Tag: harvard

“Blurtso visits his friends on Walden Pond”

blurtso851

Hello, said Pablo and Bonny. Hello, said Blurtso. What are you doing? We’re taking veggies to our cabin, said Pablo. How about you? I’m going to class, said Blurtso. Really? said Bonny. Why don’t you come visit when you’re done? Ditto would love to see you. Ditto? said Blurtso. Ditto is Bonny’s stuffed animal, said Pablo. Oh, said Blurtso. But he’s remarkably intelligent, said Bonny. I’m sure he is, said Blurtso. So you’ll come? said Bonny. I don’t think so, said Blurtso, I’ve got an exam tomorrow. That’s too bad, said Pablo, we could go for a swim. With the ducks? said Blurtso. Of course, said Pablo. Hmm, said Blurtso, do you know anything about the underlying causes of World War One? No, said Pablo, but I’m sure we can figure it out. Great! said Blurtso. I’ll see you after class.

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No one’s home… except for Bonny’s stuffed animal. He sure is funny-looking. Rabbit-sized ears, boxing-glove nose, two eyes that may as well be one. I wonder what he’s supposed to be? His hooves are wrong for a rabbit… and his nose is wrong for a rhino… maybe he’s a camel or a mouse… or an overstuffed rat… I wonder if he can swim… maybe he’s a sea creature who’s stranded on land… or a land creature who yearns for the sea… Hah! He sure looks funny! But even so… he’s really quite handsome.

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I see, said Blurtso. So it was the result of a series of diplomatic clashes over European and colonial issues that stemmed from the changing balance of power after 1867. Exactly, said Pablo.

“Weohryant University” (XIX) – Where 101

blurtso5220

Today’s question, said Harlan, is: “Where did it go?”
Where did what go? said Chelsea.
It was here just a minute ago, said Morton.
I didn’t take it, said Emma Lou.
Neither did I, said Frank.
Do you mean “ubi sunt”? said Glouster.
Ubi sunt? said Morton.
“Ubi sunt,” said Glouster, is Latin for “Where are they?” It comes from a Latin poem that begins, “Ubi sunt qui ante nos in mundo fuere?” which translates: “Where are they who, before us, existed in the world?” It was a common theme in medieval poetry, and was most famously expressed by the French poet, François Villon who asked, “Où sont les neiges d’antan?” or “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”
The snows of yesteryear? said Morton.
I don’t like snow, said Chelsea.
Neither do I, said Frank.
I don’t mind it, said Emma Lou, so long as I’m not far from my den.
Why would anyone worry about last year’s snow? said Morton.
It’s a metaphor, said Glouster, for all the things you’ve lost in your life.
Lost? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Glouster, the things you had in the past that you no longer have.
The things I’ve eaten? said Morton.
Yes, said Glouster, and the friends you’ve lost, and your lost youth.
My lost youth? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Glouster.
I’m not going to lose my youth, said Chelsea.
Of course you are, said Glouster.
Really? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Glouster.
In that case, said Chelsea, I don’t like “ubi sunt.”
Crows live forever, said Frank.
They do? said Morton.
Sure, said Frank, crows, or “ravens”, and nightingales, and even some other birds.
Are you sure? said Morton.
Yes, said Frank, just ask Edgar Allen Poe and John Keats.
Who are they? said Chelsea.
They are poets, said Frank, who wrote about birds who live forever, birds who travel from heaven to earth to hell and then back again.
Have you been to heaven and hell? said Chelsea.
No, said Frank, not yet.
I don’t want to go to hell, said Morton.
Heaven and hell, said Glouster, are metaphors for, “the realm of the dead.”
I don’t want to go there either, said Morton.
Maybe, said Chelsea, that’s where the “ubi sunts” are.
I know a song, said Frank, about “ubi sunt.”
What’s it called? said Chelsea.
It’s called “The Ashgrove,” said Frank, and it has a blackbird in it.
How does it go? said Chelsea.
I don’t remember all the words, said Frank, but it’s about a woman who loses her lover and looks for him in an ashgrove.
Does she find him? said Chelsea.
No, said Frank, he’s buried beneath the green turf.
Is that a metaphor for “the realm of the dead”? said Morton.
Yes, said Frank.
Why doesn’t the blackbird, said Chelsea, fly to the realm of the dead, talk to the dead lover, then return and talk to the woman so she can have a sense of closure?
That’s a good question, said Frank.
What’s closure? said Morton.
Closure, said Chelsea, is talking with your ex-lover until you have nothing more to say.
Why would you want to do that? said Morton.
Because, said Chelsea, if you say everything you have to say, you can stop thinking about him when he’s gone.
So he doesn’t become an “ubi sunt”? said Morton.
Yes, said Chelsea.
I would like to be an “ubi sunt”, said Emma Lou.
So would I, said Glouster.
Why? said Chelsea.
Because, said Glouster, I don’t want to be forgotten.
Being forgotten, said Emma Lou, would be like a second death.
Maybe it’s a good thing, said Morton, for people to go around asking “ubi sunt?”
Why? said Chelsea.
Because, said Morton, it keeps the dead from dying.

