1994
The Year of Trying to Live Happily Ever After
Clive Lilwall
Published by Clive Lilwall at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Clive Lilwall
Some names, characters, dates, places and incidents have been changed. Visit select online book retailers to obtain How to Stop Your 67 Worst Worries and The Splendor of Starry Nights, also written by the author. Thank you for reading this book. All rights reserved.
Preface
George Orwell’s 1984 and Animal Farm are warnings of how language can be used to manipulate and control us. Who can forget 1984’s Ministry of Peace, which was used to promote war? Or Napoleon’s slogan in Animal Farm: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others”? Present day technology has strengthened the role of the manipulators and propagandists. Those who profit from the misuse of language besiege us with their twisted words. We have to be aware of how they distort the facts. The study of fallacies is a first step. 1994: The Year of Trying to Live Happily Ever After describes a year in the life of someone who attempts, with mixed success, to help himself and others avoid the pitfalls of faulty language, learn to think reasonably and so increase chances of happiness.
Saturday, January 1
One of the Dismal Days, evil or unlucky days; also days of disaster, gloom, depression and old age. Leslie Dunkling, A Dictionary of Days
A Happy New Year to everyone. I like New Year’s Day. It represents a chance to change things for the better. I’m not cynical about New Year’s resolutions, either. I resolve to be altogether a happier, healthier, more pleasant person. Emile Coue had it right: Every day, in every respect, I get better and better.
He was born in Troyes, France, in 1857. He claimed he never healed anyone in his life, yet thousands flocked to his free clinic in Nancy for help. Coue claimed the patients healed themselves. He decided life was a battle between imagination and willpower, with imagination beating willpower every time.
Have you ever seen the photograph of ironworkers sitting on a steel girder, eating their lunch high above the canyons of New York City? Have you ever imagined yourself in their place, gazing down at the minute people moving like ants on the sidewalks? Coue said if you could walk along a plank along the ground, you could walk along the same plank set thousands of feet in the air. But you could only do this if you could really imagine yourself doing this—if you tried to will yourself to do it, you would hurtle to your death. I don’t know if Emile Coue ever tried this out himself. Probably not. I’m certainly not going to try it. But I believe he was on the right track.
Getting better every day includes becoming more sociable, watching less TV and generally having more fun. Going to more parties—even Jill’s ex-husband Oscar’s party. Why not? We’ve been invited, and in the spirit of friendship, we have of course accepted. Everybody was there, admiring Raquel, their daughter. She looked ravishing in a tight purple skirt, a three-rowed pearl necklace and a roomful of curly black hair.
“Raquel, you look just like a teenage hooker,” said Oscar.
“One you couldn’t afford!” replied Jill.
Everyone was highly amused. What a wonderful family—divided by divorce, yet united again by the bonds of goodwill. It felt good to be alive. Definitely not a Dismal Day for me.
Monday, January 3
A bitterly cold morning. My face felt like a frozen flag flying in the wind. I imagined myself as Scott of the Antarctic as I struggled across the snow, boots crunching as they made their mark. Canada has a manly climate, ready to test the mettle of the cocooned and spoiled. Why did I emigrate from the green and pleasant landscapes of England? To escape from an island, I suppose, to travel the world and experience the excitement of exotic cultures. Sadly, my lust for travel has declined. Why risk being blown up by Moslem fundamentalists just to see the Egyptian pyramids? Or being shot in Miami by crazed gangsters? Or hijacked in Kenya while attempting to see large animals, which can be seen more easily in the local zoo?
However, it’s not true to say, “Oh, you can’t be too careful!” You can become too careful, sitting at home, cocooning away in front of an obscenely large TV, computer monitor, DVD/CD player, video game unit and all the other electronic pacifiers. I am increasingly reminded of E.M. Forster’s story The Machine Stops, published in 1928, in which Vashti, the original cocooner, avoided contact with people:
For a moment, Vashti felt lonely. Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere—buttons to call for food, for music, for clothing. Vashti was seized with the terrors of direct experience. She shrank back into the room, and the wall closed up again.
In 1926 the great Scottish inventor John Logie Baird gave the first demonstration of a television image. In 1927 he transmitted pictures from London to Glasgow, and in 1928 to New York. He had created a new world.
Tuesday, January 4
First day back at work. I walked into the office with a pleasant “Happy New Year” to the secretaries Judy and Diane. We engaged in some mild chat about what a wonderful holiday we’ve had, despite the coldness of the weather. Then in came Melanie.
“Happy New Year! How the hell are you?” she yelled.
She kissed me full on the lips with astonishing enthusiasm. And not only me—Judy and Diane were treated in the same cavalier way.
I fleetingly thought maybe I should also kiss Judy and Diane—especially Diane—in similar fashion. But it was too late in the conversation for that. I'm an introvert, and unfortunately such people simply don't go about kissing secretaries in public. Melanie is a hot-blooded Mediterranean type, well known for such behavior. Perhaps I can learn to be more demonstrative, but can I really imagine acting like a Latin lover?
This term I am to teach logic, using S. Morris Engel’s With Good Reason, an excellent book about fallacies. It’s all about faulty thinking and how to be more reasonable. In a world full of emotion, reason seems out of place—useful in diagnosing vehicle problems or creating electronic instruments, but as out of place in everyday communication as Mr. Spock at a Singles’ dance. Yet reason is the shining light of happiness that illuminates our affairs and provides hope that we can all arise from the depths of blind instinct and emerge happier and healthier than ever. Sweet reason is our key to a better life.
I start with old newspaper headline ambiguities with a potential for humor:
Prostitutes Appeal to Pope
Bishop Defrocks Gay Priest
Mrs. Gandhi Stoned at Rally in India
The occasional student seems puzzled at the ambiguities, then in a flash of insight the meanings suddenly became clear. Ambiguity can be fun.
