Salon today begins biweekly reviews of new science fiction and fantasy books.
Starting with The Zenith Angle, by Bruce Sterling.
Forget about the plot, a contrivance that barely holds the weight of the passions Sterling is striving to release. The entire novel is a setup for an extraordinary rant that reads as if the author had just taken over the podium at a hackers conference, fueled with tequila, frothing from every pore.
Ooh. I love a good rant.
Sterling's outburst, his choice of protagonist, his rants about computers and the Net, all struck so close to home, to my own daily intellectual life, that it became almost impossible to evaluate, dispassionately, anything so absurdly binary as whether "The Zenith Angle" is good or bad. Instead, like all great rants, it is breathtaking. It is a document of the age, a summing up by one of the digital revolution's pioneer artists. That such an ex post facto manifesto would be filled with tears of rage instead of joy is something few of us would have imagined when first we logged on.
We don't know if it's "science fiction, or a mere techno-thriller," but we don't care.
"Viruses. Worms. Scam artists. Porn. Spam. Denial-of-service attacks. Organized crime. Industrial espionage. Stalking. Money Laundering. The specter of infowar attacks on natural gas pipelines, aircraft control systems, dams, water reservoirs, sewage systems, telephones, and banks. Black horses snorting and stomping in the stables of the Digital Apocalypse."
I just knew there was an apocalypse comng on. Quick, get me a copy of this book.
Friday, April 30, 2004
Thursday, April 29, 2004
I suspect other people's brains may be cooler than mine
Dan Engber recaps the Decade of the Brain and the plethora of brain–mind books it spawned:
Indeed, when any work of popular neuroscience inevitably appeals to the stunning complexity of the human brain, it all amounts to the same thing: Hey, that's my brain they're talking about. And it's fucking amazing.
Nature or nurture? Self-determination or biological fact?
Both, obviously.
Ten years later a new breed of neurological self-help books has emerged.
John J. Ratey's User's Guide to the Brain: Perception, Attention, and the Four Theaters of the Brain explains how "activities actually expand the number and strength of neural connections devoted to a skill." Richard Restak's Mozart's Brain and the Fighter Pilot: Unleashing Your Brain's Potential assures readers that "moment-to-moment actions sculpt the brain's structure and function," and Schwartz and Begley go to great lengths to remind us that self-directed therapy can "literally reprogram your brain."
This is an exciting concept, until you realize how trite it is. . . We hardly need evidence of shifting cortical maps to confirm what we already know: that skills improve with practice, and that it's possible to learn new things.
Try as I might, I just can't seem to make my brain appreciate self-help books of any kind. Is there a book on that?
Indeed, when any work of popular neuroscience inevitably appeals to the stunning complexity of the human brain, it all amounts to the same thing: Hey, that's my brain they're talking about. And it's fucking amazing.
Nature or nurture? Self-determination or biological fact?
Both, obviously.
Ten years later a new breed of neurological self-help books has emerged.
John J. Ratey's User's Guide to the Brain: Perception, Attention, and the Four Theaters of the Brain explains how "activities actually expand the number and strength of neural connections devoted to a skill." Richard Restak's Mozart's Brain and the Fighter Pilot: Unleashing Your Brain's Potential assures readers that "moment-to-moment actions sculpt the brain's structure and function," and Schwartz and Begley go to great lengths to remind us that self-directed therapy can "literally reprogram your brain."
This is an exciting concept, until you realize how trite it is. . . We hardly need evidence of shifting cortical maps to confirm what we already know: that skills improve with practice, and that it's possible to learn new things.
Try as I might, I just can't seem to make my brain appreciate self-help books of any kind. Is there a book on that?
The 90s cult of Presence
Where did it come from, exactly, this new insistence that parents be always present at their children's sporting events, and even at the most minor of school events? 50s children like me had seemed to do fine spending their childhood in roles largely subservient to their parents', unwatched much of the time at our baseball games and school activities, at least not watched with the anxiety with which today's parents watch.
You can read "A Brief History of the (Over)involved Father," by Anthony Giardina, at Salon. It's an excerpt from The Bastard on the Couch: 27 Men Try Really Hard to Explain Their Feelings About Love, Loss, Fatherhood, and Freedom, an anthology edited by Daniel Jones.
Fathers are as befuddled by parenthood in the new millennium as mothers are. The influences behind the confusion may be little different — it all comes down to (re)defining manliness — but there are more male/female similarities than not.
In fact, Giardina's qualms have more to do with giving up the city and the image of his ideal life.
In Manhattan, I had thought of children as delightful appendages to the serious business of life: strap them on your back and take them where you need to go. . . [But now] I was in the park, strapped on the back of my daughter's life: she was taking me where she wanted to go.
There are no easy resolutions, of course.
The Bastard anthology is the male take on The Bitch in the House, Cathi Hanauer's book about contemporary women's issues. (She and editor Jones are married.) Bastard's essays tackle lying, cheating, logging on, being alone — y'know, guy stuff.
Jones in interview doesn't say anything enlightening, but he does note a phenomenon I've noticed and wondered about: "a man's sense that it's somehow not polite to criticize his wife in public. After all, he's got to live with her, and she's angry enough already. For whatever reason, most women I know don't share this inhibition. They tend to fire away. And I don't even think their husbands mind that much."
The essays doesn't offer much insight, nothing new in the male perspective on being male at this point in our history, but men may choose to read it for a sense of camaraderie, to know they're not alone.
The tone of "Bitch" is definitely more aggressive. It's about women going after what they want, making great strides and finding great frustration along the way. But at least they are on the move and going out and grabbing what they want. Men, on the other hand, are often on the losing side of this new power equation in many relationships, and there's something about the men that is more reactionary and on the defensive. They are on the whole very decent guys, trying to please and to do the right thing, but often they wind up feeling frustrated, resented, unneeded. Still, it's refreshing to see among the men here that these aren't men who opt to leave their families because of these conflicts.
I suspect more women than men will be picking up copies.
You can read "A Brief History of the (Over)involved Father," by Anthony Giardina, at Salon. It's an excerpt from The Bastard on the Couch: 27 Men Try Really Hard to Explain Their Feelings About Love, Loss, Fatherhood, and Freedom, an anthology edited by Daniel Jones.
Fathers are as befuddled by parenthood in the new millennium as mothers are. The influences behind the confusion may be little different — it all comes down to (re)defining manliness — but there are more male/female similarities than not.
In fact, Giardina's qualms have more to do with giving up the city and the image of his ideal life.
In Manhattan, I had thought of children as delightful appendages to the serious business of life: strap them on your back and take them where you need to go. . . [But now] I was in the park, strapped on the back of my daughter's life: she was taking me where she wanted to go.
There are no easy resolutions, of course.
The Bastard anthology is the male take on The Bitch in the House, Cathi Hanauer's book about contemporary women's issues. (She and editor Jones are married.) Bastard's essays tackle lying, cheating, logging on, being alone — y'know, guy stuff.
