Looking back, it seems I've become decreasingly funnier the last few years. As in, moving in the wrong direction. I used to be funny, or at the very least, funnier than I am now. One might say I am funminishing by the minute.
My empirical evidence for this claim is two-fold. First of all, this blog in itself serves as pretty hard-core data, with its stated intention of providing "attempts of recognizing both details and the big picture, while embracing a propensity for total randomness", which in itself is as ridiculous a sequence of words that it hardly can be interpreted as anything other than humour. The blog has, however, been fairly barren for a long while. Despite the occasional post here and there, their frequency and length (and topics) suggest that while I may still claim some propensity for randomness (in the most generous reading of the word, though in all fairness, even here I seem to fall into familiar patterns rather than my digressionist aspirations), I stand accused of not recognizing details nor the big picture, as I in fact am hardly providing any pictures (mental or otherwise) at all, since this blog mostly have been rendered empty for months, years, at the time. One might argue that this is humour in and of itself, but it would be a long stretch. Thus, I present the lack of humor due to lack of content as evidence A in this investigation and/or analysis.
Evidence B is more complex. While one might assume that you as a potential reader of this blog actually have access to this blog and therefore conceivably might be able to assess evidence A by means of peer review (though I by no means suggest you should -- I am after all asking you to backtrack my lack of posting here to confirm my claim that I have not been posting frequently, lengthy or topically in a humourous manner, which hardly stands to my credit, other than that I if nothing else can be said to be honest. Also, I realize you probably have better ways to spend your time) -- while one might assume that, you might not have the same privelege when it comes to evidence B.
I say "might", because, as will be clear in a moment, you might not have it, and you might have it.
Evidence B consists of a random selection (see, propensity for random) of Facebook statuses I have written over the past few years. If you are not in the category of the select few (or actually, quite average, I would guess) people who are on my friend's list on Facebook, you won't have access to evidence B. I'm sorry. I am sure the actual number of people who might stumble upon this who are not my friends on Facebook is actually quite limited, but given the possibility that it might happen, I am sorry. Not that we are not friends, because in this day and age it has come to a point where I no longer consider Facebookfriendiness a requirement for actually being friends, and while the more vague "being connected", via social media, is something I cherish, sure enough, occasionally, with some people, but let's be honest - it's 2017. You have "friends" on your Facebook-profile you only accepted because you didn't want them to tell your mom at the florist's in your hometown that you have become a snobbish elitist after moving to the big city. Not all Facebook-friends are friends, and amazingly, not all friends are particularly active on Facebook.
This was a long digression, of which I shall not apologize (digressions being something of a staple of this blog, after all. I don't know if you noticed the title...?), but it ended somewhere I'd like to pick it up from: "not all friends are particularly active on Facebook" (Great Digression, my mom's friend at the florist really has a point, I am quoting myself, FROM THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH now...)
Anyway. The "friend" I am talking about in this particular instance, is myself. Me, myself, and the person I just quoted.
Evidence B, my (let's admit it, not-so-)randomly selected Facebook-statuses (of which I shall not specify which ones I refer to, by the way, just to make the "evidence" even sketchier), are also far between, and not their former peaky, plump, juicy selves.
Not to brag, but I used to be funny (see opening statement of this blog post for reference). Funny-ish, at least. I used to make myself laugh, and seemingly others as well, as my posts occasionally would elicit comments that sometimes triggered avalances of great, old-fashioned Facebook-comedy. I used to be funny, people would be funny back, we would all do that creepy smirky-grinny-non-laugh people do when they read and write something funny on their Facebook during work hours. You know.
However, my examination of evidence B suggests a worrying trend also in this material. It is more funny the further from the present day we come, pointing at my hypothesis that I have become decreasingly funny, or as one might present it in layman's terms: I am less funny now than I was before. My funny appears to be running out (or, terrifyingly, may already have done so).
Why, then, is this happening?
I have a few theories, but I am going to do something utterly scandalous before presenting them. I am going to cliffhanger you (which, by the way, is probably not a word, as many of the words I like using, but it just struck me that this was a particularly abrasive wordsmithery of mine, as cliffhanger in itself is wordsmithed from "hanging from a cliff", I assume, meaning I just verbed ((yes, verbed)) a noun having been nouned (((yes, nouned))) from a verb ((((and then some)))). Ha!)
--I am going to cliffhanger you on this as a way of test, not yours, but mine, ability to stick to this. Yes. I am going to cliffhanger you, to see if that might motivate me, to keep writing the next section of this (otherwise insanely long) post, another day. The world is not fair. Sorry.
***HANGING OFF CLIFF***
Showing posts with label Facebook. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Facebook. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Thursday, September 13, 2012
On seven years (not in Tibet)
Seven years ago I was 19, soon to-be 20. I was a second-year student at the university, studying International Relations. I had successfully overcome the panicky transition from living at home in my little town, to mastering "big city" life (not that Oslo is *that* big, but compared to my hometown it's not so bad). I'd made friends - two of which I was living with in a shared apartment (still one of the best living arrangements I've experienced). I still visited my parents a lot, and occasionally worked weekend and summer shifts at the local bookstore there, were I'd earned my first wages when I was still in high school. This was at the time when one of my biggest obsessions - the Harry Potter books - still was an obsession.
Seven years ago I did not know that I would spend a considerable amount of the next seven years abroad. I did not know that I'd be privileged enough to meet so many wonderful people; see such amazing things; taste, smell, feel, experience a plethora (and yet a minimal part) of what the world has to offer. I did not know that the people I then knew would in some cases stay with me, some would drift away, and some whose importance I did not realize then are now among those I hold nearest to heart.
Seven years ago I did not know much about the Middle East. I did not realize how an analytic perspective to a historical problem changes the whole concept and our understanding of it. I did not have the same vocabulary I do now, and I did not know how to best employ the words I did have. Ironically, I had more words then in a language I long since have put in the back of my mind - my French is definitely not one of things that have improved during these years.
Seven years ago I was in the middle of a process of redefining myself. Today I am in the middle of a process of redefining myself. I have constantly been in the middle of that process, and I constantly will. It's a never-ending process, and you're always in the middle of it. To paraphrase Dr. Who (whom I'd never heard of seven years ago, whom I've not yet come to appreciate today, but whom I fully expect to have learned to love sometime within the next seven years) : Time is not linear. As a historian (which I had no idea seven years ago I'd denominate myself) it's tricky not to see time as linear. But as a human being, I find it increasingly easy. We do not know when it will end. We do not remember when it started. Everything in between happens with such vigor and surprise that we cannot manage to sort it into the nice, tidy line we'd like time to be. No one shall be able to convince me that the 24 hours spent dreading an exam or an important presentation pass in the same amount of time as the 24 hours in any other given day - even though I rationally know it to be so. Rationality is overrated. I did not know that either, seven years ago.
Seven years is a long time, or a really short one - depending on your perspective. I was a different person back then, at the same time as I haven't really changed. My perspective has changed. My horizon has widened. I've exposed myself to education from both books, travels, and life. I've felt happiness, grief, fear, excitement, anger. I've lived, and I've learned. I hope to continue doing so, because I have no idea what the next seven years have to offer. I am eager to find out.
