You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
City of Clocks
In the far East of Europe, in a land that was once the heart of Bohemia, is a city of clocks. There are clocks mounted on red roofed buildings, clocks to tell the season, a clock to count the stars, a room in city hall with a crinkled old man paid to watch a crinkled old clock. Oaken clocks, granite clocks, brass clocks, crystal clocks the color of the Vltava in winter, summer, and spring. Clocks of leaves and crucifixes, a clock of saints and a hundred clocks of sinners.
On every wrist, a ticking clock, sometimes two or three. From these people the Mayan's learned their apocalyptic calender, the Romans their Pagan holidays, carbon atoms learned their half life and God was told 144 hours of work and no more.
It takes 11 minutes and 56 second to walk from Our Lady Before Tyn across the Charles Bridge. Takes 3 minutes and 12 seconds to sip a warm cappuccino. It takes 4 days, 6 hours, 13 minutes, and one second for me to realize that I want to go home and no time at all to know that I can't yet.
So I'll watch the clocks count up the seconds, the hour glasses spill sand downward, the sundials fade to darkness, and the season tilt closer to frozen.
On every wrist, a ticking clock, sometimes two or three. From these people the Mayan's learned their apocalyptic calender, the Romans their Pagan holidays, carbon atoms learned their half life and God was told 144 hours of work and no more.
It takes 11 minutes and 56 second to walk from Our Lady Before Tyn across the Charles Bridge. Takes 3 minutes and 12 seconds to sip a warm cappuccino. It takes 4 days, 6 hours, 13 minutes, and one second for me to realize that I want to go home and no time at all to know that I can't yet.
So I'll watch the clocks count up the seconds, the hour glasses spill sand downward, the sundials fade to darkness, and the season tilt closer to frozen.
Lost in Prague
I have no idea where I am, no idea what I am eating, and no idea what this building is used for, but...the lady at the cafe was very nice even though she doesn't speak a lick of English and I don't speak a word of Czech, there are about a hundred old Czech men sitting in a room reading newspapers, and the food is delicious.
All this to say, I haven't found the library I'm looking for, but I am having a great time trying to find it.
All this to say, I haven't found the library I'm looking for, but I am having a great time trying to find it.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
For you
For you
I have dozens of unwritten emails
hundreds of hand written notes penned in invisible ink
a thousand thoughts I cannot speak
My hands are cramping from the writing
Pencil stubs, empty inkwells, and chalk dust have become my closest friends
piled up together as kindling
-in case I can at last send my smoke signals
Because, dear,
I'll find a million ways to break our rules
a ocean full of tricks and traps to fill the silence
But, they will lie in wait.
I will not utter a single word.
I'll bend your laws,
stretch your patience and our hearts
But I will not say I how much I long
For you
Until you ask me to speak
I have dozens of unwritten emails
hundreds of hand written notes penned in invisible ink
a thousand thoughts I cannot speak
My hands are cramping from the writing
Pencil stubs, empty inkwells, and chalk dust have become my closest friends
piled up together as kindling
-in case I can at last send my smoke signals
Because, dear,
I'll find a million ways to break our rules
a ocean full of tricks and traps to fill the silence
But, they will lie in wait.
I will not utter a single word.
I'll bend your laws,
stretch your patience and our hearts
But I will not say I how much I long
For you
Until you ask me to speak
Monday, December 7, 2009
Living with Eyes Half Open
Who are you to think you know injustice?
This question is seldom posed in real life, but is a constant and guilty reminder of my privileged existence nonetheless. It has the potential to say something like "You've never been to a 3rd world country, you've never volunteered in a homeless shelter, you've never lived in a broken home, so you have nothing to say or contribute to the discussion." It also has the potential to downplay the injustice we see around us daily.
Why are women in the Orthodox church met with benevolent and open sexism? Why do we think that those that don't speak our language proficiently are stupid? Why does my being "white" grant me trust? Why is it okay for a man to be aggressive but not a woman? Why are the more intelligent regarded as better people?
Why are there so many homeless in Oxford? Why are there so many homeless at all?
Why do I get advantages while others do not?
You see, I am met with inequality daily. While it may be more subtle and less extreme in some ways than starving in Africa, AIDS in China, and totalitarianism in Uzbekistan, it's here. It's present in the every conversation I have, every place I go to. Let's not play this game of tit for tat, or who has seen the most injustice, who has the worse "war stories" or war stories. Instead, can we just agree that we and the world need help and any attempt to decrease injustice is a step toward that help?
So who are you to say that you know injustice? You are any person living with eyes at least half open, that's who.
This question is seldom posed in real life, but is a constant and guilty reminder of my privileged existence nonetheless. It has the potential to say something like "You've never been to a 3rd world country, you've never volunteered in a homeless shelter, you've never lived in a broken home, so you have nothing to say or contribute to the discussion." It also has the potential to downplay the injustice we see around us daily.
Why are women in the Orthodox church met with benevolent and open sexism? Why do we think that those that don't speak our language proficiently are stupid? Why does my being "white" grant me trust? Why is it okay for a man to be aggressive but not a woman? Why are the more intelligent regarded as better people?
Why are there so many homeless in Oxford? Why are there so many homeless at all?
Why do I get advantages while others do not?
You see, I am met with inequality daily. While it may be more subtle and less extreme in some ways than starving in Africa, AIDS in China, and totalitarianism in Uzbekistan, it's here. It's present in the every conversation I have, every place I go to. Let's not play this game of tit for tat, or who has seen the most injustice, who has the worse "war stories" or war stories. Instead, can we just agree that we and the world need help and any attempt to decrease injustice is a step toward that help?
So who are you to say that you know injustice? You are any person living with eyes at least half open, that's who.
Avoiding Disgust:
I'm going to spend 40 thousand dollars on my education this year. The coffee I just bought cost me about 3 dollars. Collectively I have about 600 dollars worth of stuff with me right now, to say nothing of the clothing I own, the books in my room, and the expensive camera I purchased last summer. In a few days, I'm going to go to Prague on a plane that cost me roughly 250 dollars to fly on.
It's really so easy for me to forget that for 40,000 dollars I could support a family of 4 in a third world country for 13 and a half years. It's easy for me to forget that with the price of this laptop, I could ensure that a single person has the required antibiotics to combat malaria for the REST OF THEIR LIFE.
It's easy for me to forget that while I'm busy writing a blog and researching for an essay on consciousness, one that will likely change no lives besides my own, that in the last minute 4 people died of Tuberculosis. It's easy for me to forget that my privilege has been born on the back of years of war, genocide, and inequality.
It's so easy to forget that when I spend money, I am making a conscious choice to participate in that continual inequality.
The reason I forget so easily is because the more I dwell on it, the more disgusted I become with my education, my laptop, my work, my living. I can quickly become so disgusted that I'm paralyzed, afraid to continue doing the work I need to be doing, uncertain of what I can be doing to help and whether any activity to help actually means anything when faced with the colossus of inequality.
So instead of becoming disgusted, I evoke a conscious amnesia and simply forget. Because drinking coffee is so much better than thinking about poverty and death.
Tonight I'll try a different tact, lest I become like so many bloggers, like so many idealistic men and women my age. Tonight, I'm going to list 3 practical things I can be doing to interact with inequality today.
1)Begin recording how much money I spend on things for one month. At the end of this month, go through the list to determine what money was poorly or unnecessarily spent. Take 10% of that and invest it in microfinance opportunities.
2)Research and volunteer for women's shelters, homeless shelters, nursing homes, schools, or refugee serving organizations in Seattle when I return.
3)Make the conscious attempt to smile at people where ever I go. One can only imagine the psychological benefit for both I and the recipient.
This list is weak, but it is a start and more importantly, it is doable. In the case of 1 and 3, it requires little extra effort on my part. In the case of 2, it gets me involved and acting in the situations I claim to have care for.
It's really so easy for me to forget that for 40,000 dollars I could support a family of 4 in a third world country for 13 and a half years. It's easy for me to forget that with the price of this laptop, I could ensure that a single person has the required antibiotics to combat malaria for the REST OF THEIR LIFE.
