The 505 High Middle Low

Write: In Ch. 8 Lanham writes of the low, middle, and high styles of writing, as did Yagoda in Sound Ch. 2. Using Lanham and Yagoda as guides, compose an original piece of nonfiction prose of 500-750 words in one of the three styles mentioned. Then revise the piece to reflect the remaining two styles. For example, if you compose something in a middle style, revise it to also reflect a low and high style. Submit all three styles.

High Style

Kneel before the cross, salute the flag, curtsy before your queen, press the constituent flesh, put your hand over your heart…and “let us bow our heads.”

Symbols matter. Gestures matter. It is axiomatic almost to the point of pedantic to aver that symbols and gestures matter. The wielding power of symbols and gestures no doubt predates cities. Symbols and gestures are necessary conditions for civilization as known.
Symbols can be rallied around; they can accumulate sentiment and broadcast what exactly is at stake, what is cared about, and what is aspired to, for multitudes of populations.

Envision the iconic picture of the flag planting at Iwo Jima. The picture now a symbol: the flag a symbol dating to the seventeenth century.

Gestures can signify profound respect: a stiff-armed salute, crisp and snapped required for your superior officer, a curtsy for the queen to let her know her, and your, status, a genuflection to your opponent...all of them important, symbolic of. The lack of a gesture can signify profound disrespect, abasement, inequality, elitism, carelessness, meaninglessness, even nihilism in the eyes of some.

Symbols and gestures, or their lack, have real-world consequences. If you doubt this veracity, spit on the bible in front of the local parish, burn a flag outside the local municipal building, or draw a swastika on outgoing mail.

Many citizens were profoundly offended by some players’ lack of gesture during the playing of the national anthem before NFL games. The anthem a powerful symbol of perilous fight and proof that our flag, was and is still there. No this is tantamount to treason. Rise, Rise, Rise for the playing of our national anthem. Disrespectful to the nth degree to not.

If the philosophers are correct, and the adage is true, that they ask good questions, then it must be queried:

Which symbols? Which gestures?

There is no consensus. There is no critical mass of one way or the other to render the answer, or even orientate in the right direction.

How much power should the symbols and gestures wield? What are the consequences for not recognizing, for not showing the proper respect? Flag burning is the moral equivalent of lighting a person on fire though any country’s flag is an inanimate object like any other, be it a colored sheet, pair of pants, or doormat that reads “go away.”

Philosophical analysis deduces that gestures and symbols are given power only though human behavior only in the form of collective, conscious agreement. Consider currency is a mere symbol - cash toted in billfolds is essentially paper with more symbols printed upon - pyramid, eye, eagle, latinate. The debit card numbers mere abstractions -ones and zeroes on the digital conveyor belt from one computer to another, but both allow the purchase of tangible materials, like Fourth of July flags or mini statues of liberty. The meaning/power assigned to gestures and symbols has the necessary and sufficient condition of agreement. Humans don’t agree to an asp as symbolic of peace or a denim rectangle at half-staff as deserving of a salute. They could.

The authentic danger isn’t symbols or gestures, it is equating. Follow the gestures and the symbols to a “t’ and one may be equated with mindless, soul-dead, conformists praying for anyone to pry their guns from their cold dead hands; fail to follow and one is equated with the slippery slope to socialism and the loss of tradition and all that is patriotic and everything “we” stand for.

This equating is roundly fallacious; the excluded middle is a menu of many possible symbols and gestures to abide by and with, just as there are virtually an infinite number of ways to say or gesture hello. Personal liberty is a noble ideal but failing to “properly” gesture doesn’t imply one isn’t a proponent of liberty; not having a choice to not gesture is the very antithesis of the personal liberty ideal.

***

Low style

Kneel before the cross! Salute the flag!

It’s so obvious that symbols and gestures are important. It couldn’t be more obvious. Their power is seen everywhere you look. Symbols and gestures make it easier for us to understand who is with us and who is against us, or at least, not with us. The Nikes on yall’s feet are a symbol of yall’s brand loyalty. Just do it!
Symbols, and even brand logos, stand for something. They tell others what we’re about, what we stand for, what’s up basically.

The ‘merican flag was planted at that Iwo Jima, not corn.

