Category Archives: identity

On Clark Kent

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Being the alter ego of Superman cannot be an easy role to play. Designed to be the outward disguise of a superhero, Clark Kent was, is and always will be much more than that. Klutzy, slow, a little witless, he is supposed to an Everyman who goes to work everyday, does his working man thing, then goes home at the end of the day. One supposes that Clark only wants the things and relationships that we all want so we are not bored or lonely: a roof over our heads and a companion with which he might share his time and emotions. Yet, Clark Kent is really none of those things because he is Kal-El, he is Superman and superman, both the hero and iconic ubermann who is superior in all ways to those around him. His very role as hero with exceptional powers prohibits him from having a normal relationship with others, so his pretend public persona must appear inferior in a variety of ways to other men so that he might fit in. The existence of Clark Kent presents a strange paradox between the ideal man and a real man, with all his failings, faults, and problems. His ineptitude is magnified and enhanced by the strange problem of trying to date a woman who is in love with his “super” self and uninterested in his fallible human alter ego. Lois Lane only has eyes for Superman, but couldn’t be less interested in the bumbling office mate who always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is very un-super of him. In other words, being Superman has no real benefits other than being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, a skill most can do without. Being Superman is, then, a bittersweet situation: you can impress the ladies with your physique, but the tender side of your personality has to stay locked up and caged. Superman is not just Superman, he is also Clark Kent, and vice versa, which means that both characters are facades for a larger character that has seen fit to split his personality, a la Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in order to function in a larger society. No one wants a tender and caring Superman, but Clark is supposed to be less than graceful, even weak. Eventually, the integrated character Superman/Clark Kent must come to terms with their existential conundrum of who they might really be, a character that is neither Superman nor Clark Kent. The general public craves the presence of Superman with all the ethical and moral burdens implicit in that relationship, making Clark Kent an interesting mask behind which the superhero might hide without being asked to save the world: no one expects Mr. Kent to do anything but bring Lois a fresh cup of coffee and sharpen the pencils–a primitive analogue for keeping the computer booted and running. Clark Kent must even feign a reserved masculinity in order to deflect interest from himself as if his own sexuality inhabited a liminal non-sexual space that is neither male nor female, almost a eunuch as it were, the complete opposite of “the man of steel.” Nevertheless, Kal-El does not permanently go around as a superhero because that persona is more sustainable than Clark Kent. The brooding super-human character of the hero must suffer constantly from an existential anxiety of purpose, ideals, identity, future, ethics, and violence. Perhaps it is that last things that so divides him from his alter ego, a peaceful, non-fighter who eschews violence while seeking non-violent solutions whenever possible. The internal battle between the hero and his non-heroic alter ego is constant, ongoing, and unresolvable, creating an ethos of melancholy and resignation as he tries to integrate into a society that will never either accept him as an equal or even give him a chance to be a whole person.

