Williem Dunst III
Hunger For An Appetite

How did I know on a Friday night at 2:12am, you would not only be home, but awake? Yes, I know you’re only answering because it’s me. I had a great night—killer. I played a little pub in Springfield Mass. Great vibe, great energy to the crowd in Springfield; every time I go, I have a great time. And the hotties were out of control. In Springfield they have these parties during the week, where everyone just walks around in the center of town and enjoys—a lot like Italy. Actually nothing like Italy, but you understand my point.

That’s not why I am calling you. You didn’t really think we were going to verbally fart at each other. I have something serious to talk about. I want to know what you think about appetite and hunger? Well, first give me a standard dictionary definition off the top of your head. Then tell me how would you describe an appetite verse a hunger. It is something I’ve given no thought to, and I realize I have a paper due in one day. It’s something I should start thinking about, so I figured call you because you probably already spent hours upon hours thinking about it.

So dictionary definition for appetite is a desire for food, or a strong craving; and hunger is a desire for food, but also a feeling of discomfort caused by a need for food? So you think they are defined like shit—no, no, I’m following you, discomfort, is that pain, how much pain—a strong craving could cause pain—and even though they could be used to describe the same feeling, they could have a precise distinction. That is what I’m interested in.

Hunger is more primal. Hunger has to do with the body, and a natural circadian cycle—purely physical. Hunger can also make people more vulnerable to disease. Appetite is a state of mind, an unnatural behavior. I also like how you would tie vanity into appetite—ones own bodily image controlling what one eats. This sounds interesting? I need to find out if any credible Anthropologists did research on hunger, or appetite, or eating. Of course so, five just came to mind. What do you think about obesity? Obesity is tied to appetite, right? Yes, obesity is a social construct; it is a fear, found to be unattractive, not caring—etcetera-etcetera. Hunger, I would say extreme hunger is starvation.

This is definitely going to be an interesting anthropological project now. My thinking was so closed man. ‘You know. I’ve been adhering to a strict regiment of drugs and alcohol to keep my mind limber.’ That’s a great movie. Don’t laugh you are out of your fucking element; I should have never brought ‘The Dude’ into this. Do you think the government is monitoring this phone call? Hold on, ‘fire, bomb, kill, president’—now they are listening in right?

I really like your idea of clearly understanding and defining worlds. I’ll try to incorporate that into my anthropological research. I know. You are the best. It’s not important that the reader agrees with me, it is just important that my perspective and research is accurate and clearly shows my perspective, my findings, my potential failures or shortcomings; but I really like to say we will be talking about X and Y, and for the purposes of this study X will be defined as this, and Y will be defined as this. Air-out all the dirty laundry from the beginning. I can’t believe the monkey work we must do.

I’m feeling a bit charged up. I know you are working on something and will be working all night, so I figured I’d join you. When I get back to my place, I’m going to do a little research. Are you kidding me? I convinced my father that I needed a library to further my education. I bought just about every Anthropology text I could find. I’m going to check out all of Sydney W. Mintz’s work. Do you know him? I know something you don’t know. This is a moment. I must go to Harvard for a reason. No, in actuality I don’t know much about him because I haven’t gotten around to reading his books yet. Nor have I had any desire. It is pretty dry, informative, and logical.

You would enjoy him. One of his studies slash novels is called “Sweetness and Power.” It talks about sugar—the history of sugar. Tonight, I’m going to listen to some music and think a bit—go off on some tangents. Mintz discusses the production and consumption of sugar and considers how sugar altered cultures. I can totally see it; two hundred years ago people hoarding coffee, sugar, and spices.

Hey, have you spoken to K.J. lately? He told me he is trying to get a hold of you. Are you avoiding him for some reason, or have you genuinely been busy. I know how that is. Anyway, he’s got a new one now. She’s a but-ter-field—butter pecan retan. He’s out there. He just cracks me up. And it’s all a smoke show.

He wants me to write a song called Butterfield Baby, he said go heavy on the butter analogies—heavy spread, whip, shake, taste, and creamy butter. You should talk to him. I just wish we could all get together. Just get together and laugh a little. Drive each other nuts. That would be nice.

I know this won’t happen—you hate computers, but wouldn’t it be funny. There is nothing to fear. In this day and age, whether you like it or not, the computer will be the center of every day life. It’s going in that direction.

