Caitlín R. Kiernan (
greygirlbeast) wrote2010-04-03 12:20 pm
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"Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle.
A sunny morning here in Providence. The office window (well, one of two) is open, and there's a Siamese cat sitting on my desk, watching whatever there is Outside to watch.
Today will be a day on which I make a new beginning for the Next Novel. That's my hope.
Yesterday, conversation about The Wolf Who Cried Girl, and I answered a great mass of accumulated email, and agreed to do an interview for Clarkesworld, and I bowed out of two anthologies (because, presently, there's only time for the novel and Sirenia Digest), and I lay on the bed with Hubero while Spooky read me the first chapter of Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle (1962; one of the most beautiful books I know).
This morning, I am weary of modernity.
And I'm wondering how the new crop of teens and twentysomethings became so afraid of emotion and the expression thereof.* Did their parents teach them? Did they learn it somewhere else? Is this a spontaneous cultural phenomenon? Are they afraid of appearing weak? Is this capitalism streamlining the human psyche to be more useful by eliminating anything that might hamper productivity? Is it a sort of conformism? I don't know, but I could go the rest of my life and never again hear anyone whine about someone else being "emo," and it would be a Very Good Thing.
Could anything be more inimical to art than a fear of emotion, or a fear of "excessive" emotion, or a reluctance to express emotion around others? No, of course not. Art can even best the weights of utter fucking ignorance and totalitarian repression, but it cannot survive emotional constipation.
I want a T-shirt that says, "Art is Emo." We live in an age where people are more apt to believe a thing if they read it on a T-shirt.
Last night we watched the new episodes of Fringe and Spartacus: Blood and Titties. Very enjoyable, on both counts.
Now, the platypus calls my name. Here are three photos from Thursday:

Budding tree.

The Armory and Dexter Training Ground. View to the south.

Houses along Dexter Street. View to the east.
Photographs Copyright © 2010 by Kathryn A. Pollnac
*The suggestion has been made that they are so much expressing fear as contempt, and I am open to that possibility, though fear and contempt often go hand in hand.
Today will be a day on which I make a new beginning for the Next Novel. That's my hope.
Yesterday, conversation about The Wolf Who Cried Girl, and I answered a great mass of accumulated email, and agreed to do an interview for Clarkesworld, and I bowed out of two anthologies (because, presently, there's only time for the novel and Sirenia Digest), and I lay on the bed with Hubero while Spooky read me the first chapter of Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle (1962; one of the most beautiful books I know).
This morning, I am weary of modernity.
And I'm wondering how the new crop of teens and twentysomethings became so afraid of emotion and the expression thereof.* Did their parents teach them? Did they learn it somewhere else? Is this a spontaneous cultural phenomenon? Are they afraid of appearing weak? Is this capitalism streamlining the human psyche to be more useful by eliminating anything that might hamper productivity? Is it a sort of conformism? I don't know, but I could go the rest of my life and never again hear anyone whine about someone else being "emo," and it would be a Very Good Thing.
Could anything be more inimical to art than a fear of emotion, or a fear of "excessive" emotion, or a reluctance to express emotion around others? No, of course not. Art can even best the weights of utter fucking ignorance and totalitarian repression, but it cannot survive emotional constipation.
I want a T-shirt that says, "Art is Emo." We live in an age where people are more apt to believe a thing if they read it on a T-shirt.
Last night we watched the new episodes of Fringe and Spartacus: Blood and Titties. Very enjoyable, on both counts.
Now, the platypus calls my name. Here are three photos from Thursday:

Budding tree.

The Armory and Dexter Training Ground. View to the south.

Houses along Dexter Street. View to the east.
Photographs Copyright © 2010 by Kathryn A. Pollnac
*The suggestion has been made that they are so much expressing fear as contempt, and I am open to that possibility, though fear and contempt often go hand in hand.
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And I'm wondering how the new crop of teens and twentysomethings became so afraid of emotion and the expression thereof.
I don't think they're afraid so much as contemptuous of emotion. In my experience, these youngins view feelings as the buttons they need to push to get what they want out of other humans - the logical outgrowth of vending machine culture.
Just a thought.
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- Mel
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For the record, the teens I see on a daily basis don't seem to shrink from emotion. They must grow 'em different in Providence. If it's solely about disdaining 'emo' — Christ, that goes back to the Stoics. (Marcus Aurelius' 'Get rid of the judgment, get rid of the 'I am hurt,' you are rid of the hurt itself' is the original 'Go cry, emo kid.')
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Me too.
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It makes them vulnerable. Any chink in the armor is to be avoided at all costs; it will just turn up on YouTube and everyone will laugh at you.
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It's counterculture from the Emo fad and the early days of Radiohead. It's kind of like how the bright fashions of the 80's gave way to the grunge of the 90's. People get sick of one extreme and so they rush to the other end of the spectrum.
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...which would go nicely on a T-shirt.
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In a word, a way of making people most like machines. Was pretty poignant to have read your post, and then hear Hank talkin' 'bout the same thing. 'Guess great minds really do think alike. By the way, if any of you get the chance to see him on this tour, do. *Highly* recommended!
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I'm a little bit sick of the Internet, I think.