and everyone who knows me, didn’t think I’d survive it. That I can’t be alone for a minute. That I can’t manage a second of silence. A second of peace. That to breathe, I need a second set of lungs by my side. And to have a feeling? An emotion? No one in my family will show one. Love, yes. Oh, we’re Jews, after all. There’s tons of loving and complimenting, tons of kissing and hugging. But I mean any of us, any of my blood, to sit and face reality, to sit alone on a couch without a partner and to think the truth and feel the ruth, it cannot be done. I sure can’t do it. And she knew I couldn’t do it. And that’s why it ended.

—“Everything I Know About My Family on My Mother’s Side,” p. 133

53. And I still love her. I love you, Bean. (And even now, I don’t say it straight. Let me try one more time: I love you, Bean. I say it.) And I place this in the middle of a short story in the midst of our modern YouTube, iTunes, plugged-in lives. I might as well tell her right here. No one’s looking; no one’s listening. There can’t be any place better to hide in plain sight.

—“Everything I Know About My Family on My Mother’s Side,” p. 135

62. Here is me, fictionalized, sitting on the couch with a letter, written in my grandfather’s hand. I am weeping. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen his handwriting before. I think to call my mother, to tell her what I’m holding. I think to call my brother or maybe Cousin Jack. But really, more than anyone, I think to call that missing love—that missing lover. Because it’s her I wish were with me; it is her I want to share it with right now. And more so, to find myself weeping from a real sadness—not anxious, not disappointed, not frustrated or confused—just weeping from the truth of it, and the heartbreak of it, and recognizing it as the purest emotion I’ve ever had. It’s this I want to tell her, that I’m feeling a pure feeling, maybe my first true feeling, and for this—I admit it—I am proud.

—“Everything I Know About My Family on My Mother’s Side,” p. 138-9

Thank you, Internet

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Sun, 23 Jun 2013 17:39:00 +0000

I hate cars.

Or perhaps it is more accurate to say I have a love-hate relationship with cars. Unless you live in a large metropolitan area—and I don’t—it is all but impossible to live without a car. The freedom and sense of autonomy they provide can be fun, and in the United States there is so much automotive lore that these machines are an expression of our American ethos. Cars are associated with road trips, drive-in movies, double dates, and many other coming-of-age episodes. Although the auto industry is no longer the economy’s most important sector, cars are still an essential part of American life, and despite my ambivalence about these beasts, I often find myself enjoying the experience of tooling around the roads.

But cars are both dangerous and temperamental. I have had a couple of serious accidents in my driving career, and each has rocked me off my hinges in a way few experiences in life can. In addition, until they break down, we are often unaware of how dependent upon our cars we have become. This is a story of a breakdown with a happy ending.

Yesterday afternoon I was expecting a friend to visit and had gone out to the store to get some supplies. It was a beautiful summer day, and I opened the windows and the sunroof of my 2001 Volvo wagon, enjoying a nice breeze and some tunes on the radio. All went well, and I arrived back home about an hour before my guest was to arrive.

But then trouble.

The sun roof would not close. The car windows closed fine. Other things seemed to be working, but I could not get the sunroof to close. This is the point at which I was reminded that I hate cars.

I pulled the manual out of the glove box and started to read. The obvious hypothesis was a blown fuse, so I started to research this possibility with no luck. Of the more than 40 fuses related just to the inside of the car, none of the ones that might be responsible were blown. All looked fine, and replacing them with the spares provided with the car had no effect. Meanwhile, the time before my guest was to arrive was now reduced to 40 minutes, and the front seat area of my car was exposed to the elements. The weather was perfectly fine at the moment, but this is New England. A storm can appear in a five minutes.

Eventually I gave up and went into the house to prepare for my guest. I was resigned to dealing with this problem much later: after the evening’s activities were over (by which time it would be dark) or perhaps even the following day. Which, of course, would be a Sunday when no professional assistance would be available. But when I got in the house, I took one last step before giving up. I googled.

