The Daily Nous, July 16, 2007

LOCAL PEDESTRIAN DISCOVERS INTERSECTION SECRET
Sacramento, CA (AP)--While waiting at a busy intersection in downtown Sacramento, pedestrian Reginald Whipple made a startling discovery that may revolutionize the practice of crosswalking. It all began last Tuesday when he pressed the "walk" button at Arden and Howe.

"After hitting it the first time," said Whipple, "I thought, 'What if it didn't work?' So I decided to hit it again."

Then Mr. Whipple noticed something strange. As soon as he had finished hitting the button twice, the light changed and he was allowed to cross the street.

"Literally, a light just went off in my head. I figured I'd do a little experiment," explained Whipple. "I repeatedly punched the button as fast as I could. Every time I did, the light would change faster than when I only hit it once."

When asked if he thought that the lapsed time before the changing of the light was correlated with the speed of the button-pushing, Whipple shrugged and replied, "I don't know that we can say that just yet. There's still so much more to be done on this study. The exciting thing is that we know that the lights are actually responding to the repeated depressions of the button."

At a recent press conference, Whipple made some conjectures about the inner workings of this phenomenon. "It is my hypothesis that the stoplight networks have developed social practices with pedestrians, and that they have done this to the point where they are now capable of perceiving distress or urgency in something as simple as a rapid burst of button depressions."

Pedestrians all over the nation are now taking advantage of Whipple's startling discovery.

Russ and Bets, Russian Bends

Rascality, Porter-style.

Kris and I visited our friends Russ and Betsy last week. They fed us, entertained us, and kicked us out to sleep in a tent in their neighbor's gravelly driveway. It sounds bad, but it was actually quite posh--a five man tent with an inflatable mattress. Playing tug-of-war with their dachsund, Terry, was one highlight. Another was watching Russ jump into a not-quite-hygienic canal to fetch his frisbee.

On Sunday we were able to be with Russ and Bets for the blessing of their newest child, Reid. We feel grateful to have been there--and grateful for such loving, funny, talented friends.

Another highlight: while setting up our picnic at the park, an old guy interrupted his exercise stroll and approached us.

"Nice park, eh?" he said. (Murmurs and nods from around the picnic table.)

"You know what would make it nicer?" he asked. (Sadly, nobody did.)

"A public restroom," he announced. He paused, nodding, letting it sink in.

He then proceeded to tell us the history of the park and how obstinate the city council has been regarding this bathroom issue. He urged us to do our civic duty and call the representative and express our displeasure over the dismal bathroomlessness of the park. As he left, we all yelled "thanks", but I don't think anybody meant it.

After leaving the Andersons, we went to visit Kris' aunt and uncle in Santa Cruz. While we were there, we visited the Boardwalk. All I can remember from the last time I went to the Boardwalk is that I caught a little fish and wanted to keep it but it died on the way to my great-grandma's house in Oakland, so I tried to revive it in her toilet. I think I was five years old.

It was overcast the whole day, so all we did was walk around, go on one rollercoaster, and watch a circus put on by some Russians. When I hear the words "Russian Circus" I expect bears and wolves, mustaches and M.C. Hammer Pants, and vodka. Oh, I guess they had vodka. And a guy dressed up in a bear suit doing cartwheels. But, lamentably, in all other respects the Russian Circus is modernizing itself.

First of all, they had a clown, which I didn't expect, never having associated clowns with Russians. The poor clown. He spent about two minutes preparing for his elaborate vaudeville trick where he hung his hat and vest on a cane, which he balanced on his forehead. His goal was to let the cane drop and have the hat and vest slip right over him. There are few things more difficult to watch than a clown taking himself seriously and messing up repeatedly. Those few other things are pretty much comprised by the rest of the circus.

I hope the crowd didn't leave with the impression that all you need to start up a circus is to find a couple double-jointed girls, dress them up in embarrasing outfits, and find two guys that are able to lift the girls up while they do their bendy stuff. To be fair, I should mention that we didn't watch the whole thing. Maybe the wolves came out later.

