You know what? The Red and Black headlines are boring. They're dull, and they have been all year.
Oh, I had some momentary hope when I saw there'd be a series on sexual harassment in the university system. I thought there might finally be something to shock or titillate. But I was disappointed--all we got were little accounts of how this or that professor may or may not have said some kinda suggestive things to a student once.
Seriously, Red and Black? Seriously? That's not the story I want to hear.
I want to hear about a professor who winked when talking about his office hours, and then I want to see how that evolved into a full-blown prostitution and cheating ring scandal with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Give me profiles of all the Sorosti--sorry, academic escorts--and tell me how many points a blow job raises your grade. What about a handjob? Will that bump you from a C+ to a B-? Inquiring minds want to know.
See, that's interesting. Oh, and I want pictures on the front cover, because too many words make my head hurt.
Actually, more extreme photos would be cool, too. Take note, Josh Weiss, or whoever succeeds you. If you can't get really dramatic shots, you can fake 'em. They do it in Iraq all the time. Photoshop's cheaper than ever, and it's time you people learned how to make it in the real world of journalism. Besides, images do wonders for your credibility.
Now, I understand a lot of really thrilling news stories aren't ever going to happen at our fair university. I accept that. But who's to say the Red and Black can't make them up? I mean, what if an earthquake hit? There'd be fire, and broken glass, and some guy running out of a building with mud streaked over his face. We could have rednecks telling us what the tornado sounded like. I'm sure the theater kids need something to do with their time.
What if the whole Bulldawg football team turned out to be Soviet agents in disguise? Knowshon is actually Kommandant Noshonov, reporting on our tactics and distributing Communist reading material on the sly.
Maybe there are orgies in Myers. Hell, if you need a witness, I'm damn good at perjuring myself. Most of us aren't that aware of what goes on at the university. By reporting the news, the Red and Black can make the news. We won't know the difference. Reality is created by the media, man, and you gotta start catching up if you're gonna survive in this century.
Come on, journalistic integrity is for the fifties. These days it's all about the sell, and you're gonna get a better sell with lurid sex, neon lights, and dirty dirty money. Fake us some headlines, Red and Black.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
To get workers for the Nations of the World, Epcot recruits college students living in these countries to come to the U.S. for a year and work in service jobs. They live in what sounded to me a lot like a Cold War-era nuclear bunker under the park (Walt Disney was known for planning ahead, I guess) and come out in the daytime to serve food and sell souvenirs. Wearing, of course, their national costumes. Having seen the Viking armor and longboats, it was really heart-wrenching to be served waffles by proud Norwegians in stockings and lederhosen. Besides, wasn't that supposed to be the Germans' schtick?
Um. The Lederhosen, not the cruel and unusual torment.
I talked to one of them. "Yeah," he said, "we have to work a lot. But they give us our evenings off."
I asked him if he was enjoying America, or if he thought it was that different. "It's nice," he said, "warm. But my boss keeps trying to get me to go to church."
I nodded in sympathy. Norway, by some measures, is 71% secular, something I regard with fascination and admiration. I wondered aloud if Thor might be persuaded to strike the man down.
He laughed. "No, but really, it's a really great opportunity."
Norwegians. I wanted to tell him that in his forefathers' days, there woulda been a lot more pillaging and a lot less appreciation. How the noble Vikings have fallen--!
Each pavilion is notable for featuring native cuisine, except, of course, the African pavilion, which featured none at all. The irony was not lost on me, nor the indignity that what was clearly an image of Africa--drums, staffs carved with lion heads, a dearth of edible foodstuff--was labeled simply "Outpost".
I think my greatest disappointments were in what they left out, not what they had there. I searched China for a tank I could stand in front of for a picture, but it turned out they didn't have any. I felt this was inauthentic and a terrible oversight on the part of the Disney Corporation. England, similarly, lacked the Sex Pistols, Dr Who, and Harry Potter. Really, who cares about Buckingham Palace when there's real culture to see?
My brother and I toured France together.
"It's just like Paris," I observed, "but without gypsies trying to fleece you at every turn."
My brother stared at me blankly. "Phillip. It's a Disney park."
"Okay," I amended. "It's just like Paris, except everyone is a gypsy and they're all on crack."
The Eiffel Tower, by the way? Nothing but a silhouette on the horizon. What a gyp. I cursed the shoddy gypsy workmanship and moved on.
Canada! Oh Canada. A pavilion done out in logs, staffed by real Canadians, dressed in lumberjack flannel. I weighed the discomfort of flannel in Florida heat against the sheer humiliation of wearing it for a year, and wondered again when Disney had signed its contract with Satan.
We watched the film in the pavilion, hosted by a pretty blonde Canadian girl. It has been a fine American tradition to politely harass Canadians whenever one happens by ever since they burned down the White House in the War of 1812. At my brother's opportunity, I went up to talk to her.
"You know," I said, "my girlfriend's name is Sarah Redden."
She nodded, confused.
"She lives in Canada," I went on.
"That's nice."
"Toronto or Ontario. One of those places."
"Toronto's in Ontario, actually."
"You might know her," I said.
She looked a bit affronted. "You know, Canada's actually a pretty big place."
I shrugged. That stuff's all relative. "Maybe it was Buffalo."
"That's in New York."
"Whatever."
I left with a new respect for America. We don't wear funny costumes, and we'll at least pretend to know that friend of yours who lives in America. We'd never live under Disneyworld, and we proudly display tanks at all our parks. Take that, China.
Um. The Lederhosen, not the cruel and unusual torment.
I talked to one of them. "Yeah," he said, "we have to work a lot. But they give us our evenings off."
I asked him if he was enjoying America, or if he thought it was that different. "It's nice," he said, "warm. But my boss keeps trying to get me to go to church."
I nodded in sympathy. Norway, by some measures, is 71% secular, something I regard with fascination and admiration. I wondered aloud if Thor might be persuaded to strike the man down.
He laughed. "No, but really, it's a really great opportunity."
Norwegians. I wanted to tell him that in his forefathers' days, there woulda been a lot more pillaging and a lot less appreciation. How the noble Vikings have fallen--!
Each pavilion is notable for featuring native cuisine, except, of course, the African pavilion, which featured none at all. The irony was not lost on me, nor the indignity that what was clearly an image of Africa--drums, staffs carved with lion heads, a dearth of edible foodstuff--was labeled simply "Outpost".
I think my greatest disappointments were in what they left out, not what they had there. I searched China for a tank I could stand in front of for a picture, but it turned out they didn't have any. I felt this was inauthentic and a terrible oversight on the part of the Disney Corporation. England, similarly, lacked the Sex Pistols, Dr Who, and Harry Potter. Really, who cares about Buckingham Palace when there's real culture to see?
My brother and I toured France together.
"It's just like Paris," I observed, "but without gypsies trying to fleece you at every turn."
My brother stared at me blankly. "Phillip. It's a Disney park."
"Okay," I amended. "It's just like Paris, except everyone is a gypsy and they're all on crack."
The Eiffel Tower, by the way? Nothing but a silhouette on the horizon. What a gyp. I cursed the shoddy gypsy workmanship and moved on.
Canada! Oh Canada. A pavilion done out in logs, staffed by real Canadians, dressed in lumberjack flannel. I weighed the discomfort of flannel in Florida heat against the sheer humiliation of wearing it for a year, and wondered again when Disney had signed its contract with Satan.
We watched the film in the pavilion, hosted by a pretty blonde Canadian girl. It has been a fine American tradition to politely harass Canadians whenever one happens by ever since they burned down the White House in the War of 1812. At my brother's opportunity, I went up to talk to her.
"You know," I said, "my girlfriend's name is Sarah Redden."
She nodded, confused.
"She lives in Canada," I went on.
"That's nice."
"Toronto or Ontario. One of those places."
"Toronto's in Ontario, actually."
"You might know her," I said.
She looked a bit affronted. "You know, Canada's actually a pretty big place."
I shrugged. That stuff's all relative. "Maybe it was Buffalo."
"That's in New York."
"Whatever."
I left with a new respect for America. We don't wear funny costumes, and we'll at least pretend to know that friend of yours who lives in America. We'd never live under Disneyworld, and we proudly display tanks at all our parks. Take that, China.
Friday, April 04, 2008
A few nights ago I was eating dinner with three female friends of mine, and conversation turned, inevitably, to The Sims.
The Sims, for those who have not played it, is a computer game that allows you to manage the lives of a family of people, from finding them jobs to dictating when they use the restroom. Such a concept should allow players to explore different aspects of life in novel ways; instead, it's often turned to more prurient purposes.
"Remember the vibrating heart-shaped bed?" one girl asked me. I nodded--the bed had all the style and grace of a no-tell motel, and if you told your Sims to use it, they would disrobe and perform carnal--excuse me, virtual--acts beneath the covers.
"Once I was home alone and bored," she went on, "and so I had my Sims have sex again . . . and again . . . and again . . . until finally the man passed out on the floor."
"I did something similar," another broke in. "I built a wall around the bed, so they kept having sex until they both died from exhaustion."
I told my own story, in which I turned my best friend's little sisters into sociopaths. I taught them that you could put a Sim in a room, remove the door, and then set the house on fire. When your Sim perished, the Grim Reaper appeared to dispose of him. My friend's sisters were suitably shocked.
Fifteen minutes later, they dragged me over to the computer to show me their latest project. They were luring neighbors into the house in order to trap them and kill them when the house burned down. I patted the two budding serial killers on the back and left, telling myself I had given them only the means to murder, not the motivation.
"The real problem," one of my friends said, "is the social workers. My Sims had a baby, but there wasn't really time to take care of it. So this social worker came and took the kid away.
"Of course, if you build a wall around the social worker when she shows up, she'll just die anyway."
"If you keep killing social workers," one confided, "they can never take your children away."
Our fourth dinner companion, who had evidently never played the game herself, wondered aloud whether she ought to call DFACS as soon as any of us conceived.
"No," I said, "at least, not on these two. Do you really want to be responsible for a social worker's death?"
I guess Sims lets you explore what it's like to be God, within certain limits. We heap a lot of blame on God, especially for the sort of things that happened in the Old Testament. Fire rained from the sky. People were turned into salt. There were floods, and massacres, and a baby got cut in half. But really, can we claim to be any better? At least God never walled you up in a house and set the carpet on fire. Nor has he killed a disproportionate number of social workers, or brought people to death by sexual exhaustion.
We take issue with the matter of Creation. There's a tree, and you're not allowed to eat of it, but you know, it's right there, and what could one little bite hurt? The logical man might wonder why the tree wasn't placed out of reach, but the logical man never had to play Sims without cheat codes. You're limited in funds, and it's hard to put the Tree of Knowledge on a distant mountaintop when there's a perfectly convenient spot right between the mulberry bush and the demonically persuasive serpent.
Sims teaches us an important theological lesson. A lot of times in our stories, gods just behave like we would, if only we could. Anybody whose had to deal with Egyptian customs procedures has thought about smiting the whole country with locusts, and most of us, upon meeting a beautiful woman we're too shy to talk to, would probably jump at the chance to manifest as a bull or a swan or perhaps even a convenient raincloud. It's the Olympian way.
So give the gods a break. After all, they're only human.
The Sims, for those who have not played it, is a computer game that allows you to manage the lives of a family of people, from finding them jobs to dictating when they use the restroom. Such a concept should allow players to explore different aspects of life in novel ways; instead, it's often turned to more prurient purposes.
"Remember the vibrating heart-shaped bed?" one girl asked me. I nodded--the bed had all the style and grace of a no-tell motel, and if you told your Sims to use it, they would disrobe and perform carnal--excuse me, virtual--acts beneath the covers.
"Once I was home alone and bored," she went on, "and so I had my Sims have sex again . . . and again . . . and again . . . until finally the man passed out on the floor."
"I did something similar," another broke in. "I built a wall around the bed, so they kept having sex until they both died from exhaustion."
I told my own story, in which I turned my best friend's little sisters into sociopaths. I taught them that you could put a Sim in a room, remove the door, and then set the house on fire. When your Sim perished, the Grim Reaper appeared to dispose of him. My friend's sisters were suitably shocked.
Fifteen minutes later, they dragged me over to the computer to show me their latest project. They were luring neighbors into the house in order to trap them and kill them when the house burned down. I patted the two budding serial killers on the back and left, telling myself I had given them only the means to murder, not the motivation.
"The real problem," one of my friends said, "is the social workers. My Sims had a baby, but there wasn't really time to take care of it. So this social worker came and took the kid away.
"Of course, if you build a wall around the social worker when she shows up, she'll just die anyway."