On Clark Kent

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Being the alter ego of Superman cannot be an easy role to play. Designed to be the outward disguise of a superhero, Clark Kent was, is and always will be much more than that. Klutzy, slow, a little witless, he is supposed to an Everyman who goes to work everyday, does his working man thing, then goes home at the end of the day. One supposes that Clark only wants the things and relationships that we all want so we are not bored or lonely: a roof over our heads and a companion with which he might share his time and emotions. Yet, Clark Kent is really none of those things because he is Kal-El, he is Superman and superman, both the hero and iconic ubermann who is superior in all ways to those around him. His very role as hero with exceptional powers prohibits him from having a normal relationship with others, so his pretend public persona must appear inferior in a variety of ways to other men so that he might fit in. The existence of Clark Kent presents a strange paradox between the ideal man and a real man, with all his failings, faults, and problems. His ineptitude is magnified and enhanced by the strange problem of trying to date a woman who is in love with his “super” self and uninterested in his fallible human alter ego. Lois Lane only has eyes for Superman, but couldn’t be less interested in the bumbling office mate who always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is very un-super of him. In other words, being Superman has no real benefits other than being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, a skill most can do without. Being Superman is, then, a bittersweet situation: you can impress the ladies with your physique, but the tender side of your personality has to stay locked up and caged. Superman is not just Superman, he is also Clark Kent, and vice versa, which means that both characters are facades for a larger character that has seen fit to split his personality, a la Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in order to function in a larger society. No one wants a tender and caring Superman, but Clark is supposed to be less than graceful, even weak. Eventually, the integrated character Superman/Clark Kent must come to terms with their existential conundrum of who they might really be, a character that is neither Superman nor Clark Kent. The general public craves the presence of Superman with all the ethical and moral burdens implicit in that relationship, making Clark Kent an interesting mask behind which the superhero might hide without being asked to save the world: no one expects Mr. Kent to do anything but bring Lois a fresh cup of coffee and sharpen the pencils–a primitive analogue for keeping the computer booted and running. Clark Kent must even feign a reserved masculinity in order to deflect interest from himself as if his own sexuality inhabited a liminal non-sexual space that is neither male nor female, almost a eunuch as it were, the complete opposite of “the man of steel.” Nevertheless, Kal-El does not permanently go around as a superhero because that persona is more sustainable than Clark Kent. The brooding super-human character of the hero must suffer constantly from an existential anxiety of purpose, ideals, identity, future, ethics, and violence. Perhaps it is that last things that so divides him from his alter ego, a peaceful, non-fighter who eschews violence while seeking non-violent solutions whenever possible. The internal battle between the hero and his non-heroic alter ego is constant, ongoing, and unresolvable, creating an ethos of melancholy and resignation as he tries to integrate into a society that will never either accept him as an equal or even give him a chance to be a whole person.

On name tags

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Name tags are weird. I just spent three days with a name tag hanging from my neck, but I’m not sure how I feel about that. Of course I don’t remember people’s names from year to year, but the name tag is a constant reminder of how bad my memory really is. What’s worse is that the names on the tags are seldom large enough to read at a distance, which means you eventually must get close enough to stare at the person’s name which is sitting conspicuously on their chest. Staring at another person’s chest to read their name tag is awkward at best, really problematic at worst, especially if the organizers of the conference have used a very tiny font on the tag. When I organized a conference a number of hears ago, I made the first name enormous in hopes of avoiding this creepy situation of staring at another person’s chest. My plan worked, but I have never seen anyone else do it ever. I was recently at a conference in Louisiana, and the name tags, for anyone over 45, were unreadable. On more than one occasion I found myself staring creepily at name tags trying to decipher the tiny hieroglyphics printed on them. Name tags are supposed to promote communication, help us to identify people we’ve never met, simplify complicated meetings of people who are unfamiliar with each other, identify members of the party–we all wear the same tag so we all pertain to the same social club. When name tags are not name tags, i.e., they do not disambiguate, then communication and community are not served and chaos and miscommunication ensue. If the name tag is the sign, logos, the signified signifying, then it can only function to disambiguate individuals if it is readable beyond its sign as tag. Indeed, the meaning of the tag must transcend the tag if it is to function at all. If the name is not readable, then the name is under erasure and the meaning is null. The physical properties of the name tag must be such that the tag differentiates all wearers of the tag as an individual who is a part of a greater whole. The individual name tag functions as an extension of any individual’s identity, publicly announcing to all interested parties the uniqueness of each tag wearer. This is fundamental to the correct function of many social conventions, especially where security is of some importance–photos are often added to increase identification and help with disambiguation. Yet, are we our name tags or are we our name tags with the names crossed out? I found a name tag on the floor this morning and both name and institution were crossed out as if the wearer were suffering from some sort of existential crisis that ended in discarding the tag and rejecting its reductionist conclusions about identity and logos. Name tags are an outward sign of meaning, but they can only be artificial substitutes for real communication and strange simulacra of life.