“Weohryant University” (XVIII) – What 101

blurtso4443

As you answer today’s question, said Blurtso, I would like you all to remain completely silent. The question is: “What is that sound?”

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That’s all for today, said Blurtso.

“Weohryant University” (XVII) – Where 101

blurtso4440

Today’s question, said Harlan, is: “Where’s the door?”
The door? said Morton.
What door? said Frank.
There are lots of doors, said Chelsea.
You can’t swing a cat, said Frank, without hitting a door.
Maybe it’s a symbolic door, said Glouster.
An entrance door or an exit door? said Emma Lou.
Why do we want to find it? said Chelsea.
So we can get out, said Morton.
What if there’s no exit? said Frank.
Then we’ll have to stay here, said Morton, until we find it.
Or find an entrance, said Emma Lou.
An entrance? said Morton.
Yes, said Emma Lou, if we can’t get out, maybe we can get in.
Why do we want to go anywhere? said Morton.
That’s a good question, said Glouster.
To see what’s on the other side, said Chelsea.
The other side? said Morton.
Yes, said Chelsea, whenever I see a door, I wonder what’s on the other side.
Even when it says “do not enter”? said Morton.
Yes, said Chelsea, especially then.
Curiosity killed the cat, said Frank.
It did? said Morton.
If that’s true, said Chelsea, why arent’ there dead cats everywhere?
It’s an idiom, said Glouster.
An idiom? said Morton.
An idiom, said Glouster, is “a set expression of two or more words that means something other than the literal meaning of the individual words.”
Idioms, said Emma Lou, often have a basis in reality.
That’s true, said Frank, like the idiom, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Why would anyone want to skin a cat? said Morton.
It means, said Glouster, “There’s more than one way to do something.”
Or, “Who let the cat out of the bag,” said Frank.
Why would anyone put a cat in a bag? said Chelsea.
Lots of reasons, said Frank.
Like what? said Chelsea.
To stop cats, said Frank, from chasing birds.
Oh, said Chelsea.
I suppose birds aren’t fond of cats, said Morton.
No, said Frank.
What animals do donkeys dislike? said Emma Lou.
We like all animals, said Chelsea.
Except dogs, said Morton, when they’re nipping and yapping at your heels.
That’s true, said Chelsea, but some dogs are nice.
I don’t like crocodiles and alligators, said Glouster, they remind me of U-boats.
What’s a U-boat? said Chelsea.
A U-boat, said Glouster, is a submarine. The name comes from the anglicized version of the German word, “U-boot,” which comes from the word “Unterseeboot,” which means “under sea boat.” In World War II German U-boats plundered U.S. and Canadian merchant ships carrying supplies to allies in Western Europe.
I hate war, said Chelsea.
How does a submarine go under the sea, said Morton, without water leaking through the doors.
The doors, said Glouster, are air-tight. Nothing can get in or out.
There’s no exit? said Frank.
Not as long as the U-boat is underwater, said Glouster.
I don’t like to be trapped in closed spaces, said Frank.
Nor do I, said Glouster.
I don’t mind, said Emma Lou, as long as I can dig my way out.
“When one door closes,” said Glouster, “another one opens.”
Is that true? said Morton.
It’s an idiom, said Glouster, that means “When one opportunity is lost, another one presents itself.”
I’ve been in a barn, said Morton, that had two doors which were both closed.
What did you do? said Frank.
I stopped thinking about getting out, said Morton, and started thinking about something else.
You opened a door in your mind, said Emma Lou.
That’s right, said Morton.
Maybe that’s the door we should be looking for, said Frank.
The door in our mind? said Morton.
Yes, said Emma Lou, the door to imagination, to new perspectives, possibilities, and opinions.
I use that door all the time, said Chelsea.
It’s a very nice door, said Morton.
And it’s almost always open, said Emma Lou.
Almost? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Emma Lou, sometimes it’s closed by habits and prejudices we’ve adopted from those around us.
A Scottish journalist named Charles Mackay, said Glouster, wrote a book called, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.
What’s it about? said Chelsea.
It’s a book about crowd psychology, said Glouster, and how individual delusion can become mass delusion.
Mass delusion, said Emma Lou, is called “reality.”
How can you tell, said Morton, if what you believe is a delusion?
That’s a good question, said Chelsea.
What’s the answer? said Frank.
I don’t know, said Morton, maybe that’s the door we should be looking for.

