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A sunny morning here in Providence. The office window (well, one of two) is open, and there's a Siamese cat sitting on my desk, watching whatever there is Outside to watch.

Today will be a day on which I make a new beginning for the Next Novel. That's my hope.

Yesterday, conversation about The Wolf Who Cried Girl, and I answered a great mass of accumulated email, and agreed to do an interview for Clarkesworld, and I bowed out of two anthologies (because, presently, there's only time for the novel and Sirenia Digest), and I lay on the bed with Hubero while Spooky read me the first chapter of Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle (1962; one of the most beautiful books I know).

This morning, I am weary of modernity.

And I'm wondering how the new crop of teens and twentysomethings became so afraid of emotion and the expression thereof.* Did their parents teach them? Did they learn it somewhere else? Is this a spontaneous cultural phenomenon? Are they afraid of appearing weak? Is this capitalism streamlining the human psyche to be more useful by eliminating anything that might hamper productivity? Is it a sort of conformism? I don't know, but I could go the rest of my life and never again hear anyone whine about someone else being "emo," and it would be a Very Good Thing.

Could anything be more inimical to art than a fear of emotion, or a fear of "excessive" emotion, or a reluctance to express emotion around others? No, of course not. Art can even best the weights of utter fucking ignorance and totalitarian repression, but it cannot survive emotional constipation.

I want a T-shirt that says, "Art is Emo." We live in an age where people are more apt to believe a thing if they read it on a T-shirt.

Last night we watched the new episodes of Fringe and Spartacus: Blood and Titties. Very enjoyable, on both counts.

Now, the platypus calls my name. Here are three photos from Thursday:





Budding tree.



The Armory and Dexter Training Ground. View to the south.



Houses along Dexter Street. View to the east.

Photographs Copyright © 2010 by Kathryn A. Pollnac



*The suggestion has been made that they are so much expressing fear as contempt, and I am open to that possibility, though fear and contempt often go hand in hand.

Comments

easter_lane
Apr. 4th, 2010 07:47 pm (UTC)
Well, three of my good friends are in their very, very early twenties, and I hang out with them quite a bit. What I've noticed about this generation is they are extremely casual about physical affection. They hug everyone and, if they really like you, they'll sick their tongue down your throat. They are very affectionate with their friends, and have quite a few sex partners (not all of them do, but a good number), but the idea of romantic love makes them very nervous. An actual date, without the prospect of hooking up, is terrifying. Often they don't approach someone because they 'really like them'. The explination I get is a very broad 'I don't want to get hurt'. Myself I find this very odd, cause I had always been just the opposite; fairly reserved in my physical attention, but if there was a chance for love, I charged in boldly and wildly.