Gestures show respect: a man hug for your boys, a “sir, yes sir” whenever you talk to a cop, an ice-cold stare on the hoop court to let ballers know what’s up. All of these are important ways of letting them know...that you know. But not doing this stuff is also important. Don’t forget your “sir, yes sir” for the cops and don’t forget to man-hug your uncle at thanksgiving because forgetting is dissing.

So these symbols and gestures are a matter of cred in a sense - owed or given or not! If you doubt me on this, I dare you to spit on the bible outside your church, burn a ‘merican flag outside the po-po department, or graffiti one of them German signs under a bridge.

Think of all those people that went bat-shit crazy when those NFL players knelt during the anthem. People lost it! You know some of them got death threats. That’s how seriously some people take kneeling during a song! It’s funny because the anthem is nothing but a symbol - a song symbol but still a symbol. Just read the words: and the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night, that our flag (symbol alert!) was still there. Some folk took it personally when Kap kneeled, like he was personally disrespecting them.

I wonder though, who decides which symbols and which gestures. Was there a vote on this? Cuz I didn’t get a memo.

Besides, not everyone agrees, some want this one some want that one. Even if a bunch of people agreed, they might change their mind depending on which way the wind is blowing that day.  

And how did these things get so much power that people would lose their mind if someone kneeled during a song? It’s against the law to burn a ‘merican flag but a flag is no different from a sheet or some pants and it’s ok to burn them. Why?

But when you think about it, gestures and symbols only have power because we give them power, when we all of a sudden say ok, the flag is the so-called symbol of liberty. The money in yall’s wallet is just paper. Burns just like any other paper. But only a fool would burn money because we all decided we can buy shit with that paper. They used to use silver but what the hell is anyone going to do with silver but wear it? Unless we all decide that silver is valuable. A credit card is nothing but ones and zeros in a computer but you can use it to buy silver if you want. The point is that we all have to agree on this stuff for it to work. One disagreement throws a monkey wrench into the whole system. We could decide on a snake instead of the bald eagle or a pair of jeans for the flag - as long as we all agreed. We don’t but we could.

The problem isn’t symbols or gestures, it’s when people lump anyone who doesn’t follow their symbols and their gestures as haters or un ’merican. Or we lump the followers as rednecks and white trash and think they want to bring back slavery. This is the problem. It’s like you have to be one or the other. No in-between.

Just seems to me that it’s a lot like ordering food off a menu. Just because you like chicken and I like burgers doesn’t mean either one of us is un ’merican or a commie. Don’t eskimos have like a million words for snow? Why can’t we have a million symbols or gestures without people going nuts if we all have our choice?

Just my two cents.

***

Middle Style (transparent)

You may have heard phrases such as salute the flag, put your hand over your heart, and let us bow our heads.

These show that symbols and gestures matter. They matter a lot in fact. Symbols and gestures carry power that makes it possible for us to quickly communicate matters such as respect, rank, and loyalty to name a few -all very important concepts for large numbers of people trying to live and work together. Symbols can rally people around an ideal and display values for all to see.

Just think about the picture of the flag planting at Iwo Jima and the emotion that stirs.

Gestures can signify respect: a salute for an officer, a curtsy for a queen, a bow to an opponent. These show respect. Similarly, the lack of a gesture can signify disrespect. Consider someone not standing for the national anthem.

Acknowledging and abiding symbols and gestures, or failing to, carries consequences. If you doubt this, consider someone spitting on the bible or burning a flag or drawing a swastika on outgoing mail. What is your initial reaction?

Many were offended when some NFL players knelt during the playing of the national anthem. The anthem a powerful symbol of perilous fight and proof that our flag, another symbol, was and is still there. This was considered so disrespectful by some that the president weighed in on the matter.

Perhaps it bears asking which symbols and which gestures are the ones everyone needs to adhere to.

There is no consensus. It depends on whom you ask and maybe even when you ask.

How much power should symbols and gestures carry? What should the consequences be for not recognizing, for not showing the proper respect? Should the president be weighing in on gestures? Consider that flag burning is taboo even though the flag is an inanimate object: like a sheet, pants, or doormat.

Giving it thought, gestures and symbols carry power only though our shared agreement that they matter. Currency is really a symbol - green paper with more symbols printed on it. Debit card numbers are digital ones and zeroes traveling from one computer to another. But because of shared agreement, they permit the purchase of tangible materials, like sheets, pants, and doormats. The power that gestures and symbols carry requires agreement. We don’t agree to a snake as symbolic of peace or a denim rectangle at half-staff as deserving of a salute. But they could. If we agreed.

