POST RERUN: Meta: The Art of Self Reference (FROM 9/30/11)

I am going to confess something that, as someone who loves playing with words and grammar and syntax, is very difficult to admit. I don't know how to use the word "meta." Metaphysical, metaphor, metamorphosis - those are all concepts I can grasp. But this new slang version of what I used to think was just a prefix completely befuddles me. It is one of those words that extremely cool people use, like Jeff Winger on Community. And I want to be nothing else if not cool.

I told my husband, Dan, about my confusion.

"Meta means self-referential," he said.

"When did it start meaning that?"

"Forever."

Actually, from what I can gather, "meta" has just recently gained popularity as a stand alone colloquialism. Wikipedia claims the term "meta" was coined as a word in the 1979 book Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid. "Meta" was the November 2005 Urban Word of the Day on urbandictionary.com (warning: some entries not suitable for all audiences, and I'm pretty sure they just make some of that stuff up). The New York Times ran an article on the emergence of the prefix-turned-stand-alone-word "meta" in December of 2005. And the modern, hipster definition of "meta" as a self-referential adjective and noun shows up in dictionary.com's 21st Century Lexicon, copyright 2003-2011.

In other words, "meta," in its current usage, is a fairly recent addition to our modern vernacular. It appears that I'm jumping on the Meta Bandwagon a little later than most of the other young, hip people. But, as a mid-thirties professional woman, I have to resign myself that - alas - I am not as young and hip as I used to be.

Even after my extensive (note the sarcasm) research, I still don't know how to use "meta" properly. No one can explain it to my satisfaction. Will I just know it when I see it?
"A film within a film." I can grasp that concept.

"Dude, that's so meta." Not so much.

"That seems somewhat meta, dude." Um, if your defining sentence has "dude" in it . . .

"A lot of rock 'n' roll is 'meta,'" Dan explained to me once. "Listen to just about any Kiss song or 'I Wanna Rock' by Twisted Sister."

It was starting to sink in.

He continued, "Writing about writing or singing about singing."

Then he became philosophical, "Is watching a TV show about watching TV meta, or is watching a TV show about watching yourself watching TV meta? Or is that just more meta?"

I stared at him blankly.

That's when I began using "meta" to mean anything I wanted, kind of like when the Smurfs would replace various parts of speech with “smurfed” (please do NOT consult the Urban Dictionary): "Are you out of your smurf?" "Medical history is about to be smurfed!" "Great Smurf!" or “That’s smurfed up!” (Oh, I don’t think they said that one in the cartoon.)

I have been known to say, "That shirt is so meta," or "I liked the book, but it was kind of meta," just to sound cool. And, before you try to justify my examples, the shirt did not read, "This is a shirt," and the book wasn't a book about a book. Those would truly be meta examples - I think.

"Is 'Who's on First' meta?" I asked Dan one afternoon.

"Probably . . . kind of. . ."

"Meta is like breaking the 4th wall in theater!" I proclaimed a few minutes later.

Dan looked at me with his eyebrows crinkled for a long time.

"Isn't it?" I asked, still awaiting his reply. Then I said quietly, "No."

"It might be an example of meta . . . kind of . . ."

Later that day, Dan and I were talking about a funny video he had taken of me, a video that perfectly depicted my neuroses.

"I think you like that video even though you keep saying it's embarrassing," he said. "You keep showing it to people."

"That's because I'm meta."

"What?"

"Still not right? Dang it. I thought I was getting it."

"Usually ideas are meta, not people," Dan said.

"You just made my brain explode."

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A Music Teacher's Pet Peeve

Why do some people feel the overwhelming desire to dink around on unattended instruments?

Children do this a lot, and I can be a little more sympathetic as an elementary music teacher to a child's desire to explore sounds and express creativity. But this doesn't prevent me from closing the piano cover when one of my students "visits" me during the lunch hour and sneakily slides onto the piano bench while my back is turned.

I expect children to try to get away with this. But adults? The grown-ups who do have the nerve to plunk away on unoccupied instruments probably shouldn't. In other words, these ivory-ticklers are typically not the next Chopin or even Liberace.

In my music room, I try to instill in children that our classroom instruments—the piano, Orff instruments, small percussion instruments, my guitar—are not toys. They are not there to create chaotic noise. They are for making music, and if they are not making music or beautiful sounds, they should not be played.

Most of my students get this (at least while I am present in the room). A former student visited me the other day and brought a friend from high school. Her friend (who had not be one of my students) started playing around on the temple blocks.

"Hey," my former student said before I uttered a word, "stop playing those. They're not yours."

See, I've trained my students well.

Now if only I could train adults . . .

People have played little ditties on the piano they learned in high school while I am trying to set up for a program. (You all remember that simplified version of the Richard Marx song . . . "Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you." It's not so prodigious that you can play it now at age forty.)

Parents have come to my classroom to ask me about volunteer opportunities only to be tempted by the shiny glockenspiels on my shelves.

I have even seen people encourage children to play around on instruments set out for a music program. (I guess they don't understand that these instruments can cost thousands of dollars.)

I have been to restaurants and hotels where an open piano seems to be an invitation to any Joe Schmoe off the street (who usually ends up giving us his emotional rendition of "Heart and Soul").

Trust me, no one wants to hear that from anyone over thirteen.

So just a little advice to our wannabe musician children (and adults)—before you make a beeline to an instrument in a music classroom, public place, rehearsal hall, etc., consider the following:

1) Have you asked permission?
2) Are you sure you are that good, that we will really benefit from your opus on the auto harp?
3) Am I in the room? Because if I am, please remember that I have been around sound all day long, and sometimes a few moments of silence is the most beautiful music.

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan.

When Smoke is in Your Bedroom . . .

I have been reading Matthew Quick's The Silver Linings Playbook (Yes! It is as good as the movie, so open a book once in a while, people!) and have, on several occasions, said to my husband, Dan, "You should practice being kind rather than right." (Read the book, people!)

My married friends will recognize that this quotation is highly appropriate while on the journey of matrimonial bliss. However, as I found out this week, it works both ways.

I am currently in rehearsals for a musical theater production . . . which means I am pretty tired right now . . . which means the night terrors are back. Night terrors rarely interrupt my sleep, but my odd behavior and blood curdling screams do, unfortunately, wake up Dan.

Yesterday, Dan told me I had another strange episode about two nights ago. This time I didn't scream. But I did start yelling at Dan about smoke in the room. I insisted I could smell it and see it over the bed.

Dan turned on the light.

"Look! There is no smoke, Becky."

"Stop telling me there is no smoke in the room! I know when there is smoke in the room!"

I continued to yell about smoke for a few minutes, becoming increasingly frustrated with Dan's obliviousness to this hazardous situation.

When I started to come out of it, I still insisted that there had, in fact, been smoke in the room. I just couldn't see it anymore.

"Why would I have thought there was smoke in this room when there wasn't?!"

"Did I think something was on fire?" I asked yesterday morning, after he finished recounting this latest installment in my night terrors saga.

"No, you just kept saying there was smoke was over my head."

"Did I think you were smoking cigarettes in bed or something?"

"I don't know what you were thinking," he said. "You need to practice being kind rather than right . . . while you sleepwalk."

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan.