pick your battles or macro-offence

When I have callers in my narrow and cramped office, visitors are usually forced to assume a position over my shoulder, and while I feel no particular compunction to minimise windows or switch tabs to hide shopping or travel browsing, I am sometimes persuaded to mask the headlines of certain news outlets for fear as public-trust appointee that I might be violating the Hatch Act—a US statute that prohibits government workers from advocating for one political ideology over another, though I think it’s more narrowly defined than my abundance of caution—and for fear I might incite a micro-aggression.
Once I had thought that political-correctness as a surrogate for civility and general good manners might die the ignoble death it deserves instead of rising from the flames in a dread, self-censoring and tongue-watching phœnix, but I suppose that was a naïve thing to think. There have always been those artful souls skilled at taking offence and going on the defensive, but I’ve only known those demagogues that invite heaps of abuse, martyrs and matrons. I never thought that the faithful might till a patch of garden that’s securely hedged off from all opposition and descent, not deigning to entertain contrarian opinions. Cultivating such safety-zones, I think, ensures that they will always hate us—especially in the realms of higher-education where dialectic is defined along very stringent bounds and becomes something meaningless and only re-affirming. In my shyness, I hope that I can recognise my own bias since it’s not for the sake of shirking my job that I close off discussion but rather that I’d like to consider myself informed and not engage in a debate or find some common-ground. Maybe my desire to dispense with an ordeal in the work-place (propriety aside) enables the victims of micro-aggresions (innocent on-looker or policy-maker) to have their bustle in their hedgerow. What do you think?

6x6

don’t look at it marion: a candle in the likeness of the melting face Gestapo agent from Raiders of the Lost Ark

façade: opulent palace hidden behind an exterior that’s very drab in comparison

mainframe: women in the company of giant computers, vintage early 1960s

redoubt and ravelin: twenty imposing fortresses from around the world

lost in space: having mapped the entire Moon, surveyors have not yet found Luna 9, the first probe to land on another planetary body, missing for fifty years

why so serious: spiffy alternative terminology to what passes as resting bitch face

great glavin in a glass

A trio of committed Simpsons fans have created a fun search engine that delves deep into the core seasons of the series and fetches a screen-capture from associated quotes, saying and scenarios and allows one to caption the image. As an homage to Professor John Nerdelbaum Frink, Jr., this mainframe is called the Frinkiac. What’s your favourite quote from the show?

gaffer and key grip

When signalling the start of a footrace, a starter gun is used (as opposed to a chequered flag) because the auditory cue reaches the brain, gathered from a relative paucity of non-intuitive evidence that with more invasive investigations reveal how disjointed reality is mediated by our senses. Though it’s nothing that one could easily access and would probably terribly frightening to try, our perceptions are only glancing and we carry in our minds a composite map of our immediate surroundings that merely regularly monitored for updates.
Although visually we imagine a sweeping continuity of our environment, our eyes, like a stage-hand, are more akin to the panicked flagellations of insect antennae, constantly seeking out corrections and in the absent of new input, blinders are put in place. Up to seven minutes in each hour (routine hours, though, I suppose and not when one is visiting the Grand Bazaar for the first time and is overwhelmed with impressions) we are effectively blind as our eyes dart around in search of changes—sort of like the commercial breaks in television programmes. Our separate senses, the intent to pull the trigger, the report, the puff of smoke and the recoil from above, are shuttled to our brains at different speeds so while there’s as much as a half second’s lag-time among them, they all are received as coordinated and consequent. I wonder if this mental trick of synchronicity that we can’t easily step out of could explain the dissonance between the relatable Newtonian physics and the baffling quantum reality underlying it. Vision can be assailed to an extent but the other senses present a real quandary. I suppose one could appreciate the drift in the illusion of animation, but it always struck me as rather amazing that our eyes are filled with veins and capillaries that are in our field of vision but don’t see because they don’t affect our internal maps.