The problem isn’t symbols or gestures, it’s equating. Equating those who are symbol/gesture regimented with the true americans and equating those who fail to follow along as un-american.  

This kind of equating is taking generalization too far. It isn’t an either/or. Just as there are many ways to say or gesture hello, there are many ways to be american. Personal liberty is the american ideal and failing to kneel during a song doesn’t make one suddenly unamerican. Not having a choice is unamerican.

Choose wisely.

The 505 - 26

Write: Compose a 26 sentence piece. Each sentence must begin with a different letter of the alphabet, follow in order (i.e., A, B, C, D...), and cannot start with a proper noun. In addition, each sentence must consist of the number of words the letter’s position occupies in the alphabet. For example, E is the 5th letter in the alphabet, therefore the sentence that begins with E must be five words long. Y Is the 25th letter, therefore the Y sentence must be 25 words long. (This can be done; it has been done).

1.    And…

2.    Be quiet.

3.    Chill and still.

4.    Devour slow, placid breaths.

5.    Ease into you and be.

6.    Feel your essence start to unfurl.

7.    “Golly this class is a bit much.”

8.    “Hush,” she whispered along with the eye daggers.

9.    “I will hush when I want, for fifty bucks.”

10. Just exhale and let go the tension and toxins inside.

11. Keep your essence wrapped around your spirituality and let it breeeeeathe.

12. “Let it breeeeeathe,” he whispered with all the sarcasm he could muster.

13. “Must you do this to me when you know I take this seriously?”

14. “Now now just take it easy and breeeeathe until you unfurl your essence, darling.”

15. Oms were being chanted all around them now and his criss cross applesauce was obvious.

16. “Put in the effort,” she snarled “or your, ahem, essence won’t be unfurling for a while.”

17. Quiet now as we cross the plane of consciousness with the corporeal reality inherent in that consciousness.

18. “Reality was a plane her consciousness never boarded if you want to know the essence of the matter.”

19. “Stop it,” she scolded him as the class around them began to raise eyebrows and lose their collective chi.

20. Try not because you ARE the process of achieving the most complete you that you can be when you breeeeathe.

21. “Until now I had no idea that my autonomic nervous system had so much to do with my essence,” he said.

22. Very quiet now as we see the process and process the journey that is our lives as they are encompassed in...breeeeeathing.

23. “Why on earth didn’t we spend a hundred bucks on booze or one of those paint dates or scratch offs instead of breeeeeathing?”

24. “Xerosis,” she told him, “is the abnormal dryness of bodily tissues and you have no idea how dry your tissues are about to get.”

25. “You have no idea,” he told her flatly, “how much just simple breeeeathing can help moisten the bodily tissues of those that suffer from xerosis.

26. “Zip it up and keep it zipped because there is no amount of breeeeathing you can do to get this girl near your soon-to-be moistless member.”

The 505 Voice & Style Genealogy Assignment

ENL 505: Stylistics
Voice & Style Genealogy Assignment

Before Philo could savor the fear and awe in his face with any sense of justice –even a simple he’ll think twice sense- the part of Philo’s jaw that connects to his skull was separated and fractured into pieces from the punch of an OU wrestler who military pressed his body weight five times a week.
….Joe watched one of the girls talking into her phone: “a man’s been hurt on Court Street, he’s unconscious, in front of Pawpurr’s…” He looked back down at the ground, through the torsos parting, to see Philo’s face mangled into something like a broken vase, once pale, turning purple and black –his jaw had come so far away from his skull that his face didn’t look human except for his partially open eyes. Blood was filling under his distorted mouth, oozing from ugly lips swollen and shredded from foot stomps, in meek gurgles as his short breaths now condensed in the cold night air.

There is facility here; ability to convey story/scene and show style doing it. Emerging is awareness of grammar and syntax and using those for semantic/emotional affect. My hope is this is reminiscent of David Foster Wallace.

Captain And Officer

Captain: Foul play?

Officer: Poultry don’t engage in games sir; I believe play, with designated rules and desired outcomes, usually of the zero-sum type, is a solitary human endeavor. Why do you ask sir?

Captain: What are you talking about? The dead body here on the floor! Was it foul play do you think?

Officer: I don’t think birds had anything to do with it sir. Unless it was a murder of crows. Tee hee.

Captain: What do we know about forced entry or robbery at this point?