Jones in interview doesn't say anything enlightening, but he does note a phenomenon I've noticed and wondered about: "a man's sense that it's somehow not polite to criticize his wife in public. After all, he's got to live with her, and she's angry enough already. For whatever reason, most women I know don't share this inhibition. They tend to fire away. And I don't even think their husbands mind that much."
The essays doesn't offer much insight, nothing new in the male perspective on being male at this point in our history, but men may choose to read it for a sense of camaraderie, to know they're not alone.
The tone of "Bitch" is definitely more aggressive. It's about women going after what they want, making great strides and finding great frustration along the way. But at least they are on the move and going out and grabbing what they want. Men, on the other hand, are often on the losing side of this new power equation in many relationships, and there's something about the men that is more reactionary and on the defensive. They are on the whole very decent guys, trying to please and to do the right thing, but often they wind up feeling frustrated, resented, unneeded. Still, it's refreshing to see among the men here that these aren't men who opt to leave their families because of these conflicts.
I suspect more women than men will be picking up copies.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Getting it wrong
Steve Hartman took a "witty" look at corrections on 60 Minutes II this evening.
Here’s another from The Wall Street Journal. Apparently they wrote Canada had 11 provinces when it really has 10. Hey, it’s Canada — as long as you’re within 2-3 provinces, that’s close enough.
No, they don't do many corrections in broadcast news, but perhaps they should do more apologies.
Here’s another from The Wall Street Journal. Apparently they wrote Canada had 11 provinces when it really has 10. Hey, it’s Canada — as long as you’re within 2-3 provinces, that’s close enough.
No, they don't do many corrections in broadcast news, but perhaps they should do more apologies.
Is parenthood artless?
Bookninja points to an article that tangentially raises some really interesting questions on the relationship between art and parenthood.
One line stands out in Cyril Connolly’s famous memoir-manifesto: "There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall."
Are they mutually exclusive? Of course not.
Parenthood is often seen as a messy, graceless fact of life. How could it be conducive to or the inspiration for the sublime that is art.
Art is often seen as a selfish pursuit; childlessness (and perhaps childishness too) is another example of the artist's "selfishness." Yet, art persists despite and sometimes because of the presence of children.
Journalism at its best has the same urgent imperative as a crying child. It’s pretty hard to ignore and it makes you want to help, even if comfort is impossible.
To what extent do artistic sensibility in a parent and the skills and changed worldviews of parenting nurture each other?
If parenthood changes the wiring in our brains, is the nature of art produced therafter also changed?
One line stands out in Cyril Connolly’s famous memoir-manifesto: "There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall."
Are they mutually exclusive? Of course not.
Parenthood is often seen as a messy, graceless fact of life. How could it be conducive to or the inspiration for the sublime that is art.
Art is often seen as a selfish pursuit; childlessness (and perhaps childishness too) is another example of the artist's "selfishness." Yet, art persists despite and sometimes because of the presence of children.
Journalism at its best has the same urgent imperative as a crying child. It’s pretty hard to ignore and it makes you want to help, even if comfort is impossible.
To what extent do artistic sensibility in a parent and the skills and changed worldviews of parenting nurture each other?
If parenthood changes the wiring in our brains, is the nature of art produced therafter also changed?
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Ants in her pants
Helena was a squirmy baby. Now we've achieved a whole new level of squirminess.
Toddler. One who toddles. To toddle. Toddling.
Used metaphorically when applied to the city of Chicago: "that toddlin' town."
I love that word.
We meant to stay housebound yesterday, what with it being rainy and gray, but a break in the weather seemed a good opportunity for a run to the grocery store. Maybe help lull Helena into a state of sleepiness.
The grocery store is three and a half short blocks away. In that stretch we passed 5 squirrels (at ground level), 4 pigeons (at ground level), and 2 dogs. The approach of each brought on squeals of delight, a stream of baby-babble words, and much waving. As I pushed the stroller on by, laughs turned to shrieks of torment, then settled into that moany baby whine only parents ever develop a tolerance for. I thought she'd bite through the stroller straps to make a break for it.
The way home was as bad, so rather than hang a left I went straight through to the park, thinking, "She'll tire herself out in a few minutes; she's napped barely an hour today."
The playground was mucky. Ugh. And I hadn't put proper outdoor toddlin' shoes on her before leaving. But I let her go. Only two other kids with their mom there. Of course, they were in the bouncy fire chief's car. Sigh.
The squirrels were bold. Two in particular, which I remember from last summer. I've never seen squirrels that colour — a creamy light, winter white shade, but not albino. For these parts they're huge, healthy. And they're back.
They prey on that playground. One each climbing the only two strollers there. The little rat got his grimy paws on my baguette, the bastard!
I was a little tense for the rest of our outing. I even lugged the stroller 'cross the wet sand (instead of leaving it parked at the side, as is my and everyone's usual practice), keeping pace with Helena. We started heading home, then Helena decided to head off in the opposite direction. The equivalent of 6 city blocks later, I wrangled her back into her seat. She did not sleep.
(She did eventually fall asleep face-first into her supper.)
For today I'd planned a book-shopping expedition.
Nicholas Hoare was a bust. Does it qualify as an independent bookseller? Four stores in three cities — that's a chain. Anyway, this particular outlet had a more paltry selection than usual. Every time I hear Mr Hoare as the guest on the radio noon call-in show, he plays up the 'we can order any book you want' factor. I thought about trying that once. Four weeks, they told me. Amazon, within days. If you stocked more interesting things that I've never heard of more regularly, I'd be more likely to stumble across them in my browsing.
Chapters. Shame on me. (I have got to find some "independent" English-language bookstores in this town.)
I took more time browsing than was to Helena's liking, so I let her out of the stroller, which effectively put an end to my shopping. She zipped through aisles for a while, but finally settled down to work on a project of her own devising — moving the stack of boxed-set alphabet books from the shelf to the floor. This kept her happy and distracted while I finished up; then we moved them back. (I let her loose in a department store once. That was a mistake. I have yet to figure out how to manage the toddler–shopping thing.)
On the recommendations of people I barely know (but whom I know better than Amazon reviewers and whom I trust more than some friends, who've exhibited faulty judgement), we came away with Jamberry, by Bruce Degan, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?, by Bill Martin Jr and Eric Carle.
By all early indications: they're perfect.
Jamberry is lovely. The rhymes are fanciful ("Hatberry/ Shoeberry/ In my canoeberry"). The illustrations are soft and sweet, out of the ordinary in this era of colour and mayhem.
Both books are exactly appropriate to Helena's "stage of development" in that they're not long, complex stories (in a more traditional sense of the word — like, say, fairy tales, filled with words), but they're more stimulating than basic picture/vocabulary books (there's more than one word per page) and in this they satisfy my need to be entertained. They have the bones of a narrative structure, with lots of potential for exploring illustrations and imagining backstory.
Helena has sat quietly to be read to from each of these, with giggling and pointing and an expression of wonder on her face.