The search phrase “Volvo sunroof won’t close” directed me to a number of discussion boards where motorists ask questions about their cars and kind people with time on their hands provided suggestions. There were a number of false leads, but I came across one really odd sounding suggestion: “You could try locking/unlocking three times in a row with the remote keyless entry device to reset the ceiling light panel.”

This idea sounded crazy, but the ceiling light panel is were the switch to the sunroof is mounted, and I was desperate. So I ran back out to the car pressed the remote button three times and—presto!—the sunroof worked! It closed, and I may never open it again.

Google to the rescue. There is nothing in the Volvo user manual about resetting the ceiling light panel with the magic remote switch, but the crowdsourced experts of the internet knew the trick. And I am so grateful. A ruined weekend was averted by a simple google search. Thank you, internet.

The Grocery Store Game

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 02:16:00 +0000

1. Throughout the week, keep a careful list of items needed.
2. When you leave for the store, forget the list.
3. When you return, check the list and calculate your score.
4. Start a new list with the items you forgot to get.
5. Repeat.

Another rhythm of my life.

A Culture Threatened by Technology

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 01:46:00 +0000

On a recent trip to Washington, DC, I took an afternoon to visit Gallaudet University, the only college in the world whose programs are specifically tailored to deaf and hard of hearing people. Established in 1864 by a bill signed by President Abraham Lincoln, the campus sits on a hill in northeast Washington among a group of Nineteenth Century row houses, not far from the warehouse district above Union Station.

As soon as you go through the gate, you know you have entered a different world. All campus tours are conducted in American Sign Language (ASL), and if you don’t speak Sign you must make special arrangements for a tour with an English interpreter. The entire campus is designed for people whose primary sense is vision. Like many universities, the classrooms are fitted with the latest computer projection equipment, but to ensure that everyone can participate, circular seating is the norm. Large windows in the newer buildings provide plentiful natural lighting, and interiors are designed and furnished with openness and clear sight-lines in mind. The student center is a happy place with hands flying in youthful conversation, and from what I could see, the student body is quite ethnically diverse.

I don’t know ASL, but I have some appreciation of the beauty of the language. What the rest of us do with vocal inflection and rhythm, signers do with their entire bodies. As I negotiated the purchase of a book at the bookstore, the student clerk offered me the credit card receipt and a pen with an added flair that said, “Please, sign here,” without a word being spoken. After the transaction was completed, he gently rapped the counter with his knuckles to get my attention, and then threw back his shoulders to sign “thank you,” with his open hand extending broadly out from his mouth in a gesture as warm as a handshake. I witnessed what I assumed was a fairly typical college debate among friends in the library—a kind of frenetic dance of hand motions and facial expressions conducted entirely in silence. To the outside observer, fluent ASL involves a kind of bodily confidence rarely seen in the hearing world.

Deaf people assert that theirs is a rich culture now threatened with extinction by the growing popularity of cochlear implants, devices that allow deaf people to hear through a radio receiver wired directly to the auditory nerve. Implants are very expensive; not always covered by medical insurance; and the results are somewhat variable. But as the technology improves and more cochlear implants are given to very young children in an effort to have them learn spoken language, many foresee the eventual end of Sign and deaf culture. The Gallaudet community has embraced many aspects of our electronic world—email, Skype, and texting—but the technology that would replace Sign language with spoken language is nowhere in evidence.

Although it may seem strange—or even troubling—to many hearing people, deaf people often reject the idea that deafness is a disability, and some deaf parents, wanting to share their unique world with their children, express the hope that their babies will be born deaf. But the overwhelming majority of deaf children are born to hearing parents. As a result, decisions about which world these youngsters will enter are typically made by loving adults firmly established in the dominant hearing world.

Many deaf people see their cause as exactly parallel to the great social movements that have fought for the rights of ethnic minorities, women, the LBGT community, and other groups. Twenty-five years ago this spring, Gallaudet was embroiled in a great protest, known simply as Deaf President Now (DPN). As the world watched, students, faculty, and staff shut down the campus insisting that it was time for the university—by then over a century old—to appoint its first deaf president. The strike was successful, and I. King Jordan, a dean and professor of psychology, was appointed president. Since then all Gallaudet’s presidents have been deaf, and DPN stands as a defining moment of self-determination for deaf people throughout the world.