This post was inspired by a conversation on Facebook where my friend Stacy tried to figure out how long this group of friends had known each other. We met through a Harry Potter fansite (which is no longer active, sadly), and most of us have still only known each other online (though some have gotten together IRL over the years). We were all a little amazed to realize that it's been (approximately) seven years. The thought of everything that's happened since triggered a bit of a stroll down memory lane on my part. My HPANA-peeps are still among those I feel closest to, even though we've never had that much in common except a book series now concluded. Funny how that sometimes is enough to tie people together. Also one thing I've learned these past seven years.
Seven years ago I did not know that I would spend a considerable amount of the next seven years abroad. I did not know that I'd be privileged enough to meet so many wonderful people; see such amazing things; taste, smell, feel, experience a plethora (and yet a minimal part) of what the world has to offer. I did not know that the people I then knew would in some cases stay with me, some would drift away, and some whose importance I did not realize then are now among those I hold nearest to heart.
Seven years ago I did not know much about the Middle East. I did not realize how an analytic perspective to a historical problem changes the whole concept and our understanding of it. I did not have the same vocabulary I do now, and I did not know how to best employ the words I did have. Ironically, I had more words then in a language I long since have put in the back of my mind - my French is definitely not one of things that have improved during these years.
Seven years ago I was in the middle of a process of redefining myself. Today I am in the middle of a process of redefining myself. I have constantly been in the middle of that process, and I constantly will. It's a never-ending process, and you're always in the middle of it. To paraphrase Dr. Who (whom I'd never heard of seven years ago, whom I've not yet come to appreciate today, but whom I fully expect to have learned to love sometime within the next seven years) : Time is not linear. As a historian (which I had no idea seven years ago I'd denominate myself) it's tricky not to see time as linear. But as a human being, I find it increasingly easy. We do not know when it will end. We do not remember when it started. Everything in between happens with such vigor and surprise that we cannot manage to sort it into the nice, tidy line we'd like time to be. No one shall be able to convince me that the 24 hours spent dreading an exam or an important presentation pass in the same amount of time as the 24 hours in any other given day - even though I rationally know it to be so. Rationality is overrated. I did not know that either, seven years ago.
Seven years is a long time, or a really short one - depending on your perspective. I was a different person back then, at the same time as I haven't really changed. My perspective has changed. My horizon has widened. I've exposed myself to education from both books, travels, and life. I've felt happiness, grief, fear, excitement, anger. I've lived, and I've learned. I hope to continue doing so, because I have no idea what the next seven years have to offer. I am eager to find out.
This post was inspired by a conversation on Facebook where my friend Stacy tried to figure out how long this group of friends had known each other. We met through a Harry Potter fansite (which is no longer active, sadly), and most of us have still only known each other online (though some have gotten together IRL over the years). We were all a little amazed to realize that it's been (approximately) seven years. The thought of everything that's happened since triggered a bit of a stroll down memory lane on my part. My HPANA-peeps are still among those I feel closest to, even though we've never had that much in common except a book series now concluded. Funny how that sometimes is enough to tie people together. Also one thing I've learned these past seven years.
Monday, February 13, 2012
On Decisions and the City
...as I walked down the streets of the forlorn city, I couldn't help but wonder: have the 21st century made us unable to make independent decisions?
I've been watching a lot of Sex and the City lately. Carrie Bradshaw surely must be one of the great philosophers of our time. At least she manages what other philosophers fail at: presenting a world view that makes sense to me, from which I can try to make sense of my own confusing life.
Using Carrie & CO as a reference point is fun - and disturbing. Is he a Mr. Big? Or an Aidan? And am I a Carrie or a Miranda? A Charlotte? Or - at times - a Samantha, even? And most importantly of all - do I need this many shoes? (Of course I do!)
I realize it is fiction, and I realize that the life of four glamorous 30-somethings in New York City does not translate well to my own 20-something life here in boring, old Oslo. Still. There are some things that appear to be universal, and Carrie the Philosopher offers some interesting perspectives on that great mystery women have been trying to figure out since the beginning of time: the man. Who is he? How to approach him? And why do we (as in "we, women") have so many twisted expectations for him, and the life we want him to provide for us? (Which, I might add in this "female power"-inspired post, I find completely ridiculous. First you need to provide your own life, find your own goal and become a confident, independent person. Then you can find a guy who is compatible with this life and this person you've become. Or at least that sounds more ideal than changing for the guy; or worse: expecting him to change for you. Change might be good, but it is at the very least unlikely.)
Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and to a certain extent, Charlotte, are confident, independent women (though with the mandatory confidence issues and hiccups like the rest of us). (And - yes - I realize they might not be realistic characters, but instead stereotypes. That is a whole different discussion, though.)
Independence is a virtue in the 21st century, even (or especially) for women. And yet - this is my claim - we frequently find ourselves unable to act independently. The SatC-girls have a touch of it - no problem is left unturned in their famous NYC brunches. They debate and discuss everything from penis sizes to the exchange of keys with new boyfriends. They depend on the advice from friends to make their decisions.
This is not a bad thing, but with modern technology comes modern problems. We no longer have to preserve our problems for Sunday brunch - our advisors are present 24/7 through Facebook, Twitter, or cell phones. Earlier today I found myself consulting a friend about a rather mundane topic. I won't go in details (despite it being mundane, it would also be too self-incriminating to mention here...), but the point is that it made me realize I've forgotten the ability to make decisions all by myself. My recent experiment to ensure that I still am able to function properly without Facebook IV directly plugged to my arteries (I managed four days completely off, and I missed it surprisingly little), forced me to make certain smaller decisions - what to wear or whether to eat bread or yoghurt for breakfast; things like that - without consulting my team of online specialists.
I'm only exaggerating a little.
I remember watching an episode of House, M. D. once (a show I am sad to see cancelled, even though I don't watch it myself anymore, since it made me a total hypochondriac), where a patient was an enthusiastic blogger. She was up for a sugery to have her heart valve replaced (I think. Not entirely sure what the surgery was, come to think of it). In order to make the decision of whether or not to have the surgery, she consulted her blog readers.
The episode was supposed to show a crazy example. Who would do something like that? Ask random strangers on the Internet to make life or death decisions?
The scary thing, though, was that the thought of doing just that wasn't so foreign to me. Okay, I wouldn't consult whomever reading this for questions about my health, but that is more a matter of privacy. Communication and consultation with others, through blogging or Facebook or whatnot has become so common that I don't immediately see the problem even though I know there's supposed to be one.
I think once I have identified the problem, though, my conclusion is different than the House-writers probably planned. They wanted to say something about the crazy online society we've constructed. I want to say something about society in general.
A hundred years ago my ancestors lived in the deep Norwegian forests, not being able to communicate with friends or relatives every second of every day. If they were lucky they probably saw one another once every ten years or so. I can assure you they did not have problems making decisions! Because part of the issue here isn't just that we make ourselves dependant on someone else - no, adding to that problem is the fact that most of us make ourselves dependant on several someones. And trust me - if I ask my team of online consultants what to wear or what to eat for breakfast, I will get more than one answer! I'm asking them to make my decisions easier, but in reality they often only provide more options, thus making it even harder!
Let's pretend this post isn't as long as it is, and that you've actually bothered reading all the way down to the bottom. There is a life lesson down here, somewhere. Something to do with Facebook, perhaps - how being away was good, and being back is good, and that somewhere in the middle probably is the golden direction to take. Something to do with how I communicate - of remembering that sometimes having all the options and making a qualified decision isn't the rational choice, if nothing else because it takes too much time. And something about Sex and the City. It's not a perfect show, and the philosophy is definitely not perfect. But it is comforting, entertaining.