Officer: No sign of forced entry, nothing missing other than some decent decorating ideas. How do people live with these bland color palettes and mismatched materials not to mention a total disregard for feng shui?

Captain: Are you saying Chinese food is missing? Or was thrown away?

Officer: No feng shui is the use of energy forces to harmonize individuals with their surrounding environment. Sir.

Captain: Uh huh,... you hungry?

Officer: We just ate sir. Donuts.

Captain: Yeah! Well I want to use some energy forces to you know, harmonize with my surrounding, environments to feng some shui into my belly.

Officer: Sir?

Captain: Any Chinese places around here?

Officer: Sir it’s 9am.

Captain: Yeah, that’s early. Even for hot and sour soup.

Officer: I’m an egg drop guy sir.

Captain: Can it with that egg-drop talk would ya! I’m getting hungry again. No forced entry, nothing taken. When does forensics get here?

Officer: He was called ten minutes ago sir.

Captain: Call him again! Tell him to pick up some Chinese food. I don’t care what time it is!

Officer: Sir, the usual?

Captain: Tell ‘em to go heavy on the fortune cookies.

This conveys my love for Woody Allen’s humor, George Carlinesque word play, and reflects my desire to make others laugh.

Venn Diagram of essentials:

From the humorists I appreciate the ability to simply be funny but also hide profound points in humor.

From the fiction authors I value the ability to make others feel emotions, the power of voice, and like the humorists, to place philosophical ideas in a story.
From the nonfiction authors I glean the middle style and connecting seemingly disparate ideas into a larger philosophical point.

***

Word Count: 570

Write: Although you may not have written much beyond academic or corporate writing, still you have a voice, a style, and you have been influenced by others, whether they be famous writers, not-so-famous writers, friends or family members. In this assignment, please look at some representative samples of your writing and describe your voice and style as you see them emerging from those pieces. Then, I’d like you to conduct a genealogy of your voice and style, tracing them back through the various writerly influences in your life, and what about those writers influenced you as they did. These writers don’t have to be literary. Could be the writers of jingles or cereal boxes, if that’s the writing that counts for you. Feel free to draw a family tree or flow chart, if that helps.

My Most, Viewed Post

Can someone please explain how this became my most viewed post?

http://heavylevity.blogspot.com/2015/04/kelly-f-in-olynyk.html

What's wrong with this post?

The 505 Crossword Assignment

Had the first sesh (session for the uninitiated) of Stylistics.

Upon completing a crossword, the assignment was to take 25 across words and 25 down words and compose a story.

Here, is my story:

I’d sparred with that knuckle-walking ogre back at the old gym, despite our difference in weight class, age, and overall cred in the amateur boxing world of Akron, Ohio. How I got in, and out of, the ring with this skilled baboon, a k a “Old Scratch” Charlie, so named because everyone figured he would end up throwing a fight at some point in his career, and he was bound to go pro, was a result of vicarious pride, my own stupid pride, and of course, a girl. She wasn’t just some girl though, she was the most beautiful thing on two feet and everyone, including that demon donning boxing gloves, knew it. And she was mine. All mine.
Fump! to the head. Ooof! to the ribs. My face was getting cratered and my ribs were caving to ruins. I couldn’t get him off me. Fucking Tasmanian devil in gilt-covered Everlast trunks. And what were his hands taped with? Every blow felt like he was holding a row of quarters in his fists.  I heard his trainer yell “take it easy!” but the blows kept coming in like sideways rain. It hadn’t been two minutes and my vision was blurred, my legs wobbly, and my core akin to wet paper. I tried to get on my horse but I couldn’t tire that fuck and my nose was a magnet to his laden fists and nothing, nothing was going to sate him till he put me on the canvas. Then told her about it. Did I mention my stupid pride?

