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Desk Psychology
Sunday tends to be chore day. The cramming of so many errands into daylight hours, dwindling from the get-go as a countdown runs down to the week ahead. Cleaning, laundry, groceries, appointments, community events – some things pre-scheduled and some pushed out of necessity – to this, the end of the weekend.
Monday arrives, always too soon. Colleagues crack the same twelve jokes as everyone shares memes and gifs highlighting each aspect of a fresh work week. We search to caffeinate ourselves (our souls, more than anything) to address procrastinated to-dos that cannot be excused away without off-time looming.
Tuesday is probably the worst. Too close to the beginning of the week and too far from the end. Is that why so many drop-in leagues are scheduled for the evenings? Or why movie tickets are cheaper? Is anyone taking advantage of Taco Tuesday?
Wednesday is, anecdotally, interesting. Some consider it tough while others finally find their labor groove. A chance to gauge productivity for all with two days past and two days ahead; what has been accomplished and what remains to be done? Perhaps the longest day of the week for all those counting the hours.
Thursday feels better. The weekend nears. Laissez-faire inclinations have a habit of overtaking more motivated internal drivers.
Friday could be filled with anything – meetings, deadlines, last-minute requests – all are met with a strange optimism. Promise-ladened speech of things to look forward to ‘the coming week’ is the nitrous fuel that sees everyone through to the most anticipated End of Day. Labor done and dusted, perhaps a later night ahead.
Saturday is about as blissful as it gets. Anxieties around personal tasks can be forwarded another day. Personally valuable or amusing endeavors are undertaken. A weekly interruption in a work-dominated calendar.
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Elections, II
Portrait of a bush-league Führer named Peter Vollmer, a sparse little man who feeds off his self-delusions and finds himself perpetually hungry for want of greatness in his diet. And like some goose-stepping predecessors he searches for something to explain his hunger, and to rationalize why a world passes him by without saluting. That something he looks for and finds is in a sewer. In his own twisted and distorted lexicon, he calls it ‘faith’, ‘strength’, ‘truth’.
– Rod Serling, from the opening narration of “He’s Alive”
This post is a continuation of the rumination begun here.
It is conference season in BC. This past week, Indigenous leaders across the Northern Region gathered here in Prince George to have their annual governance caucus. Near the end of the event, space was given for reflection on treatment of Indigenous veterans, as Remembrance Day loomed. A speaker shared some firsthand accounts from Indigenous voices dating back a hundred years – from those who had fought in world wars all the way to more recent conflicts in the early twentieth century. Soldiers who had experienced more equality facing bullets abroad than within systems and structures at home. The speaker imparted stories close to home, of family or community members whose sacrifice had gone unacknowledged or been taken for granted, as their fight for civil rights or against discrimination on Canadian soil continued.
The speaker relayed one tale of Indigenous soldiers being asked to stand aside from their peers during a memorial ceremony, while the Prime Minister and dignitaries walked past. All the veterans present, except for the Indigenous ones, being given a chance to shake hands with the politicians. A gesture congruent with contemporary societal stratification.
I was sitting in the audience and could not help but draw parallels between the true accounts being relayed and all-too similar fictional narratives in Toni Morrison’s Home, in which the protagonist Frank (a black man) returns from the Korean War, the first desegregated conflict in American history, to a country that refuses to acknowledge his humanity. Morrison rushes us through Frank’s encounters with numerous characters as he tries to search for his sibling. She barely mentions race, because she does not have to; the behavior of institutions and the people they envelope make everyone’s ethnicities blatant. A simple run-in with police is jarring enough for the reader, as the passage is as representative of black tribulations in the 1950s as it is today.
The stories conveyed at the caucus came two days after we all learned of the election outcomes in the United States. The world’s second-largest democracy having undergone hundreds of votes for its new leader, its upper and lower houses of congress, numerous state governors, and dozens of binding referenda on issues from healthcare to criminal justice reform. The thread that the stories carry – of the historical and ongoing deployment of discrimination by those in power – lies deeply intertwined with history being written as the results of these elections continue to roll in.
To understand all of this is to not understand it at all. How did we get here?