As I wrote the last few words towards completion of this strange and confusing post, I couldn't help but wonder: has our inability to make decisions led us to accept a philosophy based on product placement and idealized lifestyles to excuse our otherwise chaotic existence? Yes. Yes it has. Stop asking rhetorical questions.
I've been watching a lot of Sex and the City lately. Carrie Bradshaw surely must be one of the great philosophers of our time. At least she manages what other philosophers fail at: presenting a world view that makes sense to me, from which I can try to make sense of my own confusing life.
Using Carrie & CO as a reference point is fun - and disturbing. Is he a Mr. Big? Or an Aidan? And am I a Carrie or a Miranda? A Charlotte? Or - at times - a Samantha, even? And most importantly of all - do I need this many shoes? (Of course I do!)
I realize it is fiction, and I realize that the life of four glamorous 30-somethings in New York City does not translate well to my own 20-something life here in boring, old Oslo. Still. There are some things that appear to be universal, and Carrie the Philosopher offers some interesting perspectives on that great mystery women have been trying to figure out since the beginning of time: the man. Who is he? How to approach him? And why do we (as in "we, women") have so many twisted expectations for him, and the life we want him to provide for us? (Which, I might add in this "female power"-inspired post, I find completely ridiculous. First you need to provide your own life, find your own goal and become a confident, independent person. Then you can find a guy who is compatible with this life and this person you've become. Or at least that sounds more ideal than changing for the guy; or worse: expecting him to change for you. Change might be good, but it is at the very least unlikely.)
Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and to a certain extent, Charlotte, are confident, independent women (though with the mandatory confidence issues and hiccups like the rest of us). (And - yes - I realize they might not be realistic characters, but instead stereotypes. That is a whole different discussion, though.)
Independence is a virtue in the 21st century, even (or especially) for women. And yet - this is my claim - we frequently find ourselves unable to act independently. The SatC-girls have a touch of it - no problem is left unturned in their famous NYC brunches. They debate and discuss everything from penis sizes to the exchange of keys with new boyfriends. They depend on the advice from friends to make their decisions.
This is not a bad thing, but with modern technology comes modern problems. We no longer have to preserve our problems for Sunday brunch - our advisors are present 24/7 through Facebook, Twitter, or cell phones. Earlier today I found myself consulting a friend about a rather mundane topic. I won't go in details (despite it being mundane, it would also be too self-incriminating to mention here...), but the point is that it made me realize I've forgotten the ability to make decisions all by myself. My recent experiment to ensure that I still am able to function properly without Facebook IV directly plugged to my arteries (I managed four days completely off, and I missed it surprisingly little), forced me to make certain smaller decisions - what to wear or whether to eat bread or yoghurt for breakfast; things like that - without consulting my team of online specialists.
I'm only exaggerating a little.
I remember watching an episode of House, M. D. once (a show I am sad to see cancelled, even though I don't watch it myself anymore, since it made me a total hypochondriac), where a patient was an enthusiastic blogger. She was up for a sugery to have her heart valve replaced (I think. Not entirely sure what the surgery was, come to think of it). In order to make the decision of whether or not to have the surgery, she consulted her blog readers.
The episode was supposed to show a crazy example. Who would do something like that? Ask random strangers on the Internet to make life or death decisions?
The scary thing, though, was that the thought of doing just that wasn't so foreign to me. Okay, I wouldn't consult whomever reading this for questions about my health, but that is more a matter of privacy. Communication and consultation with others, through blogging or Facebook or whatnot has become so common that I don't immediately see the problem even though I know there's supposed to be one.
I think once I have identified the problem, though, my conclusion is different than the House-writers probably planned. They wanted to say something about the crazy online society we've constructed. I want to say something about society in general.
A hundred years ago my ancestors lived in the deep Norwegian forests, not being able to communicate with friends or relatives every second of every day. If they were lucky they probably saw one another once every ten years or so. I can assure you they did not have problems making decisions! Because part of the issue here isn't just that we make ourselves dependant on someone else - no, adding to that problem is the fact that most of us make ourselves dependant on several someones. And trust me - if I ask my team of online consultants what to wear or what to eat for breakfast, I will get more than one answer! I'm asking them to make my decisions easier, but in reality they often only provide more options, thus making it even harder!
Let's pretend this post isn't as long as it is, and that you've actually bothered reading all the way down to the bottom. There is a life lesson down here, somewhere. Something to do with Facebook, perhaps - how being away was good, and being back is good, and that somewhere in the middle probably is the golden direction to take. Something to do with how I communicate - of remembering that sometimes having all the options and making a qualified decision isn't the rational choice, if nothing else because it takes too much time. And something about Sex and the City. It's not a perfect show, and the philosophy is definitely not perfect. But it is comforting, entertaining.
As I wrote the last few words towards completion of this strange and confusing post, I couldn't help but wonder: has our inability to make decisions led us to accept a philosophy based on product placement and idealized lifestyles to excuse our otherwise chaotic existence? Yes. Yes it has. Stop asking rhetorical questions.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
On this
This is irony. I overheard a conversation last night. In a restaurant, in Norway. The party having the conversation was a 50/50 mix of Norwegians and non-Norwegians, so the language employed was English. They were talking, eagerly, about many topics not appropriate for this blog (for instance, let me non-appropriately mention that I now know that these ladies thought it should be called "IT engineer's crack" rather than plumber's crack). What feels more appropriate, though, is to refer to the part of the conversation I meant to address in this paragraph:
(only now it's not in that paragraph anymore)
(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)
"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"
This is irony.
Let me translate.
"What's vocabulary in English?"
This is irony.
This is not:
I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.
Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.
Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).
What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?
Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.
Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.
And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.
Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:
Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).
(only now it's not in that paragraph anymore)
(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)
"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"
This is irony.
Let me translate.
"What's vocabulary in English?"
This is irony.
This is not:
I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.
Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.
Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).
What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?
Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.
Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.
And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.
Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).
Sunday, October 16, 2011
On frogs and smartphones and tomato soup and automatic cameras
I'm confused. Why can't you just come out and SAY IT? Whatever it is??
Frogs are cute. Not real frogs. They are - slimy. Or at the very least they look like they are slimy. I'd put that "they look slimy", but that isn't accurate, because that implies that I can actually see some slime. Which I can't. I'm simply assuming it. Not that I've seen that many frogs. And of the ones I've seen, many of them have been so small that their possible sliminess is difficult to determine without touching them. I'm NOT doing that. Eugh. What if they ARE slimy, eh? So yeahno. No touching. No kissing. Kissing a frog - I don't know if the prospect of finding a prince at the other end of the kiss would be enough to initiate one, really. Especially if there is slime involved.
Besides. Princes. Bah. Unless they are able to say things as they are, I'm not that interested.
Smartphones are not very smart. They are tricksy, perhaps. Tricking us into being far more mobile and online and available than we actually want. They make all sorts of information available at the touch of a finger tip. But that's not smart. It's convenient. It's fast. It's fun - at least for a while. But it's not smart. Smart - smart is the invention of the wheel. Or a spork (the spoon-fork hybrid, and not the lesser known water-pig. Long story). Or cleaning windows with vinegar. Now that is smart. A phone that has no keyboard and whose fancy thingamabobs are so time-consuming you don't have any time left in your day to actually do cool stuff? Not smart.