Thursday, January 6
Every time I think about what happened at college it seems so ordinary. We have been conditioned to be bored with anything not loaded with sex and violence. I can report no sex or violence today. I toyed with the idea of introducing to the students an idea from one of my favorite books, Herbert Leff's Playful Perception, but decided against it, fearing a wave of cynicism. Here is the passage:
Grimy mounds of snow, sprinkled here and there with dog poop, used to become pretty irritating to me as I trekked between home and office in the Vermont winter. Then I devised the simple trick of seeing these surroundings as if I were viewing some weird, otherworldly terrain from an airplane or low-flying spacecraft. The mounds of grimy ice and snow became strange mountains with intriguing ridges and gorges that I imagined would be exciting to climb. Even the dog poop became some unknown geological formation or perhaps alien architecture. And the trek became fun.
Leff's thoughts represent optimism of the highest order: an acknowledgment that excitement, even ecstasy, exists in the mundane. William Blake said it more poetically:
To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wildflower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.
Of course the same sort of thinking can be applied to everyday relationships. Many of the people we meet seem so ordinary, so lacking in charisma, so unlikely to lead us to the Promised Land. Even people who obviously like us are disqualified from further contact simply because we feel we can't be that attractive. At dances many attractive women spend most of their time avoiding men who have the misfortune to be attracted to them. Although it was years ago, I'll always remember Tina's cry from the heart: “One guy proposed to me, during our first—and last—dance! Another guy, again during our first dance, said he'd like to get into my pants! Can you imagine?”
Yes, I could imagine.
“So I’m not coming to any more of these dances.”
I was afraid of that.
“Look,” I said, “it’s not all bad. All those two guys were saying was that they liked you. Even more than that. They were very attracted to you—one even said that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. It’s not every day that people appreciate you that strongly, is it?”
She looked at me as though I was stupid.
“Some men aren't as subtle as they could be. They say what's on their minds. They tell the truth. And of course that gets them into all sorts of trouble.”
Tina glared at me and marched to the bar.
Friday, January 7
I didn’t see Tina again, and probably that was a good thing. She didn’t appreciate the fact that I really liked her. She thought that men were only interested in her for sexual reasons. Of course men wanted to have sex with her, but how did she know that was all they wanted? She didn’t. I needed a woman who wasn’t just intent on avoiding sex with men who desired her. Sometimes single people think that the whole world is conspiring against them, that life’s cruel complexities are combining to prevent them from finding a soul mate. Of the millions of people in the world, how could it be possible that not one of them is suitable? Of course that sort of thinking inevitably leads to the negative self-fulfilling prophecy, thinking that everyone in the world is conspiring against you. It makes you suspicious, and drives people away, so in the end people do conspire against you and this prevents you from finding someone to share life’s joys.
By acknowledging the possibility that there was someone out there for me, someone who also wanted to have children with me, I had committed myself to spending many challenging evenings at work at the bars and singles’ dances until I found the object of my desire. We were married shortly afterwards. Males also have biological clocks.
Only optimists marry. The chances of a man and woman finding marital bliss in this modern age aren’t high. I am reminded of the joke about a new version of Playboy for married men. The Centerfold is the usual sexy, nude woman—but it’s the same sexy, nude woman every month! Nobody would even consider the possibility that men would continue to buy such a magazine, even though of course men don’t just buy Playboy to look at the Centerfold. Both men and women realize there are other things in life besides a varied sex life. Optimists marry in the hope that something will remain in their relationship when the sexual longing fades. Maybe children, the result of all that sexual longing.
Our daughter, Alice, seems very happy lately. She shouts “Yikes!” and “Oh boy!” and has a maniacal laugh for a five year old. We must be doing something right. Or at least we like to think so.
Saturday, January 8
We arrived in the forest about 10 AM. It was cold—about –10C—but sunny. The snow sparkled by the trail, like a white blanket covered with diamonds. We proceeded into the depths of the forest, skis crunching against the hardened trail snow, cutting and shaping like a knife. At first I was aware of the usual problems: freezing face, cold hands underneath gloves, uncomfortable boots, running nose. Eventually my face and hands, soaked in sweat, became warmer, my boots more comfortable. My nose kept running. I was also aware how beautifully snow cloaks trees and how enjoyable it is to glide through a forest, and how exhilarating to rush down a hill, with the breeze rubbing your face. Especially the Big Hill, complete with a warning sign. On a previous occasion I had almost conquered this hill when disaster had struck. Despite all my positive thinking I had fallen, headfirst into the snow, my face hitting the snowflakes like a meteor blasting into Earth. I felt annoyed as I extricated myself and my skis and poles from the side of the trail. Shame, that I had succumbed to the Big Hill. Then about five minutes later I fell again. Suddenly I was in a seemingly unavoidable path towards a tree. I could maybe embrace the tree, hands around the trunk, or maybe just fall. Again. I fell to the snow. Thoroughly disgusted, my self-concept of a skilled cross-country skier in shreds, I had pulled myself up and wended my way along the last kilometers of the trail.
This time I conquered the Big Hill, sliding effortlessly along the silvery way.
In some ways it seems so masochistic: your skin bathes in sweat, your heart pounds like a jackhammer, your lungs rise and fall like a bird in flight. Yet it also seems so natural. There’s the feeling of the power of Nature as the wind billows through the trees like the Holy Ghost, an unseen force that moves branches so the snow cascades in silvery streaks to the forest floor. And the silence as you stand, panting and looking and knowing there’s no need to say anything.
Monday, January 10
The first day of teaching. After all these years I still have that nervous feeling. I keep thinking I may say something really stupid.
I passed by the bookstore and noticed a very attractive woman handing out envelopes to passers-by. All except me. I couldn’t resist an investigation.
“Don’t I get one of those?’ I asked.
She laughed. “Oh, no, they’re just credit card applications.”
I felt relieved. My suspicion of rejection was groundless.