It is difficult to put yourself in the place of the hearing parents of a deaf child. I am not sure what I would do if faced with that situation. At the same time, I know where I stand on deaf culture. Gallaudet is a vibrant place, a symbol of what a community of deaf people can do—for itself and for us. I live on the outside. I don’t speak the language. But I see what this world means to those who inhabit it. Deaf people have created a society with a unique and wonderful history, and we will all be diminished if it fades away.

A View of Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 06:57:00 +0000

In her play Dead Man’s Cell Phone, Sarah Ruhl envisions a heaven in which you go to a planet where you are united with the person you loved the most on Earth. There are some drawbacks. Because you only get one set of clothes, laundromats are scattered about the planet, and clothes are washed frequently. Naturally, all the people in the laundromats are naked while their clothes are being washed.

After learning about all this in a brief roundtrip to heaven, the main character returns to Earth and recommits herself to loving her sweetheart as much and as well as possible so that they may spend eternity on their planet together.

There is something quite innocent and appealing about Ruhl’s heaven.

Letter to Daughter Who is on a Reflective Retreat

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Sat, 22 Dec 2012 13:09:00 +0000

Dear Emily,

You are now well into the second half of your college career, and we are all so proud of you. It has been one of the great privileges of my life to be with you from the very beginning and to watch you turn into the woman you are today. You have changed considerably from the little girl you once were.

When you were only four or five years old, you were extremely outgoing and upbeat. We have videos of you exuberantly acting out make-believe stories and hamming it up for the camera. You were always willing to try something new, and you very rarely complained.

Much of that little girl remains today. As one might expect, your temperament is more reserved that it was back then, but you are still very upbeat and determined. As your father I am particularly pleased that you are a "doer." The active part of the young Emily continues today, but in a more mature form. College has afforded you many opportunities, and you have jumped at a great number of them. Life is, in a very real sense, a series of choices and chances that we either take or let pass. You are the kind of person who gets involved and lets very little pass you by. While at Holy Cross, you have been involved in choir, the newspaper, internships, service projects, residential life, and retreats like the one you are on today. You are taking advantage of so much that life has to offer.

Which brings me to another change. The little girl you once were could not have been the thoughtful, contemplative, and spiritually grounded person that you are today. This is something that takes maturity. It takes time to acquire the perspective to see the world as a whole and yourself in the world, and only then is a more mature form of introspection and appreciation possible. It has been wonderful to watch you develop and nurture this side of your personality and life, too.

As I think of you now, I am struck by the balance you are beginning to achieve in your life. I believe the most valuable and meaningful life is a mix of action and thought, creation and contemplation. Each of these impulses has intrinsic value, but a life that does not include both in good measure cannot be as fulfilling and productive as one that is tipped exclusively in one direction or the other. It is clear to me that you share this view and give both these halves of your personality the attention they deserve.

I am so proud to be your father and so fortunate to be able to watch your life unfold. Enjoy your retreat.

Love,

Dad

Class question

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Sun, 02 Dec 2012 17:01:00 +0000

In a discussion of the "pursuit of happiness" in class last week, I asked for a show of hands of the students who would make the following highly hypothetical choice:

Imagine that you could save 100 30-year-old people from a deadly disease. Without your intervention, they die at age 30, and with your intervention they live a normal lifespan. However, in return for this miraculous outcome, you must live with a dull, low-level headache for the rest of your life.

Only three hands went up. Out of about fifteen students in attendance. And they didn't look very cheerful about it.

Dinner Party Checkmate

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 03:34:00 +0000

Premise 1: One guest is a vegetarian but not a vegan.

Premise 2: Another guest is a carnivore but lactose intolerant.

Premise 3: You would rather not cook separate meals for each guest.