Besides. Phones. And people who use them. Or don't use them. Bah.
Tomato soup is really neat, y'all. It's made of tomatoes. And it's a soup. You can totally eat it. You can totally make it, even. If you use canned and crushed and skinned tomatoes, a grated carrot, some garlic and olive oil, and then a touch of salt and pepper (plus whatever herbs you fancy), it's even quite healthy - as you have complete control of what you put in your mouth. Not a bad idea.
Also not a bad idea - to have control over what you let out of your mouth. Like clear-cut, non-confusing messages. That would be as awesome as automatic cameras.
"Smile!" FLASH!
And yet they somehow always manage to catch you with you eyes closed, or just as you were about to say something, leaving your face all distorted and funny and not in a good way. They leave your face looking as though you were waiting for someone to say something, but then they didn't, and thus it was left hanging in the air, making you both feel a little awkward. And then you end up wondering what in the world they want from you, and then they stick the picture in your passport and there you are. Every single time you enter a new country, you have to look a mixture of confused, annoyed and heartbroken for them to believe it's you.
So maybe, just maybe, you can just say it as it is, instead of talking about frogs or smartphones or tomato soup or automatic cameras, yes? No?
Frogs are cute. Not real frogs. They are - slimy. Or at the very least they look like they are slimy. I'd put that "they look slimy", but that isn't accurate, because that implies that I can actually see some slime. Which I can't. I'm simply assuming it. Not that I've seen that many frogs. And of the ones I've seen, many of them have been so small that their possible sliminess is difficult to determine without touching them. I'm NOT doing that. Eugh. What if they ARE slimy, eh? So yeahno. No touching. No kissing. Kissing a frog - I don't know if the prospect of finding a prince at the other end of the kiss would be enough to initiate one, really. Especially if there is slime involved.
Besides. Princes. Bah. Unless they are able to say things as they are, I'm not that interested.
Smartphones are not very smart. They are tricksy, perhaps. Tricking us into being far more mobile and online and available than we actually want. They make all sorts of information available at the touch of a finger tip. But that's not smart. It's convenient. It's fast. It's fun - at least for a while. But it's not smart. Smart - smart is the invention of the wheel. Or a spork (the spoon-fork hybrid, and not the lesser known water-pig. Long story). Or cleaning windows with vinegar. Now that is smart. A phone that has no keyboard and whose fancy thingamabobs are so time-consuming you don't have any time left in your day to actually do cool stuff? Not smart.
Besides. Phones. And people who use them. Or don't use them. Bah.
Tomato soup is really neat, y'all. It's made of tomatoes. And it's a soup. You can totally eat it. You can totally make it, even. If you use canned and crushed and skinned tomatoes, a grated carrot, some garlic and olive oil, and then a touch of salt and pepper (plus whatever herbs you fancy), it's even quite healthy - as you have complete control of what you put in your mouth. Not a bad idea.
Also not a bad idea - to have control over what you let out of your mouth. Like clear-cut, non-confusing messages. That would be as awesome as automatic cameras.
"Smile!" FLASH!
And yet they somehow always manage to catch you with you eyes closed, or just as you were about to say something, leaving your face all distorted and funny and not in a good way. They leave your face looking as though you were waiting for someone to say something, but then they didn't, and thus it was left hanging in the air, making you both feel a little awkward. And then you end up wondering what in the world they want from you, and then they stick the picture in your passport and there you are. Every single time you enter a new country, you have to look a mixture of confused, annoyed and heartbroken for them to believe it's you.
So maybe, just maybe, you can just say it as it is, instead of talking about frogs or smartphones or tomato soup or automatic cameras, yes? No?
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
On ecards
I'm not really fond of ecards. I feel they were a thing waaaay back when the internet was still a novelty, when the average person received less than 20 emails per day, and when our needs for non-flesh social interaction wasn't covered by social media. The last ten years or so, however, whenever I receive emails that say they have ecards in them, I automatically assume they are spam.
Still. Now I'm kinda hooked at these meme cards that are flying around the interwebs. They. Are. Freakin'. Hilarious. I've probably spent hours browsing that site to find the perfect card to "send" to every person I've ever interacted with. And you'll find them. someecards.com has a card for any occasion. You want to send a thank you note to your cousin who took the blame for you when you got caught stealing sigarettes in the fifth grade? Should be there. You want a unique way of telling your neighbour you're sorry your dog bit his foot off? Pretty sure you'll find one. You want a card expressing that extra-special feeling you have for a guy you almost slept with, but as you were about to take your top off you remembered that you hadn't shaved your legs and so you made up a silly excuse and now it's all awkward? Yeah. There is a card for that.
Plus, they make the perfect blog fodder for days when you don't really have anything to write about.
Still. Now I'm kinda hooked at these meme cards that are flying around the interwebs. They. Are. Freakin'. Hilarious. I've probably spent hours browsing that site to find the perfect card to "send" to every person I've ever interacted with. And you'll find them. someecards.com has a card for any occasion. You want to send a thank you note to your cousin who took the blame for you when you got caught stealing sigarettes in the fifth grade? Should be there. You want a unique way of telling your neighbour you're sorry your dog bit his foot off? Pretty sure you'll find one. You want a card expressing that extra-special feeling you have for a guy you almost slept with, but as you were about to take your top off you remembered that you hadn't shaved your legs and so you made up a silly excuse and now it's all awkward? Yeah. There is a card for that.
Plus, they make the perfect blog fodder for days when you don't really have anything to write about.
Monday, August 22, 2011
On Mike and social networking
So, I'm writing more job applications than blog posts lately. I guess that's a good thing. Except that I've been writing so few posts that the comparison isn't really all that valid. I've been writing *some* applications, though. And *some* other stuff too, actually, though most of it was on Facebook or Twitter, so don't get all excited yet.
Anyway. Until I find a job my lazy (and fairly eventless - is that a word?) life goes on. It gives me the opportunity of getting extremely caught up in petty things. Like spam. The following is an actual email I wrote, not ten minutes ago:
Anyway. Until I find a job my lazy (and fairly eventless - is that a word?) life goes on. It gives me the opportunity of getting extremely caught up in petty things. Like spam. The following is an actual email I wrote, not ten minutes ago:
I realize this is a noreply address and that this email thus probably will disappear into the cybersphere where it'll float restlessly around for all eternity, for no one to read, unable to reveal its message (which must be truly terrible for an email, since its entire existence is all about delivering messages).
But. I still had to write this, to - someone. Because. Ohmygoshcanyoupleasestopsendingmestuff, DUDE! This guy, this Mike* someone. I don't know who he is. I don't know what he is. Heck, I don't even know why he is. At least I don't know why he is sending me emails all the time, about - lord knows what - recipes? Maybe? I am fairly sure I have never subscribed to his mailing list. I could be wrong. I subscribe to stuff all the time without knowing what exactly it is. If it turns out it annoys me, I unsubscribe. But Mike. Oh Mike. He is freaking impossible to unsubscribe to (from? You don't unsubscribe TO something, do you?). I have tried. Trust me.
First I blocked those pesky emails, telling me to decorate for Easter and Halloween and whatnot (so maybe not recipes? Still not sure). It took a while to figure out how, but I managed. It was quiet for a while, and I thought maybe Mike and I had split for good.