Faulty communication is about newspaper headlines about the Pope: Crowds Rushing To See Pope Trample 6 to Death. It’s also in the feelings we have towards others, and how we act on those feelings. This year I have decided to feel positive about others—focusing on their good points, accentuating their attractive aspects. Sometimes, though, negative feelings creep into any situation, and I stand back and ponder the meaning of these feelings.
Tom sprawled over his desk and summoned up all his energy to ask a question at the beginning of class.
“Are we doing anything useful today?”
“Of course we're doing something useful. We always do something useful.”
I’m convinced, but it didn’t look like I’d convinced Tom. His body language told me otherwise. He sat there, looking like an ugly Bart Simpson, with his closely cropped hair. He laid his head on the desk and stared at me, expecting entertainment.
All sorts of thoughts came to mind. Why does Tom act the way he does? Simply dismissing his behavior as pathetic is no answer. One of the best ways of handling such a situation is to consider Tom's behavior as a semantic reaction. Tom's present condition—his mental and physical capabilities, both acquired from his parents and from years of sitting at school desks and listening to people like me; his physical condition, depressed from alcohol the night before and elevated by nicotine and caffeine this morning; his personal meaning of what is “useful”; his perceptions of the past and aspirations for the future—all these factors swirl around in Tom’s billions of brain cells. In a synaptic flash they react together to produce a weary sigh and a question: “Are we doing anything useful today?”
I am grateful to a Polish count for my calm reaction to Tom's question. Count Alfred Korzybski (1879-1950), the founder of General Semantics, emphasized the fact that all human interaction is complex, so complex that we will never know everything about even the most insignificant remark. To know all is to forgive all. We must also remember Korzybski’s message: the map is not the territory, and the word is not the thing.
Engel’s With Good Reason is a cornucopia of reason. His warning about false analogies is particularly important. The argument he cites, that Americans shouldn’t sentimentalize the destruction of North American tribes when the United States was formed, because you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, is indeed a false analogy, because killing people is very different from breaking eggs. So much of our daily language uses analogies or similes, and often we don’t examine such comparisons to see if they are reasonable. Sometimes this is difficult to determine, and sometimes it isn’t. We know that happiness is neither a warm gun nor a warm puppy, but we often become seduced by the power of language into believing such things. And just because Uncle Jim lived to 95, drank excessively and smoked twenty cigarettes a day doesn’t mean heavy drinking and smoking cause longevity. Believing such false cause fallacies can lead to behavior that is harmful to your health.
Alfred Korzybski would have appreciated Alice’s comment on words: “Everything has a name! Everything has a name!”
It was like a five year old’s “Eureka!” call.
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” I replied. “How about some stars in the sky, billions of miles away, that nobody has ever noticed. There they are, but they don’t have names, do they?”
“Yes, they do. They’re called stars!”
Tuesday, January 11
My continuous improvement campaign is faltering. My caffeine intake is rocketing to dangerous heights. I still have less than positive thoughts about the second year classes, and especially some students, including Tom. I don’t smile as much as I should, and I don’t exercise enough. My cash flow problem is reaching crisis proportions. As a result of all this, I harbor feelings of inadequacy. Sometimes it’s difficult to be an optimist when it seems the world is conspiring against you. At such times I resort to the technique of imagining the suffering of others and then feeling how lucky I am.
There’s no doubt that comparing ourselves with those who are doing better than us can make us feel bad. Thinking about those fortunate enough to have more money, better looks, and a more exciting sex life usually generates envy. So why bother even thinking about them? Why not concentrate on the less fortunate? I know people who fit that category—unfortunates who have a low IQ, high cholesterol count, or earn minimum wage. Whole continents of citizens live in poverty, not even knowing the convenience of owning a bicycle, never mind a car. Millions of people starve, yet I live in a country where there is so much food and so much money to buy it that obesity stalks the land.
I once read in the newspaper of a man who lived in Calcutta—a beggar with no arms or legs, whose torso was dressed in a sack. He held a begging cup in his mouth, which he moved up and down as he approached strangers in the street. And I think I have problems! Surely if I were that beggar on the mean streets of Calcutta, I would want to die. We can use such tales of the suffering of others to shed a light on our own suffering. We can always learn of those who are suffering more than we are. Are we to feel better or worse as a result of such knowledge? It’s really up to us. We could feel worse—the world is a veil of tears, and always will be, and our suffering is a drop in the ocean of sorrow. How can we be happy amidst such sorrow? Or we can feel grateful that our suffering is limited and hope that we will never have to endure the pain of others. We can watch the TV news every night and count our blessings.
John may prove to be an interesting student. As I handed out the course outlines I noticed his first sign of rebellion. He had defiantly crossed out “Public speaking” as an item on the outline.
“What’s this?” I asked, in a less than serious tone. Students can do whatever they wish with their course outlines. It reminded me of Alice’s crossing out sugar as one of the ingredients on the Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes packet. Crossing out words doesn’t make what they represent go away, of course, but it’s an interesting thing to do.
“I got through high school English without presentations. They counted 20 per cent: I just didn’t get any marks.”
John is small, with gingery hair in a pigtail. He smiles frequently.
“Well, if you want to talk about it anytime I’ll be happy to discuss it,” I said helpfully.
Tom is in class.
“I thought I'd come to your class this morning,” he said.
“I really appreciate this.”
Then he spoiled it all by falling asleep while I showed Getting Control of Yourself, a movie which outlined some of the most innovative and exciting ideas of all time on how one can improve oneself and become better and better every day. I guess nobody will ever be perfect.
Wednesday, January 12
From Pravin’s essay The Game of Life:
“The game of life is a raging horror of living hell. Life really stinks.”
I read this and looked searchingly at Pravin. He smiled broadly, showing excellent white teeth. He always seems to be smiling, and not just the North American “Have a Nice Day” smile. He’s from Kenya, via Middlesex, England.
“You don't think life is really that bad, do you?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” he replied, “since I have problems. My father died recently in Kenya. And sometimes I feel lonely.”
He smiled again.
