Archive for the ‘curiosities’ Category
Talking Philosophy with a 10-Year Old
Why not talk about something more interesting like dragons or flying?
I like reading Emmanuel Levinas. He’s mostly opaque, but every once in a while his writing opens on a breathtaking view and is just what I needed. If I had the opportunity to explain why Levinas matters to an interested ten-year old, I would say that we have a problem with other people. And the problem is that we mostly don’t want to hear from them. I could use an example from their life: you don’t want your mom to interrupt your fun: when she calls you in for dinner, you go in only reluctantly. One problem with the will of the other is that we don’t welcome distraction from our preoccupations. But it is not just that, it is that we really don’t want to even interact with some other who might have authority over us.
10-Year-Old: “Oh. You just don’t want to do what other people say. Does Levinas tell you how to avoid doing what others tell you to do?”
Kirkistan: “Not exactly.”
10-Year-Old: “Does he tell you don’t have to do what they say?”
Kirkistan: “No. It’s more like you suddenly want to do what the other person wanted because you really, really loved them.”
10-Year-Old: “Like maybe if my grandparents were in town and asked me for something and I wanted to do it for them because they are so nice?”
Kirkistan: “Yeah. Maybe like that. And maybe you found yourself really interested in the experiences they had, partly because they are such good storytellers and they make everything sound so exciting. You like their stories and can almost imagine being there.”
10-Year-Old: “So my grandparents are cool and I want to get to know them because they are nice and tell interesting stories. So what you are really talking about is why it is important to hear from other people and why we should care.”
Kirkistan: “That’s right.”
10-Year-Old: “So why did you start be talking about stopping what I thought was fun to do something I had to do?”
Kirkistan: “Well, I might have been a bit confused. But also because sometimes I close my ears to people who are trying to give me a gift. Something I really need. Say you are at the grocery store with your parents. It’s Saturday. And there are sample ladies on every aisle. There is lady offering free ice cream in the frozen aisle. And another man making pizzas in that aisle. And another with little chicken nuggets and another handing out crackers and cheese.
Kirkistan: “But say you really didn’t want to go to the grocer. You really wanted to watch cartoons. So you went to the grocer reluctantly, but you took your iPod and listened to music the whole time. You walked behind you parents, music turned up. So you didn’t hear the sample ladies calling out to you. You kept your eyes on the floor so you didn’t see them either.”
10-Year-Old: “That would be bad. I like ice cream and chicken nuggets and pizza. It’s like I had missed all the really good stuff while everybody else got something. I’d have gotten my way but I’d have missed out on the very best stuff.”
Kirkistan: “That’s why Levinas is important. He helps us start to see and understand why it is we should care about the people around us: what they know. What they bring to our conversations. What they have to say about this and that. Even people who don’t seem to have anything to say—even those people can surprise us with lots of interesting things.”
10-Year-Old: “OK. Well, why don’t you just listen to people? I listen to people and learn things all the time. That isn’t hard to do. It is super easy to listen to people. It’s not like you have to do anything. You just listen.”
Kirkistan: “Well, that is great advice and I want to follow it. My answer to you would be that as you get older, you start to think you know a few things. We get to thinking we know the patterns of how things work and we figure we know pretty much how anyone will respond in any given situation. Anyway, all I’m saying is that it gets pretty easy to think you know what most people will do or say in any given situation. The surprise—if you can call it that—is that quite often people live up to our expectations. They do what we think they’ll do. Not always. But often. Then the question becomes, “Did that guy say that because I expected him to say it?” “Did I have a hand in turning this conversation this way?”
10-Year-Old: “You’re pretty boring aren’t you?”
Kirkistan: “You might be right.”
10-Year-Old: “Why don’t you write about something interesting like dragons or warships? Why don’t you write a book about how to fly?”
Kirkistan: “Great suggestions. I really want to write a book about how to fly. I think that this is the book I am writing.”
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Image Credit: Mid-Century via thisisnthappiness
Dialogue is a Scenic Bypass: Dummy’s Guide to Conversation #12
Conversations Are Peaks You See From
Monty Python funnyman Michael Palin has a series of travelogues that have entertained the Kirkistan household recently. Palin’s trip through the lands that were once Yugoslavia brought back memories of that brutal war even as the screen showed a land seemingly resurrected from all-out destruction.