Over the last week, she has been spontaneously "asking" to be read to. She's always bringing me things, including books. Sometimes it's simply to show me stuff, other times it's part of her massive reorganizations plans, and sometimes it's because she wants me to do something for her. I've tried this "reading on demand" thing before, but it never held Helena's interest. It seems something's clicked with her. Add to this that I'm learning to read her signals better and we have material that's suited to her level.
(Bedtime reading had never worked for us. Helena has no problem being put to be bed and quietly examining a toy or "reading to herself" for a few minutes before falling asleep. If J-F or myself is present, it only inspires her to jump and climb. So we find quiet time during the day for reading, but it's not a strictly enforced schedule.)
I haven't cracked a book for my own reading pleasure in days. My brain's feeling a bit mushy.
There's a reading list making the blog rounds. You can see the list at Scribbling Woman. Classics of one sort or another. I'm embarrassed to say I haven't read very many.
I fare significantly better on the alternate list, more modern and international.
While it'd be nice if the original list offered some alternatives for works by an author (Love in the Time of Cholera or 100 Years of Solitude), I'm not sure the alternate does better in listing so many multiples (five by Jane Austen).
Then there's the list of children's books. I'm familiar with very few, but will keep the list as a handy reference.
The problem with lists: break them down by genre, age-group, nationality?
What's with our fascination with lists?
Toddler. One who toddles. To toddle. Toddling.
Used metaphorically when applied to the city of Chicago: "that toddlin' town."
I love that word.
We meant to stay housebound yesterday, what with it being rainy and gray, but a break in the weather seemed a good opportunity for a run to the grocery store. Maybe help lull Helena into a state of sleepiness.
The grocery store is three and a half short blocks away. In that stretch we passed 5 squirrels (at ground level), 4 pigeons (at ground level), and 2 dogs. The approach of each brought on squeals of delight, a stream of baby-babble words, and much waving. As I pushed the stroller on by, laughs turned to shrieks of torment, then settled into that moany baby whine only parents ever develop a tolerance for. I thought she'd bite through the stroller straps to make a break for it.
The way home was as bad, so rather than hang a left I went straight through to the park, thinking, "She'll tire herself out in a few minutes; she's napped barely an hour today."
The playground was mucky. Ugh. And I hadn't put proper outdoor toddlin' shoes on her before leaving. But I let her go. Only two other kids with their mom there. Of course, they were in the bouncy fire chief's car. Sigh.
The squirrels were bold. Two in particular, which I remember from last summer. I've never seen squirrels that colour — a creamy light, winter white shade, but not albino. For these parts they're huge, healthy. And they're back.
They prey on that playground. One each climbing the only two strollers there. The little rat got his grimy paws on my baguette, the bastard!
I was a little tense for the rest of our outing. I even lugged the stroller 'cross the wet sand (instead of leaving it parked at the side, as is my and everyone's usual practice), keeping pace with Helena. We started heading home, then Helena decided to head off in the opposite direction. The equivalent of 6 city blocks later, I wrangled her back into her seat. She did not sleep.
(She did eventually fall asleep face-first into her supper.)
For today I'd planned a book-shopping expedition.
Nicholas Hoare was a bust. Does it qualify as an independent bookseller? Four stores in three cities — that's a chain. Anyway, this particular outlet had a more paltry selection than usual. Every time I hear Mr Hoare as the guest on the radio noon call-in show, he plays up the 'we can order any book you want' factor. I thought about trying that once. Four weeks, they told me. Amazon, within days. If you stocked more interesting things that I've never heard of more regularly, I'd be more likely to stumble across them in my browsing.
Chapters. Shame on me. (I have got to find some "independent" English-language bookstores in this town.)
I took more time browsing than was to Helena's liking, so I let her out of the stroller, which effectively put an end to my shopping. She zipped through aisles for a while, but finally settled down to work on a project of her own devising — moving the stack of boxed-set alphabet books from the shelf to the floor. This kept her happy and distracted while I finished up; then we moved them back. (I let her loose in a department store once. That was a mistake. I have yet to figure out how to manage the toddler–shopping thing.)
On the recommendations of people I barely know (but whom I know better than Amazon reviewers and whom I trust more than some friends, who've exhibited faulty judgement), we came away with Jamberry, by Bruce Degan, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?, by Bill Martin Jr and Eric Carle.
By all early indications: they're perfect.
Jamberry is lovely. The rhymes are fanciful ("Hatberry/ Shoeberry/ In my canoeberry"). The illustrations are soft and sweet, out of the ordinary in this era of colour and mayhem.
Both books are exactly appropriate to Helena's "stage of development" in that they're not long, complex stories (in a more traditional sense of the word — like, say, fairy tales, filled with words), but they're more stimulating than basic picture/vocabulary books (there's more than one word per page) and in this they satisfy my need to be entertained. They have the bones of a narrative structure, with lots of potential for exploring illustrations and imagining backstory.
Helena has sat quietly to be read to from each of these, with giggling and pointing and an expression of wonder on her face.
Over the last week, she has been spontaneously "asking" to be read to. She's always bringing me things, including books. Sometimes it's simply to show me stuff, other times it's part of her massive reorganizations plans, and sometimes it's because she wants me to do something for her. I've tried this "reading on demand" thing before, but it never held Helena's interest. It seems something's clicked with her. Add to this that I'm learning to read her signals better and we have material that's suited to her level.
(Bedtime reading had never worked for us. Helena has no problem being put to be bed and quietly examining a toy or "reading to herself" for a few minutes before falling asleep. If J-F or myself is present, it only inspires her to jump and climb. So we find quiet time during the day for reading, but it's not a strictly enforced schedule.)
I haven't cracked a book for my own reading pleasure in days. My brain's feeling a bit mushy.
There's a reading list making the blog rounds. You can see the list at Scribbling Woman. Classics of one sort or another. I'm embarrassed to say I haven't read very many.
I fare significantly better on the alternate list, more modern and international.
While it'd be nice if the original list offered some alternatives for works by an author (Love in the Time of Cholera or 100 Years of Solitude), I'm not sure the alternate does better in listing so many multiples (five by Jane Austen).
Then there's the list of children's books. I'm familiar with very few, but will keep the list as a handy reference.
The problem with lists: break them down by genre, age-group, nationality?
What's with our fascination with lists?
I don't know how I feel
Sesame Street has a new resident muppet: drawlin', plain-talkin', straight-shootin' talk-show host Dr Feel (read: McGraw). He feels how you're feeling.
How are you feeling? What are your feelings on that? I feel that from you. How does that make you feel?
(Today's guest was feeling hungry.)
Maybe it was just a one-time skit. Maybe he's not a regular.
I feel pretty weird about the whole thing.
How are you feeling? What are your feelings on that? I feel that from you. How does that make you feel?
(Today's guest was feeling hungry.)
Maybe it was just a one-time skit. Maybe he's not a regular.
I feel pretty weird about the whole thing.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Just how smart are those pants?