What a good example of the verbal versus the nonverbal! Pravin’s nonverbal behavior trumps his verbal behavior every time. I don’t really believe he thinks the world stinks—how can he, when he smiles like that?
I guess smiling is a habit, like most things in life. Maybe Kenyans just smile more than North Americans, even though they probably have less to smile about.
Why is starting a bad habit, like eating junk food, drinking vast amounts of coffee and smoking cigarettes, so easy, while giving up such habits is so difficult? The worst habits seem to be the most difficult to give up. And what about good habits? How many times have you told yourself you were going to smile more, act more sociably, eat more vegetables, reduce alcohol and tobacco consumption and become an altogether more worthwhile person? How long do resolutions like that last? Usually they don’t last the length of a hangover on January 1. It doesn’t seem fair, but life isn’t fair. I'm beginning to sound like a pessimist, and that must stop. Optimists are happier and healthier, and they live longer than pessimists.
Thursday, January 13
The Food and Drug class gave presentations. Lana talked about euthanasia. She was very good—much more confident than last year, and even better looking. Crystal talked about AIDS—quite amusing for such a depressing topic. Another talk was on anorexia nervosa. What uplifting topics these students choose! And now I know that some doctors consider bulimia to be a communicable disease, because some young girls copy the behavior from their friends. When I was a boy we’d never even heard of these problems. We were more concerned with the Russians dropping a nuclear bomb on our heads. It seems that we have to have some sort of cloud hanging over us. Maybe it’s a good thing. I think about my present position—not considering euthanasia, not a candidate for AIDS and unlikely to be a victim of anorexia nervosa—and breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Kirsten took off her sweater in the afternoon class, which caused me to momentarily lose concentration on the work at hand. A politically incorrect but biologically correct response, I suppose. She’s a very good-looking blonde with a wonderful figure. She seemed to have plenty of layers of clothing under the sweater and I recovered quickly.
Friday, January 14
Why do friends argue about the most stupid things? I’m sure we aren’t unique. Around the world, at this very moment, fierce arguments rage between friends about subjects too trivial for most sensible people to even think about.
Yesterday Jill offered to clean a paint roller. I said not to bother, as it was old and worn, and I would throw it away. This caused a fierce controversy. Why? The paint roller really wasn’t even worth discussing. Surrounded by a sea of irritability, I found myself drawn into this whirlpool of negativity.
Perhaps it’s all a sign of progress. In the old days the fight for survival no doubt necessitated arguments about more substantial matters—what to do when the invaders arrived, where to live when the house burned down, what to eat when the crops failed, or how to keep the children from dying from the latest plague. There weren’t any modern-day arguments about whether to keep or throw away paint rollers, what TV channel to watch, or whether to go to McDonald’s or Burger King. No doubt our ancestors dreamed of future times when markets would be vast cornucopias with overflowing aisles laden with meat, fish, exotic fruits from around the world, arrays of herbs and spices, drinks of dizzying variety. Did they also imagine these future citizens trudging along these marvelous aisles, complaining of the difficulty of maneuvering the food carts, and the weariness involved in such food gathering? Would they be astonished at the lack of excitement surrounding the visit to a supermarket? Nowadays it seems incredible that anyone would consider a visit to a supermarket to be anything but a mundane affair. Only those who had been deprived of such luxuries—returning prisoners of war, travelers lost in the woods for weeks, adventurers from remote lands—can appreciate their good fortune.
Saturday, January 15
In the evening Jill and I went to Fred’s surprise birthday party. Carl was there with his wife. He introduced himself to Jill, as though to make the point that I wasn’t doing my job of introducing her to him, so he would have to take over and introduce himself. I mentioned that I had already introduced Jill to him on a previous occasion. This served to demonstrate that the problem was his memory, not my manners. Unfortunately I couldn’t remember Carl's wife's name, and he didn’t care to introduce me.
The military have one good practice—everybody has nametags. Life would be so much easier if everyone wore nametags. Of course not remembering someone’s name is often not that serious a problem, so why am I so concerned?
Monday, January 17
It was a sunny morning—unnaturally warm for the middle of winter. In the past, good weather was good weather and that was that. Nowadays good weather isn’t simply good weather. It harbors bad things, such as threats of global warming, the seas rising up and flooding great cities, and dangerous UV rays crashing through the atmosphere to damage our delicate skins and scorch the crops. Maybe it isn’t as bad as it sounds—maybe it is simply El Nino veering off course, sunspots, volcanoes erupting excessively, or meteorologists mishandling data and becoming overly pessimistic. Let’s hope so. Spaceship Earth will not last forever. Some day we will crash into a celestial body at great speed, and everything will vaporize with a bang. But there’s plenty of time for that later. The class today involved more mundane matters.
The cat is here, the dog is there.
That’s a comma splice, which is a grammatical error. It should be corrected as follows:
The cat is here; the dog is there.
Here's another problem:
Barking fiercely, Anne brought the dog back into the house.
The dog, not Anne, is barking fiercely. This misplaced modifier example should be corrected as follows:
Anne brought the dog, which was barking fiercely, back into the house.
The students looked tired. I felt tired. It was not even 9AM. Surely, when global warming is upon us, raising the level of the oceans, talking about misplaced modifiers is like Nero fiddling while Rome burns? No, it’s not the same. The students, technologists of the future, must be able to write correct English when they compile their future reports on how to save the world from environmental disaster. If I can reduce the number of misplaced apostrophes, double negatives, comma splices and run-on sentences then I have done something to make the world a better place. Or so I would like to think. Even if nobody’s going to thank me for doing it.
In the last class, when I was talking about stress, I emphasized the fact that it’s liberating to realize that you don’t have to be liked by everyone.
“If I worried about whether all my students liked me, I’d be a nervous wreck. We’re all different—it would be a miracle if we did all like each other.”
Why were some students nodding? Because they agreed with me, or because they don’t like me? Or was I just being paranoid? Sometimes it’s difficult for teachers to practice what they preach, especially when they spend so much time correcting their students.
“You don't know nothing about that,” said Sheila.
“Know anything, not nothing,” I replied.
How annoying can that be? Certainly I hate to be corrected. But we both smiled, and Sheila said nothing. She didn’t seem to be upset. Maybe it’s just accepted that English teachers can do things like that—otherwise the language would fall apart and everyday language would sound like popular songs, complete with double negatives, ain’ts and such. Maybe it’s becoming that way now, with teachers afraid to stem the popular culture washing over everyday language.
Tuesday, January 18
I really shouldn't let minor problems stress me out. Tom stirred me up when he asked “Any more silly movies?”
The trouble with Tom is that he’s still upset with his test results that showed he’s reading at a Grade 9 level. I think he holds me personally responsible for such a humiliating result. Anyhow, asked for an example of alleged silliness in the movies I’ve shown, his reply was “the stress movie.” Obviously he doesn’t think he’s stressed. Indeed, he didn’t appear stressed, lying almost horizontal on the desktop, looking at me with a cynical eye. Ironically, I'm the one who became stressed. I could feel myself tensing up. I must learn to accept criticism more gracefully. That’s what was suggested in the movie—just take a deep breath, and then exhale slowly. I’ve treated the situation more seriously than I should have. Tom wasn’t really criticizing me; he was criticizing the movie. So what if he thinks he doesn’t need to see the movie? Lots of students are stressed out, and they will benefit from seeing it.
John isn’t one of my favorite students. He was the one who criticized my policy of making students give speeches—even when they could choose their own subjects.
“This is so dumb,” he said, looking at the ceiling as if calling for support from a Higher Power.
“What's your topic, anyhow?” I asked.
“My topic is getting this over with as soon as possible, because I don’t like giving speeches and it’s a stupid thing to have to do,” he said.
John has the sort of attitude that makes you want to hold him underwater for ten minutes just to teach him a lesson. But I haven’t given up hope yet. Maybe I can devise a plan to modify his behavior.
Wednesday, January 19
More tests. I sat at my desk, in A318, or maybe A316 or A317. I looked out of the window. Tree branches waved to me as I pondered the students at their task.
Is that the principles or principals of thermodynamics?
We are all ready to go, or already to go?
Does it really matter? Yes, I say it does matter. It matters a small amount in the vast billowing plains of important things that help to better mankind. The effect is cumulative. Admittedly, English usage is not exciting—it’s not like having great sex or making millions of dollars or winning a trophy at Wimbledon or becoming President of the United States of America or saving the planet from disaster. But not everything can be exciting—our minds can only tolerate so much. At times, especially when youth’s lights become dimmed, raw excitement cannot be a priority.
That's a sell-out. We were surely meant for more excitement. Not the phony adrenaline rush of violence and gore-splattered horror films, not the heart-pounding thrill of V8 power hitting the asphalt, but the excitement of personal achievement.
The swimming felt good, but the silence in the sauna was oppressive. It was like being in an elevator with strangers, just waiting quietly for your floor to appear. But nobody spends fifteen minutes in an elevator. Next time I will take the initiative and start a conversation, as recommended in How To Make Friends and Influence People.
Friday, January 21
This evening I went to Frederick's Bar with Roy. The usual scene—a few good-looking women talking to each other in conspiratorial fashion, pausing to drink, and then glancing contemptuously at the occasional male, who looks at them with deep longing. Most of the males were at the bar, gazing silently at a TV screen, probably wondering if this was the best use of their time. Slowly the place filled up. People paraded around, pretending they were going somewhere important, when in fact they were just circling, idly looking for the perfect mate for a night, a week, or even forever. The air became thick with the exhaled breath of frustrated humanity, mostly females longing for the basic passion of friendship and males longing for the even more basic passion of sex.
I considered the question “Are you glad you’re married?” I had another drink.
Jill has just received a letter from Poland written ten years ago! It has been sent to various addresses. Enclosed were some pieces of sacramental bread; thin pink wafers embossed with a rose: “The Body of Christ.” It would be good to believe in something good ruling over us, and I do in some ways. But I can’t believe in human virgin birth, after having spent so many hours in university studying biology. I guess religion is really about being optimistic, in believing that there’s more good than bad, that good will conquer bad, at least in the long term, and that maybe there’s something good after we die.
Saturday, January 22
It was difficult to generate any enthusiasm for life this morning, despite telling myself that I was getting better and better in every respect. After the affirmations I lay in bed, semi-comatose, listening to stories of international tragedies. Then came the Canadian news. Irritating, picky pieces of news about provincial-federal wrangling, played out day after day, like the slow unraveling of a well-worn sweater. Other countries have real problems: famine, floods, war and pestilence. Canada has disagreements over whether the federal government or the provincial governments pay for health care or native language lessons or prisoners. Who really cares? It’s all taxpayers’ money. Canadians should be so happy that they have such problems.
I remembered a disturbing story in the Toronto Star about a prisoner who choked to death after thrusting a Gideon’s Bible down his throat. This is a good example, I suppose, of how practically everything is a two-edged sword. The person who had placed that innocent-looking instrument of death in the prisoner’s cell no doubt felt that only good could come of such an act. No blame can be assigned to that person. But what good can result from reporting such a tragedy in a newspaper? Certainly I wish to be informed of news, but I don’t want to fill my head full of such bizarre shufflings from this world to the next. On the other hand I am glad that I have no desire to thrust a Gideon’s Bible down my own throat.
Monday, January 24
A fairly uneventful day. Nothing much happened at work. Walter in T1EAD was given back his multiple-choice test: 2/10. Even he thought it was a hilarious mark. He should have got a higher mark just by chance! I went over the chapter on symbols and language. Most of the students seemed to understand the concept of Hayakawa’s Abstraction Ladder easily enough. Dear old Hayakawa and Bessie the Cow! I’m sure S.I. Hayakawa, professor, author and later U.S. Senator, wasn’t the first person to realize that people often use words that are so abstract, so devoid of concrete links to the real world, that they confuse their listeners. The cow we perceive is not the word cow, but the object of experience, labeled Bessie in Hayakawa’s example. The word livestock includes the category cow; it is a more abstract word than cow. At the top of Hayakawa’s ladder is the word wealth, which includes both the real cow, the word cow, the word livestock, and the words farm assets and assets, as well as being a label for anything worth anything to anyone.
So what? The thought occurred to me that many religious disputes could be discussed more cordially if everyone agrees that the word God is an abstract word, a vague word. To some believers God represents the fearsome leader of the Universe, doling out justice, sending good souls to Heaven and bad souls to Hell. To others He is an all-benevolent, all-powerful, force. He is the essence of a flower, a rainbow, a clap of thunder, and a raindrop. To atheists God is nothing but a figment in the minds of deluded believers. God is a word so abstract that it defies definition. Millions have died defending their concept of the word God. Maybe their lives could have been spared if the combatants had studied Hayakawa’s Ladder of Abstraction together. Or maybe I’m just deluding myself. But I am comforted with the thought that few, if any of the students here today will be willing to sacrifice their life or the lives of others in any modern religious crusade inspired by semantic differences.
Tuesday, January 25
The second year class CT2 was a problem. A cavalcade of negative thoughts jostled in my mind at the very thought of CT2. After a showing today of a film I tried to capture the spirit of enthusiasm that flowed through that film, such as the excitement at IBM sales meetings, and the fun and team spirit infusing work at McDonald’s. I was not suggesting that working at McDonald’s would be all fun and games, of course, but the idea is simply to be enthusiastic about what we do. Unfortunately it seems that I’ve failed miserably with CT2. It’s like teaching fallen soldiers on a bloody battleground, with the occasional moan and groan from some poor soul who isn’t quite dead. Of course it doesn’t help that both my classes with CT2 are at 8AM. And I’ve a feeling that my least favorite CT2 student, Tom, has a drinking problem, which generates morning hangovers. But at least he’s not violent. Many teachers have greater problems: gun-toting students, and drug-crazed teenagers who hate authority. I’m sure Tom isn’t armed, and I don’t think he hates me. He presents a challenge.
T1M/A is an altogether different story. Some of the student presentations have been inspiring. Ron explained how he had a cocaine habit that nearly ruined his life. He got into so much trouble he ended up in jail. He became a monster when he used cocaine.
“I was charged with arson, assault, all sorts of things. I really only remember knocking a door down.” The jail was full of drugs and he didn’t find it that unpleasant. Ron talked as though his stay there was like a holiday gone wrong. And then, he said, somebody said something that had a profound effect on him: “What are you doing with your life?”
Ron decided he had to change. He stopped using cocaine, and now he’s studying at the college. Surely it’ll take more than a question like that to inspire Tom, but who knows?
Wednesday, January 26
One of my best days ever. Some people only think about themselves. If they have money, friends, a job they like, then they’re happy. If they don’t have these things they’re unhappy. It’s more complicated than that with me. Sometimes it seems that I’ve got the whole world’s problems on my shoulders. Take the problem of skin cancer, for instance. Most people don’t worry about skin cancer. They might slather on some slimy product on their bodies while they’re lying on the beach, but that’s about it.
So I read Trashing the Planet by Dixy Lee Ray with mounting excitement. According to her there is no increase in surface ultra-violet rays, and no increase in skin cancer caused by ultra-violet radiation. Acid rain isn’t really much of a problem, nor is DDT, nor other man-made chemicals. So it seems I’ve been worrying a lot about nothing. The thought did occur to me that Dixy Lee Ray may have been too optimistic, but what do I know? More to the point, what does she really know? We don’t know what the truth is. But it’s good to hear something positive instead of all this doom and gloom. Maybe all those Greenpeace activists are just pessimists who will die an early death due to excessive worry. On the other hand it makes sense to be cautious. I won’t throw away the sunblock just yet. Not that there’s much call for it at the moment. We are in the midst of the Great Canadian Winter. Snow swirls against the front door, the wind howls and we dream of sunny Caribbean beaches. But there it would probably be too hot. Be here now, as Ram Dass says.
Thursday, January 27
I’m still thinking about Tom. Obsessively so. That’s one of my problems. It reminds me of the obsession the person in Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground has about the officer who brushed past him in the street. It strikes me that I am being a perfectionist. If a student thinks I’m not perfect maybe it’s best to say: “Yes, you may be right. I’m not perfect—maybe I’m even a bad teacher. So how can I improve?” There, I feel better already. Thinking of oneself as always right is certainly a heavy burden to bear.
It was time for action on Tom and the CT2 class. I entered the classroom, walked up to Tom and quietly said, “Tom, I’d like to see you after class—in my office—just for a few minutes.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, not really,” I say, walking away slowly.
Good. I think I’ve got him worried.
The class discussion went well. We talked about the frustrations of being a student and the problems of being a teacher. I admitted that I’m not perfect, even admitting that some students no doubt thought that I’m not a good teacher. I quickly went on to discuss the difficulty of getting a job after graduation. I felt a huge sense of relief.
Afterwards, Tom talked to me in my office.
“Am I in some sort of trouble?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Actually, we’ve talked a lot about it in class. Attitude. You used to so positive last year. Now it’s all so negative. What’s the problem?”
Tom talked about friendships from last year evaporating, teachers getting on his nerves and the Canadian winter seeming to be never-ending. We talked just like old friends. What a turnaround!
Friday, January 28
The students have completed class surveys, and the results were revealing. A full 50 per cent of T1M/A believed that after death “you can be brought back in another form as an animal or another human being.” Fifty percent said “No.”
“Do you believe in God?” 60 per cent replied “Yes,” 30 percent “No.” This is one of the lowest student figures I’ve seen for belief in God.