It's easy for me to forget that while I'm busy writing a blog and researching for an essay on consciousness, one that will likely change no lives besides my own, that in the last minute 4 people died of Tuberculosis. It's easy for me to forget that my privilege has been born on the back of years of war, genocide, and inequality.
It's so easy to forget that when I spend money, I am making a conscious choice to participate in that continual inequality.
The reason I forget so easily is because the more I dwell on it, the more disgusted I become with my education, my laptop, my work, my living. I can quickly become so disgusted that I'm paralyzed, afraid to continue doing the work I need to be doing, uncertain of what I can be doing to help and whether any activity to help actually means anything when faced with the colossus of inequality.
So instead of becoming disgusted, I evoke a conscious amnesia and simply forget. Because drinking coffee is so much better than thinking about poverty and death.
Tonight I'll try a different tact, lest I become like so many bloggers, like so many idealistic men and women my age. Tonight, I'm going to list 3 practical things I can be doing to interact with inequality today.
1)Begin recording how much money I spend on things for one month. At the end of this month, go through the list to determine what money was poorly or unnecessarily spent. Take 10% of that and invest it in microfinance opportunities.
2)Research and volunteer for women's shelters, homeless shelters, nursing homes, schools, or refugee serving organizations in Seattle when I return.
3)Make the conscious attempt to smile at people where ever I go. One can only imagine the psychological benefit for both I and the recipient.
This list is weak, but it is a start and more importantly, it is doable. In the case of 1 and 3, it requires little extra effort on my part. In the case of 2, it gets me involved and acting in the situations I claim to have care for.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Sleep Deprivation, totally underrated
I slept for 19 hours today. For what it's worth, I still haven't averaged 8 hours of sleep this week, I'm still somewhere in the 6 hours a night range.
Apparently Brits never sleep. Or so I hear.
Oxford is beautiful and the work is challenging and I love it.
Cheers
Apparently Brits never sleep. Or so I hear.
Oxford is beautiful and the work is challenging and I love it.
Cheers
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Pardon This Rambling Mouth of Mine
Why does it seem that in the midst of great difficulty and important papers, I always find the ability and impetus to write? Do I really need the extra pressure of an essay weighing down on my shoulders to get me going? I doubt it.
My theory is that every book on writing has been right all along, that to be better writers we need to write. It seems simple enough until you realize that there is cooking, cleaning, studying, and socializing to do. Then those few brilliant sentences you thought up on your chilly bike ride into town, the one which reddened your cheeks and reminded you why living is so damn important, slip away into some subconscious sea. We may idly hope that we can fish them out again, but most of them are "the one's that got away." Oh woe to my fellow fishing folk, for these ideas are lost forever.
I've been slapped in the face this week with realizations and wretched implications of my gender and the constant struggle and difficulty facing women. I've been caught up in the question of how I ought to interact with the fact that I do have privilege in my society and how I can only begin to imagine what it's like for it to be otherwise. What am I to do about this? What am I to do with a realization that women are quite often treated as second class citizens and, as a man, what do I do about it? In what ways do I propagate this inequality, both consciously and unconsciously? These and a whole host of other questions flicker and shout for attention.
Head is getting worse. I'll need to think about that soon. It's getting to the point where it's affecting my studies. I can't ignore it as much as I'd like to.
These things deserve greater attention than I have time to give them right now. Is it okay that I want to think about these things more than I do Plato's theories of justice? Or maybe that's the point?
My theory is that every book on writing has been right all along, that to be better writers we need to write. It seems simple enough until you realize that there is cooking, cleaning, studying, and socializing to do. Then those few brilliant sentences you thought up on your chilly bike ride into town, the one which reddened your cheeks and reminded you why living is so damn important, slip away into some subconscious sea. We may idly hope that we can fish them out again, but most of them are "the one's that got away." Oh woe to my fellow fishing folk, for these ideas are lost forever.
I've been slapped in the face this week with realizations and wretched implications of my gender and the constant struggle and difficulty facing women. I've been caught up in the question of how I ought to interact with the fact that I do have privilege in my society and how I can only begin to imagine what it's like for it to be otherwise. What am I to do about this? What am I to do with a realization that women are quite often treated as second class citizens and, as a man, what do I do about it? In what ways do I propagate this inequality, both consciously and unconsciously? These and a whole host of other questions flicker and shout for attention.
Head is getting worse. I'll need to think about that soon. It's getting to the point where it's affecting my studies. I can't ignore it as much as I'd like to.
These things deserve greater attention than I have time to give them right now. Is it okay that I want to think about these things more than I do Plato's theories of justice? Or maybe that's the point?
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Not So Far From Here: The Tree and God
"One day you wake up and believe that there is a tree there, so you walk around it. Then the next day you wake up and you believe that god is there. So you pray to him."
I live on the constant edge of almost-belief. I was told once that when you make a graph of an X squared curve, you end up with a line that shoot upward, moving infinitesimally closer to becoming 1, coming so close that at some point the difference is so unimportant that it does become 1. That move from something less than 1 to 1 itself is mysterious to me.
And so is a change in belief. For more than a year now, I've been chasing down the threads of the Trinity, trying with all my might and less to discover something real in these doctrines and traditions. I feel like that X squared curve, somehow gaining more understanding and belief that God was incarnate in Jesus, but never quite to the full belief in these somehow apparent truths.
But somehow, I'm in the midst of that mysterious change from belief in less than that, to all of that, the move from less than 1 to all of 1. I'm not quite confident in this change, but I'm anxious and nervous and apprehensive in all that this may mean.
I wonder if there is some hidden writing in some later, non-canonical Gospel, describing the meeting between Thomas and Jesus after the resurrection more explicitly. I wonder how Thomas would have explained that moment of realization, that movement from near certainty, to belief. I wonder also if that story says something about all of us, about those odd, in-between moments from our death to ourselves to the moments after resurrection, when we move from faith to belief, and we have become something else entirely.
And so, I've seen the tree and circled it round and round. I lie now beneath it's branches, watching the day's fading light trickle down through the cracks in the leaves. I'll sleep now, below the reaching limbs of this new discovery and perhaps when I wake, I will pray.
I live on the constant edge of almost-belief. I was told once that when you make a graph of an X squared curve, you end up with a line that shoot upward, moving infinitesimally closer to becoming 1, coming so close that at some point the difference is so unimportant that it does become 1. That move from something less than 1 to 1 itself is mysterious to me.
And so is a change in belief. For more than a year now, I've been chasing down the threads of the Trinity, trying with all my might and less to discover something real in these doctrines and traditions. I feel like that X squared curve, somehow gaining more understanding and belief that God was incarnate in Jesus, but never quite to the full belief in these somehow apparent truths.
But somehow, I'm in the midst of that mysterious change from belief in less than that, to all of that, the move from less than 1 to all of 1. I'm not quite confident in this change, but I'm anxious and nervous and apprehensive in all that this may mean.
I wonder if there is some hidden writing in some later, non-canonical Gospel, describing the meeting between Thomas and Jesus after the resurrection more explicitly. I wonder how Thomas would have explained that moment of realization, that movement from near certainty, to belief. I wonder also if that story says something about all of us, about those odd, in-between moments from our death to ourselves to the moments after resurrection, when we move from faith to belief, and we have become something else entirely.
And so, I've seen the tree and circled it round and round. I lie now beneath it's branches, watching the day's fading light trickle down through the cracks in the leaves. I'll sleep now, below the reaching limbs of this new discovery and perhaps when I wake, I will pray.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Oh, Christo, you Pharisee, you hypocrite
Forgive me my mysticism, or lack there of, but we are all hypocrites. I do not claim to be holier than I am, which is to say, at all, but it seems to me, that taking any notion of God's grace as true, we must recognize that we are entirely undeserving of it. Grace, by definition is unwarranted, unearned, and sometimes unwelcome. Now, I know there are theologies that say that grace is irresistible, and I bet there are theologies that say that a person can deny grace, but it seems to me, one way or another, I'm here, I'm praying, and I am undeserving of that.