Man, what a harsh reviewer I am. Here's an honest suggestion: If you guys ever come back to the Boardwalk, maybe you could dress the girls up in scuba gear, have them walk out of the surf and onto the stage, announce that, due to a rapid ascension, they have the "bends", and then let them do their bendy routine to "The Bends" by Radiohead. Good Russian humour. I totally would've laughed.

Ethics of Memory

An unwelcome guest.





I have a problem with my brain: thoughts sometimes get on a loop and just cycle for days, sometimes weeks. My brother X.W. (of course these initials are fictitious for the protection of my brother Eric) suffers from the same problem, and his is of a particularly vicious flavour (I’m practicing my Canadian spelling before we move there). The phrase “I’ve got a song stuck in my head” is the point of departure for X. He’ll be stuck on a line from a song for days. Lately he has had a tough time escaping the rut of “Encarnacion”, a love song by Jack Black in the movie Nacho Libre. And X doesn’t remember with quiet images tucked into the recesses of his private thoughts—X remembers with his entire body, most prominently his highly developed, operatic, stuck-on-full-volume vocal chords. This gives the reader a taste for the struggles endured by my brother and me.
This neurological issue isn’t the same thing as my past-time of being obsessed with a problem or two for years at a time. In fact, this loop malfunction often interrupts me in what contemplations I’ve managed to conjure. Just when I feel I’m on the verge of some important intellectual milestone, everything unexpectedly shifts gears and I find myself mentally repeating something like “gorgonzola . . . gorgonzola . . . gorgonzola,” as if it were the most natural thing to be doing with my time. Other times, it's more of a motor memory. If I'm on the computer I'll find myself just randomly clicking the mouse in circles, mesmerized for minutes by the little white arrow. And this has led me to the latest obsession: the intrusiveness of memory.
Well, it started as an interest in intrusiveness, but now I’ve moved on to other interesting aspects—particularly the ethics of memory.
The more I read about memory, the more I’m convinced that memory isn’t a matter of simple retrieval or access. Rather, it is a relatively creative process that relies upon cues from the situation that called for the memory in the first place, cues including personal contributions to the situation like emotional mood, level of hunger, the particular social goals and fears that are most salient at the time, etc. In light of the possibility of our creative role in memory, intentional or not, we should be anxious to explore different attitudes toward the ways in which we remember ourselves and others.
It seems to me that one important application of these thoughts, if they're accurate, is that we have the ability to examine how we see others and analyze the role of particular memories with them (memories we maybe once considered infallibly accurate portrayals of how things played out), take advantage of our creative role in memory, and reinterpret the event in a more charitable, humane light. If we do this enough, we may even find that we have formed rather pernicious habits of remembering events in a self-absorbed way. I don’t think it would be inaccurate to say that we form addictions to certain roles (usually those that are, ironically, self-preserving in some ultimately destructive fashion), and that our acts of memory tend to be shaped by these roles.
And this also goes for how we remember ourselves. In our struggles to be honest with ourselves, how can we be true to something into which we only have foggy insight? Do we sometimes assume that it is impossible to be wrong about what some mistake, some blunder, or some bloated victory ultimately means for our selves? And do we make the mistake of assuming that these memories about others and ourselves could ever be neutral? What happens when we start to take responsibility for the implications of the meaning of a memory? A memory is never a neutral thing.

Folsom

Kristen and I are loving it out here in sunny Folsom, CA. We're staying with my family en route to Toronto. Which is odd because Folsom isn't en route to Canada when you leave from Salt Lake. We're taking the scenic route.