On name tags

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Name tags are weird. I just spent three days with a name tag hanging from my neck, but I’m not sure how I feel about that. Of course I don’t remember people’s names from year to year, but the name tag is a constant reminder of how bad my memory really is. What’s worse is that the names on the tags are seldom large enough to read at a distance, which means you eventually must get close enough to stare at the person’s name which is sitting conspicuously on their chest. Staring at another person’s chest to read their name tag is awkward at best, really problematic at worst, especially if the organizers of the conference have used a very tiny font on the tag. When I organized a conference a number of hears ago, I made the first name enormous in hopes of avoiding this creepy situation of staring at another person’s chest. My plan worked, but I have never seen anyone else do it ever. I was recently at a conference in Louisiana, and the name tags, for anyone over 45, were unreadable. On more than one occasion I found myself staring creepily at name tags trying to decipher the tiny hieroglyphics printed on them. Name tags are supposed to promote communication, help us to identify people we’ve never met, simplify complicated meetings of people who are unfamiliar with each other, identify members of the party–we all wear the same tag so we all pertain to the same social club. When name tags are not name tags, i.e., they do not disambiguate, then communication and community are not served and chaos and miscommunication ensue. If the name tag is the sign, logos, the signified signifying, then it can only function to disambiguate individuals if it is readable beyond its sign as tag. Indeed, the meaning of the tag must transcend the tag if it is to function at all. If the name is not readable, then the name is under erasure and the meaning is null. The physical properties of the name tag must be such that the tag differentiates all wearers of the tag as an individual who is a part of a greater whole. The individual name tag functions as an extension of any individual’s identity, publicly announcing to all interested parties the uniqueness of each tag wearer. This is fundamental to the correct function of many social conventions, especially where security is of some importance–photos are often added to increase identification and help with disambiguation. Yet, are we our name tags or are we our name tags with the names crossed out? I found a name tag on the floor this morning and both name and institution were crossed out as if the wearer were suffering from some sort of existential crisis that ended in discarding the tag and rejecting its reductionist conclusions about identity and logos. Name tags are an outward sign of meaning, but they can only be artificial substitutes for real communication and strange simulacra of life.

On cryptic musings and strange interludes

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Have you ever been fed up with having to act rational all the time? I guess it is expected, but the frustrations and failures that can wreck your day can also wreck your beautifully constructed rational empiricist front that you use like armor all day. I am supposed to be the answer man that can solve any mystery, figure out any conundrum. Yet I am faced regularly with all sorts of strange and unsolvable dilemmas that have few solutions or perhaps none at all. Happiness and sadness are a common dialectic that people want to understand, but I’m not sure that emotions are frequently understandable, logical, or empirical. The meaning of life may be no meaning at all, or it may have to do with the existential dark side inherent in the human soul. There are days, however, when I wonder about my own soul and this odd journey through time and space that often seems to be an arbitrary and fictional dream with no point of temporal or spatial reference that makes any sense. So space is expanding? Into what? I ask. Some other space? Everybody seems to be living the same dream, but there is nothing continuous about this fragmented, broken, chaotic, non-linear, and discontinuous narrative we call life. Words fail me (well, almost, but not really). Can we even ask the right questions about reality given the finite bounds of language, syntax, and semantics that limit both our thinking and our expression in ways that we cannot even begin to imagine because we are always bounded by the limits and inadequacies of language? We don’t even know that we aren’t asking the right questions about reality because our reality is constructed out of language. Perhaps the artists and poets have intuited that there is more to life than what the banal quotidian language of daily life has lead us to believe. Only by breaking language, destroying syntax, vilifying semantics and ignoring usage can we begin to see beyond the Black Friday of mindless consumerism and take back the orphaned human imagination and give it back its job of providing new ideas and promoting new ways of seeing that transcend the blind pack of popular wolves that would dumb us down and make us all speak the same idiot language of mass communication and digital mummification that has kidnapped originality, creativity, and individuality. I don’t want to be like anyone else. Life is to short to let others tell you how to life it or to give in to peer pressure about what is acceptable or what is right. Pop culture kills brain cells, stifles personal initiative, stomps out creativity, erases imaginations, suppresses spontaneity, silences voices. We often fear what the neighbors might think unless our lawn is perfect, we won’t buy beverages in the grocery store foe fear of being spotted, we won’t kiss in public because others might be uncomfortable, the car must be washed, your suit pressed, your tie silk. So we fight about religion, politics and sex, but we don’t make original or heartfelt arguments, we parrot the crap that comes out of the television, forgetting all the while that we might be creating something of our own, making something new.

On cryptic musings and strange interludes

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Have you ever been fed up with having to act rational all the time? I guess it is expected, but the frustrations and failures that can wreck your day can also wreck your beautifully constructed rational empiricist front that you use like armor all day. I am supposed to be the answer man that can solve any mystery, figure out any conundrum. Yet I am faced regularly with all sorts of strange and unsolvable dilemmas that have few solutions or perhaps none at all. Happiness and sadness are a common dialectic that people want to understand, but I’m not sure that emotions are frequently understandable, logical, or empirical. The meaning of life may be no meaning at all, or it may have to do with the existential dark side inherent in the human soul. There are days, however, when I wonder about my own soul and this odd journey through time and space that often seems to be an arbitrary and fictional dream with no point of temporal or spatial reference that makes any sense. So space is expanding? Into what? I ask. Some other space? Everybody seems to be living the same dream, but there is nothing continuous about this fragmented, broken, chaotic, non-linear, and discontinuous narrative we call life. Words fail me (well, almost, but not really). Can we even ask the right questions about reality given the finite bounds of language, syntax, and semantics that limit both our thinking and our expression in ways that we cannot even begin to imagine because we are always bounded by the limits and inadequacies of language? We don’t even know that we aren’t asking the right questions about reality because our reality is constructed out of language. Perhaps the artists and poets have intuited that there is more to life than what the banal quotidian language of daily life has lead us to believe. Only by breaking language, destroying syntax, vilifying semantics and ignoring usage can we begin to see beyond the Black Friday of mindless consumerism and take back the orphaned human imagination and give it back its job of providing new ideas and promoting new ways of seeing that transcend the blind pack of popular wolves that would dumb us down and make us all speak the same idiot language of mass communication and digital mummification that has kidnapped originality, creativity, and individuality. I don’t want to be like anyone else. Life is to short to let others tell you how to life it or to give in to peer pressure about what is acceptable or what is right. Pop culture kills brain cells, stifles personal initiative, stomps out creativity, erases imaginations, suppresses spontaneity, silences voices. We often fear what the neighbors might think unless our lawn is perfect, we won’t buy beverages in the grocery store foe fear of being spotted, we won’t kiss in public because others might be uncomfortable, the car must be washed, your suit pressed, your tie silk. So we fight about religion, politics and sex, but we don’t make original or heartfelt arguments, we parrot the crap that comes out of the television, forgetting all the while that we might be creating something of our own, making something new.

On Gilgamesh

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The epic of Gilgamesh is an old story. Men, writers, thinkers, poets, have tinkered with narrative story-lines for millenia trying to explain the human condition–tragedy, comedy, pain, suffering, desire, love, hunger, solitude, companionship, passion, existential angst, laughter. By constructing a hero, a Gilgamesh or an Enkidu, the storyteller can begin to explore the mystery that is the human person, and the greatest of all these mysteries is death, the trip from which none return, leaving it a mystery by definition. Friendship, companionship, love, these are other mysteries that the Gilgamesh poet explores, but he is a dark poet who not only investigates the joys of friendship, he also shares the pain of loss with his public. There is no joy without pain, no light without darkness, no parties wihout solitude. By giving Gilgamesh things to do, places to go, questions to answer, the poet shares his insights into the human experiment. The poem, then, is a commentary, right or wrong, on what it means to be truly human, to share the grand contraditions of life and death, the pain, the joy, the melancholy, the boredom, the tedium, the excitement, the triumphs, the failures over which man or woman has very little (or no) control. Reading the poem, one is immediately struck by the arbitrary nature of all that happens, seemingly independent of what the charaters desire, want, or work for. The poet ponders the question of how this can be. How is it that the gods have reserved life for themselves and given man over to death? If this is the case then how can anything here on earth mean anything or make any difference? Why bother to do anything if we eventually all end up in the underworld in the hall of the dead? Yet, contrarily, the poet suggests, that in spite the finite nature of life, there is so much to do and think, so many experiences to have, so many hunts, so much investigation, and at one point a character admonishes a depressed Gilgamesh (who has almost given up the will to live as he grieves the loss of his friend, Enkidu) to eat, drink and be merry because that is what he can do, and that bemoaning his outcast state will not bring back his friend. The Gilgamesh poet is parsing his existential angst, sorting out the why’s and the where to for’s in an attempt to explain who we are–people, men, women, teachers, singers, brick-layers, bread-makers, weavers, poets, actors, athletes, soldiers, priests. The poet is, however, skeptical, unsure of his answers, leaving them in front of his public more like suggestions than good theories. The ambiguity inherent in the text suggests that the text is ironic, not romantic, and that the hero is more fallable and more vulnerable than he would like. Culture, civilization, society, cities, conventions are all on trial here, but there is also a certain inevitibility built into the text whose own existence speaks to the organization of culture, poetry and art four millennium after the story was originally carved into those magical tablets.

On Gilgamesh

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The epic of Gilgamesh is an old story. Men, writers, thinkers, poets, have tinkered with narrative story-lines for millenia trying to explain the human condition–tragedy, comedy, pain, suffering, desire, love, hunger, solitude, companionship, passion, existential angst, laughter. By constructing a hero, a Gilgamesh or an Enkidu, the storyteller can begin to explore the mystery that is the human person, and the greatest of all these mysteries is death, the trip from which none return, leaving it a mystery by definition. Friendship, companionship, love, these are other mysteries that the Gilgamesh poet explores, but he is a dark poet who not only investigates the joys of friendship, he also shares the pain of loss with his public. There is no joy without pain, no light without darkness, no parties wihout solitude. By giving Gilgamesh things to do, places to go, questions to answer, the poet shares his insights into the human experiment. The poem, then, is a commentary, right or wrong, on what it means to be truly human, to share the grand contraditions of life and death, the pain, the joy, the melancholy, the boredom, the tedium, the excitement, the triumphs, the failures over which man or woman has very little (or no) control. Reading the poem, one is immediately struck by the arbitrary nature of all that happens, seemingly independent of what the charaters desire, want, or work for. The poet ponders the question of how this can be. How is it that the gods have reserved life for themselves and given man over to death? If this is the case then how can anything here on earth mean anything or make any difference? Why bother to do anything if we eventually all end up in the underworld in the hall of the dead? Yet, contrarily, the poet suggests, that in spite the finite nature of life, there is so much to do and think, so many experiences to have, so many hunts, so much investigation, and at one point a character admonishes a depressed Gilgamesh (who has almost given up the will to live as he grieves the loss of his friend, Enkidu) to eat, drink and be merry because that is what he can do, and that bemoaning his outcast state will not bring back his friend. The Gilgamesh poet is parsing his existential angst, sorting out the why’s and the where to for’s in an attempt to explain who we are–people, men, women, teachers, singers, brick-layers, bread-makers, weavers, poets, actors, athletes, soldiers, priests. The poet is, however, skeptical, unsure of his answers, leaving them in front of his public more like suggestions than good theories. The ambiguity inherent in the text suggests that the text is ironic, not romantic, and that the hero is more fallable and more vulnerable than he would like. Culture, civilization, society, cities, conventions are all on trial here, but there is also a certain inevitibility built into the text whose own existence speaks to the organization of culture, poetry and art four millennium after the story was originally carved into those magical tablets.