Conclusion: The default meal must be vegan. (Checkmate)

Great Under-appreciated Invention #3: The Hand Crank Pencil Sharpener

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Wed, 08 Aug 2012 18:55:00 +0000

I would guess that over the years I have installed between eight and ten hand crank pencil sharpeners in the various houses and apartments where I have lived and in offices where I have worked. For home use, I prefer to place the sharpener on the back of a wooden closet door, set at a height low enough for children to reach. The picture above is of the sharpener in my office. I recently bumped into the device—it was mounted in a bad spot—and knocked it to the floor, so yesterday I reinstalled it in a safer location. This Boston sharpener has served me well, and when I retire some ten years from now, I expect to leave it for the office’s next occupant.

According to Wikipedia, the pencil was invented around 1500 by an Italian couple named Simonio and Lyndiana Bernacotti, and, also according to Wikipedia, the first patent for a pencil sharpener was issued in France in 1828. There are many designs of sharpeners. The tiny bladed handheld sharpeners used by school children and artists are messy and often break off the pencil’s point, and electrical desk models are noisy, prone to breaking, and require either a steady stream of batteries or a wall plug. Given that the standard wall-mounted hand crank models are so reliable, I cannot imagine why someone would ever purchase an electric model. With its zero carbon footprint, the manual wall-mounted pencil sharpener is both a sentimental and sensible choice.

Memorable Quotes from The Pale King by David Foster Wallace

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 03:46:00 +0000

He knew who on the plane was in love, who would say they were in love because it was what you were supposed to say, and who would say they were not in love. (p. 13)

A lobotomy involved some kind of rod or probe inserted through the eyesocket, the term was always “frontal” lobotomy; but was there any other kind? (p. 14)

The screen door had no screen but was still a screen door, which fact she thought upon. (p. 55)

The mother’s relational skills were indifferent and did not include truthful or consistent speech. (p. 55)

One paradox of professional writing is that books written solely for money and/or acclaim will almost never be good enough to garner either. (pp. 81-82)

If sensitive issues of governance can be made sufficiently dull and arcane, there will be no need for officials to hide or dissemble, because no one not directly involved will pay enough attention to cause trouble. (p. 84)

I don’t think my father loved his job with the city, but on the other hand, I’m not sure he ever asked himself major questions like ‘Do I like my job? Is this really what I want to spend my life doing? Is it as fulfilling as some of the dreams I had for myself when I was a young man serving in Korea and reading British poetry in my bunk in the barracks at night?’ He had a family to support, this was his job, he got up every day and did it, end of story, everything else is just self-indulgent nonsense. That may actually have been the lifetime sum-total of his thinking on the matter. He essentially said ‘Whatever’ to his lot in life, but obviously in a very different way from the way in which the directionless mastoids of my generation said ‘Whatever.’ (pp. 191-192)

For those who’ve never experienced a sunrise in the rural Midwest, it’s roughly as soft and romantic as someone’s abruptly hitting the lights in a dark room. This is because the land is so flat that there is nothing to impede or gradualize the sun’s appearance. It’s just all of a sudden there. The temperature immediately goes up ten degrees; the mosquitoes vanish to wherever exactly it is that mosquitoes go to regroup. (p. 262)

In short, not only was it surprising to be greeted in person with such enthusiastic words, but it was doubly surprising when the person reciting these words displayed the same kind of disengagement as, say, the checkout clerk who utters the words ‘Have a nice day’ while her expression indicates that it’s really a matter of total indifference to her whether you drop dead in the parking lot outside in ten seconds from now. (p. 287)

As every American knows, it is totally possible for contempt and anxiety to coexist in the human heart. The idea that people feel just one basic emotion at a time is a further contrivance of menoirs. (p. 301)

Telling the truth is, of course, a great deal trickier than most regular people understand. (p. 302)