My stupid pride is one thing but you would think my trainer would have shown some sense. But no, he was dense with idiotic pride too. He’d had his own career stolen from him, serving as a nam vet. To make matters worse, the trainer of the boxing beelzebub pummeling me, got a draft deferment somehow and enjoyed a brief but successful pro career that parlayed into a lucrative gym ownership. And my trainer, Joe Pesci bless him, thought I was going to be his ticket. He should have thought more about where exactly the ticket would take him when he agreed to throw me to this haymaking motherfucker.
“Move, move, slip it slip it!,” my trainer was yelling from my corner but he came off one punch right into another. Fwap! from a hook, back in with the rangy jab, body blow body blow. Fuck this I thought and almost ran in the ring to get away but he was able to corner me and even after who knows how many consecutive blows, he didn’t tire - one punch after another after another. Holy christ the bell rang and I sat down in the corner while my trainer ran a damp rag over my face and said something about him being vulnerable to an uppercut but any advice other than survive against this guy was wasted quicker than a frat boy at a kegger. “Gimme some water,” I huffed between breaths. The bell rang again and when I stood like a drained noodle, my trainer again said “uppercut, uppercut.”
I wasn’t averse to throwing an uppercut, I wasn’t averse to throwing A punch, I wasn’t averse to throwing myself on the mat and feigning internal bleeding...but the stupid pride...and the girl. He was pummeling me in a corner when he mumbled through his mouthpiece between blows, “that girl of yours,” jab jab, “the one that acts,” jab, hook “like a virgin,” rib shot kidney shot “think I’ll,” jab, cross “make her,” hook, uppercut “mine.” The blow took me down to one knee and he took a spell when his trainer yelled at him “ain’t nobody winning any damn award; take it fucking easy Charlie!” I was surprised he stopped; I could see in his eyes that he wanted to go retro on my ass and finish me because I wasn’t unconscious. The bell to end round two was to no avail: there would be no end. I was getting gored and my boxing life was dripping blood and bile on the tip of a pike.
I could see him, ogling her, a smooth liar, hiding his intentions, waiting outside her math class, smiling, walking to the end of the pier with ice cream cones in hand after they’d dined at some place where they called him champ - “hey!,” my trainer yelled. “You straight?” I nodded but it hurt to nod. “Don’t acts like a hero! You straight?” Again I nodded and again it hurt. My trainer gave me two quick mists of something up my nose. To this day he won’t tell me what it was but I think it was coke or at least speed.
My ears felt like eaten cobs of corn when the bell rang for the last round. The coke or whatever it was put new life into my lungs and legs. Didn’t matter though; he sized me into a corner in seconds and began to toil on my ribs again but this time judo style, with some elbow on the follow through. My trainer was hoarse but kept yelling for me “stick and move, in and out, be a pest, be a pest!” How can I be a pest when I can’t move? He started talking about her again. “She’s,” body blow, “a dancer,” body blow, “right?” Jab, cross, “can’t wait,” jab, cross, “till she,” hook, body shot, “jetes,” uppercut, cross, “on my,” step back, “cock!” He unleashed a barrage of uppercuts and crosses low and high like a jackhammer crushing concrete: foomfoomfoomfoomfoomfoom. I crumbled again to one knee but this time he couldn’t stand himself and he reared back to let go a blow to my chin sure to separate my jaw when I uppercutted that fucker in his nutsack organ so goddamn hard he could have sung an aria above middle C. My arm held a perfect ell shape as I continued to try to push his nuts so far up into his intestines that they resembled cookie dough. He picked the wrong enemy to try and wargame with.

Even this many years later, after an ale or ten, I can tell my old trainer that story and that sum-bitch elates like a giant party balloon. I wasn’t his ticket out but when I remind him of that, he realizes for a minute or two that it ain’t so bad sometimes, being in.

Prompt:

Using your completed crossword puzzle from last week’s class, compose a story. You must use at least 25 of the across words and 25 of the down words, excluding proper nouns. Please bold all words you use, and list separately at the conclusion of the story. Optional challenge: Use all words in succession, across words first, down words second. 

The 505 1st

As of this writing, I am enrolled in a graduate stylistics course, hereafter, the 505.

Here is an assignment.


Write: Imagine you have been asked to write liner notes for a musical album (your fave).
Liner notes may give brief descriptions of songs, or may give some cultural/historical/biographical data. The genre is open. Your job: to compose those album liner notes, discussing whatever it is you want to discuss, but in a way that reflects the style of the music. So, for instance, if you choose a hip-hop album, the liner notes should read like the hip hop music they address. If you write about country, the liner notes should be in "countrese."

My fave you ask. Not the fave but a fave: August and Everything After from Counting Crows.

 Maria says she’s dying, through the door I hear her crying.

Why?

Hear me out. Hear it out. When you’ve got nothing but time this, thing between us, is worth the time.