Of course I was wrong. Mike then sent me a request to join him on LinkedIn.
Had I not already been sick of Mike, this would have pulled me over the edge. LinkedIn - I think my nostrils are flaring from just the thought of it. First of all - the idea of another social network is more than enough to make me shake my head. Secondly, I raise my eyebrows to the combination of the words "social network" and "professional". Peeps. Seriously! Social networks are for procrastinating. That is not professional. Don't pretend this is any different. Finally, what's the DEAL with the capital I that looks exactly like a non-capital l? HUH? That is capital "i" and non-capital "L", if you're confused. You should be. If nothing else, I'd boycott LinkedIn for the fact that it made me pronounce it "LinkedLn" (however one pronounces that) for the longest time. *facepalm*
Basically, LinkedIn causes A LOT of involuntary movement in the head&face area for me. It's exhausting. So no, I won't be joining any time soon.
The GOOD thing about LinkedInInvites, though, is that they come once, there's a reminder, and then you're done. Wish I could say the same about Google+...
It had been a while since I'd heard from Mike when suddenly invites to join Google+ started cluttering my inbox. "Mike shared a post about personalized greeting cards with you!" (Soo, it's DIY? What do you DO, Mike?!)
He did? But..? I'm not ON Google+! How can he share stuff with me when I'm not even there to share (rhyme!)?
You see, Google+... I have all the same reservations against this as LinkedIn. Well, not all the same. I can pronouce Google+ (but I am increasingly annoyed with the wonky punctuation you get when trying to place a comma, full stop or any other mark after a brand that comes with a symbol in the name. *snort* If you try to put a dash [or actually, a hyphen as I tend to use, because I'm too lazy to figure out how to get dashes outside of Word, where it's corrected automatically] you get Google+ -. Plus and minus equals minus. Google minus. Ha!). Also, Google+ doesn't pretend that it's not a regular social network. Its entire strategy appears to be to take on Facebook, so that is pretty honest at least.
BUT. The whole "do I really need another social network to steal my time?" part applies here too. In addition, Google+ has several other disadvantages too. Such as the fact that I'm googlified enough as it is. I've already pretty much sold my soul to Google, and I feel more comfortable knowing that Facebook also holds a share of it. Also, you need a Google account to log onto Google+. I have one, of course. I am writing this in gmail, after all. But my Google account is tied with my Cruella-personality, and Cruella already is too "out there" (no pun intended). If Google+ were to replace Facebook for me, Cruella and my other self would have to mix friends. I'm so not ready for that. As a final "besides", I can't just put Cruella on Google+ and keep my other self on Facebook either. Oh, no. Because Google+ is doing what Facebook failed to do (or didn't bother, perhaps) - restricting users to real, actual people. Thus, Cruella probably wouldn't be accepted. Shame on them.
Right. So as you can see (well, I don't know if you can see anything, actually. "You" being the eternity of cyberspace and all), Mike didn't make a wise move in trying to Google+ me. Now more than ever I want to Google- him. It's just that I don't know how. There is a link at the bottom of the email saying "unsubscribe", but when I clicked it, Google helpfully provided a "something went wrong. That's all we know". Aaaaargh!!!
Maybe I just have to learn how to live with Mike contacting me every now and then. Whether it is for home, home decor, repairs and renovation, gardening, food, desserts, beverages, entertaining and delish (whatever that is), as I just realized the Google+ description explains. At least I know that, now.
Thank you for listening.
Cruella.
*He's not really called "Mike", of course. I'm still too nice to actually put up his real name, there...
Friday, January 7, 2011
On bureaucracy and blessings
We are blessed with a great many things in Norway, one of them being excellent health service and a government issued health insurance that ensures that you can get affordable treatment regardless of your financial situation. This health insurance also extends to certain circumstances where treatment outside of Norway is necessary, for instance when the patient in question is working for a Norwegian government agency abroad (as I very soon will be).
That being said, we don’t necessarily ace in the bureaucratic process said insurance, especially the abroad version since this is not an automatic process like the regular, domestic health insurance is. You have to send an application – 8 weeks ahead of departure (or at least that is the time frame they provide for processing the application). This is not one but several forms, and they are, as forms tend to be, completely impossible to understand. I generally think of myself as a reasonably bright human being, but when it comes to filling out forms my stupid gene kicks in.
Once the forms are taken care of, you wait. And wait. And wait. And hope. In my case I had called ahead to confirm that my position indeed warranted a positive outcome of the application, so I was not too worried, but it certainly took a while to get the final confirmation.
Now, I’ve been through this process before. When I went to Japan in 2006 as a student, I also had to do the application dance. Back then I received not only the confirmation of the positive outcome of my application, but also a health insurance card of sorts. The kind that has words in English on it. You see, the confirmation letter I received this time is written in Norwegian. The problem is that if the chance arises for me to use my health insurance – say by exploring the inside of a Japanese hospital from a wheeled bed – the likelihood of anyone working at the hospital being able to read the confirmation letter in my native Norwegian is disturbingly slim.
Since I foresaw this complication I decided to give the Welfare State a call, to see if anyone there could tell me whether I’d need a insurance card, or if my assurances to the Japanese doctor that “the Norwegians will pay for it, really!” would do.
I phoned the assumed appropriate agency, and they put me in one of those endless phone queues. You know the kind:
“Thank you for calling Welfare State Health Insurance And Every Other Government Issued Benefit Agency (WSHIAEOGIBA). We are currently experiencing heavy traffic on our phone lines, but one of our operators will get to you as soon as possible. You may also contact us at 800-EXPENSIVEHOTLINE, or visit our web page, www.wshiaeogiba.no.”
Fine, I’ll hold. After about thirty seconds, you think the phone is being answered in the other line. But no…
“Thank you for calling WSHIAEOGIBA. We are currently experiencing heavy traffic on our phone lines, but one of our operators will get to you as soon as possible. You may also contact us at 800-EXPENSIVEHOTLINE, or visit our web page, www.wshiaeogiba.no.”
Yes. I heard you the first time. Thank you very much.
30 new seconds, and…
“Thank you for calling WSHIAEOGIBA. We don’t really care if you have heard this message before, so we will repeat it endlessly. One of our operators might get to you as soon as he is done checking his Facebook updates. You may also contact us at 800-EXPENSIVEHOTLINE, or visit our web page, www.wshiaeogiba.no.”
This cycle repeats itself quite a few times, until you swear the message you hear is something along these lines:
“Thank you for calling WSHIAEOGIBA. We are trying to make you go mad. This is the little voice in your head telling you that you probably should find another way to finance your costly health insurance abroad. If you are still with us after this lengthy wait, we might consider letting you into the exclusive club of people who survived waiting in this phone queue without smashing their phone into the wall, people who thus managed to get to the end of the phone queue to find out if they will get their required insurance. Have you smashed your phone yet? No? If not, press one. Just kidding. One of our operators will get to you soonish. After he is done checking his Facebook updates, of course. He might also check into Twitter while at it. You may also contact us at 800-EXPENSIVEHOTLINE, or visit our web page, www.wshiaeogiba.no.”
Once I finally reached an operator, she was friendly and efficient. I am completely satisfied with my operator-time, except for one small thing: She could not answer my question.