Helena's a genius. I spent a couple hours yesterday filling out forms, calculating our income tax. The calculator goes missing from the edge of the table — Helena is the obvious culprit. J-F and I both search high and low — well, low. J-F finally just asks her, "Where did you put the calculator?" and he punches some numbers into his hand. Helena immediately toddles through the kitchen, sits herself down in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, and points behind the cat food. And there it is. Coincidence?
Words we've heard her say (some of them not very often, but I'm counting them anyway):
bibi = baby
bay = bagel
ba = ball
bam = bam (boom)
ban = banana
be = bear
bye = bye
ca = car
coco = cocotte (acorn, French; J-F's term of endearment for her)
do = dog
googligoogligoogli = cookie
Helena = Helena
hiye = hi
kookoo = kookoo (peekaboo)
llllle = lait (milk, French)
lala = lala (doll, Polish)
la = le chat (cat, French; don't ask how it turned out that way)
mama = mama
ne = nie (no, Polish)
no = nose
ohno = oh no!
papa = papa
pahta = pasta
pen = pen
piht = pita
teh = tête (head, French)
toy = toy
to = toast
water = water
whassat = what's that
wow = wow
We've had a great weekend, and I'm sure the reason for this is the fabulous haircut I got on Friday. Nothing else can explain how great I feel.
I was flipping channels yesterday and what do I see? Roger Daltrey doing an infomercial. How sad it that?! Hope I die before I get old — my ass! Does he need the money? Does he so strongly believe the world needs to know about The Legends of Rock 'n' Roll cd set?
We watched Cold Creek Manor last night. It was awful. I have nothing to say about the movie itself, but:
I hate hearing people say the city is no place to raise children. (That's essentially what the opening scenes tell us. I guess they felt the need to explain to us why they were moving out to the country, which is just silly. Besides, some really bad shit happened to them out there, much worse than could transpire in an urban setting.)
Who designs DVD menus? Do they not realize how very much more user-friendly they could be? The problem is always worst with language set-up — one never knows what the current setting is. It seems to me that it's only very recently than menu designers have caught on a little and are highlighting selections more obviously.
Then there's the scenes. Is it the director who divvies them up this way? The average viewer does not care about the cinematographic continuity blah blah film scene. I just want to be able to find my spot after running out to pick up beer or to figure out the next morning at what point I fell asleep. The more scenes the better. Less than 20 (this one had 13, one of which was credits) is inconsiderate.
There's a profile online of Mimi Smartypants and her new book. It doesn't add anything to what I already know from reading her own blog, except to tell us that Smartypants is not her real name. Another illusion shattered. But she's so funny.
I finished reading The Book of Illusions (book 12 for the year), by Paul Auster. I did not enjoy it as much as some of his other work. I'll leave it at that — for the moment, I'm all Austered out.
A lot of bloggers have been listing their top 10 books, and it's hard to resist doing the same. I didn't realize how difficult it would be to compose such a list. I keep scanning my shelves, remembering plots, hoping to be struck by a particular work's "masterpiece-ness." Some of them are not "great" books, but they're among my favourites.
1. Babel Tower, AS Byatt
2. Cosmicomics, Italo Calvino
3. Diaries, Witold Gombrowicz
4. The Master of Go, Yasunari Kawabata
5. The Good Terrorist, Doris Lessing
6. The First Century After Beatrice, Amin Maalouf
7. All the Names, Jose Saramago; but maybe Blindness
8. The Razor's Edge, W Somerset Maugham
9. We, Eugene Zamiatin
Number 10 is a toss-up. Even the first 9 I could split into "outstandingly superior great works of art" and "really, really, really good books."
Number 10: Pilgrim, Timothy Findley? The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov? Dictionary of the Khazars, Milorad Pavic? Atwood? There should be some Atwood. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding?
Words we've heard her say (some of them not very often, but I'm counting them anyway):
bibi = baby
bay = bagel
ba = ball
bam = bam (boom)
ban = banana
be = bear
bye = bye
ca = car
coco = cocotte (acorn, French; J-F's term of endearment for her)
do = dog
googligoogligoogli = cookie
Helena = Helena
hiye = hi
kookoo = kookoo (peekaboo)
llllle = lait (milk, French)
lala = lala (doll, Polish)
la = le chat (cat, French; don't ask how it turned out that way)
mama = mama
ne = nie (no, Polish)
no = nose
ohno = oh no!
papa = papa
pahta = pasta
pen = pen
piht = pita
teh = tête (head, French)
toy = toy
to = toast
water = water
whassat = what's that
wow = wow
We've had a great weekend, and I'm sure the reason for this is the fabulous haircut I got on Friday. Nothing else can explain how great I feel.
I was flipping channels yesterday and what do I see? Roger Daltrey doing an infomercial. How sad it that?! Hope I die before I get old — my ass! Does he need the money? Does he so strongly believe the world needs to know about The Legends of Rock 'n' Roll cd set?
We watched Cold Creek Manor last night. It was awful. I have nothing to say about the movie itself, but:
I hate hearing people say the city is no place to raise children. (That's essentially what the opening scenes tell us. I guess they felt the need to explain to us why they were moving out to the country, which is just silly. Besides, some really bad shit happened to them out there, much worse than could transpire in an urban setting.)
Who designs DVD menus? Do they not realize how very much more user-friendly they could be? The problem is always worst with language set-up — one never knows what the current setting is. It seems to me that it's only very recently than menu designers have caught on a little and are highlighting selections more obviously.
Then there's the scenes. Is it the director who divvies them up this way? The average viewer does not care about the cinematographic continuity blah blah film scene. I just want to be able to find my spot after running out to pick up beer or to figure out the next morning at what point I fell asleep. The more scenes the better. Less than 20 (this one had 13, one of which was credits) is inconsiderate.
There's a profile online of Mimi Smartypants and her new book. It doesn't add anything to what I already know from reading her own blog, except to tell us that Smartypants is not her real name. Another illusion shattered. But she's so funny.
I finished reading The Book of Illusions (book 12 for the year), by Paul Auster. I did not enjoy it as much as some of his other work. I'll leave it at that — for the moment, I'm all Austered out.
A lot of bloggers have been listing their top 10 books, and it's hard to resist doing the same. I didn't realize how difficult it would be to compose such a list. I keep scanning my shelves, remembering plots, hoping to be struck by a particular work's "masterpiece-ness." Some of them are not "great" books, but they're among my favourites.
1. Babel Tower, AS Byatt
2. Cosmicomics, Italo Calvino
3. Diaries, Witold Gombrowicz
4. The Master of Go, Yasunari Kawabata
5. The Good Terrorist, Doris Lessing
6. The First Century After Beatrice, Amin Maalouf
7. All the Names, Jose Saramago; but maybe Blindness
8. The Razor's Edge, W Somerset Maugham
9. We, Eugene Zamiatin
Number 10 is a toss-up. Even the first 9 I could split into "outstandingly superior great works of art" and "really, really, really good books."
Number 10: Pilgrim, Timothy Findley? The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov? Dictionary of the Khazars, Milorad Pavic? Atwood? There should be some Atwood. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding?