“Do you believe Elvis Presley is alive or dead?” 30 percent replied “Yes,” 30 per cent “No,” and 40 per cent said they didn’t know. I pointed out that of course Elvis Presley is alive or dead; the question was badly worded. I presume that nearly a third of the class doesn’t really believe that Elvis is alive—they were just joking. I also presume everyone took seriously the question about belief in God and the results were accurate. But how can I know for sure? Maybe they were joking about God and were serious about Elvis.
“Do you believe you were created for a specific reason?” Sixty three percent replied “Yes,” 37 per cent “No.” I know I was created for a specific reason. I was programmed to pass on my genes to a future generation and continue the human race. Of course one might ask, “What is the purpose of the human race?” I can’t answer that. Are we just the result of the accidental couplings of gazillions of atoms randomly dancing through the galaxies, or the outcome of a master plan created by the Lord of the Universe? I have concluded that my brain simply can’t cope with such questions.
Saturday, January 29
The question of why we are here still persists. My answer, to pass on my genes, is not original thinking. It comes from Richard Dawkins, the Cambridge University biologist and author of The Selfish Gene, an excellent book that really made me think about the subject. Dawkins dismisses God and places utmost importance on genes. He states:
I shall argue that the fundamental unit of selection, and therefore of self-interest, is not the species, nor the group, even, strictly, the individual. It is the gene, the unit of heredity.”
In other words, we are here to perpetuate our genes. We have an instinct to reproduce ourselves. Dawkins may think he has discovered the meaning of life, but he shouldn’t be too surprised when people don’t express gratitude. I think Monty Python’s film The Meaning of Life also gives comprehensive answers as to what gives our lives meaning: exercise, don’t be greedy, develop some interests outside of yourself, be friendly with people, and you’ll probably experience some happiness. If you’re that organized, you’ll probably also manage to perpetuate your genes.
For most people, happiness is the real goal in life. Is that any more trite than saying we are here to perpetuate our genes? Certainly most people have an urge to reproduce, but not everybody. And what happens when we have passed on our genes? We’ve achieved our goal. What do we do for the rest of our lives?
Monday, January 31
One of my problems is that I feel mildly depressed if I think the students aren’t absorbed in my lectures about human communication. After all, what I’m saying is very interesting and useful in daily life. Maybe I’m not being very realistic. Some students obviously think that human behavior isn’t worth studying and I won’t be able to change their minds. Why? Maybe it’s because they don’t really believe human behavior can be changed to any extent, so it’s not worth discussing. They learn electronics in college and will use the information in their careers. Human behavior is a mystery, something that can’t be unraveled.
It suddenly occurred to me that these students might not always believe what they say. Paul, for instance. Frankly, I’m glad he hasn’t been showing up for class lately. It’s not much fun having someone sitting in the back of the class continuously searching for the next thing to complain about. Occasionally he’ll make a positive remark: “I just love beer commercials! They’re the only commercials I watch!” That remark came after I had carefully analyzed beer commercials and laid bare their total disregard for logic, their pandering to sexual innuendo and failure to warn of the dangers of drunkenness. But did Paul make that remark because it was true or just to annoy me? Or both?
Then another thought occurred to me. Not only do people not change much in real life—fictional characters don’t change much either. For good or bad. Take Homer Simpson. He’s been appearing on TV screens for years and he’s always eating and drinking too much and saying and doing stupid things. It would spoil the program if Homer suddenly cleaned up his act and Bart showed more empathy towards his sister. Maybe real people act more like fictional characters than the authors of self-help books like to admit.
Tuesday, February 1
I wake up. I have escaped from a dream I can’t really remember, a Kafkaesque dream of complicated trivialities, and wait for the radio to turn on, my mind spinning uselessly. 7:30 AM. A fragment of Bach or Beethoven or Handel—some musical genius or other. I turn down the music—I can’t handle too much stimulation yet. Jill has gone to work at Tim Hortons, the home of coffee and cakes and sticky donuts and morning newspapers. Coffee, the liquid that jumpstarts Canadians, percolates in our kitchen. I climb out of bed and look out of the ice-speckled window. Gas station flags fly, red and white proclamations of another essential life fluid: gasoline, the sacred liquid of motion. I turn on the shower and feel the gentle splash of water on my tired head. Water, more valuable even than coffee and gasoline, cascades down my face. I think of people who didn’t shower every morning, such as the Elizabethans. Could it be true than even Queen Elizabeth I grew dirty and stinky under her clothes? And some people are not going to shower today—the slum dwellers of Mexico City, the poor of Calcutta, the wretched of the world. Do they dream of the spotless, white-tiled water temples that Canadians take for granted? I am a lucky person—a clean, parasite-free, dandruff-free person, who uses rivers of water in a shower, drinks vast quantities of coffee and drives to fulfilling work powered by gallons of gasoline. And all the while I am accompanied by the towering musical geniuses of the centuries celebrating the joy of life.
Why, then, aren’t I just ecstatic? Shouldn’t I be more grateful, at least? Just what would it take for me to feel wonderful in the mornings? Isn’t this the sort of morning that oppressed folk have dreamed about for centuries? Well, here it is and I can’t help feeling that I just want to crawl back into bed. I guess I should be ashamed of myself.
Wednesday, February 2
Our old friend Avril came to visit this evening. As usual, she just arrived at the doorstep. No phoning beforehand, just the Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. The TV was silenced, beer brought from the fridge, and the discussion commenced. It appears that Avril has been having problems with her daughter Leslie.
“Have you heard how she stole Pam’s vibrator?” she asked.
I deny all knowledge. I didn’t even know that Pam, Avril’s lodger, owned a vibrator, much less that Leslie, Avril’s 13-year-old daughter, had stolen it.
The sorry tale is told of how Avril finds a vibrator in Leslie’s gym bag. Concluding that it had been taken from Pam, Avril confronts Leslie. Leslie denies everything, claiming some unscrupulous person had planted it in her bag as a joke. Avril states that Pam has confirmed that it is her vibrator, and was in fact stolen from her. Pam, an immigration officer at Pearson International Airport in Toronto, will take the vibrator to work to be fingerprinted. Leslie breaks down under the pressure and confesses to the crime.