A small digression to explain: A few years ago, the various agencies handling unemployment benefits, pensions, and other social security systems in Norway were morphed into one big agency (the one which my WSHIAEOGIBA is modeled on). The idea was that one agency that covered all the departments would be easier for the users to access than the multitude of agencies of the past. The problem with this vision was that (it seems) no one thought of the fact that the separate agencies were specialized within the field they were handling. The morphed agency consisted of people having worked in the specialized departments, who were now required to know everything about not only their former department, but also about all the others.
Obviously, this was problematic, and the morphed agency (from now on it will again be known in this post as WSHIAEOGIBA) has been the target of many a jolly joke ever since.
Despite this, however, my discovery was that the generalized WSHIAEOGIBA handled the generalization by outsourcing specific issues to other, new, agencies… Thus, my operator informed me that I had to call the Never Heard About Health Something Economy Something (NHAHSES). She provided me with a phone number, and we hung up.
I called the NHAHSES, went through a similar phone line routine, and ended up with an operator telling me she could not answer my question. I had to call NHAHSES Abroad Section, naturally.
Naturally.
So I did. Imagine what happened. Phone line? Yup. Operator able to answer my question? Of course not.
At least this time I was told I was at the right place, but the person/people who could answer my question was in a meeting. Or checking his/her Facebook updates. At any rate, I was instructed to call back in half an hour. Which I did.
This time, I managed to get to an operator fairly quickly, but alas, it was one of the secretaries who only could try her best to transfer my call to the right person, but whose attempts did not lead anywhere. I don’t know if it was the phones (not mine) that failed, the secretary not doing it right or the person at the end of the line checking her Facebook updates, but either way it took three attempts – each time I had to go through the phone queue thing again, mind you – to finally reach the right person. Who managed to tell me that while I did have all the rights I thought I did, they did not have a health insurance card to prove I had such rights. She promised, however, to send a confirmation letter in English, so at least I will have that. And I imagine that working at the embassy will make it easier to contact the embassy in case of emergency.
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Saturday, June 19, 2010
On fifteen books that stuck with me
I wrote this some time ago as a response to a Facebook thing that floated around, demanding my attention. You were supposed to take no more than 15 minutes to write down 15 books that "stuck". The books didn't have to be your favourites, but you had to remember them for one reason or another. I notice that a large part of the books I’ve chosen are children’s books. This is not (just) because I’m so childish, but probably partly because I frequently reread books (and not just twice) as a child. I rarely have that privilege (or that desire) now. However, not all books that I read several times stuck, so I still think this is a fairly representative list for me (though reading through it I can think of at least two-three notable omissions. Oh, well...).
1) The Secret Garden by Francis H. Burnett: Since I learned how, I have read this book at least once a year (spring). I don’t know if it’s the “morale” of the story; or the orphan side to it (I’ve always been drawn to books about orphans for some reason; but then again, they are hard to avoid); or simply the idea of a secret garden. Either way I still count this as my favourite book.
2) Lise og Lotte eller omvendt [Das doppelte Lottchen] by Erich Kästner: this was probably the first book where I noticed the writing style, which I liked and frequently adopted when I was younger. In addition the story is pretty entertaining, even if Lindsay Lohan tried to ruin it with The Parent Trap (okay, I confess - I don't hate the movie either)…
3) Ronja Rövardotter by Astrid Lindgren: the imagination and skill of Astrid Lindgren was remarkable, and this is in my opinion one of - if not the - best book(s) she ever wrote.
4) Kabalmysteriet by Jostein Gaarder: the famous book was Sofies verden [Sophie’s World], and I gradually learned to like that one as well, but Kabalmysteriet always struck me as equally well constructed (if not better), and far more entertaining. I do believe that as an adult, though, it might be more rewarding to read Sofies verden (even if that wasn’t the one that stuck).
5) David Copperfield by Charles Dickens: actually, Dickens is the key word here, not David Copperfield specifically. I’ve read many Dickens books, and they had an impact on me collectively, though I have trouble keeping some of them apart. David Copperfield and Great Expectations are the ones I most vividly remember reading.
6) Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling: aside from the fact that I’ve read them over and over again, in several languages even, these are the only books from which I’ve joined a fansite, where I met people I actually stayed in touch with, and several of whom I have met in person.
7) Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë: though sister Charlotte has received more praise from the critics, I preferred Emily’s novel over Jane Eyre. Never a fan of spooky books, this one somehow hit me. Maybe it’s the tragic love story that stuck?
8) Three Comrades [Drei Kameraden] by Erick Maria Remarque: the description of the “between wars” German society made a huge impression on me, as did the friendship and love affair between the main protagonists. Plus the tone is elegantly shifting between humoristic (car race) to serious (political development) to sad (illness and death).
9) East of Eden by John Steinbeck: the whole “epic family saga set in a specific area using the traits of this area to drive the story ahead” has always impressed me, and Steinbeck is using this to perfection in East of Eden.
10) Markens Grøde [Growth of the Soil] by Knut Hamsun: I am tempted to mention this together with Pan, and not as two separate entries, mainly because the reason that they stuck is that I compared these in a high school “særemne” (project). I chose them because I already thought they were awesome books, though. This one is comparable to Steinbeck’s book as well, since a great deal of what makes the book is the interdependency in the text of the location (nature) and the families it describes. Wow, that sounded intellectual…
11) Pan by Knut Hamsun: (see above) ”…the eternal day of the Northern summer…”
12) Life of Pi by Yann Martel: it is a very good book, but there are many very good books I have read that didn’t stick. This one did. Maybe because it is so unlikely, so unique, and so clever at the same time?
13) The Wind-up Bird Chronicles by H. Murakami: I read it in Japan, and frankly struggled a little with it, but what stuck was the incredible writing skill of Murakami (not wasted through English translation), and the many, many layers of this story that eventually are tied together. Murakami has a mystical element to everything he writes that I never quite can grasp, and I don’t always appreciate it, but in this book I enjoyed it. The only book that has ever made me want to climb down into a well.
14) The Book Thief by Markus Zuzak: one of those books that speaks directly to your heart. I laughed and cried from beginning till end.
15) American Gods by Neil Gaiman: since this list is supposed to consist of books that “stuck”, there should be a rule not to include books you have read less than a year ago. However, even though I put this one down only last week [blogger's note: this was the case when I first wrote this. It must be more than a year now, though, and it's still "sticking"], I have no doubt that it will stick. Gaiman is an extraordinary story teller, and this book is so complex in so many levels that I will continue thinking about it for a long, long time ahead.
That's my list. What 15 books can you come up with in 15 minutes?
1) The Secret Garden by Francis H. Burnett: Since I learned how, I have read this book at least once a year (spring). I don’t know if it’s the “morale” of the story; or the orphan side to it (I’ve always been drawn to books about orphans for some reason; but then again, they are hard to avoid); or simply the idea of a secret garden. Either way I still count this as my favourite book.
2) Lise og Lotte eller omvendt [Das doppelte Lottchen] by Erich Kästner: this was probably the first book where I noticed the writing style, which I liked and frequently adopted when I was younger. In addition the story is pretty entertaining, even if Lindsay Lohan tried to ruin it with The Parent Trap (okay, I confess - I don't hate the movie either)…
3) Ronja Rövardotter by Astrid Lindgren: the imagination and skill of Astrid Lindgren was remarkable, and this is in my opinion one of - if not the - best book(s) she ever wrote.