He felt in a position to say he knew now that hell had nothing to do with fires or frozen troops. Lock a fellow in a windowless room to perform rote tasks just tricky enough to make him have to think, but still rote, tasks involving numbers that connected to nothing he’d ever see or care about, a stack of tasks that never went down, and nail a clock to the wall where he can see it, and just leave the man there to his mind’s own devices. Tell him to pucker his butt and think beach when he starts to get antsy, and that would be just the word to use, antsy, like his mother. Let him find out in time’s fullness what a joke the word was, that it didn’t come anyplace close. He’d already dusted the desk with his cuff, moved his infant son’s photo in its rattly frame where the front glass slid a bit if you shook it. He’d already tried switching the green rubber over and doing the adding machine with his left hand, pretending he’d had a stroke and was bravely soldiering on. The rubber made the pinkie’s tip all damp and pale beneath it. Unable to sit still at home, unable to look at anything for more than a second or two. The beach now had solid cement instead of sand and the water was gray and barely moved, just quivered a little, like Jell-O that’s almost set. Unbidden came ways to kill himself with Jell-O. (pp. 379-380)

The underlying bureaucratic key is the ability to deal with boredom. To function effectively in an environment that precludes everything vital and human. To breathe, so to speak, without air.
The key is the ability, whether innate or conditioned, to find the other side of the rote, the picayune, the meaningless, the repetitive, the pointlessly complex. To be, in a word, unbearable. I met, in the years 1984 and ’85, two such men.
It is the key to modern life. If you are immune to boredom, there is literally nothing you cannot accomplish. (p. 438)

Meredith Rand says: ‘You have to say little things occasionally, like it’s a real conversation, to show you’re at least interested. Otherwise the person just feels like they’re yammering and the other person could be thinking about God only knows what.’ (p. 472)

‘If you are pretty,’ Meredith Rand says, ‘it can be hard to respect guys.’ (p. 482)

It turns out that bliss—a second-by-second joy + gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious—lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (tax returns, televised golf), and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it’s like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Constant bliss at every atom. (p. 546)

Animal Death Words in Science & Religion

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Wed, 30 May 2012 20:21:00 +0000

Just realized that the most common euphemism used to describe killing a research animal when it is no longer needed is the same word used to describe the ritual killing of animals in ancient religions: sacrifice.

Endearing Things Women Do 2

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:53:00 +0000

In an effort to apply—but not over apply—perfume, some women will spray a cloud of vapor into the air in front of them, wait a moment for the droplets to dissipate slightly, and then walk into the cloud.

Endearing Things Women Do 1

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:50:00 +0000

If a woman's hair is of a certain length—in the vicinity of her chin, for example—and she wants to place a telephone to her ear, she will often tilt their head to one side so that her hair flips away and the phone can be slipped underneath and placed directly against her head.

Somewhere I have a picture of a former girlfriend performing this gesture while making a dinner reservation from our hotel room.

Although I have never discussed it with any of its users, I suspect this time-honored maneuver (I have seen it in movies of the 40s and 50s) is taken as much out of vanity as practicality. The goal is to hear better while preserving the condition of a quaffed head of hair. The result is a cocked-head movement reminiscent of a wolf turning to listen to a distant sound. The woman's eyes dull as she strains to hear the faraway person, and she continues to list a bit to one side until the conversation ends, at which point the woman pulls the phone straight downward, avoiding any contact with hair, and, finally, returns her head to an upright position.

I take a small measure of delight whenever I see this.

The Reasons of Love

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 12:01:00 +0000

There are very few books I can say truly changed the way I look at life and the world, happily and forever. Harry G. Frankfurt's thin volume The Reasons of Love (Princeton, 2004) is one.

A 61-year-old Looks Back on Joyce Maynard

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 18:04:00 +0000

I have always admired the title of Joyce Maynard’s famous essay “An 18-Year-Old Looks Back On Life,” but before today, I had never actually read it. Maynard is three years younger than I am, and her article, written during her freshman year at Yale, was the New York Times Magazine cover story on April 23, 1972. As legend has it, the piece drew the attention of the reclusive J. D. Salinger. The two exchanged many letters, and when summer came, Maynard left college (never to return again), moved into Salinger’s Cornish, New Hampshire home, and began a ten-month-long relationship with the 53-year-old author of The Catcher In The Rye.