I guess the main reason we're here is because there is a serious family reunion coming up (in Lake Tahoe) and we want to celebrate my Grandma Wood (Gabby, whose house we've been sitting), the matriarch of the family, who has been so loving and generous to us. Kristen and I have been feverishly transferring my late grandfather's journals into electronic format, and we plan on presenting the finished product to her at the reunion. I hope we finish in time. Kristen is really the star player here. I get really frustrated with the voice recognition software, which always thinks I'm saying "in" when I say "and" or "can't" when I say "Kent". To give you an idea, Kristen has done 600 pages and I have done 150 pages. She gets so absorbed in it that she sometimes forgets that it is 2007 instead of 1968.
For example, we were recently shopping at a second-hand store when Kristen sees a little dress and says, "Oh, that would look so cute on Noel!"
"On who?"
"Wait, Noel isn't 3 years old anymore. Nevermind."
The Noel of whom she speaks is my aunt who is now in her early forties. I thought that was pretty cute.













Our yellow labrador, Holly (who suffers from acute urinary incontinence, aggravated by baby-talk and any degree of eye contact -- or a malevolent combination of the two), has been keeping me company when Kristen is lost in 1968. Holly isn't a bulldog, but she suffices. She and I mostly play fetch, but every once in awhile I'll throw her toy into the pool, and her instincts will snap (like Lambert the sheepish lion) into Rescue Dog mode. She leaps and belly-flops after that toy with such gusto that I can hardly keep from laughing every time she does it. You may say to yourself, "Gee, that doesn't sound like Rescue Dog mode; that just sounds like good old fashioned fetch." Trust me. You try jumping into that pool and she'll try to fetch you.

Holly mid-flight.

She usually waits until she's right next to me before she does this.

I've also spent some quality time working with my Dad out on the ranch that he and my mom are slowly developing. It is about 70 acres out in Ione (Amador County, near Sutter Creek). It has rolling hills with scattered oak groves and a river running through it. My Dad (who is getting his Masters in Astrophysics) built an observatory at the top of one of the hills. He uses the telescope for astrophotography (you can see a few of his photos by going to his blog, in the Links section to the right). His passion for the heavens (in more than one sense) is contagious. Lately we've been working on irrigation lines for some young trees and for a new horse arena that they're building. My mom and her friend go out there every other day and spoil their horses, Ty and Tude. The more time I spend out there, working and watching my parents build their dream up from the ground, the more I yearn to own some of my own earth and put my mark on it.

Last week, while I was eating lunch out at the ranch, a beautiful bird flew by. I had this funny feeling and I asked my dad, "Dad, do you ever see a bird fly by out here and say to yourself, 'Hey, that bird belongs to me'? 'Cause I just had that feeling."

"No, son. I can't say that I have."

"Well, it's true, in a way, since you own this property."

"No, son. It's not."

I'm paraphrasing. He actually said this with more tact and with a fatherly smile -- you know, the kind of smile that says, "Let's just change the subject to something sensible."

I'm counting down the days until school starts again. It's springtime again in my mind, which is nice after an unseasonally long dry spell.

I own this tree!

an anthropological study of "garage sapien"

We had a garage sale today. This is my first one since, oh, the junior high days. I admit I was a little nervous about the whole thing because I didn't think we had enough stuff and I was afraid that our relatively remote location would be hard for people to find.

Nah, they sniffed us out like bloodhounds.

I stayed back while Kristen set up the signs. Seriously, it couldn't have been two minutes after she left that she diverted a steady flow of "yard sale junkies" (the term "junkies" is employed loosely here) in my direction. Most of them executed the "drive-by" technique -- this technique is the embodiment of the inference that the size of the sale is indicative of the quality of the items being sold. Really, this is quite the rich sub-culture (the term "rich" is employed loosely) with rules governing everything from the standard price of magazines and VHS tapes to the politics of haggling. I offended one person for asking too much for a magazine and I offended another person for asking too little too quickly for a stack of books. Apparently I robbed him of that precious sense of triumph that can only come from talking someone down from $2.00 to $1.50. My very last customer of the day, as luck would have it, told me about all these rules.