And please don't misunderstand me. My undeserving is not because I think myself a wholly wretched creature, but because it is the nature of grace to be undeserved. I haven't deserved really the opportunity to pray, no more than I really earn my right to live. I haven't worked for it, I just have it.
So, I'm hypocritical in saying this. All you who do not pray because you feel as though you are too sinful or uncertain or unrighteous in that prayer, to all those who are painfully aware of their inabilities and unbelief, simply start praying. Pray about those things, make them known and felt, but don't let this uncertainty keep you from that. And thus my hypocrisy is known, for all my utterances of assurance, I cannot find the weakness to pray either. I have no meekness in my bones that will allow me to kneel without a fight, and yet I will eternally beseech others to do what I cannot. Thus is the nature of my faith.
And please don't misunderstand me. My undeserving is not because I think myself a wholly wretched creature, but because it is the nature of grace to be undeserved. I haven't deserved really the opportunity to pray, no more than I really earn my right to live. I haven't worked for it, I just have it.
So, I'm hypocritical in saying this. All you who do not pray because you feel as though you are too sinful or uncertain or unrighteous in that prayer, to all those who are painfully aware of their inabilities and unbelief, simply start praying. Pray about those things, make them known and felt, but don't let this uncertainty keep you from that. And thus my hypocrisy is known, for all my utterances of assurance, I cannot find the weakness to pray either. I have no meekness in my bones that will allow me to kneel without a fight, and yet I will eternally beseech others to do what I cannot. Thus is the nature of my faith.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
A fast begun
Father God, please bless the next forty days of fasting.
I pray that you will teach me greater humility and sensitivity to the needs of others.
I pray that you will give me direction regarding your will in my life.
I ask that you walk beside me, in me, and beyond me in this journey.
I pray that in this time I may learn to serve others more readily, that I am more willing and able to love my neighbors as I love myself.
I pray that in this time of sacrifice, I may come to know you more fully, that you will relieve more of your glory.
I love you and I am grateful for the blessings you have brought into my life.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.
I pray that you will teach me greater humility and sensitivity to the needs of others.
I pray that you will give me direction regarding your will in my life.
I ask that you walk beside me, in me, and beyond me in this journey.
I pray that in this time I may learn to serve others more readily, that I am more willing and able to love my neighbors as I love myself.
I pray that in this time of sacrifice, I may come to know you more fully, that you will relieve more of your glory.
I love you and I am grateful for the blessings you have brought into my life.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
In the beginning...
Goodness, this has been a bit of a crazy 24( 36?) hours. Two long plane rides, severe jet lag, London to Oxford bus trip (on the opposite side of the road!), a trek into Oxford city itself, complete with dozens of schools, high spires, and a traditional English pasty (which is kind of like a pot pie only not in a pan).
I ended up (of course) in a discussion of theology yesterday while I was bone tired and made the mistake (?) of admitting that I wasn't sure that Jesus was God, which sprang into all sorts of questions and discussion and eventually me being asked to share my part of my testimony. This puts me in a vulnerable position in some respects, but also leads me to a more honest position. I don't feel like I'm keeping things under wraps now, so I can be free to express uncertainty and doubt at ease. We'll see how things play out with this, but I can admit that I'm a bit nervous about it. Oddly enough, I don't think that it will end up being problematic, partially because I assured people that I am definitely working at this and exploring it.
I've just had breakfast, I should probably get some Plato reading done, so I feel on my game when tutorials start. We have all day to do what we want, which is a blessing after the enormous trip we took yesterday. I need to get an adapter, or something like that, for my computer soon, because it's starting to run out of batteries. Maybe that will be my next task once other people in the house wake up.
Cheers
I ended up (of course) in a discussion of theology yesterday while I was bone tired and made the mistake (?) of admitting that I wasn't sure that Jesus was God, which sprang into all sorts of questions and discussion and eventually me being asked to share my part of my testimony. This puts me in a vulnerable position in some respects, but also leads me to a more honest position. I don't feel like I'm keeping things under wraps now, so I can be free to express uncertainty and doubt at ease. We'll see how things play out with this, but I can admit that I'm a bit nervous about it. Oddly enough, I don't think that it will end up being problematic, partially because I assured people that I am definitely working at this and exploring it.
I've just had breakfast, I should probably get some Plato reading done, so I feel on my game when tutorials start. We have all day to do what we want, which is a blessing after the enormous trip we took yesterday. I need to get an adapter, or something like that, for my computer soon, because it's starting to run out of batteries. Maybe that will be my next task once other people in the house wake up.
Cheers
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Bon Voyage
Tomorrow, I begin a whirlwind adventure to Oxford and the world. I am stepping for the first time from a small American life, to a larger, global life. I move from an national student, to a international learner. I'm excited, anxious, worried, and tranquil about the first foot on the road. I'm curious as to where those footfall after footfall will take me.
An adventure is at hand!
An adventure is at hand!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Three Second Intervals
I live in three second intervals...
...Storm clouds over a sunset
Purple eyebrows over a single orange iris
Cut by eyelashes of ancient stone...
...I smile for what seems the first time in my life
Heart clear and mind wide open
Do you see it? There! There! is a bird on the telephone wire above me
and I can see its feathers barely moving in the wind...
...The field is dimly lit by the moon
Tall, wild desert grass swaying in the midnight breeze...
...His face is beginning to show the creases of age
Beard gone from a blend of orange, brown, and white, to more and more grey
I see myself in his edges of his cheeks, his lips, and chin
He's real, I think, and so am I...
...Sex is part of the natural course of relationships
But creating another human being is part of sex
Not just hedonism and intimacy and seduction and openness
How could I have never noticed these things before?...
...My mother reminds me of a six year old child,
Holed up in her studio brimming with crayons, yarn, rubber stamps, paper of all shades and textures, scissors which cut round or jagged lines, gargantuan, minuscule, scintillating, obese, skinny pens, and beads organized into thousands of small boxes.
"What are you working on, Mom?"
"I don't know." She smiles and I am infected with whimsical glee...
...I live in three second intervals.
How strange it is to feel my presence in this world slip like ebbing, lackadaisical waves against a shore of reality. To save myself, I retreat from living into a world juxtaposed by Plato's heavens and a keen, reptilian survival mode, but I sneak out, from time to uncertain time, to peek at life when the beast stops howling for the briefest moments. I'm collecting these times, drawing them into a tiny, wool bag and caching them away for a homecoming that may not ever come. These moments of living, these glimmers of light in the emptiness of days falling into endless days, may save me. They will hold everything that I am, stored like my soul's DNA, all information captured and recorded in those precious little gifts, waiting patiently for a time when I can be formed whole again. Locked away from disassociated pain and self, I bury these seeds for aeonios, for a time when the rain has come again, to bathe my body and soul, and renew my roots in this world.
...Storm clouds over a sunset
Purple eyebrows over a single orange iris
Cut by eyelashes of ancient stone...
...I smile for what seems the first time in my life
Heart clear and mind wide open
Do you see it? There! There! is a bird on the telephone wire above me
and I can see its feathers barely moving in the wind...
...The field is dimly lit by the moon
Tall, wild desert grass swaying in the midnight breeze...
...His face is beginning to show the creases of age
Beard gone from a blend of orange, brown, and white, to more and more grey
I see myself in his edges of his cheeks, his lips, and chin
He's real, I think, and so am I...
...Sex is part of the natural course of relationships
But creating another human being is part of sex
Not just hedonism and intimacy and seduction and openness
How could I have never noticed these things before?...
...My mother reminds me of a six year old child,
Holed up in her studio brimming with crayons, yarn, rubber stamps, paper of all shades and textures, scissors which cut round or jagged lines, gargantuan, minuscule, scintillating, obese, skinny pens, and beads organized into thousands of small boxes.
"What are you working on, Mom?"
"I don't know." She smiles and I am infected with whimsical glee...
...I live in three second intervals.
