Check out this nifty video that shows a whole hike along the more than 2000 miles of the Appalachian trail, compressed into five minutes. One particular instant (literally) that caught my eye was the appearance of a stile.
In case you don't know what a stile is, it is a set of steps used to cross over a fence. I presume that animals don't care to climb up and over the steps.
And in case you do know what a stile is, then I have one question for you:
Why?
This was the question I was asking myself after watching the video. Why do I know the name of this thing? I can specifically recall in distant childhood my parents explaining it to me. Out of all the words they could have chosen to explain to me—"diabetes", "micromanagement", "bagels", etc.—they chose the word "stile." I can only assume that they expected my adult life to be filled with various and sundry stile-related activities, but in this as in so many other respects, events did not develop as expected.
So, as it turns out, I have some number of brain cells devoted to remembering this word, describing an object which I have encountered maybe once in my life, and which could just as well be described by a phrase "a set of steps used to cross over a fence," and which in fact lies dormant for years (except for occasional Julia Stiles-related thoughts). How do I get those brain cells back?
In this scene from the 1960 Spartacus, the leader of the slave revolt meets several new volunteers, escaped slaves, including the house slave Antoninus whose talents include singing songs and also juggling. Spartacus's skepticism is apparent. Later on, Spartacus comes to embrace the singing of songs as a necessity undergoes a change of heart and embraces the singing of songs as a necessity even for a rebel army.
This little bit of byplay came to mind when I saw the recent heartwarming (aww...) story about the chorus from a New York city working-class elementary school that was invited to perform at the Oscar ceremony, and also while reading Kelly Tyler-Lewis's book The Lost Men, about Shackleton's Ross Sea party. Many have heard of Shackleton's failed attempt to cross the Antarctic continent, and the various heroic efforts by which he managed to bring back the entire crew alive.
Well, not quite the entire crew, it turns out—if you take into account the second of Shackleton's parties, who sailed to the opposite side of the continent in order to lay down caches of supplies for Shackleton, whom they expected to be trekking across. Three of that party did not make it back.
Scurvy was one of a thousand problems Shackleton's Ross Sea party had to deal with—even though by that time it was well known that scurvy could be prevented by drinking lime juice, or even (I didn't know this) by eating seal meat. The problem was the expedition cut corners and didn't drink nearly enough juice, or some just refused to eat seal meat because they didn't like it. I like to think I myself would just eat the damn meat and deal with it (especially since food overall was fairly scant), but then again, I've never tasted seal, so who am I to judge? (Update: as of 2012, I have tasted it, and it's really not that bad.)
Scurvy provides a useful metaphor for a more widespread paradox worth keeping in mind: Cut back to the bare essentials, and you will find something essential missing.
This is the problem with the current mania for schools to cut out art and music programs, or physical education, or even recess. Bean counters may have a difficult time distinguishing such "non-academic" pursuits from mere amusement. But an academic program stripped down to the absolute essentials is like a diet stripped down to essential bulk foods—the brain is doomed to suffer a slow, wasting death, particularly when it comes to curiosity about the larger world.
Take another look at those kids from New York P.S. 22? How easy it to get any bunch of 6-to-12-year olds to buy into a program which demands discipline, and teamwork? And how many such programs can demonstrate clearly that discipline and hard work pay off?
(Warning: major spoilers about the plot of Atlas Shrugged follow. This is in addition to the usual spoilers about the meaning of life and stuff.)
This little video snippet shows my namesake explaining his path to Zen enlightenment—the buttering of French bread. Robert Pirsig's picked a killer title for his 1974 novel Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but the reader who looks for much of anything about Zen is going to be disappointed (as is the reader who looks to learn anything about motorcycle maintenance). My bookshelf holds another book Zen of Code Optimization, which I suspect to be almost the exact opposite of Zen, in that it relies on meticulous analysis. Leo Babuta's Zen to Done productivity system is Zen-like in spirit inasmuch as it tries to simplify as much as possible, but as far as I can tell has no real connection with Zen philosophy.
Don't get me wrong. All the foregoing are worthy products, and it doesn't bother me that the "Zen" buzzword has become something of a marketing gimmick—although a Zen priest might take a different view. It seems a harmless and possibly amusing superficiality, like the legendary Japanese department store that used a crucified Santa Claus as a Christmas decoration.
Then again, the word Zen has passed into common usage as an everyday adjective, difficult to define precisely (which is what makes it useful), but generally referring to that which is holistic, surprisingly indirect or even seemingly paradoxical, as when Mr. Miyagi teaches karate through car-waxing. Come to think of it, this doesn't bother me either.