“Weohryant University” (XVI) – When 101

blurtso4452

Today’s question, said Pablo, is: “When is it too late?”
Too late for what? said Morton.
I didn’t do it, said Emma Lou.
Too late for planting? said Frank.
“Lateness,” said Glouster, is “arriving or remaining after the due, usual, or proper time.”
The proper time? said Chelsea. Who decides what is the proper time?
Your boss does, said Frank.
Or your teacher, said Glouster.
Or whoever makes the rules, said Morton.
Whoever has the power, said Emma Lou.
Michel Foucault, said Glouster, said: “The strategic adversary is fascism… the fascism in us all, in our heads and in our everyday behavior, the fascism that causes us to love power, to desire the very thing that dominates us.
Am I a fascist? said Chelsea.
I don’t think you’re a fascist, said Morton.
What’s a fascist? said Frank.
“Fascism,” said Glouster, is “a political philosophy, movement, or regime that exalts nation and often race above the individual and stands for a central autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition.”
That doesn’t sound like me, said Chelsea.
It can also mean, said Glouster, “a tendency toward or actual exercise of strong autocratic or dictatorial control.”
Dictatorial control? said Morton.
A dictator, said Glouster, is “someone granted absolute power, often ruling oppressively.”
Do I have absolute power? said Chelsea.
Foucault goes on to say, said Glouster, “It is my hypothesis that the individual is not a pre-given entity which is seized upon by the exercise of power. The individual, with his identity and characteristics, is the product of a relation of power exercised over bodies, multiplicities, movements, desires, forces.”
Seized on by the exercise of power? said Frank.
Does that mean, said Chelsea, that I’m a victim.
Both a victim, said Emma Lou, and a dictator.
Foucault adds, said Glouster, that “there is no power relation without the correlative constitution of a field of knowledge, nor any knowledge that does not presuppose and constitute at the same time power relations.”
Isn’t that a vicious circle? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Glouster.
How did we get caught, said Frank, in this vicious circle?
We were talking, said Emma Lou, about who decides what is too late and what is not too late.
Sometimes, said Frank, nature decides what is too late.
Yes, said Morton, like when it’s too late to plant pumpkins in order to have a good harvest in the fall.
Does that mean, said Chelsea, that nature is a fascist?
A fascist, said Emma Lou, that desires to be exploited by itself.
But I am a part of nature, said Morton. Does that mean I’m constantly exploiting myself?
Yes, said Emma Lou.
So if I grow a pumpkin, said Morton, then make a pumpkin pie, then eat it, I’m exploiting myself?
Yes, said Emma Lou.
In that case, said Morton, I should try to exploit myself more often.
When is it too late, said Chelsea, to plant pumpkins for a good harvest?
I don’t know, said Morton, I’ve never planted a pumpkin.
You haven’t? said Chelsea.
No, said Morton, I’ve always exploited the pumpkin someone else planted.
That’s shameful, said Chelsea.
Is it? said Morton.
What if, said Emma Lou, the person who planted the pumpkin derived pleasure from Morton’s exploitation of the pumpkin?
You mean, said Frank, the pleasure one gets from sharing with someone else?
Exactly, said Emma Lou.
That’s a good question, said Chelsea.
What would Foucault say? said Frank.
I’m not sure, said Glouster, I suppose he would say that the act of sharing is an act of exploitation, a disguised power-play designed to manipulate the recipient into a position of gratitude and subservience.
I think, said Chelsea, the world would be a better place if more of us went around exploiting each other by sharing.