There is no reason why we can’t get together every Sunday afternoon or something—while we are eating lunch. We could set it up as a three-way video-conference-meeting with web cams. That’s actually horrible for you. That’s crazy for you. But think about how much better that is than a telephone conversation. And right now, that stuff is still free. That’s why the phone companies are shitting in their paints. Once the computer really becomes the media, entertainment, communication, business, knowledge, financial hub, nothing is going to be free anymore.

You are right. I don’t want to upset you. And I really don’t want to set up a three-way-video-conference. That actually sounds crazy to me. I’m just jerking you around. But I will tell you this. I have been making some cheddar giving guitar lessons online in real time. I have ten students right now all over the country.

It’s easy. I have scheduled time slots that students can sign up for, and they see me on my web cam, I see them, and we have an hour lesson. It’s great. A friend of mine, he’s a PGA golfer and he’s making a killing giving lessons in real time—he has women, business men, children—I think he has 100 or so students.

What’s going on with you? Are you listening to me, or is your mind racing. You sound preoccupied. Since you’re not really listening to me, let me tell you something that you don’t have to really listen to. You aren’t going to believe this. Today I had an archaeological exam. This is Harvard. And everyone has been stressing this archaeology class. Everyone has been trying to memorize everything. You know the drill.

I heard people talking after class, saying it was so hard because they studied all the wrong things. Or the questions were so easy that they never thought the professor would ask us. I know a lot of people did poorly on this test, and it was so stupid and mindless. This one guy after class, he was talking about additional reading—volumes of texts that were recommended for further reading. And he knew this everything cold. Why he didn’t know the required reading.

Are you ready for the test? You are going to get a kick out of this.

1. Give the order of excavation for both the plan and profile in the following two pages.

That one was bullshit—took me 30 seconds tops. All I had to do was look at two crude and basically self explanatory diagrams. Question two: How does Harrington’s method of dating pipe stems differ from Binford’s method? Give an example from the readings or your own experience as to where and when both of these methods are useful.

How funny is that one? I actually snuck Shakespeare into that one. You would have loved it. Made sure to throw in bore diameters—the whole nine. Pipe stem dating is very simple, and sure there is a bunch of memorization---but you wouldn’t believe how accurately you can date a site from the pipe stems. Really—it’s quite cool. I’ll mail you a great article.

Question three is where the test really started to become mindless. I couldn’t believe how much people were writing for such simple questions.

3. What kind of glaze is found on refined earthenware?
4. What kind of glaze is found on Chinese porcelain?
5. What information should be contained on an artifact find bag?
6. What are the five key concepts of “single-context recording?”

Are you bored yet—just wait it gets much better. This is the first time in my college career I have unconsciously remembered verbatim every question on a test. The only thing this test proves is that you know nothing about archaeology.

Give examples from three archeological sites describing how artifacts are used to obtain information about the former inhabitants of a given site?

Number 8 was at by far the most interesting question; the only question I had to actually think for a half of second.

If on a given site, archaeologists find in a closed context marl, five right tibias from a cow, 75 oyster shells, enough chicken bone to amount to three chickens, a partial creamware platter with a mean ceramic date of 1791, shreds from blue hand-painted pearlware with a m.c.d. of 1800, and glazed brick, what can the archaeologists infer about the context?

I found myself writing a very elaborate and detailed answer. This one question I had been working on for longer than the test itself—I was going on a full minute. And it was only because I wanted to answer it to the best of my abilities. I wanted to write what I thought needed to be said to answer the question sufficiently.

But you know what I did? I looked around—I realized most students were still fumbling around checking and rechecking the first question—so I asked how many points each question is worth? The professor thanked me, and apologized for not pointing that out. He said, “There are nine questions, and question number nine is substantially longer, so question number nine is worth twenty points, and the other questions are worth ten points each. All with the possibility of partial credit of course.” Then he walked out of the room, and went about his professor business.

I looked at question 9 and it was defining 20 terms including the Harris Matrix. I decided I would have to work twenty minutes on number 8 to answer it to my satisfaction—so I decided to skip out on it and stop writing mid sentence. I finished the entire mid term examine, excluding of course approximately half of number 8 in under five minutes.