4) Kabalmysteriet by Jostein Gaarder: the famous book was Sofies verden [Sophie’s World], and I gradually learned to like that one as well, but Kabalmysteriet always struck me as equally well constructed (if not better), and far more entertaining. I do believe that as an adult, though, it might be more rewarding to read Sofies verden (even if that wasn’t the one that stuck).
5) David Copperfield by Charles Dickens: actually, Dickens is the key word here, not David Copperfield specifically. I’ve read many Dickens books, and they had an impact on me collectively, though I have trouble keeping some of them apart. David Copperfield and Great Expectations are the ones I most vividly remember reading.
6) Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling: aside from the fact that I’ve read them over and over again, in several languages even, these are the only books from which I’ve joined a fansite, where I met people I actually stayed in touch with, and several of whom I have met in person.
7) Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë: though sister Charlotte has received more praise from the critics, I preferred Emily’s novel over Jane Eyre. Never a fan of spooky books, this one somehow hit me. Maybe it’s the tragic love story that stuck?
8) Three Comrades [Drei Kameraden] by Erick Maria Remarque: the description of the “between wars” German society made a huge impression on me, as did the friendship and love affair between the main protagonists. Plus the tone is elegantly shifting between humoristic (car race) to serious (political development) to sad (illness and death).
9) East of Eden by John Steinbeck: the whole “epic family saga set in a specific area using the traits of this area to drive the story ahead” has always impressed me, and Steinbeck is using this to perfection in East of Eden.
10) Markens Grøde [Growth of the Soil] by Knut Hamsun: I am tempted to mention this together with Pan, and not as two separate entries, mainly because the reason that they stuck is that I compared these in a high school “særemne” (project). I chose them because I already thought they were awesome books, though. This one is comparable to Steinbeck’s book as well, since a great deal of what makes the book is the interdependency in the text of the location (nature) and the families it describes. Wow, that sounded intellectual…
11) Pan by Knut Hamsun: (see above) ”…the eternal day of the Northern summer…”
12) Life of Pi by Yann Martel: it is a very good book, but there are many very good books I have read that didn’t stick. This one did. Maybe because it is so unlikely, so unique, and so clever at the same time?
13) The Wind-up Bird Chronicles by H. Murakami: I read it in Japan, and frankly struggled a little with it, but what stuck was the incredible writing skill of Murakami (not wasted through English translation), and the many, many layers of this story that eventually are tied together. Murakami has a mystical element to everything he writes that I never quite can grasp, and I don’t always appreciate it, but in this book I enjoyed it. The only book that has ever made me want to climb down into a well.
14) The Book Thief by Markus Zuzak: one of those books that speaks directly to your heart. I laughed and cried from beginning till end.
15) American Gods by Neil Gaiman: since this list is supposed to consist of books that “stuck”, there should be a rule not to include books you have read less than a year ago. However, even though I put this one down only last week [blogger's note: this was the case when I first wrote this. It must be more than a year now, though, and it's still "sticking"], I have no doubt that it will stick. Gaiman is an extraordinary story teller, and this book is so complex in so many levels that I will continue thinking about it for a long, long time ahead.
That's my list. What 15 books can you come up with in 15 minutes?
Monday, June 7, 2010
On Twitter
Twitter has been one of those things I have loved to hate without ever having really tried it (much like the Twilight series, or Roquefort cheese). From what I had heard about Twitter, it seemed clear to me that it only was a more public and less personal Facebook, it was just another time waster (in which the web already offers too many for my own good), and the limitation of 140 characters appeared to me to be one of the safest ways of ensuring “chat speak”, which I loathe.
However fond I was of my Twitter prejudices, I decided that it was beneath me to continue to discard a worldwide phenomenon that doubtlessly has an impact with its more than 100 million users (a handful of whom I happen to know, so they can’t all be twits [sorry, I’ve been dying to use that sometime…]). I no longer wanted to discard it without knowing what I was discarding. So I decided to sign up for Twitter.
In a way.
As I only intended this to be a temporary experiment, I didn’t really want my Twitter account to be “me”. I did not want to connect to my friends, to start tweeting and then discover that this was the way life should be. I did not want to end up loving Twitter. I only wanted to know why I hated it.
Thus, I signed up with a fake name, fake birthday, fake everything. If you sometime in the last few weeks have been followed by a stranger whose tweets sound oddly familiar, it isn’t me. I deliberately avoided following anyone I knew, because I did not want to get pulled in. I may have peeked at your profile (mwahahaha!), but I didn’t follow it. I acknowledge that this isn’t doing Twitter justice, because any social media becomes fun only when there is interaction (hence the social part). But what I wanted was simply to get a feel for what the hype was all about, and that I did.
At first a few of my prejudices were confirmed. Language wise, Twitter can be annoying. One example that continued to baffle me was that topics that “trended” (from what I gathered “Twitter trends” are keywords often repeated in tweets), frequently had rather obvious spelling errors in them. This either means that a significant number of Twitter users didn’t know how to spell these words, or that a significant number of them didn’t care and spelled it incorrectly on purpose because this was an up-and-coming hashtag (keywords with an # in front of it). Neither alternative bodes well for Twitter’s influence on language.
That being said, Twitter also has a large number of users who seem to interpret the 140 character limitation as a challenge to squeeze an impressing amount of information in the form of quality writing into each tweet. Even though also these users sometimes have to employ certain abbreviations (“PLZ RT” seems unavoidable), it is comforting to know that there exists a Twitter that doesn’t fck w ur spllng (LOL).
That Twitter can be a time waster is without any shed of doubt. But then again, what isn’t? You can claim all you want that you only signed up for Facebook for networking purposes and that your blog serves 100% as a window to the world that one day will lead you to a publishing contract. However, until you prove to me that you haven’t at least once clicked on an old high school friend’s photo album just out of curiosity, or that one or two of the blogs you visit regularly serve no other purpose than to entertain you, I will not listen to a word you say.
Thus, Twitter can waste your time. But Twitter can also be a useful tool to find and connect with people who share your interests in whatever field that may be, it can be a way of keeping up with news, and it can be a great way of promoting yourself. The reason? Twitter’s simplicity. Anyone can tweet, and anyone can retweet. The second you have one single person retweeting a link you posted, it means that all of his/her followers have the chance to visit the link as well.
The prejudice of mine that crashed most profoundly, however, is that Twitter is just a (poorer) version of Facebook. Twitter is nothing like Facebook. Even though you can customize both your Facebook and Twitter experience, Facebook is by nature much more personal, for better and for worse. For two people to be “friends” on Facebook it takes mutual acceptance. On Twitter you can follow anyone, regardless of whether they are following you (even though there is a possibility of keeping tweets private. This seems slightly pointless considering the purpose of Twitter, but whatever floats your tweet…). This means that I get to read tweets by people who never in a million years would have friended me on Facebook. I even get to interact with them by the simple use of an @ in front of whatever tweet I want them to see. Useful? Mnwellno – maybe. Fun? Definitely.
Another thing about Twitter which separates it from Facebook is that it is highly topicized (yes, I know that isn’t a word, but “categorized” just didn’t do it for me today). Because of the aforementioned hashtags you can search specifically for tweets about topics that interest you. If butterfly collecting is your thing, I am sure you can find someone tweeting about it, without having to look through the status updates of butterfly collectors who happened to only write about what they had for breakfast this one particular day (which could be the case if you friended them on Facebook).