“Weohryant University” (XV) – What 101

blurtso4426

Today’s question, said Blurtso, is: “What is that blur of movement?”
I don’t see anything, said Morton.
Neither do I, said Chelsea.
Maybe it’s moving too fast to be seen, said Frank.
I suppose it could be anything, said Morton.
Anything, said Chelsea, that’s moving too fast to be seen.
If it’s moving too fast to be seen, said Emma Lou, how do we know it’s really here?
I suppose we don’t, said Frank.
Maybe we should make a list, said Glouster, of the things that move fast.
I can move fast, said Frank, when I’m hunting or being hunted.
So fast, said Chelsea, that you can’t be seen?
I don’t know, said Frank, I don’t have a mirror.
The next time you’re being hunted, said Chelsea, tell me so I can see if you can be seen.
Humming birds move fast, said Morton.
So fast, said Chelsea, that they can’t be seen?
Yes, said Morton, if you’re not paying attention.
Is it really possible, said Chelsea, for something to move too fast to be seen?
At the subatomic level, said Emma Lou.
That’s because it’s small, said Glouster, not because it’s fast.
It’s both, said Emma Lou.
First we can’t trust our sense of smell, said Morton, and now we can’t trust our sense of sight?
If things can move too fast to be seen, said Chelsea, how do we know we’re not surrounded by things moving too fast to be seen?
I think everything moves too fast, said Morton. Why can’t we all slow down?
That’s a good question, said Emma Lou.
Humans move fast, said Frank.
Yes, said Emma Lou, they’re always in a hurry to get somewhere.
Where do you think they’re going? said Chelsea.
They hurry to work, said Glouster, then hurry to finish, then hurry home, then hurry to go out, then hurry to return.
If something, said Morton, is moving too fast to be seen, is it moving too fast to see?
That’s another good question, said Emma Lou.
People in a hurry can’t see me, said Chelsea.
And the joggers along the Charles, said Glouster, don’t see me.
My cousin, said Frank, was hit by a person who didn’t see him.
I’m sorry, said Chelsea.
What’s the fastest thing in the world? said Morton.
Light is the fastest, said Glouster.
How fast? said Morton.
186,000 miles per second, said Glouster.
That’s fast! said Morton.
So fast, said Glouster, that time stands still.
What? said Morton.
When an object, said Glouster, moves at the speed of light, time stands still for that object.
Who says? said Morton.
Einstein says, said Glouster
The bagel maker? said Morton.
No, said Glouster, the physicist.
So if I moved at the speed of light, said Morton, I’d have all the time in the world?
You’d be immortal, said Emma Lou.
That would be great! said Morton.
Jorge Luis Borges, said Glouster, wrote a story called, “The Immortals.”
What’s it about? said Chelsea.
It’s about a man, said Glouster, who finds the fountain of immortality, takes a drink, and becomes immortal.
Does he move at the speed of light? said Morton.
No, said Glouster, he just lives forever.
Ravens are immortal, said Frank.
They are? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Frank, we can travel from the world of the living to the world of the dead, and back again.
Are you immortal? asked Chelsea.
I will be, said Frank, in the future.
If you could travel at the speed of light, said Morton, you wouldn’t have any future.
What happens to the man in “The Immortals”? said Emma Lou.
He lives for thousands and thousands of years, said Glouster, and learns every language, and reads every book, and does everything again and again and again, until he finally decides to look for the fountain of death.
Of death? said Morton.
Yes, said Glouster, because immortality is unbearable.
That’s very interesting, said Emma Lou.
It makes you feel sorry for the gods, said Chelsea.
It makes heaven sound less attractive, said Emma Lou.
Maybe moving at the speed of light, said Morton, isn’t so good—you wouldn’t have a future and you wouldn’t have a past, you couldn’t be seen and you couldn’t see.
So death is a good thing? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Emma Lou, it is.
But I don’t want to die, said Chelsea.
Even after you’ve done everything again and again? said Emma Lou.
I haven’t done everything again and again, said Chelsea.
It would be like a “deep and dreamless sleep,” said Morton.
A what? said Chelsea
That’s what the Upanishads say, said Morton.
Are you reading the Upanishads now? said Chelsea. I’m still in the Mahabharata. There’s a war and everyone is fighting for life and death.
I suppose the possibility of death, said Emma Lou, makes life more exciting.
I’m never more alive, said Frank, than when I’m hunting or being hunted.
I still don’t know how, said Morton, moving fast makes time stand still.
I think people move fast, said Chelsea, so that they will have more time.
Time to do what? said Emma Lou.
Time to move faster, said Chelsea, until time stops and they become immortal.
Which is the same as being dead? said Morton.
We’re back to where we started, said Glouster.
I suppose we’ve been moving so fast, said Morton, that we haven’t gone anywhere at all.