Here are some of the other highlights with our "garage sapien" buddies:
* A man walked into our garage (while we were talking with other customers) and began to sift through our belongings, which were clearly not for sale. His mongrel dog followed suit and began to eat our Gandalfo's breakfast sandwiches, which were clearly not for canine consumption.
* I had more opportunities to practice my Spanish today than I have in the last two years combined. I met some awesome folks from Peru (where my little sister Christina was born). This nice Peruvian couple said that they wanted to cook me some Peruvian cuisine -- something involving "lots of shrimp".
* I got a big hug from a nice lady when I gave her son (a new philosophy major at BYU) a good deal on some philosophy books.
* Someone stole the nice camera we had for sale, but left the nice case that came with it. We gave it to a girl straight out of the "Teen Girl Squad" who wanted to use it as a purse.
* Only AFTER I sold my handheld tape recorder did I realize that I forgot to erase some embarrassing clips of me singing.
* An old man (decked out in biking apparel) pulled up on his bike, parked it, and took a quick glance at the pile of free stuff at the front of the driveway. After a few seconds, he mounted his bike and said to me, "I'm gonna be riding this bike all day." Then he drove away, leaving me with a funny mix of puzzlement and admiration.

Overall, it was a smashing success. The best part of the day was when Kristen, in her exuberance over the amount of money we managed to make with the whole affair, accidentally gave me permission to spend $30 on books.

And that's why the quote of the day comes from Amazon.com.

Here's the "What in tarnation?!" quote of the day:

"I think the human brain is highly overrated."

-- a reviewer on Amazon.com

Bollywood breakdancing

There's nothing I can say about this except that I don't condone smoking (for midgets or anyone else). It's bad for your body and it makes cars and hotel rooms stink. However, I do condone awesome breakdancing with an unbeatable grin on your face.

why I love her

There really aren't reasons, per se, that explain my love for Kristen. But there are some things that sure make it easier to love her; some things I really like about her, and I want her to be able to remember these things whenever she's having a bad day.

She loves hiking with me.


Many of my defining moments have happened in the mountains, and I'm happy that Kris not only understands that, but also is excited to continue that pattern.


She's passionate and involved.


One of the first things I noticed about Kris was that she isn't lukewarm about many things. Whether she's dancing and lip-synching to the newest Beyonce song, almost getting a technical foul for yelling at the ref for not calling fouls, (or for that matter) getting up at 5:30 AM to coach junior high basketball, or firmly expressing and defending her opinion as a student in class, she jumps in headfirst, totally committed.


She loves my family.


I love my family. So does Kris, and that means everything to me. And I like that my brothers have an ongoing battle to secure the "favorite brother" status.
She also has a great relationship with my extended family. My grandma Wood kissed her before I did (on the cheek, of course). I got jealous and made sure that our first kiss was at the end of that date.


I love her family.


Kristen's family is wonderful. Her mom gave her the compassion and good looks (sorry John, but I'm glad Kris doesn't look like Clint Eastwood). Her dad gave her a quick sense of humor and a lot of electronic singing fish toys. And her three sisters are all talented, beautiful, and funny. And a little wierd. Just kidding.


She takes care of me.


Kristen is the reason that I'm still alive, believe it or not. She doesn't spoil me by any means (she's good at reminding me to do my duties). Still, I feel spoiled.
Her cooking skills are legendary. And they're getting better. Very yummy, but stretching the tummy.


She's a caring, inspiring teacher (and a proud canadian).


Kristen works very hard to educate her students. She teaches English and three levels of French. It isn't uncommon for her to divert a date or a vacation because she noticed something that would make a great object lesson, or a great book to read with her students, or a good picture to hang up in the room. Right next to her gargantuan Canada shrine.
She has a reputation at the school for being very strict and demanding, but also very fun and rewarding. She also has a reputation for praising Canada. Once a concerned parent contacted the principal because she heard that Kristen was preaching socialism to the children.


She makes me laugh.


Kristen has an arsenal of three or four things she can do at any time to make me laugh so hard that I cry, no matter what mood I happen to be in at the time. This isn't one of them, but I still think it's a funny picture.


I think she's the prettiest woman I've ever seen.