Get the series from Netflix.
Palin does more than just comment on what he sees. Around Sarajevo, he traveled with a team going over the land inch by inch (literally, almost using a toothbrush) to clear mines that remain. Palin also traveled with a team of puppeteers doing shows at local schools to warn kids not to walk in the woods. A walk in the woods brought a high likelihood of getting blown up by a mine. No one walks in the woods around Sarajevo.
The videos are from 2007 and I hope it is safer today in Sarajevo.
Not long ago I wrote about dialogue as a place. A conversation yesterday reminded me of how quickly I can find myself in a different land, suddenly seeing things from an altered perspective—a sort of mountain top view. A view I had not anticipated, but that revitalized me deeply. I was talking with an author about her experience of writing for an academic audience versus writing for a more popular audience. She mentioned her faith that an audience will show up. To me that statement is a mark of true faith.
Our conversations are not unlike the people Palin meets. Even if we are talking with those we think we know, we can be surprised by the different perspective that suddenly dawns on us. Perspectives that can change everything. But, like Palin, we need to be on the lookout for the new thing. Can we cultivate an openness to seeing things differently? And can we honor how the person before us sees things differently?
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Image Credit: tonsofland via 2headedsnake
Lesson from The Queen of Versailles: Things Change
Is Acquisition Habit or Sickness?
The Queen of Versailles should be required viewing for anyone who has never entertained the notion that things can change. Which is most of us. Because we naturally assume finances/relationships/situations/lives/health remain the same.
And they don’t.
The documentary opens with timeshare mogul David Siegel and his happily enhanced wife (neither the wife Jackie nor the documentarian let your forget this fact) filmed at or near the top of their game. He’s making millions or billions (hard to say, it’s all so leveraged) as they sucker all sorts of “moochers” into becoming buyers of luxury timeshare condos. But the pair, with their eight kids and staff of 20+, are bursting out of their 26,000 square foot house. What choice do they have but to build? So they begin building a replica of the Palace of Versailles, which turns out to be the largest single-family home in the United States.
Then the market crashed and everything changed.
Dramatically.
This is one of those films where you expect to find greedy people to blame, but the filmmaker does a good job revealing the humanity of the main characters. David Siegel starts as a blustery, boastful businessman who loves “beautiful women” and is not afraid to take credit for George W. Bush’s presidency (and perhaps the Iraq war). But he ends the film in a much different spot. Jackie, who remained buoyant (figuratively and, well…) throughout the decline is no airhead or bimbo. I credit the filmmakers, with their thousands of hours of footage (had to be), with portraying struggles rather than just one-dimensional portraits. Yes, the film is a train-wreck in progress and for that reason alone it’s hard to look away. But it is also a sobering look in the mirror at the varieties of greed that drive any of us.
I would have liked to see the proposal or creative brief for the film. Because when they started filming, it had to be a sort of look into the lives of the rich and famous. But by the end, it is a meditation on avarice and habit gone compulsive.
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DIY Drama Queen: a Cop, 2 Boots and a Homeless Guy
Tell Your Old Story in Today’s Conversation
Not so many days ago a New York cop bought some boots for a homeless, shoe-less guy. The photo went viral because it was remarkable—stuff like that doesn’t usually happen. The telling of the story warms the heart and we want to share it.
Communication-types talk endlessly about stories and narrative and narrative arc. All this literary-criticism lingo has made its way from academia through the land of communication and advertising and out into mainstream speech of the news anchor, for instance. Behind all this talk is the simple notion that people respond to stories.
Because people respond to stories, we give assignments to our outward facing employees to snag potential customers and engage clients with precisely those stories that feature our product or service in a key role. Maybe the product saves the situation. Maybe the service is a vehicle of freedom. Certainly the product enriches the identity of the people using it.
But what about inside the company? Where are those engaging narratives in our ordinary, daily conversations? Does story have a place in our workdays? Should it?
One medical device company I worked for held a company-wide meeting around this time of year where patients came on stage and told stunning stories of how they could now walk (or stand or eat or breathe) again. They talked about how their lives were changed by the very products we all worked on.
And we all got weepy.
