steven ray orr

Joseph Ledoux, for the New York Times:

The capacity to fear … is pretty universal among animals. But anxiety ― an experience of uncertainty ― is a different matter. It depends on the ability to anticipate, a capacity that is also present in some other animals, but that is especially well developed in humans. We can project ourselves into the future like no other creature.

Our capacity to believe in a world unlike that which we see and touch. It is this which allows us to create a better world, to plan for events unthinkable, and to alter our surroundings with tools and constructs that transform the very definition of a human being. It will the key to our ascension into utopia – a future so impossible that we cannot yet see it in our lives. We can only just barely begin to imagine what it would be like.

Is the cost of such ruminations the possibility of anxiety? It would seem that this power to project ourselves forward holds as much opportunity for dismay as it does joy. If we are to use this gift that humanity has been given, we must also overcome its drawback: the worry that we will be unable to transcend the events of our pasts. We, the human being, is that which must be overcome.

Elisha Cooper, for The Morning News:

Schtolenfünken is the German word that describes the feeling of letdown and disappointment that occurs when people we think are good (cyclists) do bad things (steal my wheel), and yes, I made the word up.

It is absolutely no surprise that I look forward to every essay that Elisha writes. Crawling is a collection of pieces written about his experiences in the first year of fatherhood and, although outside of my normal genre, will be on my bookshelf soon enough if only because I have complete faith in his abilities as a wordsmith.

Scott Madin:

I actually don’t care whether anyone is offended. Offense is a vague, amorphous concept, and it is completely subjective, as my friend pointed out. Anyone can claim to be deeply, mortally offended by anything, and it may very well be true; even if it’s not, there’s no way to dispute it.

It runs deeper than the question of honesty. We should, whenever possible, take people at their word especially when it comes to harm. But Scott is right in his disdain of the concept of offense, because it is without the impact or the danger of harm. Offense is as shifting as the unstable pillars of emotions and opinion.

I have long stopped concerning myself with offending people, much as I have stopped focusing on the changing the opinions of those who are not interested in conversation, those who are offended by the beliefs of others, or by their very existence.¹ I will waste no energy on them. I will spend no time changing myself to ensure that they are satisfied.

Where I run into trouble is the point at which offense is categorized as harm, because it is a mistake akin to declaring opinion as fact. It is crying wolf, although that analogy is suspect. What are the consequences of such declarations? Does crying offense burn social or political capital? Will I trust you less if you conflate offense with harm?

Maggie McKee, for New Scientist:

New calculations suggest that Jupiter’s rocky core is dissolving like an antacid tablet plopped in water.

The work could help explain why its core appears smaller and its atmosphere richer in heavy elements than predicted.

(Via The Morning News)

Brian Phillips, for Grantland:

Assuming we follow sports for something like entertainment, what do we get out of a game for which the potential for tedium is so high that some of its most famous inspirational quotes are simply about not being dull?

We watch for the moments of poetry.

I suspect that a soccer fan and a Sedins fan share DNA – specifically that which allows one to enjoy the subtle transformation of chaos into order; the way by which a team coordinates their efforts into a perfect demonstration of the sport. Such instances do not come often, but when they appear they are worth all the build-up.

Molly Ball, for The Atlantic:

Rick Perry has been a dead candidate walking for weeks, but just after 11 a.m. Thursday, he’s set to make it official that he’s out of the presidential race.

Come on, Rick Perry! Are you kidding me? I just apologized for accusing you of dropping out of the race and you drop out of the race?

This is just going to destroy all of my credibility.

We all learn, at a very young age, that we pay for our sins with blood. The pain that comes with time teaches us that we likewise pay for our successes. But if we walk unerringly, with clear eyes and full hearts, we cannot lose.

I write. That is how I experience the world and it always has been. But in Dillon, Texas, they live in anticipation of the next friday night when darkness will fall and the only lights for miles will be pointed toward a 120 yard stretch of field. They live for football.

This is the world of Friday Night Lights, but do not mistake this for the making of heroes. It is the transformation of youth, of children into human beings. They will realize that their lives as children are something that must be surpassed; that these experiences, the joys and the sorrows alike, are a bridge to something greater and, if they are ever to reach that plateau, they will have to overcome themselves.

Perfection is the starting point for Friday Night Lights. These boys. This team. This town. They are perfect from the first moment that we are brought into their grace. And, in the another moment as a boy decides to be a hero, they are shattered. These boys. This team. This town.

Friday Night Lights is not a story of rebuilding. That which they were is gone. That which they were to be will never be. Instead, this is the story of something else, of something greater. This is the story of a team that could not lose.

Andy Greenwald, for Grantland:

The American Office, quite rightly, differentiated itself from the outset: In the New World, the workplace wasn’t a sad metaphor for the crushed dreams and dreary reality of adulthood. Rather, it was an allegory for family, the screwed-up group of misfits one gets stuck with and learns to, if not love, then tolerate.

