Thank you finite time! I'm making this because I have a draft of an experimental study, a PowerPoint presentation that I have to conduct in Russian, and a draft of a booklet on schizophrenia due on Thursday. I get to kill two birds with one stone by expressing myself while pretending that my responsibilities don't exist.
So on to weird things. I learned today that Roman soldiers used to carve things onto stones that they slung at their enemies (I'm taking a class on Greek and Roman warfare). I think there's a strange, sad, neat, timeless quality to finding a rock that had "Suck it!" written on it in Latin. Although they wouldn't have said "suck it". Apparently they wrote their own names, the number of their legion, the name of their centurion, the name of their lover, random thoughts, or curses on their rocks. I imagine a soldier sitting on a little grassy rise with some time to kill before marching, etching some fleeting observation into a rock he'll later use to brain some other guy from however many yards away.
Since college is a time when you can be a wannabe lazy philosopher, I like thinking about that random Roman guy with his wife and kids. He'll probably die a violent death -- in any case, he's dead now. Maybe he'll survive, though, and see a bunch of wild shit none of us can ever see except on movie screens. Get some loot, settle down on a broad patch of arable Italian land and farm the shit out of it. Maybe throw in a few sheep too. Most Roman soldiers were farmers, same as in ancient Greece. They just wanted some land and peace and quiet, and occasionally to hack a person in two.
Going back to the guy on the grassy rise, I feel empathy for him. It's weird trying to feel what he might have felt, since our times and cultures, our perceptions of the world - and so our thoughts - would've been vastly different. Not to mention that he's also a different person, so even if he was here now he'd see things differently from me. But maybe he saw a cool bird flying overhead and wrote about that. Maybe he scrawled some personal musing on life or death or whatever life might mean. Maybe he missed his son or daughter and was intensely afraid that he'd never lay eyes on them again. Maybe he was able to enjoy the moment and forget about marching and battles and eating cruddy food and the throbbing blister on his dirty foot and the horror of seeing his buddies sliced up and write something that would survive like a little natural time capsule into the present day and communicate his one-time message to the modern world.
Soooo....what would you write on your rock? I think I'd write, "What's your name?"
Also, my girlfriend brought up a neat point. She said writing things on rocks was a little like WWII pilots naming their planes, which I think is true. They used names of lovers, imagined lovers, random things, sayings, or wishes. Makes me think of the Enola Gay and Little Boy. The plane and the bomb. Does naming the bomb make it seem less like a weapon? I mean, you have to call it something. But why "Little Boy" and "Fat Man"? They sound like nicknames for bosses everybody hates. I guess it's unnerving enough making an atomic weapon, so you wouldn't want to call it "Fiery Death Capsule".
In keeping with names of stuff (I'm so lame), the two B-29 planes that flew with the Enola Gay over Hiroshima were called Necessary Evil (this one carried scientists and cameras) and The Great Artiste, which measured stuff about the blast. I feel like those scientists would've died from guilt if they hadn't named their plane that. But they were there to observe things about the bomb, what its effects were in action - it was their job. Makes me think of the scientist in Murakami's Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the Edge of the World. *SPOILER ALERT* He fucked up the main character's life, but he was just a harmless old man pursuing the fine objectivity of science. The main character is pissed for a few minutes, but he accepts the fact that his consciousness will be running in an infinite tautological loop pretty well (whiskey and beer help). What can you do? It's science. That also makes me think of Werner von Braun, who wanted to put stuff into space but was forced to make V2s by the Nazis. Both scientists are like, "I wish it didn't turn out this way!" At least Braun got to put stuff into space later.