Friday, April 23, 2004
It's Austerific
Return of the Reluctant threw it out there:
Will someone explain why Auster's the shit? Will someone tell me why this Peter Stillman nonsense is so important?
That's really asking for it. Discussion is opening up.
All of which was inspired by, contributed to, and followed up on at Rake's Progress.
Then there's the analysis of Auster's work Rake's Progress pointed to. (Which I will read this weekend. Starting now. OK, maybe tomorrow.) (Also referenced was "A Reader's Manifesto," which I read years ago and should revisit. Tomorrow. Or the day after.)
So is Auster about the story after all? He is and he isn't. Sure, he tells stories. But they don't go anywhere. They're instances, flashes of insight, coincidental. In fact, Auster, rather, his narrators are cognizant of the stories within stories having no saisfactory resolution and are driven to pursue them. That is the story. The pursuit. Kind of.
Note to self: read less, think more. Maybe that'll help.
Will someone explain why Auster's the shit? Will someone tell me why this Peter Stillman nonsense is so important?
That's really asking for it. Discussion is opening up.
All of which was inspired by, contributed to, and followed up on at Rake's Progress.
Then there's the analysis of Auster's work Rake's Progress pointed to. (Which I will read this weekend. Starting now. OK, maybe tomorrow.) (Also referenced was "A Reader's Manifesto," which I read years ago and should revisit. Tomorrow. Or the day after.)
So is Auster about the story after all? He is and he isn't. Sure, he tells stories. But they don't go anywhere. They're instances, flashes of insight, coincidental. In fact, Auster, rather, his narrators are cognizant of the stories within stories having no saisfactory resolution and are driven to pursue them. That is the story. The pursuit. Kind of.
Note to self: read less, think more. Maybe that'll help.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Lyrical
Maud Newton quotes an article from the London Times about Paul Auster:
He confides that this year's US election has whipped him up into a lather. "I am burning with passion about this whole campaign," he growls. "For me, it feels almost like a matter of life and death for Americans that we get Bush out of office."
His political leanings don't strike me as particularly newsworthy, but had someone told he was a Republican, I'd be really upset.
Paul Auster has written lyrics for a song, which can be downloaded from topplebush.com. (I don't think it's very good.)
I should just change the name of this blog to Magnificent Austerpus already.
I'm still reading The Book of Illusions. I'll post a complete impression when I'm finished.
He confides that this year's US election has whipped him up into a lather. "I am burning with passion about this whole campaign," he growls. "For me, it feels almost like a matter of life and death for Americans that we get Bush out of office."
His political leanings don't strike me as particularly newsworthy, but had someone told he was a Republican, I'd be really upset.
Paul Auster has written lyrics for a song, which can be downloaded from topplebush.com. (I don't think it's very good.)
I should just change the name of this blog to Magnificent Austerpus already.
I'm still reading The Book of Illusions. I'll post a complete impression when I'm finished.
Lunch
After a busy morning of engineering (Helena constructed a tower of five Lego blocks) and reorganization (Helena relocated all the pairs of pantyhose she owns and which she has never worn from the bottom dresser drawer to just outside the bathroom door), we had "pahta" for lunch.
(Pasta. It's obvious to me now. I'm learning to put words in my baby's mouth.)
(Pasta. It's obvious to me now. I'm learning to put words in my baby's mouth.)
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Unfortunate event
Cup of Chicha points to commentary on the Lemony Snicket movie trailer.
I, too, am giddy with anticipation.
The egregious miscasting of Jim Carrey as Count Olaf looks to be every bit as ruinous as I feared. Judging by this 1-minute TV spot, he's playing it like, well, Jim Carrey, with all the eyebrow-wiggling, face-clenching, spazzified awfulness that generally entails. Olaf is not meant to be camp. Sure, a bit of melodramatic flair wouldn't go amiss, but above all he should be somber, sinister, and genuinely creepy. The series' mordant wit can't possibly translate effectively to screen with this spastic monkey prancing about, crooning "Look at me! I'm Jim Carrey!" They needed somebody who could play it straight — Christopher Walken maybe, or Crispin Glover (god, he'd be perfect).
She's right — Crispin Glover would've been perfect. But Sunny looks great!
V.F.D.
I, too, am giddy with anticipation.
The egregious miscasting of Jim Carrey as Count Olaf looks to be every bit as ruinous as I feared. Judging by this 1-minute TV spot, he's playing it like, well, Jim Carrey, with all the eyebrow-wiggling, face-clenching, spazzified awfulness that generally entails. Olaf is not meant to be camp. Sure, a bit of melodramatic flair wouldn't go amiss, but above all he should be somber, sinister, and genuinely creepy. The series' mordant wit can't possibly translate effectively to screen with this spastic monkey prancing about, crooning "Look at me! I'm Jim Carrey!" They needed somebody who could play it straight — Christopher Walken maybe, or Crispin Glover (god, he'd be perfect).
She's right — Crispin Glover would've been perfect. But Sunny looks great!
V.F.D.
What Oprah wants you to read next
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter:
Talk about a stunning literary debut! The first novel from then 23-year-old Carson McCullers, this Depression-era tale set in small-town Georgia explores the mysteries of the human heart with a haunting cast of characters.
No, I haven't read it, and I probably won't anytime soon. (So many books, so little time.)
It sounds like tackling foreign literature took a toll on the poor little brains of San Diego moms and readers across the country.
Talk about a stunning literary debut! The first novel from then 23-year-old Carson McCullers, this Depression-era tale set in small-town Georgia explores the mysteries of the human heart with a haunting cast of characters.
No, I haven't read it, and I probably won't anytime soon. (So many books, so little time.)
It sounds like tackling foreign literature took a toll on the poor little brains of San Diego moms and readers across the country.
Why do you care what I'm reading?
I've noticed that a number of people are arriving at this blog via All Consuming.
All Consuming is a website that visits recently updated weblogs every hour, checking them for links to books on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Book Sense, and other book sites. Every book on this site has a list of all the weblogs that have mentioned it, and every weblog that has mentioned books in the past also has a page here listing which books it has mentioned.
Like, wow. It never occurred to me that there would be websites like that and that people would want its services. Not all that surprising really, now that I think about it.
Still, why would anyone trust a blog over a "legitimate," professional, published review for guidance in reading material? I mean, unless they're a blogstalker and they've been reading you obsessively for months, long enough to have developed a fondness for your nonsense, a sense of trust in your opinion.
In which case, they would go to the trusted blog directly for reading recommendations. Why would they refer to a list compiling the opinions of stranger-bloggers?
Are they the same people who find the inane reviews at Amazon useful?
I make a point of not linking to Amazon whenever I can help it. (Not yet one of those Amazon Associate sellouts, but maybe soon.) I prefer to link to a good review or article or the book's or author's official website. When none of these exists, I'll link to a book-selling site if I firmly believe you ought to find out a bit more on that particular work.