Minutes unto hours. Hours to days. Days to weeks and weeks unto forever.

The Office was always about the people whom we chose to love when the only other option available was hate them. It was a world that we watched and enjoyed because we could see shades of ourselves within it; those subtle elements to the characters that caused flickers of recognition. Jim and Pam were people that we believed we could be, if only we found it in ourselves to care about the family that our jobs chained us to.

These things were true, but anyone watching the most recent season will attest to the painfully obvious truth that they are no longer.

Some blame the departure of Steve Carell; or the introduction of James Spader; or the promotion of Ed Helms. But these incidents have absolutely nothing to do with the disappointment that comes at the end of each episode of The Office. That is to say, these are simply leaves falling from a tree; one that has, from the roots upward, long since been rotted hollow. If we look carefully, we can still catch glimpses of the beauty that once was, but it becomes harder with every passing episode as each worthy moment that is eked out comes at the expense of the The Office’s heart: we have stopped being able to love these people.

Somewhere along the way, the characters became the butt of jokes instead of the ones tellers. The people that we were supposed to love, the people that were supposed to remind us of our own lives, they transformed into sad and twisted caricatures of themselves. No one can love a parody of themselves.

Andy Greenwald’s piece asks if the office can be fixed, only to conclude that “it might be time to put it down”. He is right. The Office is a tree that has long been dead. We have been mistaking the faded greenery for life or, more foolishly perhaps, we have hoped that it was the autumn process and the beginnings of a rebirth. But a day is rapidly approaching when even the most stalwart of Office defenders have to admit that the show should be allowed to finally end; that the tree should be cut down to make room for new growth.

Personally, I think that actually happened a long time ago, back in April of 2009. When Parks and Recreation premiered.

Dave Morris, at TEDxVictoria:

Improvisation is a process. It is a way of making a thing. It is not a product that I can give or show you. What I do is improvise… theatre, or hip hop, or explosive devices.

What do I do?

I sell computers. If the need arises, I can twist this do-ing into something that sounds more impressive or official or makes me appear to be “superior”, but the very core of the task that I spend most of my time doing is selling computers.

This is not where I imagined myself after university and it certainly is not where I imagine myself to be ten years from now. There are things that I would like to do with my life that have absolutely nothing to do with Apple computers or how to fix an iPhoto library.

Most people fall into this at some point in their lives. We allow work to be the way by which we define ourselves: “I am a computer salesperson”. But where I clock my 40 hours to get a paycheque does not define me any more than the bed in which I clock another 40 hours. I need money to live in the same way that I need sleep. These are two of the rules of this game.

The part that I have forgotten, the part that Dave Morris’ Way of Improvisation has reminded of, is that getting caught up in the rules is the only way to lose.

I am going to die one day.¹ Whether I get a good sleep every night. Whether I work my 9-5, Monday to Friday. Eventually, despite following all the rules, I will cease to exist. That game is unwinnable.

No, the game that I am currently losing is the one that I have chosen for myself. The game that I call “being Steven”, where I am defined not by where I work, but by what I choose to do. Selling computers is a rule in that game and, for now, I am following it. But writing this blog?; penning my novel?; eking out scraps of poetry?; spending free time with the people I care about? These are the parts of the game that matter, that are play, that are how I “win”.

Thank you, Dave, for reminding me the way of improvisation. For reminding me that I get to choose the process by which I experience the world around me and that I should choose one that fulfills and satisfies me.

Steam, the Kindle and Netflix are three radically different technologies – the first is a digital distributor for video games, the second is an electronic book reader, and the third is a movie rental service – but they all suffer from the same technological revenge: a loss of urgency. They are technologies designed with the intent to give one instantaneous access to media. Whenever a user wishes to read a certain book or watch a specific movie, all that is required is a few easy clicks: Steam has over 2,000 games within its catalogue; there are 300,000 books available for access on the Kindle; and Netflix has fifty-five million DVDs to ship or stream to its subscribers. These are technologies of access: they allow the user to easily and quickly view specific media at the discretion of the user.

Compare this with stone and mortar libraries or Blockbusters – distributors who force users to compete for access to the same products – and it becomes easy to view the technologies of access as allowing their users more freedom. They provide users with more options, more choices. Inherent to this freedom, though, is a form of technological revenge.

From the moment of revelation where it is understood that one can view anything whenever one desires, technologies of access are transformed into tools of procrastination: the user no longer has any need to read The Man Without Qualities today, because one’s Kindle will always be able to access it later; it is unnecessary to watch Barton Fink now, as one can simply order it on Netflix at another time. Access allows users the freedom to choose both what they want and when they want it, but instant access gives the user more freedom to actively choose not to do something.