"If you keep killing social workers," one confided, "they can never take your children away."
Our fourth dinner companion, who had evidently never played the game herself, wondered aloud whether she ought to call DFACS as soon as any of us conceived.
"No," I said, "at least, not on these two. Do you really want to be responsible for a social worker's death?"
I guess Sims lets you explore what it's like to be God, within certain limits. We heap a lot of blame on God, especially for the sort of things that happened in the Old Testament. Fire rained from the sky. People were turned into salt. There were floods, and massacres, and a baby got cut in half. But really, can we claim to be any better? At least God never walled you up in a house and set the carpet on fire. Nor has he killed a disproportionate number of social workers, or brought people to death by sexual exhaustion.
We take issue with the matter of Creation. There's a tree, and you're not allowed to eat of it, but you know, it's right there, and what could one little bite hurt? The logical man might wonder why the tree wasn't placed out of reach, but the logical man never had to play Sims without cheat codes. You're limited in funds, and it's hard to put the Tree of Knowledge on a distant mountaintop when there's a perfectly convenient spot right between the mulberry bush and the demonically persuasive serpent.
Sims teaches us an important theological lesson. A lot of times in our stories, gods just behave like we would, if only we could. Anybody whose had to deal with Egyptian customs procedures has thought about smiting the whole country with locusts, and most of us, upon meeting a beautiful woman we're too shy to talk to, would probably jump at the chance to manifest as a bull or a swan or perhaps even a convenient raincloud. It's the Olympian way.
So give the gods a break. After all, they're only human.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
My friend Hugo is officially - now and henceforth - my bitch.
We came into Bolton, got our food, ate. Hugo went to get ice cream, and as I passed him on my way to look at the desserts, we talked for a moment.
I told Hugo that tempting as the ice cream sandwiches were, I wouldn't get one. You see, they're cold and it's cold outside, and that's a combination I don't care to make. Besides, I was already pretty full.
Hugo wanted to see if the guy would give him a whole box of ice cream sandwiches so he could run back to Boggs and pop 'em in the freezer. I laughed, told him to go for it. Hell, it'd be entertaining either way.
I sit down, start to talk again, and here comes Hugo, panic evident on his face. He's carrying a box of ice cream sandwiches and he's followed - horrors! - by a bearded dining hall manager, grinning ear to ear.
Hugo plunks the box on the table and says quickly (and loudly), "Come on, Phillip! Sixteen sandwiches - that's eight apiece! Whoever finishes them off the quickest wins!"
I look from his face - earnest, desperate - to the manager's (grinning with the expectation of someone else's impending discomfort). Realization dawns.
"Oh you fucker," I burst out.
"Come on," Hugo pleads, "you promised. Eating contest, remember?"
"Y'all are gonna get such awful brain freeze," the manager chuckles. Two of our friends laugh along - they don't know what's going on.
"Oh you fucker - I'm not gonna - oh you fucker - fine."
We divy up the sandwiches and start eating. The ice cream hurts my teeth, but I gulp it down regardless.
"Come on," one of my friends says, "you're just nibbling it. Look, he's got half of one down already. You gotta pick up the pace."
The wife nods. "Have you ever seen eating contests? They just stuff it on down."
The manager nods. "You're losing time. Just rip the whole damn wrapper off and stuff it down."
I choke and imagine Hugo's scabby leprous death. In vain, I try to shove some of my sandwiches off on my wife. My teeth are really hurting now, and my head's starting to hurt too. I keep my eyes fixed on Hugo, staring daggers.
"You're doing it wrong," one of my friends says, "let me take over." She grabs my sandwiches and starts gulping them down. I raise a silent prayer of relief. Then pride takes over.
I can't pussy out, I reason. I started this - I have to finish it. My competitive sense won't let me concede the game once I've started. Losing, sure. Giving up - never.
(I curse my parents for giving me a work ethic)
I grab most of the sandwiches back and go on gulping. I wonder how hard it is for bulimics to purge - could I just throw all of this back up in the bathroom as soon as I'm done?
Finally the manager laughs and goes. I put down the sandwich (resist the compulsion to finish what you started, dude!) and Hugo does likewise.
"Thanks, man. I just had no idea what to do. I got up there and he asked me what I wanted the sandwich for, and I just had to lie." Hugo grins apologetically.
I settle back, burp emphatically, and laugh. "You're my bitch now, you know."
Hugo stows the sandwiches. My belly feels cold and full and sloshy.
"What are you guys doing?" my friend asks, still eating. "We're not done yet!"
[Yeah, yeah, some creative liberties because I can't remember exact events. Names changed to protect the innocent]
We came into Bolton, got our food, ate. Hugo went to get ice cream, and as I passed him on my way to look at the desserts, we talked for a moment.
I told Hugo that tempting as the ice cream sandwiches were, I wouldn't get one. You see, they're cold and it's cold outside, and that's a combination I don't care to make. Besides, I was already pretty full.
Hugo wanted to see if the guy would give him a whole box of ice cream sandwiches so he could run back to Boggs and pop 'em in the freezer. I laughed, told him to go for it. Hell, it'd be entertaining either way.
I sit down, start to talk again, and here comes Hugo, panic evident on his face. He's carrying a box of ice cream sandwiches and he's followed - horrors! - by a bearded dining hall manager, grinning ear to ear.
Hugo plunks the box on the table and says quickly (and loudly), "Come on, Phillip! Sixteen sandwiches - that's eight apiece! Whoever finishes them off the quickest wins!"
I look from his face - earnest, desperate - to the manager's (grinning with the expectation of someone else's impending discomfort). Realization dawns.
"Oh you fucker," I burst out.
"Come on," Hugo pleads, "you promised. Eating contest, remember?"
"Y'all are gonna get such awful brain freeze," the manager chuckles. Two of our friends laugh along - they don't know what's going on.
"Oh you fucker - I'm not gonna - oh you fucker - fine."
We divy up the sandwiches and start eating. The ice cream hurts my teeth, but I gulp it down regardless.
"Come on," one of my friends says, "you're just nibbling it. Look, he's got half of one down already. You gotta pick up the pace."
The wife nods. "Have you ever seen eating contests? They just stuff it on down."
The manager nods. "You're losing time. Just rip the whole damn wrapper off and stuff it down."
I choke and imagine Hugo's scabby leprous death. In vain, I try to shove some of my sandwiches off on my wife. My teeth are really hurting now, and my head's starting to hurt too. I keep my eyes fixed on Hugo, staring daggers.
"You're doing it wrong," one of my friends says, "let me take over." She grabs my sandwiches and starts gulping them down. I raise a silent prayer of relief. Then pride takes over.
I can't pussy out, I reason. I started this - I have to finish it. My competitive sense won't let me concede the game once I've started. Losing, sure. Giving up - never.
(I curse my parents for giving me a work ethic)
I grab most of the sandwiches back and go on gulping. I wonder how hard it is for bulimics to purge - could I just throw all of this back up in the bathroom as soon as I'm done?
Finally the manager laughs and goes. I put down the sandwich (resist the compulsion to finish what you started, dude!) and Hugo does likewise.
"Thanks, man. I just had no idea what to do. I got up there and he asked me what I wanted the sandwich for, and I just had to lie." Hugo grins apologetically.
I settle back, burp emphatically, and laugh. "You're my bitch now, you know."
Hugo stows the sandwiches. My belly feels cold and full and sloshy.
"What are you guys doing?" my friend asks, still eating. "We're not done yet!"
[Yeah, yeah, some creative liberties because I can't remember exact events. Names changed to protect the innocent]
Thursday, January 31, 2008
You know what I think?
I think that most people don't actually care too much about anyone else. I think when someone's down or depressed, we'd rather go through the motions and tell them to get better than to actually try and help. Because, you see, it inconveniences us to have to deal with other people's emotions.
I've been told I need to be more emotionally open. I've been told that my prickly exterior can be off-putting. Would y'all like to see the depths of my crazy and my issues?
(I'll imagine you saying yes)
(then if you actually did, you can scroll down. If not, don't worry about it.)
I feel like I'm drowning sometimes lately. Not that I'm struggling up for air, but that I'm just quietly sinking under. I can't summon the energy to be anybody or do anything anymore. Most of the time I don't want to leave my room. I just want to stay here and avoid . . . everything. I want to pretend that this space is the whole world, and just fall apart within it. I can't write or read--at least, I barely can. I like the television. Doesn't require much effort. I try to write but it all feels dead and so I get disgusted with what I'm doing and I forget it and leave it be. When I read I don't understand what's happening 'cause it's like there's nothing behind the words anymore and I don't know why. And I'm so scared sometimes lately just to go outside and be with people or to do anything. I make every excuse to avoid it. I can't rest either, though. I just . . . I'm too tightly wound to relax at all. I try to relax and everything siezes up and my muscles tighten up and I breathe faster and I don't understand what the hell is going on.
I vomit up words on this blog. They're just that. Vomit. I write things that I think might be good, but I'm afraid to let them out anymore. I can't show them to people and I don't know why. I'm scared of so much now. I want to be a writer--I have to, or I'll feel I've failed in life. I only feel real when I'm doing something creative, and if I stop that, then I'll just feel dead always. I'm too scared, though, to even do anything with anything I write now. I don't have the confidence to do it. I don't have the confidence to throw myself out there on my own, to let me rely on myself. I'm scared.
I used to be so confident, so sure of myself. I mean, I didn't seem it on the outside, but I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. Now it's reversed--I appear confident, but I'm not. All that's left of me these days is fear. I don't feel smart or capable or such anymore. I feel so slow sometimes. I don't understand it.
I've this recurring nightmare I've had since my youth. General theme, something familiar, something I trust, it turns into something terrible that's going to destroy me. A paranoia dream, I know. It does rather set the trend for my social interactions, though.
You know, I've assumed for a very long time that anyone who's friends with me, who spends time with me--I assume that's done out of pity, that it's because they feel sorry for me. How fucked up is that?
Sometimes I date people I know I really shouldn't because I feel like--me being rather worthless in my own eyes--it's the best I can do. I have issues with being complimented at all. It makes me so very uncomfortable, and I don't know why.
I really don't know how to deal with my emotions. I keep them bottled down, and I feel like they're tearing me apart, and I still don't really know how to let things out. Even this is barely anything.
Terrible, terrible things happen and I don't feel hardly anything and I don't understand why. I feel so inhuman sometimes.
I've never been in a real relationship, you know (Maggie, I love you dearly, but it doesn't quite count). I don't know what it's like, and so I can't even imagine it anymore. Today, I was doing my laundry, following a train of thought, and I realized that I had come to terms with the idea of being essentially alone forever. It felt like a stone in my stomach.
And now I've let out a bit of all I've got stored up. And I don't think any of it can be solved. I feel so hopeless. I can't seem to strike the balance: either I am very emotionless, and I am told that I should show some emotion sometime; or I do show that emotion, and I'm - I dunno, shunned? Scolded?--for it. I think perhaps I'm supposed to be emotional enough to be accessable, but not so much that it seems like I have actual problems.
I feel like all I'm made of is doubt and fear and worry, and there's nothing else left.
I think that most people don't actually care too much about anyone else. I think when someone's down or depressed, we'd rather go through the motions and tell them to get better than to actually try and help. Because, you see, it inconveniences us to have to deal with other people's emotions.
I've been told I need to be more emotionally open. I've been told that my prickly exterior can be off-putting. Would y'all like to see the depths of my crazy and my issues?
(I'll imagine you saying yes)
(then if you actually did, you can scroll down. If not, don't worry about it.)
I feel like I'm drowning sometimes lately. Not that I'm struggling up for air, but that I'm just quietly sinking under. I can't summon the energy to be anybody or do anything anymore. Most of the time I don't want to leave my room. I just want to stay here and avoid . . . everything. I want to pretend that this space is the whole world, and just fall apart within it. I can't write or read--at least, I barely can. I like the television. Doesn't require much effort. I try to write but it all feels dead and so I get disgusted with what I'm doing and I forget it and leave it be. When I read I don't understand what's happening 'cause it's like there's nothing behind the words anymore and I don't know why. And I'm so scared sometimes lately just to go outside and be with people or to do anything. I make every excuse to avoid it. I can't rest either, though. I just . . . I'm too tightly wound to relax at all. I try to relax and everything siezes up and my muscles tighten up and I breathe faster and I don't understand what the hell is going on.