“Weohryant University” (XI) – What 101

blurtso4447

Welcome, said Blurtso, to “What 101.” The question for today’s class is: “What’s that smell?”
What’s that smell? said Glouster.
I didn’t do it, said Emma Lou.
I don’t smell anything, said Frank.
I do, said Morton.
So do I, said Chelsea, it smells like jasmine.
It also smells like pumpernickel, said Morton, or a field of wheat before it rains.
Yes, said Chelsea, or a riverbed of Alabama clay.
I don’t smell anything, said Frank.
You can’t trust your senses, said Glouster, everyone has a different sense of smell.
That’s what the Upanishads say, said Emma Lou.
The Upanishads? said Morton.
Yes, said Emma Lou, the Upanishads say that the world perceived by the senses is maya.
Maya? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Emma Lou, separate smells and sights and things only exist as the condition of perception. They are an illusion. At the subatomic level they dissolve into a flux of energy.
Does an odor exist, said Frank, if you can’t smell it?
Does an odor exist, said Emma Lou, if you can smell it?
Maybe, said Glouster, we should consult Avery Gilbert’s book, The Science of Scent in Everyday Life. Or Patrick Suskind’s novel, Perfume.
Perfume? said Morton.
Yes, said Glouster, a novel about the emotional meanings that scents carry. The protagonist is a perfume-maker in 18th century France.
I love perfume, said Chelsea.
I can’t smell perfume, said Frank.
There’s another novel about smell, said Glouster, in which a man takes a bite of a cookie that makes him remember his childhood and the life he’s lived.
What’s it called? said Emma Lou.
Á la recherche du temps perdu, said Glouster, by Marcel Proust.
What kind of cookie does he eat? said Morton.
A Madeleine, said Glouster.
What’s a Madeleine? said Morton.
A Madeleine, said Glouster, is a buttery sponge cake.
I love sponge cake! said Chelsea. Why can’t we read a book about sponge cake instead of the Bible and the Quran and the Upanishads?
There’s a donkey in the Bible, said Morton.
There is? said Chelsea.
Yes, said Morton, Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey.
There are donkeys in the Quran too, said Glouster.
There are? said Chelsea.
I still don’t smell anything, said Frank.
I do, said Chelsea, it smells like something sweet.
Maybe Bonny is baking a pie! said Morton.
No, said Glouster, that’s only on Thursdays.
If we can’t trust our senses, said Chelsea, what can we trust?
“To smell,” said Glouster, is “to perceive the scent of something by means of the olfactory nerves.”
Isn’t that circular, said Emma Lou, to say, “to smell is to perceive scent”? It doesn’t explain anything.
If you smell something before you eat it, said Morton, it gives you an idea of what it’s going to taste like.
Sponge cake smells sweet, said Chelsea.
So do chocolate chip cookies, said Morton.
I’ve never had a chocolate chip cookie, said Frank. What do they taste like?
It’s hard to describe, said Morton, to someone who has never tried one.
