Skin like tissue paper.

Since Elizabeth Warren declared her intentions to challenge Scott Brown on his Senatorial reelection bid, she has become increasingly vocal—not an uncommon strategy for a blossoming politician. What was uncommon, however, was what she chose to say, or more specifically, whom she chose to reference at a recent gathering of supporters. 

There is nobody in this country who got rich on his own. Nobody. You built a factory out there—good for you. But I want to be clear. You moved your goods to a market on the roads the rest of us paid for. You hired workers the rest of us paid to educate. You were safe in your factory because of police forces and fire forces that the rest of us paid for. You didn’t have to worry that marauding bands would come and seize everything at your factory. 

Now look, you built a factory and it turned into something terrific or a great idea. God bless! Keep a big hunk of it. But part of the underlying social contract is you take a hunk of that and pay forward for the next kid who comes along.

Despite its refreshing honesty, this might not seem like a radical position from a Democratic candidate until you consider its original source: hold on, conservatives—Adam Smith

Yes, that Adam Smith—beloved by so-called ‘fiscal conservatives’ for his economic metaphor: the invisible hand. From his 1776 work An Inquiry Into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations:

The woolen-coat, for example… is the produce of the joint labor of a great multitude of workmen. The shepherd, the sorter of the wool, the wool-comber or carder, the dyer, the scribbler, the spinner, the weaver, the fuller, the dresser, with many others, must all join their different arts in order to complete even this homely production. How many merchants and carriers, besides, must have been employed in transporting the materials from some of those workmen to others who often live in a very distant part of the country! How much commerce and navigation in particular, how many ship-builders, sailors, sail-makers, rope-makers, must have been employed in order to bring together the different drugs made use of by the dyer, which often come from the remotest corners of the world! What a variety of labor too is necessary in order to produce the tools of the meanest of those workmen! To say nothing of such complicated machines as the ship of the sailor, the mill of the fuller, or even the loom of the weaver, let us consider only what a variety of labor is requisite in order to form that very simple machine, the shears with which the shepherd clips the wool. The miner, the builder of the furnace for smelting the ore, the feller of the timber, the burner of the charcoal to be made use of in the smelting-house, the brick-maker, the brick-layer, the workmen who attend the furnace, the mill-wright, the forger, the smith, must all of them join their different arts in order to produce them. 

During his presentation of the American Jobs Act, President Obama recently stated: “No single individual built America on their own. We built it together.” Cooperation and progress—this, as Smith knew and Warren knows, is how a modern civilization works.

My brother and his then-girlfriend lived in New York City on September 11, 2001. He told me once how his girlfriend, who was home from work, walked to the local movie rental store after hearing of the attacks. She rented four films, all of which depicted the end of the world in their cinematic glory.

It’s with this in mind that I think of my own girlfriend as she watches replays of the tragic events ten years later. Personally, I have neither the stomach nor the patience to watch the uninformed speculation from that day over and over again without hope that the pundits got it wrong. I know how the story ends and I don’t need perpetual reminding. But she sits there with tears in her eyes, expecting the burst of flames that will spill from the sides of the buildings, the bodies that will leap from impossible heights for desperate escape, the final collapse.

It’s not that I don’t feel the victims deserve recognition and tribute—I do, obviously. I just can’t sit there knowing what I know. Pity and regret only get one so far. September 11th is really the only event that affects me in this way, probably because I was in 7th grade when the attack occurred and I’m an adult now—at least I pretend to be. Part of me knows that I need to accept the world as it is—imperfect, unforgiving, and dangerous; another part wants to continue believing that my present life is far removed from my former self.

I wonder to myself: among the three of us, who is the most sick.

“Who is John Galt?”

This simple question—by this point, asked to death—is the refrain of Ayn Rand’s 1957 novel Atlas Shrugged. The mere mention of Mr. Galt is enough to make those on the left roll their eyes to the point of exertion, and make those on the right stand up and salute the Gadsden flag—even if they don’t know understand why.

This question has been treated like Representative Ron Paul—largely acknowledged for its association to a fringe philosophy and mostly ignored by those involved with mainstream politics. During Paul’s 2008 presidential campaign, the phrase “Who is Ron Paul?” was printed on t-shirts to increase awareness of the Republican candidate with libertarian tendencies and, at the same time, the Objectivist philosophy of Rand.