I vomit up words on this blog. They're just that. Vomit. I write things that I think might be good, but I'm afraid to let them out anymore. I can't show them to people and I don't know why. I'm scared of so much now. I want to be a writer--I have to, or I'll feel I've failed in life. I only feel real when I'm doing something creative, and if I stop that, then I'll just feel dead always. I'm too scared, though, to even do anything with anything I write now. I don't have the confidence to do it. I don't have the confidence to throw myself out there on my own, to let me rely on myself. I'm scared.
I used to be so confident, so sure of myself. I mean, I didn't seem it on the outside, but I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. Now it's reversed--I appear confident, but I'm not. All that's left of me these days is fear. I don't feel smart or capable or such anymore. I feel so slow sometimes. I don't understand it.
I've this recurring nightmare I've had since my youth. General theme, something familiar, something I trust, it turns into something terrible that's going to destroy me. A paranoia dream, I know. It does rather set the trend for my social interactions, though.
You know, I've assumed for a very long time that anyone who's friends with me, who spends time with me--I assume that's done out of pity, that it's because they feel sorry for me. How fucked up is that?
Sometimes I date people I know I really shouldn't because I feel like--me being rather worthless in my own eyes--it's the best I can do. I have issues with being complimented at all. It makes me so very uncomfortable, and I don't know why.
I really don't know how to deal with my emotions. I keep them bottled down, and I feel like they're tearing me apart, and I still don't really know how to let things out. Even this is barely anything.
Terrible, terrible things happen and I don't feel hardly anything and I don't understand why. I feel so inhuman sometimes.
I've never been in a real relationship, you know (Maggie, I love you dearly, but it doesn't quite count). I don't know what it's like, and so I can't even imagine it anymore. Today, I was doing my laundry, following a train of thought, and I realized that I had come to terms with the idea of being essentially alone forever. It felt like a stone in my stomach.
And now I've let out a bit of all I've got stored up. And I don't think any of it can be solved. I feel so hopeless. I can't seem to strike the balance: either I am very emotionless, and I am told that I should show some emotion sometime; or I do show that emotion, and I'm - I dunno, shunned? Scolded?--for it. I think perhaps I'm supposed to be emotional enough to be accessable, but not so much that it seems like I have actual problems.
I feel like all I'm made of is doubt and fear and worry, and there's nothing else left.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
What does activism mean, really?
You know, people like to say something, usually in reference to politics: If it ain't broke, don't fix it (IIABDFI).
"Fix" and "broke". Nice choice of words. Seems to imply something mechanical.
So let's apply this precept to engineering!
Do we maintain the same technology year after year, only fixing problems when they crop up? Or do we seek to improve them a bit?
If we do, then
Would it be better to continually improve the oil lamp, or replace it with something entirely different--say, a lightbulb?
Do we just keep souping up our horse and wagon, or shall we overturn the whole damn system and drive cars?
IIABDFI is, we can see, an entirely silly aphorism based on--what, ignorance and lack of basic sense? Often the best thing is not to fix what ain't broke, but improve upon it.
And the greatest advances in human history are based on sweeping away what came before entirely, and making something new.
It is taking an active stance towards world affairs and society. We don't seek to repair what's broken (return to the past, which nostalgia proves was better). We may make small improvements.
And sometimes we'll pull out the tablecloth from under the dishes and change the whole thing. And that's gonna be a good thing, in the long run, and people have to learn to cope.
Activism. Not trying to preserve order or return to an older state of being, but advance in a new and better one.
You know, people like to say something, usually in reference to politics: If it ain't broke, don't fix it (IIABDFI).
"Fix" and "broke". Nice choice of words. Seems to imply something mechanical.
So let's apply this precept to engineering!
Do we maintain the same technology year after year, only fixing problems when they crop up? Or do we seek to improve them a bit?
If we do, then
Would it be better to continually improve the oil lamp, or replace it with something entirely different--say, a lightbulb?
Do we just keep souping up our horse and wagon, or shall we overturn the whole damn system and drive cars?
IIABDFI is, we can see, an entirely silly aphorism based on--what, ignorance and lack of basic sense? Often the best thing is not to fix what ain't broke, but improve upon it.
And the greatest advances in human history are based on sweeping away what came before entirely, and making something new.
It is taking an active stance towards world affairs and society. We don't seek to repair what's broken (return to the past, which nostalgia proves was better). We may make small improvements.
And sometimes we'll pull out the tablecloth from under the dishes and change the whole thing. And that's gonna be a good thing, in the long run, and people have to learn to cope.
Activism. Not trying to preserve order or return to an older state of being, but advance in a new and better one.
Monday, December 10, 2007
I come upon the giants in the fields, sleeping in the aftermath of their grim slaughter.
Their bodies rumble with deep, earth-shaking roars, and I whisper in my noble mount's ears to calm him. The stench of blood fills the air, and I restrain my stomach as it struggles for freedom. Beside each hulking body lays piles upon piles of sheep, torn to pieces. I expect to see white fluff floating on the wing--a silly conceit.
My mount skitters nervously as it catches the ubiquitous smell, and my helmet falls over my eyes. I push it up and drop my lance; my squire hands me the lance and my helmet tips again, but I have, in my wisdom, anticipated this. As I fling my arm up to stop my helm, the edge of my shield hits my forehead, knocking me to the ground.
I blink and groan, rolling onto my knees. It is a struggle to stand in armor, but my efforts are not in vain. I rise to my feet, my head searing with pain. Worse, the clanging thud of my fall has wakened the giants, and they lumber to their full heights.
They rise above the treetops--fearful, hideous aberrations on the face of nature. Ones rolls as it tries to stand and crushes the nearby farmhouse; I wince and pray to God that the farmer and his wife were not inside. There are two of them, clumsily constructed, as of cold clay and rock. Lumpy, crude parodies of human beings--God's misbegotten children.
But not without great strength, I remind myself, as a massive club thuds into the ground immediately to my left. My horse rears and tries to run, but I lunge--painfully slowly in my heavy armor--and catch the reins. It is a strong horse, but the weight of a man in armor dragging on its reins is enough to slow it. I call for my squire, and he helps me hoist my bulk onto my mount's back.
I am fearless. The giants stand over me, but I do not move in the face of them until I am fully in the saddle. Then I urge my horse on, galloping past them and turning. They are slow-witted, weak-minded, and it takes them a moment to realize where I have gone.
In that moment I charge, and stab the larger of the two in the back of the knee with my lance. He roars and stamps the ground--I barely escape his pounding feet, and the great quaking earth in the wake of his feet nearly dismounts me again. But I am valiant and strong, and even as the stinking spittle of his cry rains down on me I turn, and catch him a second time. This time I aim higher, sticking my lance into the meat of the other giant's thigh.
Their flesh, though it appears rocky, is rotten with pox, and my wooden lance tears it away to the bone. This smaller giant tries to turn more quickly, to pursue me, but her newly ruined leg betrays her and she falls to the ground, taking part of the forest with her. She moans and raches for me, pulling trees from the ground and throwing them at me. We are nimble, though, and dodge between them, the blood pounding in my ears.
She will present no more problem, and I turn my attention again to the male, who now chases me, limping only slightly. I toss my lance aside, draw my crossbow and load it, turning my mount to face the monster. It neighs in fear, but I pay it no mind. I fire an hour, and strike the great titan's eye. He screams and clutches his face. The foolish beast tries to dig the arrow out, and so completes the injury. I use the time to load a second arrow and take his other eye.
Now he is blind and mad, stumbling for me. I turn and dig in my heels, urging my mount onward. There is a ravine not far from here that my squire and I passed not long ago, and this is where I now ride. I whoop loudly, triumphantly, as I ride, and the injured foe follows the sounds of my yells.
We run together now, the space between us drawing to a close as I ride for the ravine. Twice his hands reach and nearly catch me; I dodge, quick as a bird. At last I see the brush that marks the ravine's edge and ride straight for it, making sure to sing my triumph all the way. As I reach the edges I turn, my horse's hooves skittering on the crumbling soil, and double back, ceasing my cries. From behind me I hear a great cry of surprise, then nothing more. From a safe distance I listen to the first fall to his death, then turn my attention back to the female.
She is limping, lumbering to me, her wound gushing great spouts of thick yellow fluid and slow red blood. I make a wide circle around her, seeing my squire with my discarded lance. A good servant anticipates his master's needs. I come to retrieve it, and he opens his mouth to speak, to beg me off. I do not listen. I take the lance and ride back into the fray.
I charge straight for the female, her face gaping wide in stupid glee. She bends to catch me and I dodge around. In her excitement she tries to folow me and trips, falls. I ride away a little and turn. The giant is on her back, trying to life herself to her side.
This charge is my strongest, my lance steady and my mount pounding hard at the soil. As she rolls to face me, myy lance strikes the giant, digging deep into her stomach. She screams, high and painful, and her flailing arms fling me from my horse. I hear my horse scream as well.
It takes me a moment to regain my senses, lying in the eves of the wounded giants great loins. The blood is puddling around me, and the putrescent stink brings me to my feet. My lance is gone; I do not know what has become of my horse.
I draw my sword. She is a lovely thing--I found her in a museum and took her away under cover of night. This charge may well be my last, and so I put my full strength into it, jabbing and slicing at her hands when they come to me. I leap over the expanse of her arm, and her throat is in view. My blade swings out and cuts deep into her throat. I withdraw and swing again and again, until her limbs fall still, and finally her head is severed.
I am covered in gore and sweat, standing amid the corpse of a giant. My squire appears, breathless, leading my miraculously unharmed horse. He pats me all over, making sure I am not injured. "Good show," he says, "good show. A battle that will live on in legend, no doubt, sir. Only . . ."
I sigh. "Windmills again?"
He shrugs apologetically. "It's what they are, sir."
I stare across the field of battle, thinking of the adventure of my long life. I have rescued maidens and pursued great deeds of valor; I have seen such sights as most mortal men never will. And . . . windmills.
"It is peculiar," I say, "that where I see the beautiful and fantastic, everyone else sees the ordinary. The pale dross of the everyday. So then, my friend, which one of us is mad?"
My squire thinks a moment, then answers. "You, sir."
"That's as may be." I wipe my sword clean and stow it in its scabbard. "Come, my friend--perhaps there is a damsel still to be rescued before nightfall."
He nods. "Very well, sir."
Their bodies rumble with deep, earth-shaking roars, and I whisper in my noble mount's ears to calm him. The stench of blood fills the air, and I restrain my stomach as it struggles for freedom. Beside each hulking body lays piles upon piles of sheep, torn to pieces. I expect to see white fluff floating on the wing--a silly conceit.
My mount skitters nervously as it catches the ubiquitous smell, and my helmet falls over my eyes. I push it up and drop my lance; my squire hands me the lance and my helmet tips again, but I have, in my wisdom, anticipated this. As I fling my arm up to stop my helm, the edge of my shield hits my forehead, knocking me to the ground.
I blink and groan, rolling onto my knees. It is a struggle to stand in armor, but my efforts are not in vain. I rise to my feet, my head searing with pain. Worse, the clanging thud of my fall has wakened the giants, and they lumber to their full heights.
They rise above the treetops--fearful, hideous aberrations on the face of nature. Ones rolls as it tries to stand and crushes the nearby farmhouse; I wince and pray to God that the farmer and his wife were not inside. There are two of them, clumsily constructed, as of cold clay and rock. Lumpy, crude parodies of human beings--God's misbegotten children.
But not without great strength, I remind myself, as a massive club thuds into the ground immediately to my left. My horse rears and tries to run, but I lunge--painfully slowly in my heavy armor--and catch the reins. It is a strong horse, but the weight of a man in armor dragging on its reins is enough to slow it. I call for my squire, and he helps me hoist my bulk onto my mount's back.
I am fearless. The giants stand over me, but I do not move in the face of them until I am fully in the saddle. Then I urge my horse on, galloping past them and turning. They are slow-witted, weak-minded, and it takes them a moment to realize where I have gone.
In that moment I charge, and stab the larger of the two in the back of the knee with my lance. He roars and stamps the ground--I barely escape his pounding feet, and the great quaking earth in the wake of his feet nearly dismounts me again. But I am valiant and strong, and even as the stinking spittle of his cry rains down on me I turn, and catch him a second time. This time I aim higher, sticking my lance into the meat of the other giant's thigh.
Their flesh, though it appears rocky, is rotten with pox, and my wooden lance tears it away to the bone. This smaller giant tries to turn more quickly, to pursue me, but her newly ruined leg betrays her and she falls to the ground, taking part of the forest with her. She moans and raches for me, pulling trees from the ground and throwing them at me. We are nimble, though, and dodge between them, the blood pounding in my ears.