Not to be incredibly tangential (but I am), that reminds me of Ikonnikov in Vasily Grossman's Life and Fate. *SPOILER ALERT* Ikonnikov is a weird old Russian guy in a Nazi concentration camp who calls himself a former Tolstoyist, which is a sect of people who model themselves after Tolstoy's religious and philosophical views. Basically there's this main character named Mostovskoy who's an Old Bolshevik and he doesn't really like Ikonnikov all that much, but he still talks to him now and then. So Ikonnikov figures out that the hard labor they're doing is working towards the construction of a gas chamber. He says, "I'm not working anymore." Mostovskoy tells him that the Nazis will kill him if he refuses to work. Basically, Ikonnikov says, "I know." His point is that there is still a choice - he can choose to live or die. There is no situation in which you don't have a choice. Some will bring pain and even death, but those choices still exist. Ikonnikov, because he didn't want to contribute to a machine that would murder innocent people, chose to die. Sorry, that's what Braun reminds me of. Yeah he was brilliant and put people into space (yay moon landing), but he killed quite a few people in London. "But he didn't have a choice!" Sure he did. "But Joe, who would choose to die like that?" I don't know, people like Ikonnikov. I'd like to think I would've, but I can't say. Hopefully I wouldn't turn into a huge wimp and say, "Yes, yes, whatever you want!" but I might. I mean, I can't blame him 100% - the Nazis were bad dudes and they would fuck you up if you went against tem. And Braun was a quiet scientist who just wanted to play around in space. So he didn't want to do what he did, but he did.
Maybe I'm really wrong for drawing this parallel, but the Obershturmfuhrer in charge of Ikonnikov's and Mostovskoy's concentration camp (according to Grossman) was guilty even though he didn't want to be in charge of liquidating humans. Grossman says something to the effect of "Every step he took, though, bore the imprint of his will." In Grossman's eyes, he's guilty. He could've resisted the external forces pressing down on him. It's incredibly difficult and most likely means death, but he could've done it. Can we expect someone to make that choice in that situation? We, outside the context of the situation, can say, "sure." But it does suck to choose to die. Then again, it sucks to liquidate a bunch of human beings. It sucks more for the humans being liquidated. But that's why it's a choice - because it's up to you.
Whew! That was serious. I could go on about more stuff that comes to mind, but that would just be silly at this point. You've read enough (I flatter myself into thinking people read this). Just one more thing: America's code name for the Soviets' first atomic bomb was Joe1 (actually named after Joe Stalin)! Look how lucky I am that my name is connected with such weirdness. That little explosion in Kazakhstan kicked off the Cold War and all that tense jazz.
So. Roman rocks to atomic bombs to Russians in camps. I'm weird.
Here's something lighter and more fun! Listen to Howl by Florence + the Machine. It's nice.
So on to weird things. I learned today that Roman soldiers used to carve things onto stones that they slung at their enemies (I'm taking a class on Greek and Roman warfare). I think there's a strange, sad, neat, timeless quality to finding a rock that had "Suck it!" written on it in Latin. Although they wouldn't have said "suck it". Apparently they wrote their own names, the number of their legion, the name of their centurion, the name of their lover, random thoughts, or curses on their rocks. I imagine a soldier sitting on a little grassy rise with some time to kill before marching, etching some fleeting observation into a rock he'll later use to brain some other guy from however many yards away.
Since college is a time when you can be a wannabe lazy philosopher, I like thinking about that random Roman guy with his wife and kids. He'll probably die a violent death -- in any case, he's dead now. Maybe he'll survive, though, and see a bunch of wild shit none of us can ever see except on movie screens. Get some loot, settle down on a broad patch of arable Italian land and farm the shit out of it. Maybe throw in a few sheep too. Most Roman soldiers were farmers, same as in ancient Greece. They just wanted some land and peace and quiet, and occasionally to hack a person in two.
Going back to the guy on the grassy rise, I feel empathy for him. It's weird trying to feel what he might have felt, since our times and cultures, our perceptions of the world - and so our thoughts - would've been vastly different. Not to mention that he's also a different person, so even if he was here now he'd see things differently from me. But maybe he saw a cool bird flying overhead and wrote about that. Maybe he scrawled some personal musing on life or death or whatever life might mean. Maybe he missed his son or daughter and was intensely afraid that he'd never lay eyes on them again. Maybe he was able to enjoy the moment and forget about marching and battles and eating cruddy food and the throbbing blister on his dirty foot and the horror of seeing his buddies sliced up and write something that would survive like a little natural time capsule into the present day and communicate his one-time message to the modern world.
Soooo....what would you write on your rock? I think I'd write, "What's your name?"