I like Facebook because it is a casual way of catching up with friends. I suppose you could do that on Twitter as well, but either you would have to be prepared to do it in public or you would have to write a personal message (and if you’re doing that, you might as well send an email). Thus for that purpose Twitter does not seem as apt. Twitter appears to be best when you have a specific agenda. It doesn’t matter if that agenda is praising Justin Bieber (who should need no further introduction since it appears to be impossible to be on Twitter without hearing about him) or promoting your blog. The domino effect Twitter can create seems unmatched by Facebook. For instance I noticed that the topics trending often were important news stories. This bodes well for the world, people! Twitter users care about Gaza, and not just Justin Bieber!
Another (rather random) thing I noticed during my twitttaffair was that John Cleese follows 150-something twitterers (tweeters?), and a completely disproportionate number of those were from Norway. I do know that the man likes a good old Norwegian Blue, but why in the world..? These were seemingly normal Norwegians, who for some reason had their tweets followed by Mr. Cleese. Any clarification as to why Cleese prefers Norwegians would be helpful. Thanks. (And before you ask – no, he does not follow me. Naturally I did not use Norway as location for my fake Twitter persona!)
In the end, my undercover experiment taught me to accept Twitter rather than liking it (which I never will, I think) or hating it (which I don’t anymore). I might in the future consider opening a real Twitter account, one where I contact actual friends; follow people I actually want to follow as opposed to Aston Cutcher (ooops, did that give me away? Yeah, it might, but you’d have to look through 5 million followers to find the correct fake me); and actively try to network rather than “fakework” which I largely did this time. If I ever get a book to promote, for instance, I do see why (and now how) Twitter can be useful. In the meantime I intend to continue to stay away.
However fond I was of my Twitter prejudices, I decided that it was beneath me to continue to discard a worldwide phenomenon that doubtlessly has an impact with its more than 100 million users (a handful of whom I happen to know, so they can’t all be twits [sorry, I’ve been dying to use that sometime…]). I no longer wanted to discard it without knowing what I was discarding. So I decided to sign up for Twitter.
In a way.
As I only intended this to be a temporary experiment, I didn’t really want my Twitter account to be “me”. I did not want to connect to my friends, to start tweeting and then discover that this was the way life should be. I did not want to end up loving Twitter. I only wanted to know why I hated it.
Thus, I signed up with a fake name, fake birthday, fake everything. If you sometime in the last few weeks have been followed by a stranger whose tweets sound oddly familiar, it isn’t me. I deliberately avoided following anyone I knew, because I did not want to get pulled in. I may have peeked at your profile (mwahahaha!), but I didn’t follow it. I acknowledge that this isn’t doing Twitter justice, because any social media becomes fun only when there is interaction (hence the social part). But what I wanted was simply to get a feel for what the hype was all about, and that I did.
At first a few of my prejudices were confirmed. Language wise, Twitter can be annoying. One example that continued to baffle me was that topics that “trended” (from what I gathered “Twitter trends” are keywords often repeated in tweets), frequently had rather obvious spelling errors in them. This either means that a significant number of Twitter users didn’t know how to spell these words, or that a significant number of them didn’t care and spelled it incorrectly on purpose because this was an up-and-coming hashtag (keywords with an # in front of it). Neither alternative bodes well for Twitter’s influence on language.
That being said, Twitter also has a large number of users who seem to interpret the 140 character limitation as a challenge to squeeze an impressing amount of information in the form of quality writing into each tweet. Even though also these users sometimes have to employ certain abbreviations (“PLZ RT” seems unavoidable), it is comforting to know that there exists a Twitter that doesn’t fck w ur spllng (LOL).
That Twitter can be a time waster is without any shed of doubt. But then again, what isn’t? You can claim all you want that you only signed up for Facebook for networking purposes and that your blog serves 100% as a window to the world that one day will lead you to a publishing contract. However, until you prove to me that you haven’t at least once clicked on an old high school friend’s photo album just out of curiosity, or that one or two of the blogs you visit regularly serve no other purpose than to entertain you, I will not listen to a word you say.
Thus, Twitter can waste your time. But Twitter can also be a useful tool to find and connect with people who share your interests in whatever field that may be, it can be a way of keeping up with news, and it can be a great way of promoting yourself. The reason? Twitter’s simplicity. Anyone can tweet, and anyone can retweet. The second you have one single person retweeting a link you posted, it means that all of his/her followers have the chance to visit the link as well.
The prejudice of mine that crashed most profoundly, however, is that Twitter is just a (poorer) version of Facebook. Twitter is nothing like Facebook. Even though you can customize both your Facebook and Twitter experience, Facebook is by nature much more personal, for better and for worse. For two people to be “friends” on Facebook it takes mutual acceptance. On Twitter you can follow anyone, regardless of whether they are following you (even though there is a possibility of keeping tweets private. This seems slightly pointless considering the purpose of Twitter, but whatever floats your tweet…). This means that I get to read tweets by people who never in a million years would have friended me on Facebook. I even get to interact with them by the simple use of an @ in front of whatever tweet I want them to see. Useful? Mnwellno – maybe. Fun? Definitely.
Another thing about Twitter which separates it from Facebook is that it is highly topicized (yes, I know that isn’t a word, but “categorized” just didn’t do it for me today). Because of the aforementioned hashtags you can search specifically for tweets about topics that interest you. If butterfly collecting is your thing, I am sure you can find someone tweeting about it, without having to look through the status updates of butterfly collectors who happened to only write about what they had for breakfast this one particular day (which could be the case if you friended them on Facebook).
I like Facebook because it is a casual way of catching up with friends. I suppose you could do that on Twitter as well, but either you would have to be prepared to do it in public or you would have to write a personal message (and if you’re doing that, you might as well send an email). Thus for that purpose Twitter does not seem as apt. Twitter appears to be best when you have a specific agenda. It doesn’t matter if that agenda is praising Justin Bieber (who should need no further introduction since it appears to be impossible to be on Twitter without hearing about him) or promoting your blog. The domino effect Twitter can create seems unmatched by Facebook. For instance I noticed that the topics trending often were important news stories. This bodes well for the world, people! Twitter users care about Gaza, and not just Justin Bieber!
Another (rather random) thing I noticed during my twitttaffair was that John Cleese follows 150-something twitterers (tweeters?), and a completely disproportionate number of those were from Norway. I do know that the man likes a good old Norwegian Blue, but why in the world..? These were seemingly normal Norwegians, who for some reason had their tweets followed by Mr. Cleese. Any clarification as to why Cleese prefers Norwegians would be helpful. Thanks. (And before you ask – no, he does not follow me. Naturally I did not use Norway as location for my fake Twitter persona!)
In the end, my undercover experiment taught me to accept Twitter rather than liking it (which I never will, I think) or hating it (which I don’t anymore). I might in the future consider opening a real Twitter account, one where I contact actual friends; follow people I actually want to follow as opposed to Aston Cutcher (ooops, did that give me away? Yeah, it might, but you’d have to look through 5 million followers to find the correct fake me); and actively try to network rather than “fakework” which I largely did this time. If I ever get a book to promote, for instance, I do see why (and now how) Twitter can be useful. In the meantime I intend to continue to stay away.
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