She will present no more problem, and I turn my attention again to the male, who now chases me, limping only slightly. I toss my lance aside, draw my crossbow and load it, turning my mount to face the monster. It neighs in fear, but I pay it no mind. I fire an hour, and strike the great titan's eye. He screams and clutches his face. The foolish beast tries to dig the arrow out, and so completes the injury. I use the time to load a second arrow and take his other eye.
Now he is blind and mad, stumbling for me. I turn and dig in my heels, urging my mount onward. There is a ravine not far from here that my squire and I passed not long ago, and this is where I now ride. I whoop loudly, triumphantly, as I ride, and the injured foe follows the sounds of my yells.
We run together now, the space between us drawing to a close as I ride for the ravine. Twice his hands reach and nearly catch me; I dodge, quick as a bird. At last I see the brush that marks the ravine's edge and ride straight for it, making sure to sing my triumph all the way. As I reach the edges I turn, my horse's hooves skittering on the crumbling soil, and double back, ceasing my cries. From behind me I hear a great cry of surprise, then nothing more. From a safe distance I listen to the first fall to his death, then turn my attention back to the female.
She is limping, lumbering to me, her wound gushing great spouts of thick yellow fluid and slow red blood. I make a wide circle around her, seeing my squire with my discarded lance. A good servant anticipates his master's needs. I come to retrieve it, and he opens his mouth to speak, to beg me off. I do not listen. I take the lance and ride back into the fray.
I charge straight for the female, her face gaping wide in stupid glee. She bends to catch me and I dodge around. In her excitement she tries to folow me and trips, falls. I ride away a little and turn. The giant is on her back, trying to life herself to her side.
This charge is my strongest, my lance steady and my mount pounding hard at the soil. As she rolls to face me, myy lance strikes the giant, digging deep into her stomach. She screams, high and painful, and her flailing arms fling me from my horse. I hear my horse scream as well.
It takes me a moment to regain my senses, lying in the eves of the wounded giants great loins. The blood is puddling around me, and the putrescent stink brings me to my feet. My lance is gone; I do not know what has become of my horse.
I draw my sword. She is a lovely thing--I found her in a museum and took her away under cover of night. This charge may well be my last, and so I put my full strength into it, jabbing and slicing at her hands when they come to me. I leap over the expanse of her arm, and her throat is in view. My blade swings out and cuts deep into her throat. I withdraw and swing again and again, until her limbs fall still, and finally her head is severed.
I am covered in gore and sweat, standing amid the corpse of a giant. My squire appears, breathless, leading my miraculously unharmed horse. He pats me all over, making sure I am not injured. "Good show," he says, "good show. A battle that will live on in legend, no doubt, sir. Only . . ."
I sigh. "Windmills again?"
He shrugs apologetically. "It's what they are, sir."
I stare across the field of battle, thinking of the adventure of my long life. I have rescued maidens and pursued great deeds of valor; I have seen such sights as most mortal men never will. And . . . windmills.
"It is peculiar," I say, "that where I see the beautiful and fantastic, everyone else sees the ordinary. The pale dross of the everyday. So then, my friend, which one of us is mad?"
My squire thinks a moment, then answers. "You, sir."
"That's as may be." I wipe my sword clean and stow it in its scabbard. "Come, my friend--perhaps there is a damsel still to be rescued before nightfall."
He nods. "Very well, sir."
Monday, December 03, 2007
Today I checked my UGAmail to find I was expected to write an RA Review. A prime opportunity, I decided.
So, with the help of my dearest Daae (full name credit to her if she wants), here is my review:
"I have not seen my RA or indeed had any indication that he exists at all since the day I moved in. This being said, I have not had any problems with abuse of power or overbearing authority, much in the same way that people in a state of anarchy do not complain about the leadership. Indeed, I find the levels of noise, filth, and organization consistent with most historical examples of anarchy. His leadership is as unimpeachable as it is unnoticeable. Truly, he leads best who leads least.
I have heard tell that he is known among the residents on A Hall. However, I regard these rumors with as much credulity as I do those of Yeti-fighting in the Myers lobby. Until I can substantiate it, I remain unconvinced."
So, with the help of my dearest Daae (full name credit to her if she wants), here is my review:
"I have not seen my RA or indeed had any indication that he exists at all since the day I moved in. This being said, I have not had any problems with abuse of power or overbearing authority, much in the same way that people in a state of anarchy do not complain about the leadership. Indeed, I find the levels of noise, filth, and organization consistent with most historical examples of anarchy. His leadership is as unimpeachable as it is unnoticeable. Truly, he leads best who leads least.
I have heard tell that he is known among the residents on A Hall. However, I regard these rumors with as much credulity as I do those of Yeti-fighting in the Myers lobby. Until I can substantiate it, I remain unconvinced."
Saturday, December 01, 2007
I saw Transformers (the new film) tonight. When Optimus Prime first appeared, I freaked out. I explained to my wife: "This is Optimus Prime. He is everything that is good and noble and high-minded in the world. He is order and light." And--I did not add out loud--in the animated series, he died in fighting for good.
Which had me thinking--because, you see, I often side with the bad guys. Jesus Christ could be argued as exactly the same deal, but in Paradise Lost, I prefer Satan. Frankly, if nothing else, Satan is a far more interesting character.
And yet Optimus Prime is interesting and compelling. There are good and interesting and overall worthwhile characters that fight on the side of good.
Perhaps it is because Christ, in PL, is primarily a static figure. He is not a thing of change. His speeches are simply hymns to glory. Moreover, we know that the good guys in PL did not rise to their position of greatness. They simply dealt themselves the highest cards. Jesus is great and mighty and wonderful because he decreed it should be so, not because he worked for it.
Optimus Prime struggles for goodness--that is why he is worthwhile and interesting.
In PL, Christ offers himself as a sacrificial lamb to redeem all mankind. And yet this is not an awe-inspiring sacrifice, for we know that it is only temporary. He is certain to win. This is, perhaps, why it is easier to buy religion as a gnostic. The gnostics believe in a world of good and evil as nearly equal forces, and it is uncertain which will win. If we know good will always win, why should we care when it does?
In PL, there is a battle in Heaven. The angels under Lucifer design a mighty cannon and use it in their attack; the Host of Heaven responds by hurling mountains at them. One side creates an ingenious and complex projectile system, and their opponents throw rocks, like cavemen. This is the essence of the good/evil conflict of Paradise Lost: the Evil creates something new and brilliant, and the Good simply uses primitive, static force.
Perhaps this is the nub of it. It seems, very often, that Evil is the label applied to that which is simply new and different. It is what is unpredictable--and therefore somewhat dangerous. Evil is exhilarating, and ultimately it is innovation. These forces of Good that I discount do not seek to rise higher or to make things better; they seek only to preserve things as they are or return them to some previous state of superiority. Then they will rest easy.
They are not innovative, but reactionary.
Optimus Prime seeks to make things better than they were. So does every hero or champion of good that I have ever respected--PL's Satan included. You see, this is the center of the war in Heaven: Heaven could not be Paradise, for if it were, rebellion would be impossible. Sociologically speaking, we only rebel when we can imagine how things might be better. Desire, you see, is a flaw in Paradise. Any desire that is not instantly sated or eliminated means that there could be something greater than Paradise, and therefore proves Paradise a sham. Satan seeks something he believes is greater: the principle of liberty and personal choice. The forces of Heaven seek to simply preserve things as they are.
I watch Heroes with my uncle. He once remarked that it scared him a bit that I derided Peter Petrelli (the quintessential good guy) and admired Sylar (the unequivocably bad guy). I think I understand why I felt that way now. Peter is a static and reactionary force: he does not like his newfound powers and seeks to do away with them. Sylar understands the world has changed, and goes with the change. He sees the opportunity to, in his twisted mind, make the world better than it was.
But you see, we have such a character on the side of Good as well. Hiro. He finds joy in his powers, and he sees the world has changed. He does not fight that change, but seeks to make the world a better place. He does not idealize the past as a time that was better, but works in the hopes of a future that will be far greater.
I think, now, on all the good and noble characters in fiction I have admired. King Arthur. Optimus Prime. John Milton's Satan. Albus Dumbledore. They seek a new world better than the one we have. They know they fight against insurmountable odds, and they know that they very well may die in the attempt, without ever achieving any success.
And yet they go on fighting regardless.
NOTE: When I speak, I speak of characters in fiction. I do not speak of Christ or Lucifer as religion portrays them, but as John Milton does in Paradise Lost. Just as when I speak of Optimus Prime, I do not mean the real one, but the one we see in movies and cartoon shows.
Which had me thinking--because, you see, I often side with the bad guys. Jesus Christ could be argued as exactly the same deal, but in Paradise Lost, I prefer Satan. Frankly, if nothing else, Satan is a far more interesting character.
And yet Optimus Prime is interesting and compelling. There are good and interesting and overall worthwhile characters that fight on the side of good.
Perhaps it is because Christ, in PL, is primarily a static figure. He is not a thing of change. His speeches are simply hymns to glory. Moreover, we know that the good guys in PL did not rise to their position of greatness. They simply dealt themselves the highest cards. Jesus is great and mighty and wonderful because he decreed it should be so, not because he worked for it.
Optimus Prime struggles for goodness--that is why he is worthwhile and interesting.
In PL, Christ offers himself as a sacrificial lamb to redeem all mankind. And yet this is not an awe-inspiring sacrifice, for we know that it is only temporary. He is certain to win. This is, perhaps, why it is easier to buy religion as a gnostic. The gnostics believe in a world of good and evil as nearly equal forces, and it is uncertain which will win. If we know good will always win, why should we care when it does?
In PL, there is a battle in Heaven. The angels under Lucifer design a mighty cannon and use it in their attack; the Host of Heaven responds by hurling mountains at them. One side creates an ingenious and complex projectile system, and their opponents throw rocks, like cavemen. This is the essence of the good/evil conflict of Paradise Lost: the Evil creates something new and brilliant, and the Good simply uses primitive, static force.
Perhaps this is the nub of it. It seems, very often, that Evil is the label applied to that which is simply new and different. It is what is unpredictable--and therefore somewhat dangerous. Evil is exhilarating, and ultimately it is innovation. These forces of Good that I discount do not seek to rise higher or to make things better; they seek only to preserve things as they are or return them to some previous state of superiority. Then they will rest easy.
They are not innovative, but reactionary.
Optimus Prime seeks to make things better than they were. So does every hero or champion of good that I have ever respected--PL's Satan included. You see, this is the center of the war in Heaven: Heaven could not be Paradise, for if it were, rebellion would be impossible. Sociologically speaking, we only rebel when we can imagine how things might be better. Desire, you see, is a flaw in Paradise. Any desire that is not instantly sated or eliminated means that there could be something greater than Paradise, and therefore proves Paradise a sham. Satan seeks something he believes is greater: the principle of liberty and personal choice. The forces of Heaven seek to simply preserve things as they are.
I watch Heroes with my uncle. He once remarked that it scared him a bit that I derided Peter Petrelli (the quintessential good guy) and admired Sylar (the unequivocably bad guy). I think I understand why I felt that way now. Peter is a static and reactionary force: he does not like his newfound powers and seeks to do away with them. Sylar understands the world has changed, and goes with the change. He sees the opportunity to, in his twisted mind, make the world better than it was.
But you see, we have such a character on the side of Good as well. Hiro. He finds joy in his powers, and he sees the world has changed. He does not fight that change, but seeks to make the world a better place. He does not idealize the past as a time that was better, but works in the hopes of a future that will be far greater.
I think, now, on all the good and noble characters in fiction I have admired. King Arthur. Optimus Prime. John Milton's Satan. Albus Dumbledore. They seek a new world better than the one we have. They know they fight against insurmountable odds, and they know that they very well may die in the attempt, without ever achieving any success.
And yet they go on fighting regardless.
NOTE: When I speak, I speak of characters in fiction. I do not speak of Christ or Lucifer as religion portrays them, but as John Milton does in Paradise Lost. Just as when I speak of Optimus Prime, I do not mean the real one, but the one we see in movies and cartoon shows.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Last night, I ran for the office of Seargent-at-Arms at Demosthenian Literary Society (I lost).
When I got up on the stump to give my speech, I was wearing
1 track jacket
1 sweater
1 dress shirt
2 t-shirts
2 shoes
6 socks, distributed variously over my body to, um, accentuate some things
1 pair of jeans
1 pair of pajama pants
1 pair of shorts
2 pairs of boxers
Yeah. Lots of layering.