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Gather Up
The consistently hilarious What We Do in the Shadows is back for its final season. Watching the most recent episodes reminded me how many great tunes the show has showcased over the years.
Odd where we tend to pick up songs for our playlists. For me, TV series and movies are a primary source. I have particular appreciation for shows that use the sampled tracks to marry their plots, characters’ emotions and atmosphere in moments of mounting symphony. Breaking Bad was great at this – the lyrics and beats of “DLZ”, “Who’s Gonna Save My Soul” and “Truth” clear examples of classic blends that produced some of the best endings in that show’s run.
The above melody was written and performed by Matt Berry, who plays the eminently quotable Laszlo Cravensworth in Shadows. Even when he is not delivering a punchline, his cadence is one of the funniest of any comedic character in recent memory.
A Halloween-themed ditty, submitted for your consideration, as darker days approach.
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Elections
BC election results as displayed on CBC News, courtesy Elections BC.The current era of Indian political and cultural life began in earnest on May 16, 2014. The day that the results were announced of a tide-turning general election in the world’s largest democracy, after more than half a billion votes had been cast and counted.
A movement with populist and nationalist cornerstones, burgeoned by an unprecedented social media campaign and primarily appealing to economic interests, took its opportunity to bring the BJP and its stalwart figurehead to power. The National Congress and their allies could barely put up a fight; their more secular vision hardly enough to hide their historical shortcomings against endemic problems (like corruption) blighting the political class.
Modi’s ascension was also enabled by the media, which was largely corporately controlled and friendly towards politicians who would benefit the socioeconomic elite. The narrative of the inevitable orange wave was paralleled across all major networks. The excusal of extremist tendencies and historical whitewashing was depressingly familiar.
I was walking along Mumbai’s Marine Drive that day, the waters of the Arabian Sea calmly swirling around its tetrapods. Television screens could be glimpsed through storefront windows and opened doors, showing updated parliamentary seat counts as the results rolled in. It was a dry day across the nation and an air of jubilation could be sensed in the humid atmosphere. People in the country’s largest city were celebrating.
All of this felt odd.
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Beethoven’s Fifth
I notice it at night.
The arrival of an invisible insect and its strangely consistent buzzing. A barely perceptible string of Es smoothed out and perpetual. A monotone whisper; a breeze most unwelcome in the smallest of tunnels. Annoyance proportional to the volume of silence. The sounds from everything else – vehicles on the road outside, voices or footsteps of neighbors, clamors of wildlife, rustling of wind, or the ticking and whirring of appliances – must have ceased. All it takes is a moment of complete stillness for it to creep in. When all other vibrations retreat, this imaginary one takes their place.
Why does it choose to disturb me at this time? When I am most yearning for peace. Of course, the truth is it is always there. The coarse hum of Tinnitus, a confounding affliction that many manage. One that I have dealt with for a couple of years. Not due to hearing loss, luckily, but devoid of explanation.
A ripple that will never ebb. The tedious taunt of an uneasy mind.
I used to chase the hush of night, but now I shun it out of necessity. Some white noise is better than none. A miniscule opening in the window can do the trick; this car city’s abhorrent nighttime echoes provide enough shielding. Or a fan turned to its first setting, a lighter repose.
But often, I choose music.
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Montage
A compilation of some moments from our trip to Chile in September, set to “Montage” by Andy Hull and Robert McDowell. There were many videos I could not include; consider this the most fleeting of glimpses.
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Chilean Vistas
Ethereal tones filling the sky just prior to sunrise at Ahu Tongariki.Maybe it was the expansive landscapes. Or the yearning to capture more in every frame. Or perhaps it was just a time-saving exercise.
But instead of trying to stand still and slowly rotating with my phone’s panorama function turned on, I decided to take a lot of overlapping shots of the scenery and stitch them together using software after returning home. Faster in the present, more work for the future, and with plenty of mixed results. There were some advantages, like greater detail or more natural, linear outputs. There were also some cons. A narrower field of view being the biggest one unless numerous clicks were obtained from different angles preserving the same brightness. A difficult task when the sun was lower in the sky.