Everything works. It all fits and it needs worn. Maybe I’m lying, maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’ve done this sort of thing before. Maybe it’s a love/hate relationship with August. Maybe he’s not your type but I’m sure there’s something in a shade of grey.  You laugh with insecurity and tell me the words, so many words, don’t hit you in the gut and don’t make you feel wrenched or torn or wistful, and it just doesn’t do it for you. But maybe, man, I’m right. As right as the rain that falls in Baltimore, and maybe the words matter because words matter so damn much to you and me that’s why we can’t tear our ears away; not in 1993 and not and now in 2019.

Because: I walk along these hillsides in the summer 'neath the sunshine I am feathered by the moonlight falling down on me

Maybe you’re just afraid, afraid of knowing,  of giving in, of being changed by it. What would that do to you? Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you won’t or can’t feel, in fear, the periphery from the core, the essential from the meaningless. Maybe some things are too bright. For you.

Because: Start threading a needle, brush past the shuttle that slides through the cold room. Start turning the wool across the wire, roll a new life over.

I want you to love August. I want you to feel the way I feel when the keyboard swells from nothingness and that guitar riff reverberates on the opening track like death fading to life. I want you to be transported the way I am; to know that you’ll feel something, about music, about words, about life...and how lyrics and music are important and why they express BOTH the terrestrial and the sublime of humanity. I want you to recognize. What’s wrong with you? if you don’t.

Because: Round here we talk just like lions but we sacrifice just like lambs. Round here she’s slipping through my hands.

You don’t believe me and I don’t blame you. I can’t blame you because I know what’s at stake. Judge lest ye be judged but as I write these words baby, thinking about it, I’m willing…to be judged. By you.

Because: When the kindness falls like rain, it washes her away and Anna begins to change my mind...

And your mind matters and your heart matters and you deserve this. We all deserve this; it’s why we’re here, you and me, us and them: to be moved. Like this. To know art and how it’s a door that needs opened so life -your life, my life, our lives- can be looked at, heard, felt. Lived. But you have to let it, convince it, shove it tabula rasa into your heart.

Because: Lay me down in a field of flame and heather, render up my body into the burning heart of god in the belly of a black-winged bird.

I hope you let it in.

Doubling

Write your life story in 6 words. Then, write your life story in 12 words. Then 24, 48, 96, 192. 

Caveat: once used, you cannot repeat any phrase. That is, you are not simply revising, adding, filling. Each piece should be unique. And try not to repeat your “style” or “voice” from one to the next. Mix them up. Take chances. But meet the word count. Focus on making each word a vibrant contributor.

I am grateful, not fully great.

Born Gordon Fritz Rohler: genxer, philosopher, beside HER, never sure, unsure.

Gordon? Rohler? How many words do I get again? No! He was sensitive to a fault but man, sometimes, he could make you laugh.

Mistakes were made.             Success is a subjective measure.
            Talent was unrealized.           Wherever you go, there you are.
            You can’t explain it away.       One can’t derive an ought/imperative from an is.
            Opportunities were wasted.    Walk a mile in my shoes.
            Nothing was ventured.            Judge, lest ye be judged.

What does a man have but time? Time is the constant in a universe of variables. In any biography, the usage of time is the essence -the matter at hand. How have I used my time? Asking why when how is what you want to know. How is where it’s at. How makes money and everybody needs it, money that is. Why doesn’t cut it, why doesn’t bake bread; no one cares about why anymore! So I’m persona non grata. Or at least ignored. Time will tell which is worse. How or why? But why...how?

Think of the way it feels when you hear your voice on a recording. Most of us bristle, even if a little. “Is that what I sound like?” Autobiography asks a similar question: Is that what I’ve lived like?” Autobiography tosses your lump of a life onto a steel-cold table in the gross lab, where with razor sharp scalpels and muscular forceps and probes, tears apart your judgement and character and personality with unceasing fire-breathing criticism of your horrible decisions and gnashes teeth at your incessant laziness and wrings hands raw due to your pathological sensitivity and erodes all possibility of contentedness or serenity or self-actualization at best and at worst births institutionalization, to produce the same face piercing cringe when you hear your voice through your ears and not through your head. Autobiography is not some mild self-sadism akin to a sauna what with its relaxed muscles finale. Nor is it torturous introspection to show the glass is half-full and “just look at all you’ve accomplished from such modest beginnings!” Honestly and authentically, factually, it exposes existential pain reaped from a life lived not through the ears, but through the head.