At the end of my speech, I was wearing
1 pair of boxers
There are many reasons for this. One was that I was ill-prepared, and decided to add a gimmick. Another was that elections go very late, and it was 2:00 AM before I spoke--I needed to get my audience's attention.
Interesting observation, though. I am very very body-shy; very uncomfortable with my body. But I felt just fine speaking in my boxers--a good deal more than I do speaking fully clothed. I should wonder how full nudity affects my speaking. My speech began with a lot of jokes; the end was more serious. And it was delivered half-naked. So. Fun.
By the way, I shall have to hurt my brother. I asked him if anyone had done this sort of thing before--I'd not like to copy anyone else. Turns out there is a precedent--except that he didn't keep anything covered.
So. This is another step in breaking me of my body-shyness. Yay!
And I think the fact I did well at all in the elections (though I lost) had a lot to do with my, um, presentation.
Congratulations to all the new Demosthenian officers, especially Sarah May, the new Seargent-at-Arms!
When I got up on the stump to give my speech, I was wearing
1 track jacket
1 sweater
1 dress shirt
2 t-shirts
2 shoes
6 socks, distributed variously over my body to, um, accentuate some things
1 pair of jeans
1 pair of pajama pants
1 pair of shorts
2 pairs of boxers
Yeah. Lots of layering.
At the end of my speech, I was wearing
1 pair of boxers
There are many reasons for this. One was that I was ill-prepared, and decided to add a gimmick. Another was that elections go very late, and it was 2:00 AM before I spoke--I needed to get my audience's attention.
Interesting observation, though. I am very very body-shy; very uncomfortable with my body. But I felt just fine speaking in my boxers--a good deal more than I do speaking fully clothed. I should wonder how full nudity affects my speaking. My speech began with a lot of jokes; the end was more serious. And it was delivered half-naked. So. Fun.
By the way, I shall have to hurt my brother. I asked him if anyone had done this sort of thing before--I'd not like to copy anyone else. Turns out there is a precedent--except that he didn't keep anything covered.
So. This is another step in breaking me of my body-shyness. Yay!
And I think the fact I did well at all in the elections (though I lost) had a lot to do with my, um, presentation.
Congratulations to all the new Demosthenian officers, especially Sarah May, the new Seargent-at-Arms!
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
There are a few fields in literature that are mostly neglected, especially when introducing literature to kids. While fantasy is getting a lot attention all of a sudden, many others are not. Trouble is, these are important--far better, I think, than general fiction. It's a good thing for children to read good science fiction and fantasy, and especially good comic books.
(Note: By children, I mean grade school age)
For some reason, these genres--and this medium--are regarded as somewhat sub-par. I'd argue that this is not the case; I would say they are superior to those typically called "literature", offering far more opportunities for thought and personal growth.
Why you should give your kids science fiction:
Good science fiction encourages patterns of thought that are rarely developed in the outside world, though they are unquestionably important. Authors like Heinlein, Asimov, Card, and Clarke slowly develop scientific thinking, moral reasoning, a sociological perspective, and an affinity for philosophical thought.
1. They develop scientific thought because they often deal with scientific problems. Moreover, to understand science fiction concepts one must have some level of scientific understanding, or quickly develop it. By scientific understanding, we do not mean the ability to name off parts of a generator or explain the workings of theoretical cold fusion. I mean an ability to reduce a problem to its essentials, to explore different options, and to come to a logical conclusion. Readers are forced to look at the world with the skepticality, curiosity, rationality, and wonder of a scientist.
Science understanding tends to be abysmal in this country (sidenote: 57% of students in the graduate journalism program at Columbia university believe in pseudosciences like reading auras, ESP, etc--how's that for good critical thinking skills?). Perhaps this is because to understand and--naturally--debunk scientific ideas, one must be able to use scientific thought patterns. It is never too early to begin establishing these in a child's mind.
2. Sociological thought is developed again in understanding premises and storylines. For one, a good science fiction writer who sets his work in the future will attempt to extrapolate the nature of that future by following the cycles of trends. For another, many of the greats deal with specifically sociological problems (Asimov, Heinlein). One learns to follow a sociological argument and to make sociological predictions.
3. Face it, the good guys in the field are masters of character as well. Their characters usually struggle with moral conflicts. This isn't the wishy-washy emotional stuff of "serious" literature; these are usually attempts to deal with morality on an analytical basis--a far more useful tool.
4. Philosophical thought belongs to the realm of science fiction. Science fiction allows you to create a new world with a few different rules but without discarding the rules of the old. "Serious" literature usually works within the real world, strictly by real world rules. Science fiction allows you to change a few rules and settings, but holds most things constant. This allows you to set up thought experiments and follow through on them. It strikes a careful balance between fantasy (where anything can happen, so you can't follow a thought experiment) and general fiction (where very little out of the strictly possible ever occurs).
These characteristics are distinct from general fiction. General fiction encourages examination and interpretation of the world and characters of the book, with the careful caveat that it is all, after all, fiction. Science fiction gives the mind tools to see the world, then encourages the eye to turn outward and examine it under a microscope. Do you see? Most fiction, therefore, is somewhat sterile, encouraging self-contained reflection; science fiction is a teacher, forming the mind to be able to create and understand the world outside the book.
Also: what is science fiction today is often reality tomorrow. I recently read a science fiction novel from the 1970s where a character carefully explained what the word "mutate" means. This surprised me; the concept of mutation is a standard one to the modern mind. Science fiction makes it easier for the brain to constantly surf the wave of new knowledge.
Why you should give your kids fantasy:
I go to hear creative people speak fairly often: mostly writers, sometimes artists and directors.
The most common and groan-worthy question that is always asked is, "Where do you get your ideas?" A lot of the time, the moment some dude asks this you can see the speakers developing facial tics.
I am a somewhat creative person. I hate this question--both hearing it and being asked it--because it presumes there is a place to go where ideas come from, or a strategy. This is not so--not at all.
The fact is, everybody has "ideas" to start out. Watch little children playing or telling stories: they are far, far more imaginative than the most creative adults will ever manage to be. They explore new ideas constantly, and always allow for impossibilities.
It is not a question of where the artist "gets" his ideas. It's a question of at what point the fan lost his.
Children do this less and less as they grow older, to the point where highly imaginative people become rarer in the adult world. You might ask me, then, why imagination is important if you don't intend to work in a creative field. The fact is, imaginative ability is required to see your way around corners. We tend to rule out certain solutions to problems because we see them as utterly impossible before really investigating them; we need the ability to ask "what if" we pursued unprecedented avenues of thought.
Fantasy encourages this. When reading a fantasy novel--though good fantasy, as well, has strong rules--almost anything can happen. This requires a reader to maintain an open mind, and to accept new ways to understand the world. It keeps the imagination constantly open and capable.
Besides, good fantasy often relies on a lot of research. A reader can take away a lot of knowledge of world cultures, mythology, folklore, and any number of subjects from an excellent fantasy novel.
Fantasy has a strong tendency towards escapism, which is often decried. I ask why. Escapism is healthy--it is often the best way to survive a harsh outside environment. It doesn't mean you're avoiding or not dealing with problems in the outside world; it just means you're taking a break from them and possibly ruminating on new ways to handle them. Not only that, escapism gives you the opportunity to ride in someone else's brain for a little while, and hey, the world could use a bit more understanding. Interpretive fiction often makes you more aware of the technical aspects of the work, losing ground to the simplicity of the new world presented.
Why you should give your kids comic books
Oh comics. My loves. My heart. Why are you so much maligned? Why are you percieved as prurient and worthless? Granted, some of the content fits the definition, but all of it?--surely not.
Comics are the most important. Perhaps this is simply because the medium deserves as much recognition as any other. Perhaps it is because one must actually learn to read comics as much as one must learn to read any other book.
Mostly, though, it's because comics are the most effective medium of visual communication out there today. They are cheaper and easier to transport and view than film, and far more efficient at dispersing information than text.
Consider how much comics show up in our daily life: the little safety diagrams on the airline, before-and-after pictures in ads, and of course the newspaper funnies. The political cartoon has proben a powerful instrument of opinion. All of these are forms that depend on quick and full comprehension on the part of the audience. Imagine that power harnessed to almost any end in communication. Until you can print a video in a magazine, I don't think we'll see its match for quite a while.
Besides, comics change the way the brain processes information, and makes it develop an incredible multitasking ability. Consider:
When you view a page of comics, you are doing many things:
You are reading and processing the text and the information contained therein.
You are looking at and processing the image and the information contained therein.
You are putting the text and image together to make a coherent whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.
You are processing this set of information in the context of a longer narrative, attempting to fit it into the structure of the story and--with your imagination--providing all the details that occur in between the panels.
All this is done in the blink of an eye. The brain is processing at incredible rates when reading comics with almost no effort. The brain is stronger for it.
Conclusion
The genres of science fiction and fantasy and the comics medium are usually disregarded beside "serious" literature. The escapism and unrealistic nature of these are usually cited as strikes against them, when they are indeed the fields' strengths. These are more effective than "serious" literature, and more capable of developing important patterns of critical thinking that are essential to a child's intellectual growth.
(Note: By children, I mean grade school age)
For some reason, these genres--and this medium--are regarded as somewhat sub-par. I'd argue that this is not the case; I would say they are superior to those typically called "literature", offering far more opportunities for thought and personal growth.
Why you should give your kids science fiction:
Good science fiction encourages patterns of thought that are rarely developed in the outside world, though they are unquestionably important. Authors like Heinlein, Asimov, Card, and Clarke slowly develop scientific thinking, moral reasoning, a sociological perspective, and an affinity for philosophical thought.
1. They develop scientific thought because they often deal with scientific problems. Moreover, to understand science fiction concepts one must have some level of scientific understanding, or quickly develop it. By scientific understanding, we do not mean the ability to name off parts of a generator or explain the workings of theoretical cold fusion. I mean an ability to reduce a problem to its essentials, to explore different options, and to come to a logical conclusion. Readers are forced to look at the world with the skepticality, curiosity, rationality, and wonder of a scientist.
Science understanding tends to be abysmal in this country (sidenote: 57% of students in the graduate journalism program at Columbia university believe in pseudosciences like reading auras, ESP, etc--how's that for good critical thinking skills?). Perhaps this is because to understand and--naturally--debunk scientific ideas, one must be able to use scientific thought patterns. It is never too early to begin establishing these in a child's mind.
2. Sociological thought is developed again in understanding premises and storylines. For one, a good science fiction writer who sets his work in the future will attempt to extrapolate the nature of that future by following the cycles of trends. For another, many of the greats deal with specifically sociological problems (Asimov, Heinlein). One learns to follow a sociological argument and to make sociological predictions.
3. Face it, the good guys in the field are masters of character as well. Their characters usually struggle with moral conflicts. This isn't the wishy-washy emotional stuff of "serious" literature; these are usually attempts to deal with morality on an analytical basis--a far more useful tool.
4. Philosophical thought belongs to the realm of science fiction. Science fiction allows you to create a new world with a few different rules but without discarding the rules of the old. "Serious" literature usually works within the real world, strictly by real world rules. Science fiction allows you to change a few rules and settings, but holds most things constant. This allows you to set up thought experiments and follow through on them. It strikes a careful balance between fantasy (where anything can happen, so you can't follow a thought experiment) and general fiction (where very little out of the strictly possible ever occurs).
These characteristics are distinct from general fiction. General fiction encourages examination and interpretation of the world and characters of the book, with the careful caveat that it is all, after all, fiction. Science fiction gives the mind tools to see the world, then encourages the eye to turn outward and examine it under a microscope. Do you see? Most fiction, therefore, is somewhat sterile, encouraging self-contained reflection; science fiction is a teacher, forming the mind to be able to create and understand the world outside the book.
Also: what is science fiction today is often reality tomorrow. I recently read a science fiction novel from the 1970s where a character carefully explained what the word "mutate" means. This surprised me; the concept of mutation is a standard one to the modern mind. Science fiction makes it easier for the brain to constantly surf the wave of new knowledge.
Why you should give your kids fantasy:
I go to hear creative people speak fairly often: mostly writers, sometimes artists and directors.
The most common and groan-worthy question that is always asked is, "Where do you get your ideas?" A lot of the time, the moment some dude asks this you can see the speakers developing facial tics.
I am a somewhat creative person. I hate this question--both hearing it and being asked it--because it presumes there is a place to go where ideas come from, or a strategy. This is not so--not at all.
The fact is, everybody has "ideas" to start out. Watch little children playing or telling stories: they are far, far more imaginative than the most creative adults will ever manage to be. They explore new ideas constantly, and always allow for impossibilities.