So, do you really care what I'm reading?
All Consuming is a website that visits recently updated weblogs every hour, checking them for links to books on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Book Sense, and other book sites. Every book on this site has a list of all the weblogs that have mentioned it, and every weblog that has mentioned books in the past also has a page here listing which books it has mentioned.
Like, wow. It never occurred to me that there would be websites like that and that people would want its services. Not all that surprising really, now that I think about it.
Still, why would anyone trust a blog over a "legitimate," professional, published review for guidance in reading material? I mean, unless they're a blogstalker and they've been reading you obsessively for months, long enough to have developed a fondness for your nonsense, a sense of trust in your opinion.
In which case, they would go to the trusted blog directly for reading recommendations. Why would they refer to a list compiling the opinions of stranger-bloggers?
Are they the same people who find the inane reviews at Amazon useful?
I make a point of not linking to Amazon whenever I can help it. (Not yet one of those Amazon Associate sellouts, but maybe soon.) I prefer to link to a good review or article or the book's or author's official website. When none of these exists, I'll link to a book-selling site if I firmly believe you ought to find out a bit more on that particular work.
So, do you really care what I'm reading?
Parked
Sitting at the kitchen table, Helena points out the window at the dogs in the park across the street and starts barking.
We set off for the park's toddler playground yesterday. (No snow anywhere!) The sign insists that you must be between the ages of 2 and 6 to enjoy the equipment, but I've seen Helena-aged babies in there before. No one carded us at the gate. Have shoes, will toddle.
Helena was more interested in exercising her walking skills across a vast plain of sand than in "playing" on playground equipment, which is just as well. She did try to engage a fellow baby in a game of peek-a-boo, but this stranger was too busy eating dirt.
We went on the swings! (I mean that royally. Helena went on the swings. No adult-sized swings in the vicinity.) I love swings! Helena, too, loves swings! The mirth!
We were distracted by some sexy-hot guy doing super-high amazing backflips to entertain his 4-year-old daughter. Wow.
And we saw jugglers! Buskers in training, I think. Helena's standards for street/park performance aren't too high yet.
We nipped by the grocery and I was exhausted by the time we returned home. I did not have the strength to lug baby up to the third floor, and I didn't think I had it in me to make two trips to collect our shopping bags. So for the first time ever, Helena makes her way up to our apartment all by herself.
I rested a little while Helena Swiffered the living room floor.
Toddling rocks!
We set off for the park's toddler playground yesterday. (No snow anywhere!) The sign insists that you must be between the ages of 2 and 6 to enjoy the equipment, but I've seen Helena-aged babies in there before. No one carded us at the gate. Have shoes, will toddle.
Helena was more interested in exercising her walking skills across a vast plain of sand than in "playing" on playground equipment, which is just as well. She did try to engage a fellow baby in a game of peek-a-boo, but this stranger was too busy eating dirt.
We went on the swings! (I mean that royally. Helena went on the swings. No adult-sized swings in the vicinity.) I love swings! Helena, too, loves swings! The mirth!
We were distracted by some sexy-hot guy doing super-high amazing backflips to entertain his 4-year-old daughter. Wow.
And we saw jugglers! Buskers in training, I think. Helena's standards for street/park performance aren't too high yet.
We nipped by the grocery and I was exhausted by the time we returned home. I did not have the strength to lug baby up to the third floor, and I didn't think I had it in me to make two trips to collect our shopping bags. So for the first time ever, Helena makes her way up to our apartment all by herself.
I rested a little while Helena Swiffered the living room floor.
Toddling rocks!
Quick and confused
It's Neal Stephenson day at Salon. And pretty much everywhere.
Confusion has just come out, and I haven't even read Quicksilver yet. For the time-being it's too big and expensive. For the all the anticipation of Stephenson's Baroque Cycle, the enthusiasm for Quicksilver fizzled out fairly quickly.
(The more I heard about it, the more I thought it might bore me as much as did Iain Pears' An Instance of the Fingerpost, which I was reading when Quicksilver was released.)
In sum, Salon's review of Confusion tells us it's excessive and fun:
Plunge away! "The Confusion" finally does start to connect the dots, and where "Quicksilver" bogged down, "The Confusion" leaps nimbly forward.
Over at Rake's Progress, Stephenson is being taken to task over his statement that: "In arty lit, it's become uncool to try to come to grips with ideas per se."
Hmmm. There's not enough coffee for me to deal with this. I read sci-fi (not a lot, but some), and what I read, I tend to love, for the ideas, not because the books are well-written with a fine sense of character. Arty lit? what's that? Some of it is in fact dreadfully boring.
I've only just skimmed through Salon's interview with Stephenson, and will set it aside for a closer reading on the weekend. One thing that did jump out at me was his reference to Antonio Damasio's Descartes' Error (a really great read, by the way), which springs from a case study of Phineas Gage, who survived an iron spike through the head.
Damasio is arguing that one of the innate faculties of our brain is that we can envision a wide range of possible scenarios and then sort through them very quickly not by logic but through a kind of process of the emotions.
This is not accurate. We tend to set up the traditional dichotomy in terms of rational and emotional, but Damasio is quite clear that the not-rational aspect at play is more a social behaviour, part learned, part instinct, which, yes, has some emotional elements but also has its own logic. That is, I think Stephenson is arguing against a duality that scientists themselves do not actually embrace. (In the end, we all agree that the rational and emotional are complex and intertwined.)
Maud Newton points to an interview at Wired News in which Stephenson proclaims cyberpunk "over."
Man, I loved Snowcrash.
Confusion has just come out, and I haven't even read Quicksilver yet. For the time-being it's too big and expensive. For the all the anticipation of Stephenson's Baroque Cycle, the enthusiasm for Quicksilver fizzled out fairly quickly.
(The more I heard about it, the more I thought it might bore me as much as did Iain Pears' An Instance of the Fingerpost, which I was reading when Quicksilver was released.)
In sum, Salon's review of Confusion tells us it's excessive and fun:
Plunge away! "The Confusion" finally does start to connect the dots, and where "Quicksilver" bogged down, "The Confusion" leaps nimbly forward.
Over at Rake's Progress, Stephenson is being taken to task over his statement that: "In arty lit, it's become uncool to try to come to grips with ideas per se."
Hmmm. There's not enough coffee for me to deal with this. I read sci-fi (not a lot, but some), and what I read, I tend to love, for the ideas, not because the books are well-written with a fine sense of character. Arty lit? what's that? Some of it is in fact dreadfully boring.
I've only just skimmed through Salon's interview with Stephenson, and will set it aside for a closer reading on the weekend. One thing that did jump out at me was his reference to Antonio Damasio's Descartes' Error (a really great read, by the way), which springs from a case study of Phineas Gage, who survived an iron spike through the head.
Damasio is arguing that one of the innate faculties of our brain is that we can envision a wide range of possible scenarios and then sort through them very quickly not by logic but through a kind of process of the emotions.
This is not accurate. We tend to set up the traditional dichotomy in terms of rational and emotional, but Damasio is quite clear that the not-rational aspect at play is more a social behaviour, part learned, part instinct, which, yes, has some emotional elements but also has its own logic. That is, I think Stephenson is arguing against a duality that scientists themselves do not actually embrace. (In the end, we all agree that the rational and emotional are complex and intertwined.)
Maud Newton points to an interview at Wired News in which Stephenson proclaims cyberpunk "over."
Man, I loved Snowcrash.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Smart cookie, tough cookie, good egg
Since I started blogging in part to record for posterity Helena's development, I should get on with it:
Helena is simply magical. 17 months today.
I diligently recorded her firsts — first laugh, first time rolling over, first teeth. Changes are registering with me in a different way now. Though there are still many lightbulb moments, changes tend to be a gradual evolution, the foundations already laid. The achievements are so natural, so obvious, they don't hold the punch to run to phone, "Guess what Helena just did?!" (or to run to the blog for that matter). The accomplishments, however, are more remarkable, more awesome than ever.
She's really toddling. Those months of careful study really paid off. She's fast, coordinated, confident. She picks up objects and totes them easily. She's comfortable on all surfaces. She's a natural. The only hesitation she shows is in negotiating the half-inch step from the hallway to our bedroom.
She's experimenting with using objects (armrests, tabletops) as a kind of handrail (walking alongside, rather than facing something and walking sideways). I don't know why.
She doesn't like being led by the hand.
It's a bit unnerving — from our playing she's learned to Frankenzombie walk and make monster noises (if high-pitched). Admittedly it's more fun than regular walking and talking, but I wonder if I'd devoted the energy to these practical life skills they might be a little better developed.
She says "pen." She says "pen" in reference to a pen.
She's successfully mimicking both vocalizations and gestures. If I "la, la, la" a couple notes, she'll return them. If I make her toy bear dance, she tries to make it do the same.
She holds her hand out, palm up, awkwardly, and makes "kitty" noises to call the cats. (They don't come.)
She loves to sing. I don't recognize any melodies, but she's trying. She particularly enjoys singing along, "la, la, la," with the national anthem, before the hockey game (go Habs!) or at the 6 a.m. station sign-on when she turns the TV on in our bedroom before we've fully hauled ourselves out of bed.
She insists on helping me clean the tub, run the bath. She's figured out the faucets. (She figured out the drain stopper weeks ago.)
I set meals down in front of her and it's unusual to have to spoon anything into her or otherwise encourage her. She's been feeding herself for months.
She loves playing with the Fisher Price Play Family House that I played with more than 30 years ago. (Part of me fears she's a little young, that the pieces are swallowable.) She insists on putting the 1970s-style kitchen furniture in the garage. I can't say I blame her.
She's developed an obsession with the cutting boards. (We have one each of blue, orange, white, black.) She pulls them out of the cupboard, sits on them, spins on them, slides along on them. She tiles them in various configurations in the middle of the kitchen floor.
From her pile of blocks, Helena sorts the squares out to one side and stands them on end. The triangles are pulled out to the other side. I think this is really weird actually, even if brilliant.
Simply magical.
Helena is simply magical. 17 months today.
I diligently recorded her firsts — first laugh, first time rolling over, first teeth. Changes are registering with me in a different way now. Though there are still many lightbulb moments, changes tend to be a gradual evolution, the foundations already laid. The achievements are so natural, so obvious, they don't hold the punch to run to phone, "Guess what Helena just did?!" (or to run to the blog for that matter). The accomplishments, however, are more remarkable, more awesome than ever.
She's really toddling. Those months of careful study really paid off. She's fast, coordinated, confident. She picks up objects and totes them easily. She's comfortable on all surfaces. She's a natural. The only hesitation she shows is in negotiating the half-inch step from the hallway to our bedroom.
She's experimenting with using objects (armrests, tabletops) as a kind of handrail (walking alongside, rather than facing something and walking sideways). I don't know why.
She doesn't like being led by the hand.
It's a bit unnerving — from our playing she's learned to Frankenzombie walk and make monster noises (if high-pitched). Admittedly it's more fun than regular walking and talking, but I wonder if I'd devoted the energy to these practical life skills they might be a little better developed.
She says "pen." She says "pen" in reference to a pen.
She's successfully mimicking both vocalizations and gestures. If I "la, la, la" a couple notes, she'll return them. If I make her toy bear dance, she tries to make it do the same.
She holds her hand out, palm up, awkwardly, and makes "kitty" noises to call the cats. (They don't come.)
She loves to sing. I don't recognize any melodies, but she's trying. She particularly enjoys singing along, "la, la, la," with the national anthem, before the hockey game (go Habs!) or at the 6 a.m. station sign-on when she turns the TV on in our bedroom before we've fully hauled ourselves out of bed.
She insists on helping me clean the tub, run the bath. She's figured out the faucets. (She figured out the drain stopper weeks ago.)
I set meals down in front of her and it's unusual to have to spoon anything into her or otherwise encourage her. She's been feeding herself for months.
She loves playing with the Fisher Price Play Family House that I played with more than 30 years ago. (Part of me fears she's a little young, that the pieces are swallowable.) She insists on putting the 1970s-style kitchen furniture in the garage. I can't say I blame her.
She's developed an obsession with the cutting boards. (We have one each of blue, orange, white, black.) She pulls them out of the cupboard, sits on them, spins on them, slides along on them. She tiles them in various configurations in the middle of the kitchen floor.
From her pile of blocks, Helena sorts the squares out to one side and stands them on end. The triangles are pulled out to the other side. I think this is really weird actually, even if brilliant.
Simply magical.
Thunder
Helena spent part of the weekend at my mother-in-law's. I wasn't too keen on the arrangement at first, but it's just as well, cuz I slept 12 hours straight. It also gave me the chance to scrub the mould off the bathroom ceiling, from which my shoulders still ache.
J-F was home from work a few days last week and has been on antibiotics since Friday. Finally he's feeling better. He's had what I had a month ago — a very sore throat, with virtually no other typical cold or flu symptoms, except for the fatigue. There's a lot of fatigue.
He's also taken to pulling his turtleneck up over his face, stuffing a pillow under his shirt, and doing jumping jacks while yelling "Boohbah!" Must be the drugs.
Still no definitive verdict on Boohbah from this household. I've come to appreciate storyworld — the light, colour, texture, and movement are surreal and, to my mind, very attractive, like a storybook. Helena is enthralled by the physical exertions of the children and inspired to explore the possibilities of her own physicality. The Boohbahs themselves, though, are kind of creepy. I think it's the penis-heads.
Contrary to all threats and promises, we had only 5 minutes of thunder the other night. I love thunderstorms. I want more.
Last week, the (man-made) lake in the park across the street still had snow along its banks. Half the lake. Rather, one of the two lakes connected by a trickle. The other, melted half-lake is already home to a couple of ducks, which materialized from I know not where.
We'll wander over today to ensure that the snow is in fact all gone.