Since 2008, awareness has increased, as is evident by Rep. Paul’s second place finish in the Ames Straw Poll and the rise in Rand’s book sales.¹ Beyond that, leading GOP presidential candidates are echoing talking points that Paul has been hitting for years, which, until recently, have been espoused mostly by conspiracy theorists.^2 3 4 5

This attention shift to the far right is due in large part to the small, but vocal, Tea Party, a supposedly grassroots organization that is very upset with their current tax rate, despite the fact that they are the lowest they have been in fifty years. ⁶ But Tea Party influence, as we now know, is not a genuine grassroots effort.⁷ On the contrary, it is a political machine funded by libertarian billionaires focused on stirring anger within the nation and electing Republicans.⁸ 

It’s hard to imagine a single event that would render the Tea Party less influential more than their own seemingly endless march away from political reality and into the ocean. That doesn’t mean they should be ignored. In fact, I believe that those on the left should engage directly in intellectual debate with Tea Partiers—however daunting that may seem—and answer the question first posed by Rand in 1957. We should tell them exactly who Galt is. 

John Galt is not your average, truck-drivin’, beer-sippin’, working-class American. Educated at the fictional Patrick Henry University—“the most prestigious” university in the world—at the age of sixteen, he became an engineer who eventually lead an intellectual strike to protest management policies—despite my disagreements with the man, he recognizes the power of a union. As a member of the industrialist class, Galt has more in common with the financiers of the Tea Party than with the street-level protesters carrying the signs on which his name is written. But above all else, Galt is a symbol of Rand’s Objectivism, a philosophy that is so grounded in self-interest, that the idea of a community thriving under its application in Galt’s Gulch, let alone in a modern society, is laughable in its absurdity. 

Regardless of these differences, the leaders and funders of this most recent anti-government crusade will continue to distort Rand’s philosophy as fact until their political goals are met or we all drown. Until then, I will remind myself—thankfully—that I am not John Galt: there is something greater than myself and I am humble because of it.

We would all do well to reflect on Objectivism and what it would mean for the modern, globalized economy with so much need. Some prophets speak of compassion, others of the free market—both have varying degrees of success. But with the current state of politics, along with renewed interest in Randian thought, I can’t help but wonder: “is this Ron’s fault?”

One can only spend so much time interpreting dreams. The subtle art has little basis in reality besides the meaning we ourselves imagine the illusions deserve. We have no place, really, deciding what our nightly visions ought or ought not symbolize, do or do not reveal.

With that said, last night—the first in many nights that I’ve slept soundly throughout—I dreamt that I was alone, standing in front of a well-lighted, unfamiliar sink.  I looked at myself in the mirror, wiggled both canines on the top row of my mouth, and pulled one loose, as simply as removing a celery stalk from its root.

It didn’t hurt—inside or outside of the dream.  There was no blood.

Now comes the part where, despite what he wrote above, the author searches his immediate and distant memory for that single powerful, repressed source that leads directly to this phantasm of folk dentistry. But where does he start? There are any number of events that could try to drip their way through the enigmatic sieve that is the subconscious.

A brief internet search suggested many possible reasons for the dream—my favorite being that I feel powerless in my life, without control. This mysterious sage—who probably knows less about reading dreams than he does about me—may be right. Why else would I have searched for answers at the place where people debate the meanings of poems?

Last December my girlfriend and I drove from Blue Virginia to Red Virginia, bundled up and prepared for the worst. We were shopping for our first Christmas tree and both recognized the difficulties that come with blending two traditions. We walked through rows of trees, all of which seemed to be too tall, too wide, or too sparse—too something. Finally we decided, together, on the best tree given our modest budget. We cut it down, carried it to the car, and prepared for the ride home, when the real debate would begin.

I admit that I have, perhaps, an unnatural affinity for nostalgia. When Thanksgiving comes and goes, I am forced to delay the delight of Christmas songs until December 1st—a rule to which most radio stations no longer subscribe—lest my loved ones become annoyed with their constant repetition and I end up outside, alone in the snow, wrapped in Holiday Cheer. It is for this reason, that I insist, as I always have, on the Christmas lights of my childhood: large, multi-colored lights that reflect off the branches of the tree and bring a Yuletide warmth that reminds one of the simplicity of the days in which they were invented.

My girlfriend, on the other hand, finds these lights detestable and will not have them under her roof. She prefers, bless her soul, the more contemporary small, single-colored bulbs that hang off the tree like fluorescent teardrops.