It is not a question of where the artist "gets" his ideas. It's a question of at what point the fan lost his.
Children do this less and less as they grow older, to the point where highly imaginative people become rarer in the adult world. You might ask me, then, why imagination is important if you don't intend to work in a creative field. The fact is, imaginative ability is required to see your way around corners. We tend to rule out certain solutions to problems because we see them as utterly impossible before really investigating them; we need the ability to ask "what if" we pursued unprecedented avenues of thought.
Fantasy encourages this. When reading a fantasy novel--though good fantasy, as well, has strong rules--almost anything can happen. This requires a reader to maintain an open mind, and to accept new ways to understand the world. It keeps the imagination constantly open and capable.
Besides, good fantasy often relies on a lot of research. A reader can take away a lot of knowledge of world cultures, mythology, folklore, and any number of subjects from an excellent fantasy novel.
Fantasy has a strong tendency towards escapism, which is often decried. I ask why. Escapism is healthy--it is often the best way to survive a harsh outside environment. It doesn't mean you're avoiding or not dealing with problems in the outside world; it just means you're taking a break from them and possibly ruminating on new ways to handle them. Not only that, escapism gives you the opportunity to ride in someone else's brain for a little while, and hey, the world could use a bit more understanding. Interpretive fiction often makes you more aware of the technical aspects of the work, losing ground to the simplicity of the new world presented.
Why you should give your kids comic books
Oh comics. My loves. My heart. Why are you so much maligned? Why are you percieved as prurient and worthless? Granted, some of the content fits the definition, but all of it?--surely not.
Comics are the most important. Perhaps this is simply because the medium deserves as much recognition as any other. Perhaps it is because one must actually learn to read comics as much as one must learn to read any other book.
Mostly, though, it's because comics are the most effective medium of visual communication out there today. They are cheaper and easier to transport and view than film, and far more efficient at dispersing information than text.
Consider how much comics show up in our daily life: the little safety diagrams on the airline, before-and-after pictures in ads, and of course the newspaper funnies. The political cartoon has proben a powerful instrument of opinion. All of these are forms that depend on quick and full comprehension on the part of the audience. Imagine that power harnessed to almost any end in communication. Until you can print a video in a magazine, I don't think we'll see its match for quite a while.
Besides, comics change the way the brain processes information, and makes it develop an incredible multitasking ability. Consider:
When you view a page of comics, you are doing many things:
You are reading and processing the text and the information contained therein.
You are looking at and processing the image and the information contained therein.
You are putting the text and image together to make a coherent whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.
You are processing this set of information in the context of a longer narrative, attempting to fit it into the structure of the story and--with your imagination--providing all the details that occur in between the panels.
All this is done in the blink of an eye. The brain is processing at incredible rates when reading comics with almost no effort. The brain is stronger for it.
Conclusion
The genres of science fiction and fantasy and the comics medium are usually disregarded beside "serious" literature. The escapism and unrealistic nature of these are usually cited as strikes against them, when they are indeed the fields' strengths. These are more effective than "serious" literature, and more capable of developing important patterns of critical thinking that are essential to a child's intellectual growth.
Monday, November 26, 2007
I've made a beautiful new blasphemy.
Fiat Ego.
It has elegance and arrogance. Perfect.
Explanation:
"Fiat Lux" is the Latin translation of "Let there be light"--the words with which God created the world. We replace "Lux", for light, with "Ego", for myself or me.
Like it?
EDIT: Another translation by a friend of mine: "By my will, there is myself."
Fiat Ego.
It has elegance and arrogance. Perfect.
Explanation:
"Fiat Lux" is the Latin translation of "Let there be light"--the words with which God created the world. We replace "Lux", for light, with "Ego", for myself or me.
Like it?
EDIT: Another translation by a friend of mine: "By my will, there is myself."
Monday, November 19, 2007
I'm homeschooling my kids. I'm homeschooling the hell out of them.
This is based on the conclusion that school, especially grades k-12, are indoctrination factories. Ninety percent of what is taught is simply to fit children into cultural norms and so forth, not to actually educate.
I'm not going into my rant about turning children into adults who think within the system and believe the only way to get ahead is as a nine-to-five weekday worker climbing the corporate ladder.
I will, however, list the following points:
1. Children in most of the U.S. are taught Christianity in schools.
Evidence: the very idea of teaching Intelligent Design as science, abstinence-only sex ed, et cetera
2. Amero-centric history classes.
How much can you tell me about the history of the rest of the world? Did you--like me--have to spend a WHOLE FUCKING YEAR on Georgia state history? D'you know, I've heard a lot of history professors say that the first few semesters of college history is basically unteaching everything from k-12, from facts to methods.
3. Literature classes
Hey kids! We're gonna have you read this book, which contains a very persuasive ideological message! Because this ideological message is the one that is approved of by the school board, we've basically found a way to worm our ways into your mind and tell you exactly what and how to think.
Hence my love of banned books . . .
4. Government Propaganda
I'm not having my kids in this DARE shit (anti-drug education program). They skew facts to support the government's position on the matter. Then--and this is priceless--to pass the course you sign a pledge that says you won't use illegal substances. Ever.
Heheh. As a fifth grader, I signed a pledge concerning the rest of my life after hearing one side of the debate, delivered by a figure of authority. Lovely.
5. Gender roles/human sexuality
Schools emphasize traditional gender roles and ideas of sexual orientation. In two words: FUCK THAT.
In three: FUCK THAT SHIT.
In six: FUCK THAT SHIT WITH A RAKE.
6. Blandness
Knowledge is blanded out and made inoffensive. Objections and disagreements with authority figures are discouraged. Nothing inflammatory may be said. Schools wish to avoid controversey, so they don't allow discussion of anything controversial. Lame-age.
*********
Who's with me? Let's homeschool our little brats.
This is based on the conclusion that school, especially grades k-12, are indoctrination factories. Ninety percent of what is taught is simply to fit children into cultural norms and so forth, not to actually educate.
I'm not going into my rant about turning children into adults who think within the system and believe the only way to get ahead is as a nine-to-five weekday worker climbing the corporate ladder.
I will, however, list the following points:
1. Children in most of the U.S. are taught Christianity in schools.
Evidence: the very idea of teaching Intelligent Design as science, abstinence-only sex ed, et cetera
2. Amero-centric history classes.
How much can you tell me about the history of the rest of the world? Did you--like me--have to spend a WHOLE FUCKING YEAR on Georgia state history? D'you know, I've heard a lot of history professors say that the first few semesters of college history is basically unteaching everything from k-12, from facts to methods.
3. Literature classes
Hey kids! We're gonna have you read this book, which contains a very persuasive ideological message! Because this ideological message is the one that is approved of by the school board, we've basically found a way to worm our ways into your mind and tell you exactly what and how to think.
Hence my love of banned books . . .
4. Government Propaganda
I'm not having my kids in this DARE shit (anti-drug education program). They skew facts to support the government's position on the matter. Then--and this is priceless--to pass the course you sign a pledge that says you won't use illegal substances. Ever.
Heheh. As a fifth grader, I signed a pledge concerning the rest of my life after hearing one side of the debate, delivered by a figure of authority. Lovely.
5. Gender roles/human sexuality
Schools emphasize traditional gender roles and ideas of sexual orientation. In two words: FUCK THAT.
In three: FUCK THAT SHIT.
In six: FUCK THAT SHIT WITH A RAKE.
6. Blandness
Knowledge is blanded out and made inoffensive. Objections and disagreements with authority figures are discouraged. Nothing inflammatory may be said. Schools wish to avoid controversey, so they don't allow discussion of anything controversial. Lame-age.
*********
Who's with me? Let's homeschool our little brats.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Laurel, Ugly, and I, following an eventful coffee session at O-house, moseyed on out to the grocery store to pick up a few items. We all learned many important lessons: Ugly especially learned that Laurel and I might not be the best combination of people to have at the grocery store.
For one, there was all the breasts.
Me: Look! Look! Look look look!
Ugly: What is it?
Me: (points to a pack of turkey cold cuts) It says "breast"!
Then in the produce section . . .
Laurel: Let's get about a pound of apples.
Ugly: k.
Laurel: Mm, that's a bit more than a pound . . .
Me: Those're some big ol' apples.
Laurel: Mmhm. Big round apples.
Me: A bit wrinkly, really.
Laurel: Heavy, too.
Me: How 'bout them apples.
Ugly: And I thought this place was rated G . . .
Me: How 'bout them apples.
As we passed through the store, Laurel and I had the following conversation:
Me: I kinda wanna go on a rampage through here.
Laurel: Yeah! Just attack the place!
Me: I could get siege weapons, and, and, and . ..
Laurel: Look at all the eggs. Imagine what we could do with those.
Me: If we brought in a potato cannon . . .
Laurel: Just egg the whole damn store!
And finally, buying Saltines!
Ugly: Ok, do we get low fat, low salt, or wheat? Or Breast Cancer awareness . . . or original . . .
Me: Let's get the breast crackers!
Ugly: Are you su--
Laurel: They're probably round.
Ugly: Fine, breast crackers.
Laurel: With little nipples in the middle.
Also, we found a trashy romance novel with nipples on the cover, and naturally we had to purchase it.
Disclaimer: I don't remember conversations well enough to transcribe them properly, so don't take my word that this is exactly what was said. I have the niggling feeling that Laurel managed to produce far more sexual innuendo than what I attributed her above.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
You know what's fun? If I tell people about my weekends without going into a long explanation--just the bare facts of the weekend--it's fun to watch their faces!
Me: So then we all slept together, and in the morning I couldn't find my clothes.
Everyone else: . . .
Me: Wild thang, I make my heart sang!
+_+
So Nietzsche talks about something called the "will to power", which he considers a high human virtue and natural instinct. It is a natural and inherent desire to dominate and gain power. He regards this rather highly, as the distinction between what he calls the Slave and Master classes in society.
I think it's crap. I think it sounds like weakness, not strength.
If you are a Master in the Nietzschean sense, then your identity is entirely dependent on your forcing others into subjugation. Nietzsche detests the division of good and evil, because he says good is just everything that's not evil: the positive is defined simply as the abscence of the negative, not by itself. The Master class, in Nietzsche, is defined by others. They are dependent on others, while the Slave class's identity is entirely independent.
I see three other wills as greater than Nietzsche's will to power--two of which are some of the driving forces behind my life, and the third which I doubt I will ever achieve.
The first is the will to greatness. This is the will to become great in one's field: to become a great writer, a great poet, a great scientist or a great lover. It is the will to rise and excel, to reach the very heights. Note that I do not say it is the will to be the greatest or to rise the highest, because that means nothing. If I surround myself with fools, I may be the smartest but that does not mean I am smart. The will to greatness exists independently: we seek simply to be great in our own eyes, regardless of the standards of greatness we may regard ourselves by. We seek to rise as high as we possibly can, no matter what.
I know there is quite a ways for me still to rise, and so I am fighting, always, for improvement in every aspect of myself. I will be smarter, more talented, more honest--I will always struggle to rise.
The second is the will to bigness--best word I could find for it, gents. This is the desire to become larger than life, to almost become a symbol of that which you do. It is simply to become a presence, in and of yourself, of considerable weight on the world. This is often unconscious: people come to symbolize something without putting an effort to that purpose, but to some other end. Think of Frank Sinatra as a symbol of an entire era or Martin Luther King, Jr. as a symbol of the entire civil rights movement. It's about being as large as possible (no, not physically).
Another thing I, melodramatic though it may be, usually seek.
The third is the will to gravity. This is . . . this is not even a conscious thing. It's just part of some people. I think we've all met them: people who we meet briefly and we become swept up in their wake. We become caught in their orbit, through belief in them or fascination or love. It is distinct from Nietzsche's will to power because the man with gravity does not seek to dominate or gain subjects; they simply accumulate to him by forces unknown. It is also an independent will--because though it affects others, it does not require them. Gravity exists without anything to gravitate.
I don't think I'll ever gain any great gravity. But I have met a few people in my life with true gravity, and they do fascinate me deeply.
I know there are other sorts of forces in life people will address: love, compassion, charity, et cetera. I am sure they have their place in my life, as any other. But in this I focus only on the self-contained wills, those that define the individual independent of anything else, those that characterize the giants in our world. Can you think of someone you truly admire who doesn't have one of these: a will to always better themself, a will to become something great, or an unconscious charisma that draws people to them like satellites?