But ordinary, daily conversations produce no such tears—how could they? We’re all about work and getting stuff done, after all. We’re not here to tell stories. But some smart bosses are telling larger stories. Some meeting leaders are starting with the narrative arc that includes patients being healed and lives restored. Some team members are embedding in their discussion how their product makes it easier to turn solar energy to electricity—and why that has meaning for today’s work. Bringing those stories to the mundane conversations can seem like a cynical, manipulative ploy—but only to those intent on cynicism and manipulation.
It’s time to bring those stories back into our conversations. Not as ploys. Not as manipulative levers. But because of our universal need to make meaning. Especially to make meaning of our daily work.
We’re moving into a season where we tell lots of old stories: When I was a kid Christmas looked like this. When we were first married, we did this for the holiday. Way back when a virgin had a baby. In a stable. And everything changed.
Be the drama queen in your part of your company or organization. Take center stage and demand attention. And tell the remarkable story you heard.
Stories help us make meaning and are worth passing on.
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Image Credit: Politix
Obama & Romney Do Lunch
Of gods and men
Obama: “Coffee or tea—oh. Well. Never mind.”
Romney: “Water, please.”
Obama: “Milk?”
Romney: “Just…water. Please. Milk’s a bit too…celebratory.”
Obama: “So….”
Romney: “Yes….”
[7.7 seconds of silence]
Obama: “That 47% comment?”
Romney: “True then. True now.”
Obama: “Gifts to minorities? Really?”
Romney: “How else to account for….”
[9.3 seconds of silence]
Romney: “I could have been a god.”
Obama: “Whoa—sort of a high view of presidential power, wouldn’t you say?”
Romney: “No. Literally.”
Obama: “Oh.”
[12.6 seconds of silence]
Obama: “Vegetable medley? It’s locally-sourced.”
Romney: “Please!”
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Image credit: OBI Scrapbook Blog
Rob Bell and Our Costly Questions
Conversations to engage a generation of questioners
There’s a telling line in the recent story of Rob Bell in The New Yorker (“The Hell-Raiser”), where the author Kelefa Sanneh conjectured that in writing “Love Wins,” Bell was “dreaming of a world a world without arguments—as if the right book, written the right way, would persuade Christians to stop firing Bible verses at each other and start working to build Heaven on earth.” (60) Conjecture about what others are dreaming is often problematic. But Sanneh, like the rest of us, take our cues from what others say and write, which is standard operating procedure for human communication events. Conjecture is always fair game for conversation.
There’s a lot the author gets right in the article and there are a few places with loaded language and mashed-up history. For instance, the notion that the “church matured” (60) out of the notion of Hell as a physical place is too loose a summary to really work. Debates about interpretation rage today, from all quarters.
Sanneh’s focus on how a preacher became a questioner among a people who do not respond generously to larger questions makes for interesting reading. These are my people and I confess that I too have responded without generosity too many times. And yet these larger questions are exactly the conversational fuel that can help move forward this often awkward project called the church. Especially because the generations behind me are increasingly wed to questions rather than dogmatic answers.
Much of what Bell wrote resonates with me. In particular, I’m smitten by this notion that people can talk—even about very deeply held things—without demonizing or judging each other. The notion reminds me of those noble people who early in the history of the church were in conversation with the inveterate letter writer. They eagerly heard what he had to say then examined it on their own to decide whether it was true or not. I imagine them discussing with authoritative texts and possibly disagreeing, but maintaining their relationships.
Bell has done us a great service by voicing these questions, even though the penalties for him have been high.
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Image Credit: The New Yorker
Drawing from Photos & Lost in Translation
Unwitting Perpetuation of Someone Else’s Mistake
Sketching from someone else’s representation can make for a bit of trouble. I learned this from our youngest as she tried to school me in the art of drawing. Drawing from a photograph, while not bad, limits my perceptive ability. The photo is one particular view. Some one’s particular view. But to step away from the photo and try to sketch my own perception of the Cimetiére Saint Matthew in Quebec City, for instance, is to grapple with light and shadow on my own, and proportion, and my own inability to capture what I see.
A few days back I had a chat with a local philosopher who described a problem with the way Bertrand Russell read René Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy. When subsequent philosophy students read Russell’s interpretation of Descartes, they accepted his assessment as the true and honest way things were with Descartes. But Russell’s perceptions left out or downplayed certain arguments which would later prove pivotal for the development of an entire branch of philosophy. It took smart readers to go back to the primary sources and reread and re-perceive to open this new and productive branch.