How strange it is to feel my presence in this world slip like ebbing, lackadaisical waves against a shore of reality. To save myself, I retreat from living into a world juxtaposed by Plato's heavens and a keen, reptilian survival mode, but I sneak out, from time to uncertain time, to peek at life when the beast stops howling for the briefest moments. I'm collecting these times, drawing them into a tiny, wool bag and caching them away for a homecoming that may not ever come. These moments of living, these glimmers of light in the emptiness of days falling into endless days, may save me. They will hold everything that I am, stored like my soul's DNA, all information captured and recorded in those precious little gifts, waiting patiently for a time when I can be formed whole again. Locked away from disassociated pain and self, I bury these seeds for aeonios, for a time when the rain has come again, to bathe my body and soul, and renew my roots in this world.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Maslow, you old coot
I refuse you, Maslow, and your hierarchy of needs. I will pull down your great chain of being, destroy your pyramid, brick by brick.
Instead of laying back, and scraping by to find an existence without pain and fear; instead of trying to resolve my needs for safety of health, future, and body, I am leaping with abandon into the most shaky life-raft that I know. I will shove off into dangerous waters, into a realm of possible worlds, unknown causation, and ideal forms, into the Platonic seas and heavens where no absolute certainty lies, but only an adventure questing for perfection awaits.
You cannot keep me, Maslow, in the twisted prison of your ordered living. I cannot bear it, for I will surely perish were I to follow your whims. You see, I could keep my body fresh, my teeth clean, my hunger sated and my thirst slaked, but your agenda would destroy all that it is to be a human. My body would sustain itself, but my spirit, my self, would wither, slowly, atrophying, utterly enervated by my constant scratching in the dirt for flesh, bones, and sinew. There is no foundation to be obtained there for me, Maslow, because there is no hope today of restoration. It serves me nothing to seek my health tonight, because my health is not forthcoming. So I defy you and your rotten axiomatic ways of the human condition. I defy you and thus deny the truth your harmony.
Now why don't you step down from your self actualization and get working on something productive?
Instead of laying back, and scraping by to find an existence without pain and fear; instead of trying to resolve my needs for safety of health, future, and body, I am leaping with abandon into the most shaky life-raft that I know. I will shove off into dangerous waters, into a realm of possible worlds, unknown causation, and ideal forms, into the Platonic seas and heavens where no absolute certainty lies, but only an adventure questing for perfection awaits.
You cannot keep me, Maslow, in the twisted prison of your ordered living. I cannot bear it, for I will surely perish were I to follow your whims. You see, I could keep my body fresh, my teeth clean, my hunger sated and my thirst slaked, but your agenda would destroy all that it is to be a human. My body would sustain itself, but my spirit, my self, would wither, slowly, atrophying, utterly enervated by my constant scratching in the dirt for flesh, bones, and sinew. There is no foundation to be obtained there for me, Maslow, because there is no hope today of restoration. It serves me nothing to seek my health tonight, because my health is not forthcoming. So I defy you and your rotten axiomatic ways of the human condition. I defy you and thus deny the truth your harmony.
Now why don't you step down from your self actualization and get working on something productive?
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Too many options with too little fuel
I'm relatively unable to pursue anything with the energy and the passion I desire to do lately and I hate it more than I am able to express. Let me explain things as I see them, to the best of my ability right now.
If you imagine yourself to have X amount of energy to complete a certain number of things everyday, let's say 5 major things, I swing between having energy to do 2 or 3 of them. I've lived my life in such a way that I could write a paper, hang out with friends, exercise, read a book, make it through the day, and go to work all in one day rather easily to now being forced to choose between seeing friends, working, or making it through the day. I can't do all three of them in one day. I sometimes don't feel like I can do two of them. This infuriates me to no end.
More over, the more time that this headache ticks on, the more that I find myself unable to hope for change. I find myself more aggravated with the world, more distant from people, and more emotionally violent than I care to admit. I don't have the energy to keep at this forever. But I have to have the energy to make ends meet, to make sure that I go to work so I can be paid, to see my friends because without them I have no sanity, to keep writing because it is a lifeline to me, and to keep pressing on in life because standing still is painful as well.
If you imagine yourself to have X amount of energy to complete a certain number of things everyday, let's say 5 major things, I swing between having energy to do 2 or 3 of them. I've lived my life in such a way that I could write a paper, hang out with friends, exercise, read a book, make it through the day, and go to work all in one day rather easily to now being forced to choose between seeing friends, working, or making it through the day. I can't do all three of them in one day. I sometimes don't feel like I can do two of them. This infuriates me to no end.
More over, the more time that this headache ticks on, the more that I find myself unable to hope for change. I find myself more aggravated with the world, more distant from people, and more emotionally violent than I care to admit. I don't have the energy to keep at this forever. But I have to have the energy to make ends meet, to make sure that I go to work so I can be paid, to see my friends because without them I have no sanity, to keep writing because it is a lifeline to me, and to keep pressing on in life because standing still is painful as well.
A Brief Respite
In a rare moment of headache lull, I think clearly enough to know that I have so much to gain in this year. That I can, for the first time in months, dream and imagine the wonders I will see in a short time to come. I'm excited for the adventure to come, excited for the people I will meet, the experiences I will have, the growing that will occur along the way.
I'm taking my first step outward from what my parents have done in their lives, I'm doing something my father never did, nor dreamed of doing. That is wholly exciting and wholly nerve wracking. I embrace all that it is. I embrace the steps toward a freedom which I have never experienced and I leap toward toward the opportunity to prove my worth to myself and the world. However that may look.
I'm taking my first step outward from what my parents have done in their lives, I'm doing something my father never did, nor dreamed of doing. That is wholly exciting and wholly nerve wracking. I embrace all that it is. I embrace the steps toward a freedom which I have never experienced and I leap toward toward the opportunity to prove my worth to myself and the world. However that may look.
Monday, July 20, 2009
I will not die
A few months ago, I discovered the blog "I will not die" and it became a source of inspiration. Dereck suffered from the deep desire to live to drink deeply from life, while surviving in a world which stifled this goal. He had his goal of university taken from him, but he promised to not let go, to press on, to eventually get back to university to study, of all things, philosophy. Dereck has since achieved his goal, but in so doing, he has abandoned his blog because he did not die and the mantra is no longer necessary for his survival.
So I will take up the mantra for my own sake. Let me explain.
I have had a headache since November. And not just a "wow this is annoying headache" but the sort of headache that I wish I could lie down and cry from the pain every day, one that fogs my thoughts, and kills my pleasure in life. But I won't do that, not until I have to. See, I know that my life is valuable, I know that I must live for my own sake and for the sake of others. I owe it to myself and I owe it to the world to not give up.
But I'm getting weaker as each day passes. My headache is getting worse, my thoughts are getting cloudier, and I am less and less able to find the endurance to press on. I am dying. I don't believe that this headache will kill me physically, at least not soon, but I am terribly certain that I, who I am at my core, may wither and perish. I find myself in writing, find myself in philosophy, find myself in dreaming deeply and each of these things is atrophying as my headache continues to grow.
This first post of perhaps many posts is measure of remaining worth. I vow here and now that I will not die. I cannot give up on myself, I cannot let my headache get the better of me. I am bitterly aware that I truly cannot see the end of this, that I may be wrong, but I do not have the strength to look into the abyss yet. So, instead I choose defiance, I choose be a bitter freedom fighter for the only thing that I have left to fight for: myself.
I will not die. It's not nearly time yet.
So I will take up the mantra for my own sake. Let me explain.
I have had a headache since November. And not just a "wow this is annoying headache" but the sort of headache that I wish I could lie down and cry from the pain every day, one that fogs my thoughts, and kills my pleasure in life. But I won't do that, not until I have to. See, I know that my life is valuable, I know that I must live for my own sake and for the sake of others. I owe it to myself and I owe it to the world to not give up.
But I'm getting weaker as each day passes. My headache is getting worse, my thoughts are getting cloudier, and I am less and less able to find the endurance to press on. I am dying. I don't believe that this headache will kill me physically, at least not soon, but I am terribly certain that I, who I am at my core, may wither and perish. I find myself in writing, find myself in philosophy, find myself in dreaming deeply and each of these things is atrophying as my headache continues to grow.