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Tomorrow at Demosthenian I will attempt to present either "Be it resolved: people should sleep around more (and reproduce) to eliminate racism" or "Be it resolved: religion as a socio-political institution is the greatest evil the world faces today". Or maybe "Be it resolved: prostitution should be legalized". Any opinions on which I oughtta do?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Something interesting about being gay I thought about. I think part of what adds to the enjoyment of being with a guy to me is the mild sense of danger. If I kiss a guy in public, it feels just a bit dangerous--and that's kinda exciting. Being in a very libertine group of friends eliminates a lot of the fear and mystery that have traditionally been a part of romance, and I like to get that back.
Sometimes I think a bit more melodramatically on the subject. I think the likeliest model for any sort of coup on America's government or sudden change in the political shape of the nation would be more like The Handmaid's Tale than 1984. We are moving towards a nation of mysticism and values propagated not on reason but shaky religious grounds. True religious fundamentalism is making a comeback, and it rather scares me. If I've seen anything from history, it is that only a small committed minority is needed for the sort of drastic reactionary change I fear. And I worry.
And I hate to say this, but first clue I get that something like that is going down in the U.S.--really happening--I'm leaving the country. I'll leave everything behind, if need be. Change comes in small steps. Each infringes a bit more, but people say, "Well, it's only a little bit. And that's all. Nothing to get alarmed about." And it progresses, and progresses, and . . . the world changes. The nation changes. Pogroms happen.
I think about McCarthyism and--melodrama again, I know--I wonder if an American theocracy would get the rolls from LGBT political institutions and organizations for evidence in trials.
I think about how fierce hatred has become of LGBT people in some circles, and I don't understand why it is so much greater than hatred of everything else that the conservative percieve a societal ills. I don't get it.
And I realize that the sexual nature of the percieved transgressions means that any societal reaction against LGBT people will be graphic and painful.
And when I get in one of these turns of mind, that really scares me.
*******************************
Big Brother is watching you, and you're boring the hell out of him.
##################
If I get my NaNoWriMo novel published and make any proper money out of it, screw it, I'm dropping out of college. It's a small chance I will get it published, but if so . . .
-------------------------
I wish to disdain reality.
------------------------
My Christian faith is something I wrestle with lately. It is hard to hold onto, but something I fear losing. Some will say I fear losing a crutch. But the imagery is powerful to me, and I've always been of a fantastic turn of mind.
And besides, I think I'd enjoy holding onto some of the wonders that come with it--the multitudinous angels of Hebrew folklore, the lovely virtues, the rich symbols--enough that even if a large part of me doesn't believe in it, I'd still follow it.
I love kosher laws, by the way. Something appeals out of ritual and devotion that has no real purpose but itself. It is devotion for devotion's sake, and I can appreciate this.
Then sometimes I wonder if it's just a fear of Hell I've never been able to shake, and if I'm lying to myself. If so, what I am doing is cowardice.
But I've yet to be rid of it.
For one, there was all the breasts.
Me: Look! Look! Look look look!
Ugly: What is it?
Me: (points to a pack of turkey cold cuts) It says "breast"!
Then in the produce section . . .
Laurel: Let's get about a pound of apples.
Ugly: k.
Laurel: Mm, that's a bit more than a pound . . .
Me: Those're some big ol' apples.
Laurel: Mmhm. Big round apples.
Me: A bit wrinkly, really.
Laurel: Heavy, too.
Me: How 'bout them apples.
Ugly: And I thought this place was rated G . . .
Me: How 'bout them apples.
As we passed through the store, Laurel and I had the following conversation:
Me: I kinda wanna go on a rampage through here.
Laurel: Yeah! Just attack the place!
Me: I could get siege weapons, and, and, and . ..
Laurel: Look at all the eggs. Imagine what we could do with those.
Me: If we brought in a potato cannon . . .
Laurel: Just egg the whole damn store!
And finally, buying Saltines!
Ugly: Ok, do we get low fat, low salt, or wheat? Or Breast Cancer awareness . . . or original . . .
Me: Let's get the breast crackers!
Ugly: Are you su--
Laurel: They're probably round.
Ugly: Fine, breast crackers.
Laurel: With little nipples in the middle.
Also, we found a trashy romance novel with nipples on the cover, and naturally we had to purchase it.
Disclaimer: I don't remember conversations well enough to transcribe them properly, so don't take my word that this is exactly what was said. I have the niggling feeling that Laurel managed to produce far more sexual innuendo than what I attributed her above.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
You know what's fun? If I tell people about my weekends without going into a long explanation--just the bare facts of the weekend--it's fun to watch their faces!
Me: So then we all slept together, and in the morning I couldn't find my clothes.
Everyone else: . . .
Me: Wild thang, I make my heart sang!
+_+
So Nietzsche talks about something called the "will to power", which he considers a high human virtue and natural instinct. It is a natural and inherent desire to dominate and gain power. He regards this rather highly, as the distinction between what he calls the Slave and Master classes in society.
I think it's crap. I think it sounds like weakness, not strength.
If you are a Master in the Nietzschean sense, then your identity is entirely dependent on your forcing others into subjugation. Nietzsche detests the division of good and evil, because he says good is just everything that's not evil: the positive is defined simply as the abscence of the negative, not by itself. The Master class, in Nietzsche, is defined by others. They are dependent on others, while the Slave class's identity is entirely independent.
I see three other wills as greater than Nietzsche's will to power--two of which are some of the driving forces behind my life, and the third which I doubt I will ever achieve.
The first is the will to greatness. This is the will to become great in one's field: to become a great writer, a great poet, a great scientist or a great lover. It is the will to rise and excel, to reach the very heights. Note that I do not say it is the will to be the greatest or to rise the highest, because that means nothing. If I surround myself with fools, I may be the smartest but that does not mean I am smart. The will to greatness exists independently: we seek simply to be great in our own eyes, regardless of the standards of greatness we may regard ourselves by. We seek to rise as high as we possibly can, no matter what.
I know there is quite a ways for me still to rise, and so I am fighting, always, for improvement in every aspect of myself. I will be smarter, more talented, more honest--I will always struggle to rise.
The second is the will to bigness--best word I could find for it, gents. This is the desire to become larger than life, to almost become a symbol of that which you do. It is simply to become a presence, in and of yourself, of considerable weight on the world. This is often unconscious: people come to symbolize something without putting an effort to that purpose, but to some other end. Think of Frank Sinatra as a symbol of an entire era or Martin Luther King, Jr. as a symbol of the entire civil rights movement. It's about being as large as possible (no, not physically).
Another thing I, melodramatic though it may be, usually seek.
The third is the will to gravity. This is . . . this is not even a conscious thing. It's just part of some people. I think we've all met them: people who we meet briefly and we become swept up in their wake. We become caught in their orbit, through belief in them or fascination or love. It is distinct from Nietzsche's will to power because the man with gravity does not seek to dominate or gain subjects; they simply accumulate to him by forces unknown. It is also an independent will--because though it affects others, it does not require them. Gravity exists without anything to gravitate.
I don't think I'll ever gain any great gravity. But I have met a few people in my life with true gravity, and they do fascinate me deeply.
I know there are other sorts of forces in life people will address: love, compassion, charity, et cetera. I am sure they have their place in my life, as any other. But in this I focus only on the self-contained wills, those that define the individual independent of anything else, those that characterize the giants in our world. Can you think of someone you truly admire who doesn't have one of these: a will to always better themself, a will to become something great, or an unconscious charisma that draws people to them like satellites?
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Tomorrow at Demosthenian I will attempt to present either "Be it resolved: people should sleep around more (and reproduce) to eliminate racism" or "Be it resolved: religion as a socio-political institution is the greatest evil the world faces today". Or maybe "Be it resolved: prostitution should be legalized". Any opinions on which I oughtta do?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Something interesting about being gay I thought about. I think part of what adds to the enjoyment of being with a guy to me is the mild sense of danger. If I kiss a guy in public, it feels just a bit dangerous--and that's kinda exciting. Being in a very libertine group of friends eliminates a lot of the fear and mystery that have traditionally been a part of romance, and I like to get that back.
Sometimes I think a bit more melodramatically on the subject. I think the likeliest model for any sort of coup on America's government or sudden change in the political shape of the nation would be more like The Handmaid's Tale than 1984. We are moving towards a nation of mysticism and values propagated not on reason but shaky religious grounds. True religious fundamentalism is making a comeback, and it rather scares me. If I've seen anything from history, it is that only a small committed minority is needed for the sort of drastic reactionary change I fear. And I worry.
And I hate to say this, but first clue I get that something like that is going down in the U.S.--really happening--I'm leaving the country. I'll leave everything behind, if need be. Change comes in small steps. Each infringes a bit more, but people say, "Well, it's only a little bit. And that's all. Nothing to get alarmed about." And it progresses, and progresses, and . . . the world changes. The nation changes. Pogroms happen.
I think about McCarthyism and--melodrama again, I know--I wonder if an American theocracy would get the rolls from LGBT political institutions and organizations for evidence in trials.
I think about how fierce hatred has become of LGBT people in some circles, and I don't understand why it is so much greater than hatred of everything else that the conservative percieve a societal ills. I don't get it.
And I realize that the sexual nature of the percieved transgressions means that any societal reaction against LGBT people will be graphic and painful.
And when I get in one of these turns of mind, that really scares me.
*******************************
Big Brother is watching you, and you're boring the hell out of him.
##################
If I get my NaNoWriMo novel published and make any proper money out of it, screw it, I'm dropping out of college. It's a small chance I will get it published, but if so . . .
-------------------------
I wish to disdain reality.
------------------------
My Christian faith is something I wrestle with lately. It is hard to hold onto, but something I fear losing. Some will say I fear losing a crutch. But the imagery is powerful to me, and I've always been of a fantastic turn of mind.
And besides, I think I'd enjoy holding onto some of the wonders that come with it--the multitudinous angels of Hebrew folklore, the lovely virtues, the rich symbols--enough that even if a large part of me doesn't believe in it, I'd still follow it.
I love kosher laws, by the way. Something appeals out of ritual and devotion that has no real purpose but itself. It is devotion for devotion's sake, and I can appreciate this.
Then sometimes I wonder if it's just a fear of Hell I've never been able to shake, and if I'm lying to myself. If so, what I am doing is cowardice.
But I've yet to be rid of it.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Last night I watched The Prestige (excellent movie, by the way), and it got me thinking about the nature of stage magic and misdirection.
To my mind, there are three vantage points to a magic trick. There is the Yokel, who is being shilled or tricked--he has little knowledge of stage magic, and while he will try to figure out how it's done, he's usually baffled. There is the Observer, who knows quite a bit about stage magic, and may begin to guess at the workings of a trick. And then there is the Magician, who performs the trick.
In a ball and cup game, there are three cups. Under one of these, a ball is placed. The cups are then moved around very quickly and the Yokel is to guess, at the end, which cup the ball is under. The Yokel is always going to be wrong. This is not because he has failed to watch the cups properly--it is because he thinks the game is in watching the cups. He has accepted the rules presented him by the Magician: that the ball is in fact under one of the cups, and that its position depends on how the cups are moved. The fact is, the ball wasn't there in the first place: the Magician palmed it before the cups even started moving, then dropped it under whichever cup he wanted to at the end.
In The Prestige (mild spoilers), Borden performs a trick called The Transported Man. In this trick, a man walks into a box and shuts the door; almost instantaneously, the door of another box on the other side of the stage opens and out walks another man. Of course, the Yokel and the Observer have two very different ways of examining this trick. The Yokel will try to figure out how on Earth someone could move that distance so quickly without getting out of breath or rumpled. The Observer knows that the man who comes out of the box is not necessarily the same one who went in; he looks for signs that a double is being used. Again, the Yokel assumed that it was the same man, and this cripples the thought process.
In this way, Angier's version of The Transported Man is not a feat of prestdigitation in any sense. He is actually travelling that distance very quickly by scientific means; the man who was on the stage is the same as the one who emerged two seconds later on the balcony. There is no misdirection involved at all.
Let us address another trick. I know, I know, this is getting a bit dull. If you'd like, skip this paragraph and go to next, where I talk about what any of this actually means. But for now, I'd like to discuss the bullet catch. In this, the Magician loads a gun, then has a member of the audience fire it at him--and the Magician catches the bullet. In The Prestige, Borden's version involves a ramrod that, rather than tamping the bullet down, actually removes it. Once more, the Yokel's assumption is that there is a bullet in the gun when it is fired, and he thinks the trick is in how it is caught. The bullet, of course, wasn't even there. There is another version of this that uses a revolver in which the bullet is switched out for a bullet carved from soap and fired out a revolver. The soap bullet is destroyed in the blast, and the performer shows off a bullet palmed earlier.