J-F was home from work a few days last week and has been on antibiotics since Friday. Finally he's feeling better. He's had what I had a month ago — a very sore throat, with virtually no other typical cold or flu symptoms, except for the fatigue. There's a lot of fatigue.
He's also taken to pulling his turtleneck up over his face, stuffing a pillow under his shirt, and doing jumping jacks while yelling "Boohbah!" Must be the drugs.
Still no definitive verdict on Boohbah from this household. I've come to appreciate storyworld — the light, colour, texture, and movement are surreal and, to my mind, very attractive, like a storybook. Helena is enthralled by the physical exertions of the children and inspired to explore the possibilities of her own physicality. The Boohbahs themselves, though, are kind of creepy. I think it's the penis-heads.
Contrary to all threats and promises, we had only 5 minutes of thunder the other night. I love thunderstorms. I want more.
Last week, the (man-made) lake in the park across the street still had snow along its banks. Half the lake. Rather, one of the two lakes connected by a trickle. The other, melted half-lake is already home to a couple of ducks, which materialized from I know not where.
We'll wander over today to ensure that the snow is in fact all gone.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Page by page
Distributed Proofreaders was founded in 2000 to support the digitization of Public Domain books.
You too can contribute to Project Gutenberg.
The preservation of books and knowledge. A noble cause, that.
Thanks to Scribbling Woman for leading me there.
I've incorporated this volunteer work into my daily routine. It keeps me in practice and out of trouble between projects.
You too can contribute to Project Gutenberg.
The preservation of books and knowledge. A noble cause, that.
Thanks to Scribbling Woman for leading me there.
I've incorporated this volunteer work into my daily routine. It keeps me in practice and out of trouble between projects.
How depressing...
An article in The Washington Post this weekend discusses the lack of clinical evidence for the efficacy of antidepressants in children.
The use of antidepressants among children grew three- to tenfold between 1987 and 1996, data from various studies indicate, and a newer survey found a further 50 percent rise in prescriptions between 1998 and 2002. The explosion in antidepressant use occurred even though the vast majority of clinical trials have failed to prove that the medicines help depressed children.
The spike in prescriptions over the past five years has been especially sharp among children younger than 6, even though there is virtually no clinical trial data on these youngest patients.
Obviously, it's dangerous to extrapolate data from trials on adults to children — our bodies work differently and will not metabolize drugs in the same way. However, doctors are relying on anecdotal evidence to support their practice of prescribing antidepressants for children.
Paxil has been linked to suicidal behaviour, but psychiatrists cast doubt on the authority of the regulatory bodies by insisting that the suicidal behaviour stems from the underlying depression.
What the article fails to address, and to my mind the greater issue, is how many children are being prescribed antidepressants. How many under 6 years of age? How are they being diagnosed? How can you tell if your toddler has depression?
Is it moodiness? Listlessness? The occasional "inexplicable" bout of screams or tears? How does hopelessness manifest itself in a baby? Need an individual be aware of one's feelings, be able to name them, in order to experience them? How can you tell if the behaviour is biochemically based and not a learned product of one's environment?
The American Psychiatric Glossary entry for "depression" states the following: Depression in children may be indicated by refusal to go to school, anxiety, excessive reaction to separation form parental figures, antisocial behavior, and somatic complaints.
My gut tells me this is ridiculous. I'm fortunate, for the timebeing, in having a daughter who is expressively joyful. But, had depression had the social acknowledgement it has today as an illness, I fear that some 30 years ago my mother might've given me drugs — to overcome the shyness, to inspire more obviously extroverted behaviour, to get me off to school with less resistance.
Who is taking their children to psychiatrists, and why? It's finally dawning on some people that perhaps antidepressants are being overprescribed in adults. Is this just another symptom of our quick-fix society being extended to our children?
What child doesn't experience some of the symptoms some of the time? Are they really troubled by their "shortcomings," or is it the parents who perceive a problem? Are parents trotting their children off to the doctors for a pill instead of helping them discover a new hobby or going down to the park to run around? (Could I ask any more rhetorical questions?)
When, hypothetically, 50% of society is taking a pill so they be more up, more on, it stands to reason that the "deviant," down, introspective, "depressed" behaviour ought to be redefined to be incorporated into the range of normalcy. So what are the numbers?
There may yet come the day of soma, or, more likely, the mandatory speed and steroid injections at birth, the artificial jolt all of us will require in order to keep up with the breakneck demands of preschool.
The use of antidepressants among children grew three- to tenfold between 1987 and 1996, data from various studies indicate, and a newer survey found a further 50 percent rise in prescriptions between 1998 and 2002. The explosion in antidepressant use occurred even though the vast majority of clinical trials have failed to prove that the medicines help depressed children.
The spike in prescriptions over the past five years has been especially sharp among children younger than 6, even though there is virtually no clinical trial data on these youngest patients.
Obviously, it's dangerous to extrapolate data from trials on adults to children — our bodies work differently and will not metabolize drugs in the same way. However, doctors are relying on anecdotal evidence to support their practice of prescribing antidepressants for children.
Paxil has been linked to suicidal behaviour, but psychiatrists cast doubt on the authority of the regulatory bodies by insisting that the suicidal behaviour stems from the underlying depression.
What the article fails to address, and to my mind the greater issue, is how many children are being prescribed antidepressants. How many under 6 years of age? How are they being diagnosed? How can you tell if your toddler has depression?
Is it moodiness? Listlessness? The occasional "inexplicable" bout of screams or tears? How does hopelessness manifest itself in a baby? Need an individual be aware of one's feelings, be able to name them, in order to experience them? How can you tell if the behaviour is biochemically based and not a learned product of one's environment?
The American Psychiatric Glossary entry for "depression" states the following: Depression in children may be indicated by refusal to go to school, anxiety, excessive reaction to separation form parental figures, antisocial behavior, and somatic complaints.
My gut tells me this is ridiculous. I'm fortunate, for the timebeing, in having a daughter who is expressively joyful. But, had depression had the social acknowledgement it has today as an illness, I fear that some 30 years ago my mother might've given me drugs — to overcome the shyness, to inspire more obviously extroverted behaviour, to get me off to school with less resistance.
Who is taking their children to psychiatrists, and why? It's finally dawning on some people that perhaps antidepressants are being overprescribed in adults. Is this just another symptom of our quick-fix society being extended to our children?
What child doesn't experience some of the symptoms some of the time? Are they really troubled by their "shortcomings," or is it the parents who perceive a problem? Are parents trotting their children off to the doctors for a pill instead of helping them discover a new hobby or going down to the park to run around? (Could I ask any more rhetorical questions?)
When, hypothetically, 50% of society is taking a pill so they be more up, more on, it stands to reason that the "deviant," down, introspective, "depressed" behaviour ought to be redefined to be incorporated into the range of normalcy. So what are the numbers?
There may yet come the day of soma, or, more likely, the mandatory speed and steroid injections at birth, the artificial jolt all of us will require in order to keep up with the breakneck demands of preschool.
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