This first post of perhaps many posts is measure of remaining worth. I vow here and now that I will not die. I cannot give up on myself, I cannot let my headache get the better of me. I am bitterly aware that I truly cannot see the end of this, that I may be wrong, but I do not have the strength to look into the abyss yet. So, instead I choose defiance, I choose be a bitter freedom fighter for the only thing that I have left to fight for: myself.
I will not die. It's not nearly time yet.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Clapping through an Anthropologist's Eyes
My anthropologist senses were buzzing today and as a result, I started to notice weird things about people. I was particularly intrigued by our cultural custom of clapping, so I'll do a bit of off-the-cuff analysis.
Clapping is which is produced by rapidly slapping one's hands together in a such a way as to produce noise. This noise can be raised in frequency by keeping one's hands flat, or muffled by cupping the hands. Speed, power, and frequency of the clapping can be varied to produce different noise effects.
Clapping, in American culture, is used to convey congratulations, or to attract attention of those in the nearby area. Additionally, it is sometimes used as percussion in music.
Clapping serves a purpose of conveying congratulations within a large group. It most commonly occurs when those in the group cannot convey their congratulations individually, so instead they do so by clapping together as a group.
Clapping may also serve the purpose of avoiding American adversity against individual congratulations, as it can be viewed as embarrassing to congratulate someone.
And that's all I have.
As a bit of a side note, I recognize that I need a lot more practice at this sort of analysis to get very good at anthropology. I suppose it could be just a matter of inexperience, but I also think I need more time and I feel that there is probably a process that exists to recognize the common elements of a custom, but I just don't know it. Perhaps a checklist of some sort. I'll poke around for one, but if not, I think it would probably be worthwhile to create one for myself, so that I don't miss important things in my analysis.
Clapping is which is produced by rapidly slapping one's hands together in a such a way as to produce noise. This noise can be raised in frequency by keeping one's hands flat, or muffled by cupping the hands. Speed, power, and frequency of the clapping can be varied to produce different noise effects.
Clapping, in American culture, is used to convey congratulations, or to attract attention of those in the nearby area. Additionally, it is sometimes used as percussion in music.
Clapping serves a purpose of conveying congratulations within a large group. It most commonly occurs when those in the group cannot convey their congratulations individually, so instead they do so by clapping together as a group.
Clapping may also serve the purpose of avoiding American adversity against individual congratulations, as it can be viewed as embarrassing to congratulate someone.
And that's all I have.
As a bit of a side note, I recognize that I need a lot more practice at this sort of analysis to get very good at anthropology. I suppose it could be just a matter of inexperience, but I also think I need more time and I feel that there is probably a process that exists to recognize the common elements of a custom, but I just don't know it. Perhaps a checklist of some sort. I'll poke around for one, but if not, I think it would probably be worthwhile to create one for myself, so that I don't miss important things in my analysis.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Weak Confessions
My foot slips while I am trying to loop the rope around the bicycle wheel frame I've managed to suspend in the limbs of my tree. I feel a rush of air across my body, a blur of green maple leaves, and suddenly the ground has flung open its arms to embrace me. I lay there, at the ankles of my dearest pal, unable to breathe for some seconds, shocked, muscles already tightening like boa constrictors in my neck and back, and I cry a little.
In the next few, achingly long minutes, I manage to crawl to my front door, only to be scooped up by my mom and rushed to the emergency room. I spent the next week or so in a neck brace, and the next month stiffly walking around, but by the end of July, I had climbed my tree again and I'll be damned if I didn't finally finished the pulley system I was working on.
Right now, I'm in a lot of pain, caused not by an accident of youth, but an unknown spectre, it's ethereal teeth gnawing at my skull in all my waking moments for the last eight months. I'm weak now, my endurance is flagging, and I'm finally starting to feel the effects on my fortitude. I'm ill prepared to deal with this sort of injury. I imagine that I could relive that fall over and over again, and survive it, but I don't know where the edge of this is and I don't know how much longer I can keep at this and still pursue the things I desire.
Ultimately, I'm scared that this headache will end up being something like that fall could have been, something to end me. I'm on the edge between pressing onward with endurance and determination and just stopping while I'm here, because I'm uncertain that I have it in me to keep this up forever, or much longer for that matter.
One thing I think for certain, when and if the time comes to stop pursuing school, or education, or my dreams which require much of me, it will come like the fall did, unexpected, shocking, and hard. It will happen all at once and I don't know that I'll be too terribly ashamed of it.
In the next few, achingly long minutes, I manage to crawl to my front door, only to be scooped up by my mom and rushed to the emergency room. I spent the next week or so in a neck brace, and the next month stiffly walking around, but by the end of July, I had climbed my tree again and I'll be damned if I didn't finally finished the pulley system I was working on.
Right now, I'm in a lot of pain, caused not by an accident of youth, but an unknown spectre, it's ethereal teeth gnawing at my skull in all my waking moments for the last eight months. I'm weak now, my endurance is flagging, and I'm finally starting to feel the effects on my fortitude. I'm ill prepared to deal with this sort of injury. I imagine that I could relive that fall over and over again, and survive it, but I don't know where the edge of this is and I don't know how much longer I can keep at this and still pursue the things I desire.
Ultimately, I'm scared that this headache will end up being something like that fall could have been, something to end me. I'm on the edge between pressing onward with endurance and determination and just stopping while I'm here, because I'm uncertain that I have it in me to keep this up forever, or much longer for that matter.
One thing I think for certain, when and if the time comes to stop pursuing school, or education, or my dreams which require much of me, it will come like the fall did, unexpected, shocking, and hard. It will happen all at once and I don't know that I'll be too terribly ashamed of it.
Friday, July 3, 2009
We the Living, the whole of it
We the Living is a constant toil unto the death. The little apple rolls, rolls, and rolls, ever onward, and downward, through sunflower seed shells, rotten linseed oil, backroom dealings, tuberculosis, and finally stops at the tombstone of Andrei, or the icy, bloody site of Kira's demise, or the nasty, Party offices where Leo's soul was broken, even though his body went on.
Rand wrote a very difficult book to trudge through. It felt like wading through sludge, like the final journey of Kira, numbing, and deadly; I was only moving onward because I knew the end was necessary to understand and because a friend had asked me to read it once, her eyes explaining more than her words ever could how important it was to her.
I could write ten pages of thoughts that the book has provoked and a ten dozen more on the sadness and numbness it evoked in my heart. We the Living was a book addressed not to the living who lived through the Red revolution in the communist nations, but we, the ones who can live and can survive and are not forced to give our lives for the sake of the collective. Rand asks us to think long and hard about our lives and what we are living them for, and whether we are laying them down before another when we should be clinging tightly to her highest moral good: man's reason.
Rand wrote a very difficult book to trudge through. It felt like wading through sludge, like the final journey of Kira, numbing, and deadly; I was only moving onward because I knew the end was necessary to understand and because a friend had asked me to read it once, her eyes explaining more than her words ever could how important it was to her.
I could write ten pages of thoughts that the book has provoked and a ten dozen more on the sadness and numbness it evoked in my heart. We the Living was a book addressed not to the living who lived through the Red revolution in the communist nations, but we, the ones who can live and can survive and are not forced to give our lives for the sake of the collective. Rand asks us to think long and hard about our lives and what we are living them for, and whether we are laying them down before another when we should be clinging tightly to her highest moral good: man's reason.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The Shadow of a Man's Dream
The clouds are high, white, and fluffy against a light blue sky. They are dispersed in chunks, a daub of white here, a little fluff there, leading back to the clear, steely, purple mountains in the distance, the tallest of them capped by more white snow. All this repetition of white, the height of the clouds, the sun so bright it cooks the color out of shirts and into skin, it's all background, a stage, a setting for a great normalcy and greater mystery.
He wonders whether it has meaning or not, whether it matters if he notices the clouds or the mountains or the sun. He wonders idly whether the world of his senses matters more or less than the world of his mind, each connection sending arcs of chemical and electric signals racing across new neurons and new pathways.
