The focal point of the shrine is a box or chest which is built into the wall. In this chest are kept the many charms and magical potions without which no native believes he could live. These preparations are secured from a variety of specialized practitioners. The most powerful of these are the medicine men, whose assistance must be rewarded with substantial gifts. However, the medicine men do not provide the curative potions for their clients, but decide what the ingredients should be and then write them down in an ancient and secret language. This writing is understood only by the medicine men and by the herbalists who, for another gift, provide the required charm.
The charm is not disposed of after it has served its purpose, but is placed in the charm-box of the household shrine. As these magical materials are specific for certain ills, and the real or imagined maladies of the people are many, the charm-box is usually full to overflowing. The magical packets are so numerous that people forget what their purposes were and fear to use them again.
This satire passage by Horace Miner is poking fun at the 1950s American. He takes the position of a foreign, modern, advanced specialist who is trying to understand the old and barbaric ways of the Nacirema (American spelled backwards). This specific passage brings the strangeness of our medicines to light. Americans go to doctors, who diagnose the symptoms and send the "cure" information to a third party. If we were to find another "tribe" doing this, we would most likely be appalled, because why should they trust a medicine man who writes in a secret language (Greek and/or Latin) and gives the information to a third party who has nothing to do with us? This seems overly complicated and obsolete.
In addition, modern psychology has proven that if a placebo (a "medicine" that really does nothing) is given to the patients instead of the real curative potions, the patients will recover a surprisingly large amount of the time anyway. This brings into the questions of whether or not the medicines are really that helpful, or are simply modernized renditions of the old-fashioned native witch-doctor remedies. Doctors and medicine still have a major role and power in the modern age, though the average American doesn't seem to notice this. That is what Horace Miner was trying to point out, when he wrote this brilliant piece of irony.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Black
Something woke him. A noise or a breeze -- something had pulled him from his dreams.
Tom blinked in the darkness. Breathed hard, tried to clear his mind. The bats weren't simply a figment of his imagination. Nothing was. His name was Tom Hunter. He'd fallen on a rock and lost his memory, and he'd just escaped the black forest. Barely. Now he had passed out and was dreaming.
Dreaming that he was Tom Hunter, being chased by loan sharks he'd stiffed for a hundred thousand dollars four years ago in New York.
Problem was, this dream of Denver felt as real as the black forest had. There had to be a way to tell if he really was, at this very moment, physically lying on a bed of green grass or staring at the ceiling of an apartment in Denver, Colorado.
This passage is the beginning of the fifth chapter in Ted Dekker's "Black". First, I love Ted Dekker's stories, some more than others. I've often considered -- as I'm sure many others have -- writing about a character who switches between worlds. You know, in reality, if someone had to deal with dreams like this, they'd go crazy. Not being able to tell what is real is unnerving.
Of course, Dekker's confused protagonist decides to live each "dream" as if it were real, staying completely sane in the process. I haven't actually finished this book, but so far its been quite entertaining. I really enjoy Dekker's characters, plot twists, and writing style in general. I like how he does a series of short sentences, and then a long compound-complex sentence or two. I think its a pretty cool technique, and have even attempted multiple times to put it into my own writing.
PS: The green are the prepositional phrase and the participial phrase, in that order.
Tom blinked in the darkness. Breathed hard, tried to clear his mind. The bats weren't simply a figment of his imagination. Nothing was. His name was Tom Hunter. He'd fallen on a rock and lost his memory, and he'd just escaped the black forest. Barely. Now he had passed out and was dreaming.
Dreaming that he was Tom Hunter, being chased by loan sharks he'd stiffed for a hundred thousand dollars four years ago in New York.
Problem was, this dream of Denver felt as real as the black forest had. There had to be a way to tell if he really was, at this very moment, physically lying on a bed of green grass or staring at the ceiling of an apartment in Denver, Colorado.
This passage is the beginning of the fifth chapter in Ted Dekker's "Black". First, I love Ted Dekker's stories, some more than others. I've often considered -- as I'm sure many others have -- writing about a character who switches between worlds. You know, in reality, if someone had to deal with dreams like this, they'd go crazy. Not being able to tell what is real is unnerving.
Of course, Dekker's confused protagonist decides to live each "dream" as if it were real, staying completely sane in the process. I haven't actually finished this book, but so far its been quite entertaining. I really enjoy Dekker's characters, plot twists, and writing style in general. I like how he does a series of short sentences, and then a long compound-complex sentence or two. I think its a pretty cool technique, and have even attempted multiple times to put it into my own writing.
PS: The green are the prepositional phrase and the participial phrase, in that order.
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