Also, my girlfriend brought up a neat point. She said writing things on rocks was a little like WWII pilots naming their planes, which I think is true. They used names of lovers, imagined lovers, random things, sayings, or wishes. Makes me think of the Enola Gay and Little Boy. The plane and the bomb. Does naming the bomb make it seem less like a weapon? I mean, you have to call it something. But why "Little Boy" and "Fat Man"? They sound like nicknames for bosses everybody hates. I guess it's unnerving enough making an atomic weapon, so you wouldn't want to call it "Fiery Death Capsule".
In keeping with names of stuff (I'm so lame), the two B-29 planes that flew with the Enola Gay over Hiroshima were called Necessary Evil (this one carried scientists and cameras) and The Great Artiste, which measured stuff about the blast. I feel like those scientists would've died from guilt if they hadn't named their plane that. But they were there to observe things about the bomb, what its effects were in action - it was their job. Makes me think of the scientist in Murakami's Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the Edge of the World. *SPOILER ALERT* He fucked up the main character's life, but he was just a harmless old man pursuing the fine objectivity of science. The main character is pissed for a few minutes, but he accepts the fact that his consciousness will be running in an infinite tautological loop pretty well (whiskey and beer help). What can you do? It's science. That also makes me think of Werner von Braun, who wanted to put stuff into space but was forced to make V2s by the Nazis. Both scientists are like, "I wish it didn't turn out this way!" At least Braun got to put stuff into space later.
Not to be incredibly tangential (but I am), that reminds me of Ikonnikov in Vasily Grossman's Life and Fate. *SPOILER ALERT* Ikonnikov is a weird old Russian guy in a Nazi concentration camp who calls himself a former Tolstoyist, which is a sect of people who model themselves after Tolstoy's religious and philosophical views. Basically there's this main character named Mostovskoy who's an Old Bolshevik and he doesn't really like Ikonnikov all that much, but he still talks to him now and then. So Ikonnikov figures out that the hard labor they're doing is working towards the construction of a gas chamber. He says, "I'm not working anymore." Mostovskoy tells him that the Nazis will kill him if he refuses to work. Basically, Ikonnikov says, "I know." His point is that there is still a choice - he can choose to live or die. There is no situation in which you don't have a choice. Some will bring pain and even death, but those choices still exist. Ikonnikov, because he didn't want to contribute to a machine that would murder innocent people, chose to die. Sorry, that's what Braun reminds me of. Yeah he was brilliant and put people into space (yay moon landing), but he killed quite a few people in London. "But he didn't have a choice!" Sure he did. "But Joe, who would choose to die like that?" I don't know, people like Ikonnikov. I'd like to think I would've, but I can't say. Hopefully I wouldn't turn into a huge wimp and say, "Yes, yes, whatever you want!" but I might. I mean, I can't blame him 100% - the Nazis were bad dudes and they would fuck you up if you went against tem. And Braun was a quiet scientist who just wanted to play around in space. So he didn't want to do what he did, but he did.
Maybe I'm really wrong for drawing this parallel, but the Obershturmfuhrer in charge of Ikonnikov's and Mostovskoy's concentration camp (according to Grossman) was guilty even though he didn't want to be in charge of liquidating humans. Grossman says something to the effect of "Every step he took, though, bore the imprint of his will." In Grossman's eyes, he's guilty. He could've resisted the external forces pressing down on him. It's incredibly difficult and most likely means death, but he could've done it. Can we expect someone to make that choice in that situation? We, outside the context of the situation, can say, "sure." But it does suck to choose to die. Then again, it sucks to liquidate a bunch of human beings. It sucks more for the humans being liquidated. But that's why it's a choice - because it's up to you.
Whew! That was serious. I could go on about more stuff that comes to mind, but that would just be silly at this point. You've read enough (I flatter myself into thinking people read this). Just one more thing: America's code name for the Soviets' first atomic bomb was Joe1 (actually named after Joe Stalin)! Look how lucky I am that my name is connected with such weirdness. That little explosion in Kazakhstan kicked off the Cold War and all that tense jazz.
So. Roman rocks to atomic bombs to Russians in camps. I'm weird.
Here's something lighter and more fun! Listen to Howl by Florence + the Machine. It's nice.
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