And she's my best friend. How lucky am I?

I love you, Kristen.

Bulldog or Bust

This is the official kick-off of the "Bulldog or Bust" campaign. You see, I want a bulldog. Kristen absolutely refuses on the grounds that bulldogs are, as a breed, notably flatulent. I didn't want to believe it, but apparently it's true. I say that's a small price to pay for the companionship of a beast that is, in all other respects, a paragon of beauty and delicacy. She disagrees with me there, too, claiming that bulldogs look, and I quote, "disgusting."

I've tried to appeal to her "frenchness" by suggesting a french bulldog, but she's taken up the habit of ridiculing them. She particularly likes to mock their prominent ears, and even suggests comparisons with bats, of all creatures.

Not being one to surrender easily, I've hoarded up some pleasing pictures of bulldogs.

If the pictures so move you, gentle reader, please consider replying to this post and expressing your support for the Bulldog or Bust campaign. I'm only one man, and I can't do this alone. Together we can overcome the evils of prejudice toward our stocky little buddies!

Here's the bulldog parade:

This is the French Bulldog. Notice the elegant ears.

one swinging hepcat

Fact: The strings of many stringed instruments, including those of this size, are made out of catgut (also used for stringing racquets).

Disappointing fact: Catgut isn't made out of the guts of cats.

Fun fact: The cat in this picture has a funny gut.

another one

Coldplay and Panzers don't mix.

Dear Dream Diary,

Last night I dreamt that I was at an outdoor party where the band Coldplay was playing. Someone had managed to get a huge Panzer tank into the party. At first the Panzer was merely chasing people around, but eventually someone decided to use the tank to shoot at a target that was adjacent to Coldplay's stage. Upon impact, the poor band flew off the stage amidst rubble and smoke. Being the troopers they are, Coldplay crawled back on stage, bloodied but unbowed, and plugged back in. Unfortunately, by the time they were ready to start again, another band had started up on another nearby stage. It was a polynesian reggae band. Chris Martin, the lead singer of Coldplay, looked at me (at this point I'm a member of the band) with an expression on his face like, How are we supposed to compete with that? I looked out at the crowd and noticed that they were all polynesian.

A few moments later, I'm back in the crowd and Coldplay has set up on the same stage as the other band. This little reggae band has a great rhythm section with guys wearing drums all over their bodies and throwing these little boomerang drumsticks that hit the drum and come back. And boy are they rocking out! Dancing ensues. The song ends, and Coldplay triumphantly starts one of their signature grooves. The guys in the reggae band get this confused look on their faces and begin to shake their rastafarian heads. All the guys with the drums turn and face Coldplay and start tossing the boomerang-sticks in their direction, taunting them and playing drums at the same time. Then one of the sticks hits Coldplay's bass player in the face and he falls backwards off the stage.

Rough night for Coldplay, but everyone at the party had a good laugh.

Are these dreams interesting to anyone else? If not, someone please tell me to stop.

A Dream Come True

Sorry, no witty picture.

I don't know if these people qualify as mentally cacophonous (see this post for more info on the mentally cacophonous and their #1 enemy), but if you want to see a real music video from a real Southern Baptist Camp, click here. The best thing about all this is that most of the video is in fast motion, which actually does give everyone's movements a jerky, spasmodic quality. Just like I saw in my dream. I don't mean to brag, but I think it's clear that I have some sort of clairvoyance or some other unique access to truth.

I think it would be a dangerous thing to show this video to my brother.

For more Southern Baptist Camps, click here and here. The website where I found the video is here.

Moment of brilliance

I'm giving him a run for his money.