He's at the brink of a new mental maturity, somewhere nearing the edge of a great abyss or at the lip of a great peak he's been hiking. He's unsure whether he has been crawling or climbing; his internal gravity cannot tell him whether he is edging near a vast emptiness, or the final stretch to a grand plain of new knowing. He is either in the canyon or nearing it, though the difference may not matter. He reaches his arms out, strained and battered, but lovingly so. His fingers are sore, pounding with blood as he crams them into a new crack split open by understanding.
Human beings are complex and complicated, both biologically and socially formed, unique to the planet, but part of a constantly changing whole. The universe echoes into them, forming them in its own complex and complicated image, echoes into all things, everywhere, itself a shadow dreamt by some sleeping god or universe machine. The whole neither fits together, nor falls apart in this intricate, elegant, and eternal shifting, but instead defies the philosophers and their inductive reasoning, the scientists in their observations, the poet's musings, and the young lovers and their fate.
He knows this like he knows his ABC's, absently, recalling but only now beginning to reflect upon it. He is riding the wave of the greatest systematizing, the greatest crystallization of thought he has ever experienced, placing pieces into their rightful positions, and watching as the cogs, apple seeds, and nuclei whip, zing, and soar in modes yet unimagined. His consciousness is moving from beyond himself, beyond his world, beyond his universe, puzzling and smiling at the wholeness of existence, the second simplicity of the All.
The clouds are made of hydrogen and oxygen nothings, floating upon still emptier air, and yet they provide foundations to the heavens.
What glory! What commonplace! What else could we expect? A paradox of brilliance and dullness, a union of the divine with nothingness.
He wonders whether it has meaning or not, whether it matters if he notices the clouds or the mountains or the sun. He wonders idly whether the world of his senses matters more or less than the world of his mind, each connection sending arcs of chemical and electric signals racing across new neurons and new pathways.
He's at the brink of a new mental maturity, somewhere nearing the edge of a great abyss or at the lip of a great peak he's been hiking. He's unsure whether he has been crawling or climbing; his internal gravity cannot tell him whether he is edging near a vast emptiness, or the final stretch to a grand plain of new knowing. He is either in the canyon or nearing it, though the difference may not matter. He reaches his arms out, strained and battered, but lovingly so. His fingers are sore, pounding with blood as he crams them into a new crack split open by understanding.
Human beings are complex and complicated, both biologically and socially formed, unique to the planet, but part of a constantly changing whole. The universe echoes into them, forming them in its own complex and complicated image, echoes into all things, everywhere, itself a shadow dreamt by some sleeping god or universe machine. The whole neither fits together, nor falls apart in this intricate, elegant, and eternal shifting, but instead defies the philosophers and their inductive reasoning, the scientists in their observations, the poet's musings, and the young lovers and their fate.
He knows this like he knows his ABC's, absently, recalling but only now beginning to reflect upon it. He is riding the wave of the greatest systematizing, the greatest crystallization of thought he has ever experienced, placing pieces into their rightful positions, and watching as the cogs, apple seeds, and nuclei whip, zing, and soar in modes yet unimagined. His consciousness is moving from beyond himself, beyond his world, beyond his universe, puzzling and smiling at the wholeness of existence, the second simplicity of the All.
The clouds are made of hydrogen and oxygen nothings, floating upon still emptier air, and yet they provide foundations to the heavens.
What glory! What commonplace! What else could we expect? A paradox of brilliance and dullness, a union of the divine with nothingness.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Dealing with Pain, Part One
I
I met him the night before Thanksgiving.He introduced himself like all the others,
Tipped his hat, indicated that he was a product of new change
But failed to mention his proclivity for overstaying his welcome
That weekend, we became acquainted, though I had no intention of letting him stay for long
(I prefer a solitary existence within my mind)
He spoke with a bitter smile forever flickering on his face,
Never fading, but winding from bright to dull at strange intervals
And he stayed. He set his baggage down and began to speak. He spoke long through the night and into the morning and on through through the next day, into Monday and Wednesday and Saturday, rolling thought the vestiges of November, winked once at Santa Claus, gave no gift of reprieve on Valentine's Day, played the same constant trick on April Fools and ushered in the goodbyes and sweet sun of summer.
II
Kind, sir,Though I do not know your original reason for being here, I humbly ask that remove yourself from my noggin, vacate the premises of my mind, and never, ever, not once, return. Not only have you wasted my time and energy, but you have sullied my thinking, knocked down my dreams and seem at times to hold them far too tightly. I fear that you may throttle them in time if you do not relieve your presence and pressure.
No? No, you say! Well, that simply will not do! You must leave, you must! I can no longer stand your company. I was too kind to say it when you first arrived, but you are unwelcome, sir. You are most unwelcome. You and all your kin. So, you see, I no longer want you here. So, get out!
No? No, again! I warn you, sir, if you refuse to leave of your own volition, I will put an end to you violently. You may know the tactics of Aleve and Tylenal, but I assure you there are other ways to fight you, ways that may force you out through relaxation, good feelings, and raw, nauseating steroids. Will you not cry off your attack on my cranium? No, no I see that you will not. Well, then, I will rain heaven and hell down upon you, sir.
III
Day 214: The fight continues. I will burn this fucker to the ground.
Friday, June 12, 2009
We the Living, Chapter II
We philosophers have a way of mulling over the same ideas over and over again, wearing down to the bare truth we seek, the idea at the core that needs to be expressed multiply before it can be realized.
Kira will be an engineer, just as Talley was an engineer, just as Rearden was an engineer, just as Roark is an engineer. Rand's protagonists are people who want truth, who seek it in the absolute. When asked why she chooses a life of "dirt, and iron, and rust, and blowtorches, and filthy, sweaty men and no feminine company" Kira responds, "It's the only profession...for which I don't have to learn any lies. Steel is steel. Most of the other sciences are someone's guess, and someone's wish, and many people's lies."
Vasili Ivanovitch is a man ravanged by communism, a man whose powerful body is stooped by the weight of the collective. This is an early reflection of Rearden, of Wynand, at the end of their runs for truth and justice embodied in Rand's capitalism.
Rand is pressing here at the same truths she presses at in the Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. Not the same story, but a story seeking after the same end.
Kira will be an engineer, just as Talley was an engineer, just as Rearden was an engineer, just as Roark is an engineer. Rand's protagonists are people who want truth, who seek it in the absolute. When asked why she chooses a life of "dirt, and iron, and rust, and blowtorches, and filthy, sweaty men and no feminine company" Kira responds, "It's the only profession...for which I don't have to learn any lies. Steel is steel. Most of the other sciences are someone's guess, and someone's wish, and many people's lies."
Vasili Ivanovitch is a man ravanged by communism, a man whose powerful body is stooped by the weight of the collective. This is an early reflection of Rearden, of Wynand, at the end of their runs for truth and justice embodied in Rand's capitalism.
Rand is pressing here at the same truths she presses at in the Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. Not the same story, but a story seeking after the same end.
Good tidings we bring, to you and your kin
Rarely is a great man a good one, I said to her as we sat illuminated in the darkest, warmest night I'd yet experienced in Seattle. She was one of the many dear friends I had to say good bye to, and her advice, humor, and wisdom is always cherished.
We paused at that moment, her soaking in whatever perceived wisdom I had spoken, I wondering how anyone could be so blessed to have one's words so carefully listened to. I had, in that sentence, revealed all the worries and fears of my life, had thrown into that yellow, fluorescent light a weakness I keep wrapped beneath the gauze of my own resistance to arrogance (whatever little I have), and the robes of uncertainty I carry on my soul.
Her advice, as always, is to be honest with myself, to seek greatness with humility, but with fervor. She, like many others, begged me not to be too hard on myself, reassured me that I am a good person. And I, of course, told her I demand much more of myself.
I feel that I, and everyone I meet, has greatness buried in them, waiting to be unearthed. We are forever told to keep it entombed, to fit in, to be different enough to be individuals, but the same enough to get along. Our deviance, and thus our greatness, is calculated to be within the bounds of acceptable. I think the same is true of our goodness. We are meant to be great and we are meant to good. The goodness I share with world is not enough, not nearly enough. I and they deserve a better Christo, a man who will bring joy and hope to everyone he meets.