Conflict was imminent.

This car ride home reminds me of the current negotiations (and I use this term loosely in this context) currently taking place regarding the nation’s debt ceiling. Politics is full of domestic analogies, one of my favorites being the “if-average-Americans-must-balance-their-budgets-so-too-should-the-American-government”—as if the two are on equal planes, facing comparable challenges. Even if they were, some members of Congress are showing, as economic disaster looms, that they have no grasp of the foundation of modern domesticity—compromise.

Republican leaders are either unable or unwilling to deal with a group of right-wing extremists—a group whose views of the American government are reinforced by the impasse they themselves have created, and which has shown, time and again, no interest in being reasonable with their colleagues on either side of the aisle.

This is certainly not the only example of poor leadership throughout the crisis. Some have forgotten the courage that a leader must possess. And through this cowardice, the GOP and their unpredictable sub-faction have succeeded in holding the US economy hostage, and turning responsible action into would-be legislation that’s so far right you would think they alone sat in both chambers and the Oval Office.

Zero revenue increases and $2.8 trillion dollars in cuts to government departments would never have passed a reasonable legislative body if it weren’t attached to the necessary condition of raising the debt ceiling. The only articles it appears the GOP was not granted, was an amendment to the constitution that originated outside the realm of reality and a section that demands we all go through this process again in six months. This is not what compromise looks like.

It seems, then, that Republican leaders, in their inability to engage in reasonable political discourse, are just as much to blame for this lopsided deal as are the Democratic leaders, many of whom seem unable to hold ground on their principles. The constituents of both parties deserve better.

Above all else, Americans deserve from their leaders, at such a volatile time for our nation’s economy: compromise—concessions and demands in equal measure, like small, multi-colored lights that signify the unity of a functional home.

McSweeney’s Internet Tendencies, years ago, posted a group of thirteen writing prompts, which writers used as inspiration for an essay contest judged by the editors. I’ve missed the deadline, but this isn’t for them anyway.

The prompt that intrigued me most read thus:

A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn’t that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.

Fucked up indeed. The winning essayist wrote on this prompt, telling a warm and dark story about the abandonment felt by the larvae; the bond that developed between the hatchlings and their host; and the reluctant, though necessary, consumption of the “Other Mother.”

The author did a nice job of giving emotions to the often unfeeling world outside of our human web and wrote beautifully.  But there is more at play here. 

What’s most unsettling about the prompt, for me anyway, is the idea of being eaten inside out, still living.  I wonder, though, if being eaten from the inside still living is worse than being eaten from the outside still living.  There can’t be much of a difference in pain—being eaten is being eaten is being eaten.  It must be then, at least in part, the psychology of “from the inside out.”  There’s a lack of control associated with this term, a difficulty to understand that which is present though not visible.  It also creates a degree of urgency—that which hopes to harm has already defeated immediate, physical defenses—all that’s left is to wait. Helplessness, I suppose, is the result. 

Compared to the innocent hatchlings’ feeding practices—they are just eating what’s in front of them—the wasp seems rather cruel in its birthing method.  The wasp paralyzes the spider such that the arachnid becomes a host in which the wasp’s young may survive. Eventually the spider will die from the actions of the wasp, one beast dead for the sake of another, and this seems selfish if not unnaturally ruthless.  Nature is a constant cycle of animals dying for one another, but rarely in such an unforgiving manner—after all, the lion need not paralyze the gazelle, etc.

What’s important here is perspective. The Fucked Up-ness of that situation depends on the wasp being the only animal committing this sort of action. It isn’t, of course: spiders capture their prey in a web before paralyzing, wrapping, and killing their victims. (Note: I recognize tarantulas are not among the species of arachnid that hunt in this manner.  The point stands, if slightly damaged by lack of continuity.) The situation becomes less fucked up when the tarantula hawk is not the only animal living so grimly; less still when a spider uses similar means to hunt wasps. Situations that often seem cruel from one side, become less so when viewed from both.

The major difference then, is that the wasp is paralyzing and killing to maintain its species, while the spider is paralyzing and killing to maintain itself.  Varying degrees of selfishness exist even in Nature. 

Tennyson’s poem has been with me for days now. His language and rhythm, the characterization of the great Ithacan, the structure (alone reason for reflection and debate: eleven lines for Telemachus, but two words for Penelope?): all of these wonderful aspects—a few among many—create a poem, the depth of which is astounding given its length. 