“To taste,” said Glouster, is “to ascertain the flavor of something by taking a little into the mouth.”
That doesn’t tell me what it tastes like, said Frank. Does it taste like a worm?
A worm? said Morton. I don’t know, I’ve never tasted a worm.
Does everything, said Chelsea, taste different to everyone?
That’s a good question, said Frank.
Did anyone bring cookies? said Morton.
“The senses,” said Glouster, are “the physiological capacities of organisms that provide data for perception.”
Data for perception? said Frank. Does that mean we don’t actually perceive things themselves, we only perceive data?
Every time I perceive the data called smoke, said Morton, it reminds me of when I was tethered in a barn and the barn caught fire and someone rushed in to save me before I was burned alive.
That must have been terrifying! said Emma Lou.
Every time I perceive the data called smoke, said Chelsea, it reminds me of roasted chestnuts on the Mass. Ave Bridge.
“Harvard Bridge?” said Morton.
Yes, said Chelsea, in December.
From a man in a green overcoat? said Morton.
Yes, said Chelsea, and on Saturdays he brings his daughter.
Those are excellent chestnuts, said Morton.
But you can’t eat them at once, said Chelsea, because they’re too hot, so you have to wait, but you can’t wait, so you eat them and they burn your tongue.
The data burns your tongue, said Morton.
When I perceive the data called smoke, said Frank, I fly in the opposite direction.
I dive underwater, said Glouster.
Really? said Chelsea. I wish I could swim.
You can’t swim? said Glouster.
No, said Chelsea, I don’t think so.
It’s easy, said Glouster, you just paddle around, and then dive down when you see something to eat.
Like what? said Chelsea.
Like a fish, said Glouster.
I couldn’t catch a fish, said Morton.
Neither could I, said Chelsea.
Some animals are not fishers, said Frank.
The Apostles of Jesus, said Glouster, were fishers of men.
Fishers of men? said Emma Lou.
Yes, said Glouster, they used the holy word of God to entice people to open their hearts and love their neighbors.
Just like in the Upanishads, said Emma Lou.
Is that in the Bible? said Chelsea. I’ve been reading the Mahabharata. It starts with a story about a girl who is turned into a fish. And then she has children that smell like fish.
Even I can smell a fish, said Frank.
Then a wise man called a “rishi”, said Chelsea, becomes obsessed with the girl’s smell and makes love to her.
I don’t like the smell of fish, said Morton.
What smells bad for one person, said Emma Lou, smells good for another.
Fish must like the smell of fish, said Chelsea.
They sure do taste good, said Glouster.
Yes, said Frank, especially when they’ve been baking in the sun for a while, on the side of the road, or in a ditch near a field.
I’m sorry to interrupt, said Blurtso, but we’re out of time. I hope you enjoyed the first day of class. Thank you for your interesting comments and questions.
Thank you, said Emma Lou, you’re an excellent teacher.