What will make me snort and spit out my coffee is when someone claims with a straight face to be a Zen adherent when all they have done is read a book or two, or perhaps not even that. It's as if watching every episodes of "Hogan's Heroes" qualifies one to march in the Veteran's Day parade.
This came to mind again recently when I saw the trailer for the new Atlas Shrugged movie coming out on April 15. From the trailer I can't tell whether the version of Objectivism presented is the genuine, Ayn-Rand version, or the superficial version that's been going around for the past few years, which we might call the Glenn Beck version.
Among Atlas Shrugged discussion group I discovered that two people might agree on a certain tenet of the book but disagree diametrically on how to map that point into the real world. Is Bill Gates a John Galt or a Wesley Mouch?
In the aftermath of the stock-market crash a couple of years ago, we were presented with the spectacle of incompetent investment bankers, who got tired of reading bad stuff about themselves in the newspapers, threatening to "Go Galt"—that is, renounce their chosen profession and leave the rest of us to struggle along without them—to which my unforced reaction was always Yes, please! Put that in writing and we'll sign it.
Will Wilkinson put it neatly: The point is that you are not John Galt. The point is that you are, at your best, Eddie Willers. Zen and Objectivism, though very different philosophies, seem to share a common misfortune of attracting dilletantes who like the charisma factor but reject (or more likely are ignorant of) the discipline demanded of real adherents.
One of my friends who is a genuine Objectivist remarks with amusement on the many politicians and pundits these days who claim to be both serious Objectivists and devout Christians. I mean, have you read Atlas Shrugged, people? (In all seriousness, I suspect probably not.) It would be difficult to find a more implacably contradictory pair of philosophies.
But then again, such people seem to flunk the Christianity test as well as the Objectivist test—that inconvenient business about selling all you have and giving to the poor, or refraining from casting the first stone. One benefit of embracing two contradictory creeds is that one can piously cite a justification for whatever shallow, self-indulgent whim possesses one at the moment. I guess that's the point.
So I'm here to report I finished the Read My Lips! DVD series. I have little to add to my earlier observations. I think the series is effective to a certain extent. I feel decidedly more proficient than when I started--but, just as language classes in school seldom bring you to fluency, I am not ready to go out and be a spy just yet.
I intend to go back to the DVD's occasionally to maintain what proficiency I have. I haven't decided on whether to attempt some further formal training. There isn't much out there, beyond some YouTube videos.
I'm pretty sure I could create a lip-reading course that would take it to the next level--if only I didn't have too many other things to do that sound more interesting.
To wrap it up, here are a few of the more memorable quotes from the "Read My Lips!" series. I am not making these up:
You've had too much to drink.
That rhinoceros reminds me of your mother.
Behind every successful man stands a surprised mother-in-law.
I took a butcher knife from the kitchen and went down into the basement.
Between 1966 and 2001, the number of bachelor's degrees earned by women in science and engineering fields roughly quadrupled. Even so, the number is less than half the number of similar degrees awarded to men. Lots more data is available here.
A lot of discussion goes on about the reason for the disparity—whether it's discrimination, some inherent gender distinction, or something else. One phenomenon that probably plays a role is a misguided belief that for women, professionalism in math, science, and engineering demands sacrificing one's femininity. This idea strikes me as rather ludicrously old-fashioned, and I would be disinclined to believe that anyone buys into it any more—if I had not witnessed some tension over exactly this issue among some of my own acquaintances who happen to be both female and scientists. The Nerd Girls movement is explicitly dedicated to helping women choose careers in science and engineering and stay girly at the same time. See Erin Cech's interesting discussion here.
There is a place, however, where women are entirely free to become scientists and engineers and celebrate their femininity at the same time. It's the world of the 1950's science-fiction B-movie. We don't think twice about Dr. Ellie Satler in Jurassic Park (1993)—although she explicitly mentions sexism—but it's interesting to see paleontologist Lee Hunter appear in The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms during an era (1953) in which women in real life were expected to stay home, wash windows, and change diapers—and none of the characters finds her gender at all incongruous.
And these are not the girls who stayed home and studied because they couldn't get a date on Saturday night, either. They wear skirts and heels, their hair is nicely done, their nails, too—in fact, any of them could take up a second career as a lingerie model if that whole science-engineering thing failed to work out. I wonder what effect these figures on the screen had on young girls sitting in the audience?
That question will likely never be answered. But if the movies teach us anything it is this: integration of women into the ranks of scientists and engineers is a prelude to alien invasion. You have been warned.
(Above: Nuclear physicist Dr. Ruth Adams from This Island Earth pursues some extracurricular activities.)
(Update 15 February) Some late-breaking [I hate that word] news on the issue.
Photo by Max East
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