But what is perhaps most interesting is the setting of this poem, which takes place following “Homer’s” well-known epic of Odysseus’ return from Troy to Ithaca, where suitors are wooing his wife, consuming his wealth, and causing a general, often alcohol-fueled, commotion. Odysseus returned, of course, and long story short: he killed those disloyal to him, slept with his wife after a twenty-year absence, and went on a strange side adventure with his son and father—three generations of hero fighting one beside the other. But during this epic, the reader learned that while Odysseus reaches his home shore, he will in old age again voyage the sea, where he will die. Furthermore: Odysseus knows and understands his fate. Stated by the blind seer Tiresias to the king, Butler’s translation:

As for yourself, death shall come to you from the sea, and your life shall ebb away very gently when you are full of years and peace of mind, and your people shall bless you. All that I have said will come true. (XI.134-6)

This brings us back to Tennyson, whose poem depicts the hero, overlooking Ithaca’s port in preparation for his return to the sea—to adventure despite his age—a return that he recognizes may be his last: “It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles.” 

We see then, a bit of Homer’s Achilles in Tennyson’s Odysseus: a hero who understands the connection between adventure and death, yet chooses that path regardless. Like Achilles, who fights and dies outside the walls of Ilium lest he return home and have his name forgotten, Odysseus will sail from the safety of his shore, a safety he sought for ten years (on and off), and for which he faced numerous challenges. He chooses to leave his city, his son, and his wife for the unforgiving waves that he knows all too well. 

Tennyson’s poem can be read as a warning to the dangers of over-seeking intellectualism: “To follow knowledge like a sinking star, beyond the utmost bound of human thought”; a danger not unlike setting sail into the dark waves, where an uncertain death certainly awaits. But there is, however, another message that transcends this bleak view,  and that is the danger of dormancy, of stopping, staying put, no longer learning, growing, or developing. It is this, I believe, that Tennyson’s Odysseus seeks in adventure and that he fears more than death.

The question is this: which is truly more dangerous—over-seeking or sitting still? Complacency is something that I hope I will never get used to, even as my undergraduate career comes to a close and the time seems nigh. One must seek activity—mental, physical, cultural. But more importantly, and something Tennyson did not address specifically: one must seek the correct activity. For some this may indeed be knowledge, or work, or family, or some separate hobby, but it takes a willingness to search—yes, to depart from the safety of Ithaca, regardless of how hard you worked to achieve that safety. Whatever the activity, it’s vital, I think, that one not become complacent in his space. Seek the waves, not the shore. Comfort can be dangerous in its own way.

The poem ends beautifully with Odysseus acknowledging his flaws (as flawed as a Greek hero can be), contrasting himself with the gods; citing heroism, dulled “by time and fate”; and reminding the reader of those attributes that first made the King of Ithaca a hero: “but strong in will, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

There lies the port, the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark broad seas.  My mariners, 
Souls that have toil’d and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 
Death closes all:  but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
The long day wanes:  the slow moon climbs:  the deep 
Moans round with many voices.  Come, my friends, 
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved heaven and earth; that which we are, we are; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

(Tennyson, “Ulysses”)

I wonder the identity of this lost earring’s owner. Well, I’m interested less in her identity and more in her response to the missing piece, though that would certainly give me a rough sketch of her personality. She probably removed the partner when she noticed this earring was missing, lest she move throughout her day with a self-conscious unevenness (not to be confused with an uneven self-consciousness). Maybe she just threw it away—why carry around half a pair? Maybe she holds hope for finding this earring, which lies on the floor of Logan International Airport, and buried its counterpart deep in her purse (that graveyard of leather or cloth or something else), unaware that she might never find what she’s lost. Or maybe its weight is negligible—I didn’t pick it up—and she hasn’t even noticed it’s missing. She will have to wait for a friend to inform her of the undressed lobe. I hope no one is embarrassed by the situation. These things happen.  

Still, I would much prefer to know what I’m missing, piece together the day’s events, and imagine that it was lost to unavoidable circumstance, than to remain oblivious to the fact that anything was missing at all—not that one would ever have that choice to make. But if one did, who would choose to remain oblivious? Ignorance, it turns out, is not bliss, especially if you’re walking around with an uneven head. For the record, I guess: known deficiencies, which can be recognized and corrected (or an attempt, at least!), I can handle; unacknowledged missing pieces, a perpetual lack of self-understanding, not so much.