The panorama function was not always an option, either. The winds of Patagonia above certain summits were strong enough to ruin every single video or continuous shot attempted.
I recall a more practiced, careful approach back when I used to have a DSLR camera. For this journey however, a quick sequence of images close enough together had to suffice. This was not a photography-focused adventure where we paused too often to line up the perfect composition.
Anyway – here are some panoramas taken from different corners of a country with an abundance of geographical diversity.
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Enclosure
The evergreen grass of Rapa Nui, sterile sands of the Atacama, element-battered mud of Patagonia, and coarse gravel of Arica and Parinacota. Particulate matter, dried and encrusted on shoe soles, collected and carried four hundredths of a light-second – a quarter planet – away. Memory fresh and developing.
Granules slowly becoming indistinguishable from the rest, destined to disappear with time.
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The Chilean jaunt, undertaken this past month, was a bittersweet affair. The country has plenty of character, charm, and beauty. Its capital was bustling, more so than usual as the nation approached and celebrated its anniversary of independence. Folk dancers paraded the streets, unions led multiple protests, and students on field trips could be found at every cultural site. All under the watchful eyes of the pervasive police, lining major intersections in their conspicuous green and white sedans. The remote island of Rapa Nui gifted us two days of perfect weather sandwiched between heavy rains and fog. Plenty of time to gaze upon the myth-inducing Moai and stroll upon its rocky shores as the Pacific crashed relentlessly into jagged outcrops. Of course, the Atacama Desert lived up to the hype. Sand dunes, salt flats, and scintillating starlight to enliven the soul. Patagonia’s jewel – the Torres Del Paine park – was another highlight. The wind constantly threatened to lift us off our feet as condors and caracaras glided the currents. Snow-capped peaks, glacial lakes, novel flora – all in abundance. Finally, Arica and Parinacota offered a repose; slower days seaside watching the waves or driving around Lauca, looking up at volcanos or down at lagoons as alpacas, vicunas, guanacos, and llamas dotted the landscape.
Why bittersweet? The experience was somewhat spoiled by an illness I caught a few days into the trip, which only worsened throughout. I did not fully recover until a few days ago. It meant a slower pace, lack of appetite, and diminished opportunity to fully engage with my companions. But it did afford me some time alone to contemplate things.
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The First Eight Months
As noted in prior updates and recent newsletters, I will be stepping away for the next month and a half as I prepare for and depart on a trek through Chilean frontiers. Until then, I have assembled here some highlights from 2024 to date.
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Cult Classics
Let us talk about cults, their active ingredients, and their xenomorphic allure.
We are social creatures with personalities deeply intertwined with our environments. How we juggle external touchpoints (our relations) and internal systems (our protective psychologies and reactive defense mechanisms) are crucial in determining what we tend to believe or what we reject. Our awareness of what affects us, to what degree, and how, is a humbling force. An indicator of our grasp on reality.
Our susceptibility to cults, conspiracies, mythologies, logical fallacies, propaganda, or misinformation all derive from the same corner of human cognition. The same place we foster diehard dedication to political figures, sports fandoms, pop cultural obsessions – beliefs in everything from alternative medicine and the cornucopia of supernatural phenomena to more mundane things like which habits to integrate into our lifestyle. Anything that requires a suspension of our critical faculties or dismissal of nature – and of each other – without being accompanied by its own scrutable schematic, is telling of a tall tale.
Cults and the accounts they provide are part of a larger narrative of our collective socialization. Human experience is guided by our failure or success to connect with others; humanity’s is a story of seeking connection. And there are many rabbit holes that humans can easily fit into.
This post is an exploration of instructional parables that illustrate how easily our need for bonding can be rewired to suit specific aims. Primarily, and as is often the case in our world, to build egos and movements seeking power or profit by tapping into a resource that is never in short supply: our yearning to believe. A formidable evolutionary development. And while it can take many a nefarious form, it is also necessary in constructing the monuments of which we are so collectively proud. It takes quite a leap to go from hunter-gatherer societies to establishing global information networks and putting rovers on planets afar in the geological blink of an eye.