On caprice

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It is summer, time for vacations and excursions, time for new experiences, getting away from home, meeting new people, trying new foods, exploring new landscapes, escaping the normal, the everyday, the humdrum, letting caprice carry you away. Yes, for all you rational empiricists, caprice is a naughty word associated with irrational and illogical behavior bordering on insanity. Caprice is about wanting things you shouldn’t want, doing things on the spur of the moment, letting go of the controlled life. For many people, caprice is childish and foolish. One should be able to live their whole life without being either spontaneous or unpredictable. All of life should be planned, logical, thought out, reasonable, predictable, and unsurprising. I know lots of people like this, and they are wonderful, if not a little boring. Caprice, on the other hand, can lead to all sorts of trouble: one might eat too much chocolate or ice cream, or heaven forbid, to much chocolate ice cream. No one needs chocolate ice cream for any reason whatsoever, so it is a caprice. Caprice might mean staying up too late to watch an old movie about good guys and bad guys, beautiful dangerous women, whiskey, big cars and palatial estates where some old guy grows orchids he hates. Nobody needs any of that. Caprice might mean eating that lobster as opposed to watching it swim in its aquarium. Nobody needs lobster, and besides, eating lobster usually leads to drinking white wine with someone you love, and of course, love only leads to rack and ruin, so lobster is a caprice. Life’s caprices will ruin your heavily structured, well-toned life of predictable and good behavior. Caprice is almost always about being bad, wanting something that is not good for you, getting something that is bad for you. Jetting off to Paris is a caprice because no one really needs to go to Paris when they have everything they really need in the United States, probably at the mall just down the street, or maybe even closer in that big box retailer on the corner near your house. And heaven forbid you should go to Madrid, which is full of caprices: lobster, flamenco, bull-fighting, the Prado, tapas, red wine, terraces, handsome people, wild night life, and chocolate ice cream. You might as well throw in the towel if you go there because you will be assaulted on all sides by unwelcome caprice of all kinds. You might lose control of your well-tailored life, of your managed respectability, of your over-sculpted identity. Caprice is a bad thing, no question about it. Stay at home and eat rice cakes. Drive a four-door, respectable, good-mileage sedan with an automatic transmission. Caprice can have nothing to do with your well-run life. Please stay away from other people, roses, fast cars, jazz, art museums (all sorts), bars, restaurants that offer lobster and/or chocolate ice cream, and airports, which only leads to flying and before you know it, you’re eating lobster on some beach where half-nude people are sipping drinks with little umbrellas in them. Don’t be tempted. Stay away from caprice and live your life.

On caprice

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It is summer, time for vacations and excursions, time for new experiences, getting away from home, meeting new people, trying new foods, exploring new landscapes, escaping the normal, the everyday, the humdrum, letting caprice carry you away. Yes, for all you rational empiricists, caprice is a naughty word associated with irrational and illogical behavior bordering on insanity. Caprice is about wanting things you shouldn’t want, doing things on the spur of the moment, letting go of the controlled life. For many people, caprice is childish and foolish. One should be able to live their whole life without being either spontaneous or unpredictable. All of life should be planned, logical, thought out, reasonable, predictable, and unsurprising. I know lots of people like this, and they are wonderful, if not a little boring. Caprice, on the other hand, can lead to all sorts of trouble: one might eat too much chocolate or ice cream, or heaven forbid, to much chocolate ice cream. No one needs chocolate ice cream for any reason whatsoever, so it is a caprice. Caprice might mean staying up too late to watch an old movie about good guys and bad guys, beautiful dangerous women, whiskey, big cars and palatial estates where some old guy grows orchids he hates. Nobody needs any of that. Caprice might mean eating that lobster as opposed to watching it swim in its aquarium. Nobody needs lobster, and besides, eating lobster usually leads to drinking white wine with someone you love, and of course, love only leads to rack and ruin, so lobster is a caprice. Life’s caprices will ruin your heavily structured, well-toned life of predictable and good behavior. Caprice is almost always about being bad, wanting something that is not good for you, getting something that is bad for you. Jetting off to Paris is a caprice because no one really needs to go to Paris when they have everything they really need in the United States, probably at the mall just down the street, or maybe even closer in that big box retailer on the corner near your house. And heaven forbid you should go to Madrid, which is full of caprices: lobster, flamenco, bull-fighting, the Prado, tapas, red wine, terraces, handsome people, wild night life, and chocolate ice cream. You might as well throw in the towel if you go there because you will be assaulted on all sides by unwelcome caprice of all kinds. You might lose control of your well-tailored life, of your managed respectability, of your over-sculpted identity. Caprice is a bad thing, no question about it. Stay at home and eat rice cakes. Drive a four-door, respectable, good-mileage sedan with an automatic transmission. Caprice can have nothing to do with your well-run life. Please stay away from other people, roses, fast cars, jazz, art museums (all sorts), bars, restaurants that offer lobster and/or chocolate ice cream, and airports, which only leads to flying and before you know it, you’re eating lobster on some beach where half-nude people are sipping drinks with little umbrellas in them. Don’t be tempted. Stay away from caprice and live your life.