That, that! is ridiculous. It is far beyond my grasp, but it is an anvil which I may temper myself against. I want myself and others to be uplifted, to uplift others with everything that they are. Perhaps this is the meaning of greatness. It is certainly an image of goodness.
We paused at that moment, her soaking in whatever perceived wisdom I had spoken, I wondering how anyone could be so blessed to have one's words so carefully listened to. I had, in that sentence, revealed all the worries and fears of my life, had thrown into that yellow, fluorescent light a weakness I keep wrapped beneath the gauze of my own resistance to arrogance (whatever little I have), and the robes of uncertainty I carry on my soul.
Her advice, as always, is to be honest with myself, to seek greatness with humility, but with fervor. She, like many others, begged me not to be too hard on myself, reassured me that I am a good person. And I, of course, told her I demand much more of myself.
I feel that I, and everyone I meet, has greatness buried in them, waiting to be unearthed. We are forever told to keep it entombed, to fit in, to be different enough to be individuals, but the same enough to get along. Our deviance, and thus our greatness, is calculated to be within the bounds of acceptable. I think the same is true of our goodness. We are meant to be great and we are meant to good. The goodness I share with world is not enough, not nearly enough. I and they deserve a better Christo, a man who will bring joy and hope to everyone he meets.
That, that! is ridiculous. It is far beyond my grasp, but it is an anvil which I may temper myself against. I want myself and others to be uplifted, to uplift others with everything that they are. Perhaps this is the meaning of greatness. It is certainly an image of goodness.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
We the Living, Chapter I
I'm finally reading "We the Living" after months and months of it sitting on my shelf, with my patiently and kindly waiting to open it's covers and escape. Grace gave me the book--I have no idea if she wants it back or not, but I imagine I'll send it to her with a note attached if I can get her address.
Grace is a brilliant woman with a cutting mind and a clever tongue. I'm regretful of how things have played out between us: I'd much prefer shouting over silence. Perhaps it's because we both share an odd love with the characters, or because I recognize her and myself in the books, or simply because we both read Rand together last summer, I find myself thinking of her.
The book opens on a dreary dilapidated Russia, finally successful at their Revolution, finally buried beneath a communism which shares only grey, dry bread, and worn faces. "Petrograd smelt of carbonic acid." The character Kira clearly the novel's heroine; Kira is unphased by decay around her, the movement toward collective: she retains her individuality and therefore her humanity, "Her eyes were not frightened; they were steady, curious, hostile" (18). She is already characteristic of Rand's powerful individuals, already showing resistance and life when she ought to be a "woman with sagging breasts," who is drained so much that even her ability to give life is empty.
I wonder at Rand's ability to make clear, without yet saying it, that Kira is different than the other characters. Her contrast is superb for this end, but also Kira's relative indifference to her environment is noteworthy, drawing us to wonder about her and her lack of weariness.
I found the passage about the accordian song particularly haunting. It sets the mood for the whole of the chapter, perhaps even the book. It declares the state of relativety, confusion, and degradation of truth in Rand's Russia.
"No one could tell whether his song was gay or sad, a joke or immortal monument; it was the first song of the revolution, risen from nowhere, gay, reckless, bitter, impudent, sung by millions of voices, echoing against train roofs, and village roads, and dark city pavements, some voices laughing, some voices wailing, a people laughing at its own sorrow, the song of the revolution, written on no banner but in every weary throat, the 'Song of the Little Apple.'
Grace is a brilliant woman with a cutting mind and a clever tongue. I'm regretful of how things have played out between us: I'd much prefer shouting over silence. Perhaps it's because we both share an odd love with the characters, or because I recognize her and myself in the books, or simply because we both read Rand together last summer, I find myself thinking of her.
The book opens on a dreary dilapidated Russia, finally successful at their Revolution, finally buried beneath a communism which shares only grey, dry bread, and worn faces. "Petrograd smelt of carbonic acid." The character Kira clearly the novel's heroine; Kira is unphased by decay around her, the movement toward collective: she retains her individuality and therefore her humanity, "Her eyes were not frightened; they were steady, curious, hostile" (18). She is already characteristic of Rand's powerful individuals, already showing resistance and life when she ought to be a "woman with sagging breasts," who is drained so much that even her ability to give life is empty.
I wonder at Rand's ability to make clear, without yet saying it, that Kira is different than the other characters. Her contrast is superb for this end, but also Kira's relative indifference to her environment is noteworthy, drawing us to wonder about her and her lack of weariness.
I found the passage about the accordian song particularly haunting. It sets the mood for the whole of the chapter, perhaps even the book. It declares the state of relativety, confusion, and degradation of truth in Rand's Russia.
"No one could tell whether his song was gay or sad, a joke or immortal monument; it was the first song of the revolution, risen from nowhere, gay, reckless, bitter, impudent, sung by millions of voices, echoing against train roofs, and village roads, and dark city pavements, some voices laughing, some voices wailing, a people laughing at its own sorrow, the song of the revolution, written on no banner but in every weary throat, the 'Song of the Little Apple.'
'Hey, little apple,
Where are you rolling?'
Where are you rolling?'
...No one knew what the little apple was; but everyone understood" (18).
This paragraph is the most important for capturing Rand's feelings and thoughts about the revolution. It is empty, filled with no certainty, no clarity, and no depth.
There is some part of reading Rand that makes me want to rise up and defy societal norms, to refuse to give into a collective concious, to turn my back on others, and live only for myself. Ironically, to read Rand is to be part of a revolution, a defiance against the revolution of the proletariat. I'm not convinced that Rand is right, but she may be onto something. Perhaps we give in too easily to the notions of helping other people. If nothing else, I have learned from her to at least ask "Why?"
This paragraph is the most important for capturing Rand's feelings and thoughts about the revolution. It is empty, filled with no certainty, no clarity, and no depth.
There is some part of reading Rand that makes me want to rise up and defy societal norms, to refuse to give into a collective concious, to turn my back on others, and live only for myself. Ironically, to read Rand is to be part of a revolution, a defiance against the revolution of the proletariat. I'm not convinced that Rand is right, but she may be onto something. Perhaps we give in too easily to the notions of helping other people. If nothing else, I have learned from her to at least ask "Why?"
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sunshine despite the rain
I feel as though I am being set up for a fall. Things are falling into place in my life right now. I just got my a paper back for a my toughest class. At the beginning of class, we were lectured on how difficult these upper division honors classes are, how we shouldn't be too upset if our grades were poor, that work could be put into them and they could be drastically improved. I got an A-.
Last week, I received news that I had been accepted into a very competitive study abroad at Oxford University. I found out earlier this week that I have a perfect schedule for work at a daycare next quarter. I was able to deal with a very crazy situation on my floor this week quite harmlessly.
I feel as though I should be anticipating a great and traumatic problem in my life, but I am trying to ignore this particular potentiality. Right now, my life is good, exceptionally good. I love it and I'm soaking it up while I can. Seattle is sunny this week, despite the rain.
Last week, I received news that I had been accepted into a very competitive study abroad at Oxford University. I found out earlier this week that I have a perfect schedule for work at a daycare next quarter. I was able to deal with a very crazy situation on my floor this week quite harmlessly.
I feel as though I should be anticipating a great and traumatic problem in my life, but I am trying to ignore this particular potentiality. Right now, my life is good, exceptionally good. I love it and I'm soaking it up while I can. Seattle is sunny this week, despite the rain.
The Winter of '89
"There are things I'd like to do that you don't believe in. I would like build something, but you'd never see it happen. And there's this burning, like there's always been. I've been so alone and I've never been so alive."
~Third Eye Blind
I was born in the winter of 1989 on a brooding February morning. Twenty years ago, I began to breathe my own air, began life as an individual, carving out a place for myself in the world. Who could have imagined for me the growth and destruction I would see in only two decades? Who could have predicted me heading to Oxford next fall? Who could have anticipated my hopes, desires, and dreams? The raw potential of a newborn is an immense and powerful force.