There is an uneasy silence in the room.
“At least a vibrator won’t make anyone pregnant,” I said solemnly, to ease the tension.
Avril gave me a withering look.
“You wait till you have your own teenager.”
“It’s just a matter of upbringing,” I said confidently.
What I really appreciate about Avril is her willingness to discuss delicate subjects with her friends. No doubt this stems from her upbringing in rural Gaspe Peninsula, in Quebec. Nowadays people would rather discuss Hollywood scandals than family affairs. But who really cares who George Clooney is dating? I’d much rather hear about people I know.
Thursday, February 3
Very cold. With the wind-chill factor, it was –36C. A radio announcer tells me that his mother in law’s crocuses are blooming in Somerset, England. I look out of the window at the frozen wasteland that is Canada. What am I doing in this Arctic prison? I’d rather be in England, where the weather is better suited to human beings than polar bears. Did I not appreciate the balmy air and fluffy clouds when I used to travel between those mossy, flower-encrusted hedgerows in my British racing green 1963 Mini-Minor? Did I not smile with pleasure as I navigated the heavenly Dorset lanes between Sturminster Newton and Blandford Forum, ground trod by the famous Thomas Hardy, author of such bittersweet tales as Jude the Obscure and Return of the Native? I can’t remember, but I used to be annoyed by the rain. Is it true that sunny weather makes it easier for the inhabitants of Hawaii to smile more often than those living in iceboxes such as Siberia?
Yesterday I had a talk with Pravin.
“I tried reading the chapter on self-awareness and it’s so boring.”
Boring! That word is like a red flag to me: I charged into the conversational ring like an enraged Spanish bull.
“Boring! Do you know what the problem is? I think that you feel it’s just psychology—Freud talking to his patients, who are lying on sofas and talking about how they loved their mother and hated their father, that sort of thing. And you think, “Oh, I really don’t need that.” Well, nobody’s asking you to believe in Freud or penis envy or anything strange like that. Psychology is nothing more than the study of behavior. And how can you say that the study of behavior is boring?”
Poor Pravin stood there, feeling compelled to disagree with me. I stood there, feeling compelled to disagree with him. Maybe I should have tried some reverse psychology: “Yes, maybe you’re right, maybe it’s a slightly boring chapter.” Some mild sarcasm was tempting: “You’re really so mentally healthy, Pravin, maybe you don’t need this.” But he might agree with me. In fact, Pravin was very mentally healthy. In any case, why should I be upset? He wasn’t criticizing me. He was criticizing the author of the book. Of course I had chosen the book, so there was an element of criticism for me as well. Really, I shouldn’t be so sensitive—that’s what the chapter was about. It wasn’t a real argument, because Pravin was smiling at me again, that tropical “Don’t worry, be happy” smile that he was so good at. Maybe people who come from hot climates really are happier. But there are so many wars in Africa—surely happy people can settle their differences better than that?
Friday, February 4
I’ve been worrying a little about some of the questionnaires. One question from a second year class, for instance:
“Are you sexually active…
Among the college population? Yes/No
Outside the college population? Yes/No
First, it’s not a very good question. What does “sexually active” really mean? Various activities come to mind, not all of them involving sexual intercourse. Is looking at someone with thoughts of lust being “sexually active”? Jimmy Carter would say, “Yes,” but Hugh Hefner would probably not agree. Also, what if students are not “sexually active”? Would that spoil their day, indicating a lack of activity on the questionnaire? Maybe they’d say, “Yes” just to feel better. And maybe some students object to being asked such a question. Maybe they will be so incensed they will inform the Dean that objectionable questions are being asked in my class. Indeed, why should students be asked such personal questions, even if no names are written on returned questionnaires? Maybe next year the survey questions should be sanitized before being distributed. Survey data can be intriguing, but sometimes it’s of doubtful value. For instance, I recently read that nearly half of American young people polled believed in flying saucers. Another survey found that UFO believers appear to be just as intelligent and psychologically healthy as other people. What are we to make of such findings?
Saturday, February 5
This evening I went to a meeting at the Holiday Inn. The goal: financial success.
“Well, folks, which of you folks wants to retire early? Raise your hands!”
A forest of hands appeared. I solemnly raised mine. Yes, I want to retire early, so I’m not just following the crowd.
“Folks, which of you wants to make a million dollars? Let’s see your hands!”
No argument there, either. I raised my hand yet again.
The speaker, wired for sound, wears an expensive-looking blue suit and is equipped with a bulletproof positive attitude. He reeks of fairytale optimism, a belief that since the little engine proved it could, that proved everyone could.
Bertrand Russell once said, “The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.” That gave me some comfort when the hand hoisting section of the seminar ended and the good news about the fortune to be made from bankrupt stock began. I’m sure many fortunes had been made and will be made from bankrupt stock, but could a doubtful person such as myself make a fortune? Tired from hand raising and overwhelmed by the variables swimming in my mind, I drank a free cup of coffee and sped away into the night. Maybe so-called intelligence was a curse. The ability to think of all possible advantages and disadvantages of a course of action burdens one from the start, leaving the mind with little energy to act the fearless entrepreneur and make the million dollars. The so-called intelligent people, the doubters, were the pessimists, and Russell’s stupid, cocksure folks were the optimists. But isn’t being optimistic really a sign of intelligence, a way of appreciating what life has to offer? Life can be very confusing at times.
Sunday, February 6
I’ve been trying to feel 8/10 in the mornings when I get out of bed. Usually I wake up and feel 4 or 5/10, so I lie there for a while, telling myself I’m gradually beginning to feel better. Sometimes I actually begin to feel better, sometimes not. I rarely reach 8/10. Of course this is all relative—my 8/10 may well be another’s 5/10.