One day last week the parking near campus was especially cutthroat. By the time I found a spot, I was late for class, so I bolted up the hill to campus without locking the car or giving nary a thought to the whereabouts of my parking spot.
After class, I walked back to the car and found nothing but empty curb. I looked up and noticed a sign: "NO PARKING ANYTIME. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED."
There wasn't any phone number, so I walked around the vicinity looking for other parking signs. I found a few with phone numbers. No luck. They suggested calling the city.
After waiting on hold for a good 15 minutes, I finally spoke to a dispatch. I gave her a rough description of the car, and she said, "There doesn't appear to be anything matching that description. Maybe the person who towed it hasn't reported it yet. Check back in an hour."
Right. After about a half-hour of sitting on the curb I couldn't take it anymore, so I called the city again. Still no luck.
"Would you like to make a report, sir?"
"A report? How do I do that?"
"Well, a police officer comes to where you are and you fill out the report."
"Let's do that."
I assumed the report was for the towing incident. After waiting for the officer for 10 or 15 minutes, I realized that something didn't make sense. I called the city yet again.
The woman informed me that the officer wasn't coming to fill out a report for a towed car, but rather for a stolen car. Feeling like a genius by now, I told her it wouldn't be necessary.
By this time, Kristen, who I had called earlier, had arrived to pick me up. We went out to eat at a nearby restaurant. She was very understanding, especially given the fact that this little incident meant that she wouldn't be able to buy that pair of shoes that she's been looking at. I felt pretty bad about it, so it was nice that she took it so well.

And then, while chewing on some orange chicken and contemplating the disappointing events that had occurred over the last two hours, I realized that I had actually parked on the adjacent street.

Wow. Just wow.

a dream

This is "Mental Cacophony"

Last night I dreamt that I was watching a TV special on a music video that had been produced by a "Southern Baptist Camp" (whatever that is). The lead singer was afflicted with a disorder that gave all of his movements a jerky, spasmodic quality. The narrator noted that some people had controversially poked fun at the handicapped singer's disorder. That's when my little brother, Eric, appeared on the screen, doing a merciless impression of the music video, complete with spasms and all. The following caption appeared at the foot of the screen:
"Eric Wood -- number one enemy of the mentally cacophonous."
Apparently that was the name of the disorder from which the singer of the Southern Baptist Camp Band suffered.

I don't know why, but I thought that was the funniest thing I'd heard in a long time.

On a more serious note, I think there is something that I've experienced, on a number of occasions, that could be called mental cacophony. Has anyone else ever felt like their thoughts were way too loud? This usually happens to me in libraries and other excessively quiet places. But this doesn't make me flail my arms and jerk my head like a zombie on crack. Thank goodness.

Let the maieutics commence

Classes start next Monday (after a 9 month break), and I've consciously remarked to myself at least three times today that I am way too giddy. I'll be paying graduate tuition, since I graduated last August, but I'm not technically starting a graduate program until September. Don't ask me where. The admissions deities will decide that. For now, I'm plodding ahead with the personalized educational program that I like to call "The Credit Binge." Of course, when I purge my 225 credits at the sacred gates of graduate institutions, they're more likely to feel pity than awe.
My point is: three cheers for education!

Warning: As I get back into school, this blog will probably morph into something that is, well, boring. We all have something to say, but none of us are obligated to listen. The great thing about blogs is that I don’t know if five people or five thousand people are holding their heads and weeping at the beauty of my verbal catharsis.

Here's a shout out to Russell for being the only person who responded to the post on animal consciousness. I guess the rest of my faithful, growing readership (all five ... I mean four of you) simply doesn't care what goes through a puppy's head when it is starving to death in some crack addict's basement. Oh well, we all have our priorities.

I suppose I'll say a few things in response to Russell. I’m grateful that Russ caught the unintentional ambiguity between (1) self-consciousness as a feeling of concern about how others perceive oneself and (2) self-consciousness as an awareness of oneself as a being distinct from other beings. I was referring to the second sense.

I suspect that many, perhaps a majority, believe that animals have self-consciousness. Russell agrees. He provides three anecdotes to support his position:
(1) The behavior of his dog, Terry, is nearly indistinguishable from the behavior of his son, Porter.
(2) A study on sheepdogs concluded that they have a capacity for memory that is roughly equivalent to that of a 3-4 year old child. For example, they can identify a fetch toy (from a pile of other toys) after having not seen it for a year.
(3) Terry (the dog) shows a sort of self-concern and/or self-preservation that is inconsistent with a lack of self-awareness.