So. How does any of this actually apply?
We have a major issue as human beings; we are, for the most part, Yokels. We assume society's rules, as presented to us, are true, and therefore try to work within them. And don't get me wrong--people have been known to do well working within those rules. But those who achieve greatness do not.
Let us examine the case of Bill Gates. We like to assume that to sell something, you need to have it first. We're Yokels. Bill Gates is a Magician. When he went to sell his first operating system to IBM, they didn't make much of it, and when he asked for rather high royalties on every computer sold with his OS, they agreed, saying that the money was in hardware, not software. As Yokels, we think that was the genius: spotting the market for software before anyone else. Not at all.
When Bill Gates sold the OS, it didn't actually exist. After selling it, Gates and his associates found a man in Seattle (?--maybe Portland) who had invented a system very similar to what he had sold IBM. They found their man in Seattle and bought the OS cheap. You see? The rules were that he was selling what he had. He was not: he invented a product while speaking, then after selling it obtained it. The ball wasn't under the cup at all.
I think the movie V for Vendetta is hilarious. In this film, they go on a massive manhunt for an anarchist terrorist known only as V. He wears a Guy Fawkes mask and a long black cloak. They also search for a girl named Evie Hamilton: she has been seen in V's presence, and so they assume she has something to do with him--an associate or accomplice, perhaps. When V turns up in a final showdown with the head of the Secret Police, he is shot multiple times. And--this is hilarious--they think this means they've killed the terrorist.
He is defined and identified by the fact he wears a mask, something few people do. Do you see the joke? His identity lies in the fact he cannot be identified. Yet they don't think in that light. Evie Hamilton could be the terrorist just as well as anyone else, 'cause guess what: two people could wear the same mask. V might actually be hundreds or thousands of people, each wearing the outfit only once, to commit some crime, and then never donning the mask again. This would be a further stroke of brilliance: the police in the film are putting together V's identity by where he has appeared and whom he has killed, trying to pick out a single person under the mask. If there are many, each crime would have a different MO and a different motive, all totally unconnected--it's like playing connect-the-dots with your freckles. There is no underlying pattern to be discerned.
Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed when the filmmakers didn't play with this notion at all, but I'll save that rant for another day.
Martin Luther King, Jr and Mahatma Gandhi knew it too. There were established avenues for political change, and established ways of doing things. They ignored these. They created their own avenues, most brilliantly passive resistance--which we've been copying ever since.
Ok, here's something very relevant:
Most of those who read this blog, I know, are college students. There is a plan we have been told for our lives. We go to high school and get a good education, and then we go to college and get a diploma. With this diploma, we go out and get a job. By hard work, effort, and talent, we make our way up the corporate ladder to success.
Or maybe we drop out of college, put all our eggs in one basket, and do something so wildly outside the rules we fool all the Yokels and make something truly great.
What are the standard rules and patterns that you see in life? Now try seeing past them. This is very difficult--at least for me--because these rules are defined by the very fact we don't notice them.
It's just a thought.
To my mind, there are three vantage points to a magic trick. There is the Yokel, who is being shilled or tricked--he has little knowledge of stage magic, and while he will try to figure out how it's done, he's usually baffled. There is the Observer, who knows quite a bit about stage magic, and may begin to guess at the workings of a trick. And then there is the Magician, who performs the trick.
In a ball and cup game, there are three cups. Under one of these, a ball is placed. The cups are then moved around very quickly and the Yokel is to guess, at the end, which cup the ball is under. The Yokel is always going to be wrong. This is not because he has failed to watch the cups properly--it is because he thinks the game is in watching the cups. He has accepted the rules presented him by the Magician: that the ball is in fact under one of the cups, and that its position depends on how the cups are moved. The fact is, the ball wasn't there in the first place: the Magician palmed it before the cups even started moving, then dropped it under whichever cup he wanted to at the end.
In The Prestige (mild spoilers), Borden performs a trick called The Transported Man. In this trick, a man walks into a box and shuts the door; almost instantaneously, the door of another box on the other side of the stage opens and out walks another man. Of course, the Yokel and the Observer have two very different ways of examining this trick. The Yokel will try to figure out how on Earth someone could move that distance so quickly without getting out of breath or rumpled. The Observer knows that the man who comes out of the box is not necessarily the same one who went in; he looks for signs that a double is being used. Again, the Yokel assumed that it was the same man, and this cripples the thought process.
In this way, Angier's version of The Transported Man is not a feat of prestdigitation in any sense. He is actually travelling that distance very quickly by scientific means; the man who was on the stage is the same as the one who emerged two seconds later on the balcony. There is no misdirection involved at all.
Let us address another trick. I know, I know, this is getting a bit dull. If you'd like, skip this paragraph and go to next, where I talk about what any of this actually means. But for now, I'd like to discuss the bullet catch. In this, the Magician loads a gun, then has a member of the audience fire it at him--and the Magician catches the bullet. In The Prestige, Borden's version involves a ramrod that, rather than tamping the bullet down, actually removes it. Once more, the Yokel's assumption is that there is a bullet in the gun when it is fired, and he thinks the trick is in how it is caught. The bullet, of course, wasn't even there. There is another version of this that uses a revolver in which the bullet is switched out for a bullet carved from soap and fired out a revolver. The soap bullet is destroyed in the blast, and the performer shows off a bullet palmed earlier.
So. How does any of this actually apply?
We have a major issue as human beings; we are, for the most part, Yokels. We assume society's rules, as presented to us, are true, and therefore try to work within them. And don't get me wrong--people have been known to do well working within those rules. But those who achieve greatness do not.
Let us examine the case of Bill Gates. We like to assume that to sell something, you need to have it first. We're Yokels. Bill Gates is a Magician. When he went to sell his first operating system to IBM, they didn't make much of it, and when he asked for rather high royalties on every computer sold with his OS, they agreed, saying that the money was in hardware, not software. As Yokels, we think that was the genius: spotting the market for software before anyone else. Not at all.
When Bill Gates sold the OS, it didn't actually exist. After selling it, Gates and his associates found a man in Seattle (?--maybe Portland) who had invented a system very similar to what he had sold IBM. They found their man in Seattle and bought the OS cheap. You see? The rules were that he was selling what he had. He was not: he invented a product while speaking, then after selling it obtained it. The ball wasn't under the cup at all.
I think the movie V for Vendetta is hilarious. In this film, they go on a massive manhunt for an anarchist terrorist known only as V. He wears a Guy Fawkes mask and a long black cloak. They also search for a girl named Evie Hamilton: she has been seen in V's presence, and so they assume she has something to do with him--an associate or accomplice, perhaps. When V turns up in a final showdown with the head of the Secret Police, he is shot multiple times. And--this is hilarious--they think this means they've killed the terrorist.
He is defined and identified by the fact he wears a mask, something few people do. Do you see the joke? His identity lies in the fact he cannot be identified. Yet they don't think in that light. Evie Hamilton could be the terrorist just as well as anyone else, 'cause guess what: two people could wear the same mask. V might actually be hundreds or thousands of people, each wearing the outfit only once, to commit some crime, and then never donning the mask again. This would be a further stroke of brilliance: the police in the film are putting together V's identity by where he has appeared and whom he has killed, trying to pick out a single person under the mask. If there are many, each crime would have a different MO and a different motive, all totally unconnected--it's like playing connect-the-dots with your freckles. There is no underlying pattern to be discerned.
Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed when the filmmakers didn't play with this notion at all, but I'll save that rant for another day.
Martin Luther King, Jr and Mahatma Gandhi knew it too. There were established avenues for political change, and established ways of doing things. They ignored these. They created their own avenues, most brilliantly passive resistance--which we've been copying ever since.
Ok, here's something very relevant:
Most of those who read this blog, I know, are college students. There is a plan we have been told for our lives. We go to high school and get a good education, and then we go to college and get a diploma. With this diploma, we go out and get a job. By hard work, effort, and talent, we make our way up the corporate ladder to success.
Or maybe we drop out of college, put all our eggs in one basket, and do something so wildly outside the rules we fool all the Yokels and make something truly great.
What are the standard rules and patterns that you see in life? Now try seeing past them. This is very difficult--at least for me--because these rules are defined by the very fact we don't notice them.
It's just a thought.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
I made a pretty!Sacco and Vanzetti were two prominent anarchists during the 1920s. They considered governments the worst enemies of people in existence. They were put to trial for murder--a trial that has become the most contested in American history. They were found guilty and executed.
If people are going to be going on and on about the Jena Six, I felt I oughtta add a cause I care about--my anarchist pals, dead though they may be.
"This man, although he may not have actually committed the crime attributed to him, is nevertheless culpable, because he is the enemy of our existing institutions."
Judge Webster Thayer's remarks to the jury before the trial of Bartolomeo Vanzetti
"We are not here to say whether these men are guilty or innocent. We are here to say that the high standards of justice, which we in Massachusetts take such pride in, failed Sacco and Vanzetti."
Governor Michael Dukakis's remarks following a proclamation removing any stigma or defamation from their names
This case is important to me because it is a perfect failure of our justice system. It does not matter whether or not Sacco and Vanzetti were guilty or innocent; all that matters is whether evidence supported the notion that they were guilty. There needn't even be evidence for innocence.
If a guilty man walks free because of a lack of evidence, that is just a success of the justice system as when an innocent man does--or when a guilty man is sent to jail when guilt is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. So I don't care if they were guilty or innocent. There may not have been enough evidence at the time to absolutely clear them, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that there was not enough to prove them guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. That is the failure.
I could say this carries over. We prefer to assume guilt rather than innocence. We don't like the idea of attacking every assertion of evidence that proves guilt--we'd rather attack the evidence of innocence. Tell me, when a celebrity is being convicted, do we try to cast doubt on every proof of innocence and accept every proof of guilt without thinking?
I'monna go watch "Twelve Angry Men".
Disclaimer: I do not own Kirby. I don't own his image. He definitely belongs to Nintendo. I like to believe he'd support Sacco and Vanzetti as well, but I can't say for sure--I don't speak for him.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
So, I've been doing NaNoWriMo.
Actually, right now I'm procrastinating on NaNoWriMo.
What I do find interesting, though, is how different NaNoWriMo work is from other writing I've done. Normally when I write either (A) I'm writing an analytical essay, so I don't have to enjoy it for it to be good, or (B) I'm in the writing mood when I sit down to work.
It is very difficult to bring yourself to write consistently when you really don't feel like it (see re: right now).
Another thing. Lately I've been reading a lot of very artistic, very "literary" novels. I did not realize it, but they really did impact my style. I had two false starts on my NaNoWriMo novel I had to throw out simply because I was trying to be artsy and it wasn't my voice at all. I find I like the style of science fiction and fantasy novels much better: they do not draw your attention to the prose, but simply present an interesting plot, character, or world, and let you explore. It's far simpler and much better.
As it is, though, the first few paragraphs of my NaNoWriMo novel still have that particular stylistic flaw, and it keeps cropping up. I'm working on excising it, because I really only enjoy writing when I'm working in a more natural voice.
So. Now I'm procrastinating. I'm sitting at a table at Jittey Joe's in the SLC and thinking about writing. I'm kinda wishing for a distraction, though I know I shouldn't. I've got a date tonight and Nathan's movie thing, so . . . I gotta get this all done now.
(please distract me)
Actually, right now I'm procrastinating on NaNoWriMo.
What I do find interesting, though, is how different NaNoWriMo work is from other writing I've done. Normally when I write either (A) I'm writing an analytical essay, so I don't have to enjoy it for it to be good, or (B) I'm in the writing mood when I sit down to work.
It is very difficult to bring yourself to write consistently when you really don't feel like it (see re: right now).
Another thing. Lately I've been reading a lot of very artistic, very "literary" novels. I did not realize it, but they really did impact my style. I had two false starts on my NaNoWriMo novel I had to throw out simply because I was trying to be artsy and it wasn't my voice at all. I find I like the style of science fiction and fantasy novels much better: they do not draw your attention to the prose, but simply present an interesting plot, character, or world, and let you explore. It's far simpler and much better.
As it is, though, the first few paragraphs of my NaNoWriMo novel still have that particular stylistic flaw, and it keeps cropping up. I'm working on excising it, because I really only enjoy writing when I'm working in a more natural voice.
So. Now I'm procrastinating. I'm sitting at a table at Jittey Joe's in the SLC and thinking about writing. I'm kinda wishing for a distraction, though I know I shouldn't. I've got a date tonight and Nathan's movie thing, so . . . I gotta get this all done now.
(please distract me)
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