Then just for the hell of it, I did number 8, and I wrote for 20 minutes, not only answering every possible question, but also posing sets of others. I was the first one finished with the test I shit you not. When handing in my midterm I said to the TA, I could have gotten a 90 on this test in five minutes. I made sure I said it just loud enough so a couple of arrogant bastards in the front rows heard me—exactly the students just like you.

Then I told the TA in a whisper to tell the professor an un-named student said, ‘If you want to waste your time grading this crap, that’s fine, but don’t ever get your students worried about studying hard for a big exam because this one’s a joke.’ I don’t even care if it gets back to him that I said it, because I have a solid ‘A’ and there is nothing that can be done about that. I also don’t have to take another class with this stupid bitch ever again, so that’s good. But I know this TA isn’t going to say anything. He’s a twerp. 

I  don’t know when I’m going to talk to you again, so let me also tell you this. I’ve been having many disturbing dreams pertaining to death and I don’t understand why. I’ve always considered myself lucky because there has never been a single night that I haven’t remembered my dreams. I know how you are, you don’t remember anything and only have that one horrible dream.

But listen, as a child I had fantastic adventures, meeting interesting characters and animals and forms of life brilliantly colored that could only exist in a cartoons or surreal paintings; traveled to exotic locations with pink, lavender, and vanilla skies; I saw and sometimes constructed extraordinary machines capable of traveling through time and space and to other worlds. My favorite machine was the one that brought me to whomever I wanted to see, whenever I wanted to see them, and all I had to do was hit a red button. The BOOM button; yes K.J. got the BOOM button, and the BANG button from me. It really is how the Internet should be—there should be a BOOM button that gives you exactly what you want instantaneously.

We’re talking about my dreams here remember? As I aged, my dreams have become more realistic, and the creativity has subsided, but it doesn’t bothered me, for dreaming has always been an evolutionary process. I dreamt about my friends and my family and the girls I fancied; or my time spent in special locations like London, or Dublin, or Glasgow, or Vail, or Martha’s Vineyard, or San Diego, or Madrid. But in those dreams, I was still in the center, I was still the focal point, I was still the main character capable of doing and experiencing just about anything and everything.

Now at this particular stage in my life, I’m nowhere present in my dreams. I am either dreaming in music, or I am sometimes omniscient, sometimes a clueless observer overseeing events that I am not a part of. I am powerless to do anything other than observe what is going on, and try to make sense of it. Lately, these events have all concerned death in one way, shape, or form, and it is becoming somewhat disturbing. Dreams for me have been forewarnings of events yet to come, and I am plagued because I don’t know who or what in my life is going to die, perhaps it will even be me?

I know I shouldn’t look that much into them, but they have been perhaps the most powerful force and influence on my life. That’s not ridiculous—my dreams guide me, they protect me, and they have shaped me. Some people believe that those events that happen in the dream realm are just as real as events that happen when you are awake and living. For example, if you were to hurt someone, or kill someone in a dream, it would be the same as if you did it literally while you were awake. What was that crazy movie with the aborigines and dreamtime? Peter Weir's The Last Wave; Vincenzo have you ever thought about being on Jeopardy? You have trillions of dollars of useless information in your mind.

No I don’t believe in such an extreme—how could what you dream and what you actually do be considered to be the same? I think dreams are a good outlet for venting, for channeling energy, for dispelling tensions, for playing out events that perhaps you’d like to see happen, or never see happen. But mainly dreams are a sixth sense that we as humans don’t quite understand yet, and they tell us things we definitely need to know whether it be directly or indirectly. That’s what is freaking me out.

My father told me if I really wanted to achieve something, I should envision it in my mind. I remember as a child, out on the golf course, before every shot, he would close his eyes, then step up to the ball, and without ever taking a practice swing, just strike it. Now my father is an excellent golfer, and he told me the reason is that besides having the physical know how and capabilities, in his mind’s eye he envisions exactly what he wants to do, and when he steps up to the ball, he recreates exactly what he already saw himself do in his mind. That philosophy is one he dictated to me that transcended sports, and I’ve applied to all things just as he does.

If I want to go out with a particular girl, or if I want to articulate my feelings and emotions to a person, or if I want to have a stellar performance playing a venue like tonight—all of these things I envision in my minds eye before hand. One particular example is while studying in Harvard, before an exam, when I sleep, I don’t dream about the information I studied, or need to know—for I obviously studied to the best of my abilities and know everything I possibly can; I just see in my dream my hand effortlessly writing and choosing all of the correct answers, then watching the professor at their desk grading my paper and putting check marks all over it. This essay is correct, that is correct, number one is correct, number two is correct—and for the most part, that’s how all my exams and papers have ended up—pretty much 100% correct. You are right, it is because of the grade inflation; and here I was thinking you weren’t listening to me.

But my most recent death dream has been quite disturbing. It is the first time I ever woke up and wasn’t able to fall back asleep. I haven’t gone into a deep dreaming sleep for two days now. Two days of not sleeping for me is huge. That has never happened to me before.

What was the dream? In my dream, there were people in a foreign land. I know this because I didn’t understand the language that was being spoken, the language that was written, and I really didn’t know what was going on until someone made contact with me, looking directly into my vantage point. At first, a gentleman was standing in some kind of public square, dressed in all black, with many people sharply dressed, people he obviously knew standing around him. And he would take these large cards out of a leather bag, the kind an experienced artist would use to transport their work; and he would hold up these fairly large cards with something written them, or a picture, or an article of clothing or jewelry affixed—and he would speak for a few minutes, then giving the card to another person to hold, while he moved on to the next.

In the beginning, people were clapping, people were smiling, people were reminiscing; even the man himself occasionally cracked a smile or two. Not before long, there was a semi-circle of twenty some odd people holding these cards, and this gentleman just kept talking in spurts, and passing them out for individuals to hold around him. As the cards continued to come out, the time between them was getting longer and longer, for the gentleman had to keep pulling himself together. He was crying, his nose was running, his hands were shaking, he was occasionally falling to his knees, and he was reaching out to individuals around him to give him a hug, or hold him for just a few minutes until he could get his act together, regain some strength, and move onto the next card. These cards were literally sucking the life out of this man, and I could see him age right before my very eyes.

At first, I didn’t know what was going on. I thought he was a person who for one reason or another broke up with his girlfriend or wife, and he was in a public square, trying to get her back, professing his love for her, illustrating that he did remember everything, and she was his entire world. I even thought maybe the person he was talking about was somewhere in the crowd of people, or within a close enough proximity where she could hear and see everything that was going on and being said. I continued to think that until a woman with the greenest of green eyes looked into and through the direction I was observing from and said, “Fine, Finito, Finished” while sliding her index finger across her neck as if the have your throat cut.

My conscious mind in this dream slowly said, ‘Dead?’ because for some reason I just couldn’t believe whomever supposedly died was dead, I didn’t want to believe it, and the woman with a cold stare once again slid her index finger slowly across her aged and wrinkled throat, nodding her head up and down, giving me a little smile, as if to say I know you understand me, then turned her back to me, never looking my direction again.

This woman also happened to be the catalyst for a most evil and unpleasant phenomenon that was silently infecting all the onlookers; and this phenomenon I understood perfectly for some reason. As time progressed, the non-participants under their breaths whispering, and silently passionately gesturing about the type of food they were going to eat when this public display of affection and lamentation was over. They were arguing, negotiating, and compromising about where they were going to go, and what they were going to eat, and how they wanted it prepared but with no noise whatsoever.

To me, it was so distracting, and it actually infuriated me because I was trying to concentrate on what was going on, I was trying to learn more about who this person was, and just how amazing they were, and instead I was distracted by these blatantly subtle gestures from individuals gazing at there watches, fidgeting around with their hair, clothes, handbags, and glasses—and motioning for everything to be wrapped up because they were all growing increasingly hungry and had to eat.

They obviously have no respect for the dead, and no respect for those living who cared enough to try to celebrate in a collective fashion this person’s life one last time, and no respect for the gentleman in black pouring out his heart and soul with portions of his being dying with every new card presented. How could you even think of something like food or fatigue when someone who was an integral part of your life is no longer alive?

Really crazy right? I don’t know what to think of it because here is the real crazy part? The gentleman in black aging before my very eyes turned into me. I know, we have been talking for some time now and I’m home. I’m going to write that paper on hunger and appetite. Catch up with you soon—peace out!