Here are some short thoughts in response:
(1) I, too, have always thought that infants are more like animals than humans, and should be treated as such. We teach them “tricks” like walking on two legs and we condition them to repeat phrases (like a parrot). Who can deny that we speak to babies and puppies in exactly the same babble-language? And when they do something bad, we speak real English in harsh, repetitive bursts, as if they magically understand after the third repetition. Unfortunately, I think this point gives us no reason to think that either babies or dogs are self-aware.
(2) This is the best argument, in spite of the fact that memory can be characterized in ways that don’t require self-awareness. The ability to identify something like a chew-toy (regardless of how much time has passed) in the way that the sheepdog does it ends up playing an important role in this discussion.
(3) How is Terry’s self-preservation different from a thorn-bush’s self-preservation, or that of any number of toxic plants, for that matter? Those plants are the way they are because any of their potential ancestors who were palatable and nice on the stomach were eaten. The tough, poisonous plants were the ones who passed down their genetic information. Of course, someone can say the same thing about the behaviors of humans, but there is (we hope) an important difference between humans and plants, and that difference has something to do with self-awareness. What is it about Terry that makes him seem like he has that extra ingredient?

The crucial point of self-consciousness, I believe, isn’t so much the consciousness as it is the self. Consciousness is such a hard term to define that we find professional philosophers (i.e. David Chalmers) who are willing to say that thermometers are conscious. If we are going to be so broad, we might simply say that consciousness is a responsiveness to information in the environment (which, if I remember correctly, isn’t terribly far from what Chalmers says). A self-conscious thing would then be responding to information about its self. Again, we come up against an ambiguity: something that responds to itself could be as simple as a camcorder taping itself in a mirror, but something that responds to its self must be in possession of some self to which it can respond. A camcorder doesn’t have a self. Why are we willing to say that?

Is there some activity or capacity—possessed by humans and lacking in camcorders—that is a necessary condition for selfhood?

I think there is, and I’m not sure that dogs have it. Before I taint you with my views (which are probably wrong anyway), I hope a few more people will share their thoughts.

the face of death

It's time to make it official: Kris and I are professional house-sitters. When we move out of our Mapleton location mid-December, we'll be moving to my Gabby's Provo home for 4 months (while she enjoys the warmth of Arizona). Many thanks to a sweet, thoughtful Gabby who always takes good care of her grandkids. If anyone is looking for a professional house-sitter in April 2007, the Woods are now accepting applications.

While we were moving some boxes into Gabby's garage, I came across a book called How We Die, by Sherwin B. Nuland. The book gives a physician's view of some of the most common causes of death, unveiling them in a way. A major premise of the book is that death is either romanticized and brushed up through sentimental accounts of peaceful passing, or hidden behind the closed doors of hospitals and rest homes when things get ugly. According to Nuland, they usually do. He goes into detail about cancer, heart disease, Alzheimer's, AIDS, murder, suicide, and old age. The chapter on heart disease scared me. The chapter on Alzheimer's made me cry. Interestingly, the most peaceful death described was that of murder. The human body has developed a defense mechanism against the sheer terror that should grip anybody who is suffering a violent death. By the time the situation is understood, endorphins have already pulled the victim into a sort of peaceful shock. Of course, murder is the cause of death that is perhaps hardest on loved ones who are left living. At any rate, now that I'm almost finished with the book, I'm seriously tempted to try my hand at medical school. At the very least, it has inspired me to pursue some lines of research that are less concerned with understanding my own experience and more concerned with alleviating the pain that other's experience.
Death has many faces. If you want to glimpse the one that will probably greet you at the gate, read this book.

Not to be overly socratic (Socrates often spoke of "practicing" death), but I think this is one of those lessons that time will keep teaching me: life is most meaningful when death is in the picture.