My Favorite Cop-Out
Clearly I have other things to be doing than writing limericks about this year’s ballot initiatives. Here is a linky-post for your amusement, so you know I haven’t been eaten by a hippie.
- Wolfangel has a chewy and kinda scary post on the rhetoric of depression:
I am tired; I am sad; I am not doing what I need to do. These are all fine and acceptable; these are the ways everyone talks about depression. I do not say how actually I hate myself. I do not say how I feel I deserve only bad things. I do not say how I feel I am such a terrible person that this badness inevitably stains anyone around me.
The word “medicalization” is wandering about in my head, looking for something to connect with.
- Hugo feels guilty for not being an infinite curiosity machine:
I once read a novel — I can’t remember what it was — where the protagonist takes a woman on a first date to a museum. The date makes polite noises, but doesn’t seem swept by the same things that move the main character. The narrator says something like “She was the hopeless sort of museum-goer, the type less interested in the sublime and the magnificent than in knick-knacks from the bookstore and a hot cup of coffee and something sweet from the cafe.” I read that, and thought “Uh oh. That’s me, always has been, likely always will be!”
I asked my local aspiring museologist about museum fatigue, and he immediately got very excited about architecture. Suffice it to say that this sort of thing is largely a design problem.