It is easy to see what appealed to Salinger about the essay. Maynard is very bright and a remarkably observant writer—especially for someone who was only a college freshman. The piece is far more embedded in a particular cultural period in the United States (the late 1960s and early 1970s) than Catcher, but the offbeat sensibility of the author is not unlike that of Holden Caulfield. Maynard writes entertainingly about pot smoking (she didn’t), the Unitarian church, Leave It To Beaver (I was also a fan), her senior year of high school at Phillips Exeter Academy, and the antiwar presidential campaign of Eugene McCarthy. Maynard had already written several pieces for Seventeen magazine, but “An 18-year-old Looks Back On Life” made her a celebrity. She went on to have children and write many books, including a memoir of her relationship with Salinger, but this article, written in youth, will probably always be her most famous publication.

One of the Rhythms of My Life

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 12:35:00 +0000

1. Take cold cup of coffee or tea in hand.
2. Open microwave door.
3. Remove cup I forgot to retrieve X hours before.
4. Insert cup.
5. Turn on microwave.
6. Plan to return when the cup is hot.
7. Repeat.

Catholicism & Dentistry

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 04:08:00 +0000

For me, visiting the dental hygienest is a very Catholic experience. I lie under a drape and confess to the venial sins of inadequate brushing and almost no flossing, and I feel great pangs of guilt. After putting me through some minor uncomfortableness, my uniformed confessor gently chastises me and sends me home to perform the dental equivalent of a dozen Hail Marys.

I leave the office feeling much better.

Some Recent Tweets

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 14:02:00 +0000

stuartvyse stuartvyse

Observations about my gym: Very few men who go there wear scarves. #JustMe

stuartvyse stuartvyse

Making pizza in the shape of Iowa for dinner. Could be the beginning of a Primary-Caucus Pizza Challenge. #SuperTuesdayMightBeAProblem

stuartvyse stuartvyse

hoping college-aged daughter is not too old to go to Muppet movie with me. #youngkidneededforcover

stuartvyse stuartvyse

A good day of teaching is a good day. #ILoveMyJob

Great Under-appreciated Invention #2: The Styptic Pencil

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 13:32:00 +0000

I’ve never been all that good at shaving. This odd and somewhat barbaric cultural custom requires a substantial degree of patience and care, but when the time comes to remove the morning stubble, I am always in a hurry. Today’s high tech disposable razors are remarkably sharp, and I am not safe with one unless I’ve used it way past the usual disposal time and it is as dull as a butter knife. As a result, I often nick myself creating tiny bleeders that would be a great embarrassment out in the world.

Enter the messy, chalky, but completely essential styptic pencil. Yes, it stings a bit, but I don’t mind. The stinging tells me I’ve hit the right spot, and the astringent is doing its job. And it never fails. A quick dab with this wet rock immediately stanches the bleed. If I forget to wash my face off later, the pencil leaves unattractive white marks behind, but I find they come off in the shower without restarting the flow of blood. Amazing. I keep one at home and in my traveling toiletry bag.

I don’t know who first introduced me to the styptic pencil, but I would like to thank whomever it was in absentia. You did me a great service. In turn, I have carried on the tradition by giving my son his first styptic pencil when became a shaver.

Great Under-appreciated Invention #1: The Rubber Band

noreply@blogger.com (SV) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 04:11:00 +0000

I am starting a new category of entry: Great Under-appreciated Inventions, and the honor of GUAI #1 goes to the rubber band (AKA elastic band), patented in 1845 by Stephen Perry, a British inventor and business man.

I have a deep love of office supplies in general, but I particularly love the rubber band. Elastics have limitless possibilities. The world is populated with so many loose things in need of binding, and the rubber band provides a daily hedge against entropy.

A simple yet elegant invention. I keep plenty of them around, both at home and in the office.

Thank you Stephen Perry.