This is the beauty of going back to look at something fresh. At least as fresh as possible, given the baggage we carry into every perceptive situation. That’s why so many of our best teachers—and frankly our best friends—urge us to go back to primary sources. It may be a document. It may be a relationship. It may be a place. But seeing again the original and seeing with fresh eyes—it’s often worth the effort. Especially if we are bent on saying for ourselves what we are seeing, which can make a difference in our work, our faith and our relationships.
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Why We Privilege Pleasure—It’s the Snooki in Me
I know I’m Alive On Black Friday
It used to be that our privileged position was Descartes’ cogito ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. We think and so we know exist (even if we don’t feel fully alive from day to day). Emmanuel Levinas turned that notion to say that even before we know anything, we have a responsibility to the other around us. He wrote that ethics goes before being. The size and shape of our responsibility to others/the Other will vary by personality, culture and society (my words, not his). But as a basic starting point, responsibility takes precedence over being.
This is a tall order, of course. Especially given the example of the Christ guy, which I’ve been rereading here by that inveterate letter writer. And “example” is the right and wrong word: right in that we can try to be like He did. Wrong in that there is a partaking that goes beyond trying.
But today we’ve upped the ante: I know I exist not because I think, nor because of my responsibility to others. I know I exist because I’m drinking something intoxicating. Or eating something tasty. Or my mind is numb with television shows or the stupefying Fox News.
Or I know I’m alive because I’m buying stuff.
As we approach these two oddly juxtaposed holidays—giving thanks followed by our American orgy of frenzied purchasing—our media will move us quickly from one to the other. Clearly the important thing for us is to land squarely on Friday.
Whatever the source, it is my right as an American to pleasure my brain and taste buds. Life owes me pleasure and I’ll rise early Friday and buy some of that. Because buying creates a set of happy thoughts.
At least until the MasterCard bill arrives.
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Image Credit: BobbyMoynihan.blogspot.com
Living On One—100 Pennies Per Person Per Day
How can I personally understand poverty and wealth?
There is a fetching honesty to Living On One, the film from four documentarians out of the Claremont Colleges. These economics and film majors—all graduates within the year—set out to ask what it might look like to live on a dollar a day. “Living on a dollar a day” is one of those generalized statistics used to illustrate how a staggering number of people on our planet (over 1.2 billion?) live with so little.
The four friends set up shop (that is, a squalid camp) for a summer in a rural village in Guatemala and proceeded to shed pounds and acquire bug bites and diseases as they submitted to the economic rigor of making a life on the equivalent of 100 pennies per person per day.
Watching these friends sort out what to eat and how to eat it and how to cook it (firewood was a major draw on their 100 pennies) was a lesson in itself—especially when they realized that 1200 calories per person per day would not sustain them. They stepped over some invisible line the moment they bought their first bit of lard to cook in their daily ration of beans and rice—simply to get enough calories to keep lethargy partly at bay. They grew radishes, lusted after fresh fruit and longed for a chicken to nurture and then eat. The stories of the people who came to their aid and with whom they formed friendships are without question the most touching part of the film. All in all it’s an entertaining and affecting first-person account of trying to sort out the demands of poverty and wealth.
The honesty came in letting go of any pretense of actually being poor. They knew—and we the audience knew—they were choosing a particular limit. For a limited time. Resources were a phone call away, of course. But the thought experiment of trying to come to grips with a hand-to-mouth existence was compelling and begat practical lessons. The result was a kind of pragmatic knowledge that a textbook can never supply. I applaud their courage.
The Living On One bus stopped in Minneapolis a couple days ago. They played the film and took questions at the Bell Museum on the U of M campus, before a robust group of students and others. As they filmmakers took the stage I could see they were once again healthy people but also deeply affected by their experiment.
Their parting shot to the audience was to “Do something. Anything.” This final word was also an intrinsically honest call to action. The four friends had partnered with different micro-finance and poverty-fighting organizations, so they could and did recommend places to give cash toward the problem. But the big take-away was the struggle to personally understand this immense inequality.
That is a challenge that will stick with me.
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conversation is an engine 