And this force never flees from us. I believe, instead, that it continues to grow, to stretch, to thrive if we feed it. But we must remember to feed it! It frustrates me to find within myself a growing laziness, a growing turpitude in my work ethic, as if I could just slow down a moment when the going gets rough. The word "just" carries the burden of illustrating my point. That is a deceitful word designed to make the argument seem reasonable. It is anything but reasonable! What my sloth would require of me is to calm down and stop trying to get the most of my education, my love, my life.
This mindset is echoed in my culture, in my age, and my peers. I'm twenty now and I should probably start to settle down concerning my questions about God. I should probably be reasonable about my life goals. I should probably doing a lot of things but what I'm going to do is be defiant. What I'm going to do is continue to do what I did on the first day of my life. I will breath my own breath, declare my independence, and tear open the social norms of my culture and assert my right to a life lived to my definition of a good life.
I burn and yearn for a future and this present which is ripe and rich with opportunity. I will falter, but I will not fall. I will ache, but I will not die. I will live. Twenty years of life have taught me how.
~Third Eye Blind
I was born in the winter of 1989 on a brooding February morning. Twenty years ago, I began to breathe my own air, began life as an individual, carving out a place for myself in the world. Who could have imagined for me the growth and destruction I would see in only two decades? Who could have predicted me heading to Oxford next fall? Who could have anticipated my hopes, desires, and dreams? The raw potential of a newborn is an immense and powerful force.
And this force never flees from us. I believe, instead, that it continues to grow, to stretch, to thrive if we feed it. But we must remember to feed it! It frustrates me to find within myself a growing laziness, a growing turpitude in my work ethic, as if I could just slow down a moment when the going gets rough. The word "just" carries the burden of illustrating my point. That is a deceitful word designed to make the argument seem reasonable. It is anything but reasonable! What my sloth would require of me is to calm down and stop trying to get the most of my education, my love, my life.
This mindset is echoed in my culture, in my age, and my peers. I'm twenty now and I should probably start to settle down concerning my questions about God. I should probably be reasonable about my life goals. I should probably doing a lot of things but what I'm going to do is be defiant. What I'm going to do is continue to do what I did on the first day of my life. I will breath my own breath, declare my independence, and tear open the social norms of my culture and assert my right to a life lived to my definition of a good life.
I burn and yearn for a future and this present which is ripe and rich with opportunity. I will falter, but I will not fall. I will ache, but I will not die. I will live. Twenty years of life have taught me how.
Friday, January 9, 2009
No one is gonna take me alive
I'm listening to Muse, a band that is fast becoming a favorite, contemplating the fact that I just had the first conversation in a long series of reaquaintance conversations with Christina. I'm looking forward to our time together greatly.
She and I had a rather bitter break last year, due much to my own foolishness and the follies of my youth. I'm so glad for the opportunity to have another go at friendship. I think this is mostly in part due her desire to treat me with grace, to engage me in a way that heralds growth and not destruction.
"The time has come to make things right."
(Yes, Mike. This is weak. I don't care.)
She and I had a rather bitter break last year, due much to my own foolishness and the follies of my youth. I'm so glad for the opportunity to have another go at friendship. I think this is mostly in part due her desire to treat me with grace, to engage me in a way that heralds growth and not destruction.
"The time has come to make things right."
(Yes, Mike. This is weak. I don't care.)
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Mantra
Under the chanting of my new mantra, I realize that so much of our perception of the world is defined by our own choices and our down decision to have a certain mood.
I am a happy person, I am a happy person, I am a happy person, I whisper to myself at the crosswalk, in line at Gwinn, or taking a shower.
I have enjoyed the last few days of my life more immensely than I ever expected to. I'm getting acquainted with my smile and the joy of singing.
I am a happy person.
I am a happy person, I am a happy person, I am a happy person, I whisper to myself at the crosswalk, in line at Gwinn, or taking a shower.
I have enjoyed the last few days of my life more immensely than I ever expected to. I'm getting acquainted with my smile and the joy of singing.
I am a happy person.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Promises, Promises
I'm posting at 2:30 in the morning even though I wanted quite badly to drift easily off to sleep not two minutes ago. Why, you may ask? Why would you do such a horrible, no-good, dastardly thing to yourself? Because I promised Mike I would keep up with him in writing on my blog once a day for this quarter.
Promises are weird things. Your honor is invested in them, which is weird because we don't live in a society where honor really matters. I won't have to ritually kill myself for being dishonorable, nor will I have to defend someone else's honor at sword point, so why bother keeping this promise, right?Just go to bed, and make up for it later.
I don't think so. There is something gloomy about a broken promise, something that feel's like discovering Santa isn't real or that the girl you gave your first kiss to is engaged. It's not world ending, (okay maybe the Santa thing is), but a little portion of you has the blues about it.
There is something to be said about not having to ask forgiveness, about not letting Mike down here that makes it worthwhile for me to write, despite my immanent sleep deprivation.
Besides, who likes feeling melancholy? (This is a poor ending but I promised I would write, not write well.)
Promises are weird things. Your honor is invested in them, which is weird because we don't live in a society where honor really matters. I won't have to ritually kill myself for being dishonorable, nor will I have to defend someone else's honor at sword point, so why bother keeping this promise, right?Just go to bed, and make up for it later.
I don't think so. There is something gloomy about a broken promise, something that feel's like discovering Santa isn't real or that the girl you gave your first kiss to is engaged. It's not world ending, (okay maybe the Santa thing is), but a little portion of you has the blues about it.
There is something to be said about not having to ask forgiveness, about not letting Mike down here that makes it worthwhile for me to write, despite my immanent sleep deprivation.
Besides, who likes feeling melancholy? (This is a poor ending but I promised I would write, not write well.)
Monday, January 5, 2009
Theived I-pod's and Unrighteous Judgement
Today, I thought I lost my I-pod. I searched my room high and low. I tossed bed sheets back and forth, dug through dirty laundry, searched the pockets of every article of clothing I have worn in the past week, scavenged through my couch, and there was no sight of my musical beauty.
So I got angry. I got terribly frustrated and furious. I had determined without a shadow of a doubt that my I-pod had been stolen by one of the men on my floor. I became upset and judgmental, trying to figure out who the thief could be. I despised that man, hating him for taking away my new gift.
Not two minutes after I had determined that I was furious and I would lock the door to my room forever and never keep it open again, I found my I-pod snuggling under a few papers on my desk.
I felt horrible and wretched. When I felt righteous, I had judged each of the men on my floor and nothing could have brought me down from that height. When I was wrong, I was blatantly at fault and was sinful and ugly. I felt ashamed by my actions and thoughts. I was angry over a chunk of plastic and electricity. How foolish was I!
This event was a reminder to myself that while I consider people to be inherently good, I am also often distrustful of others and the first to blame them for their wrongness, all the while ignoring my own failings. There is a line between knowing you are right and actually being right and I think too often I squint my eyes at this line and blur it. My sin is pride and is a sneaky devil.
So I got angry. I got terribly frustrated and furious. I had determined without a shadow of a doubt that my I-pod had been stolen by one of the men on my floor. I became upset and judgmental, trying to figure out who the thief could be. I despised that man, hating him for taking away my new gift.
Not two minutes after I had determined that I was furious and I would lock the door to my room forever and never keep it open again, I found my I-pod snuggling under a few papers on my desk.
I felt horrible and wretched. When I felt righteous, I had judged each of the men on my floor and nothing could have brought me down from that height. When I was wrong, I was blatantly at fault and was sinful and ugly. I felt ashamed by my actions and thoughts. I was angry over a chunk of plastic and electricity. How foolish was I!
This event was a reminder to myself that while I consider people to be inherently good, I am also often distrustful of others and the first to blame them for their wrongness, all the while ignoring my own failings. There is a line between knowing you are right and actually being right and I think too often I squint my eyes at this line and blur it. My sin is pride and is a sneaky devil.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Quiet Thistles and Sonorous Snowflakes
On a bitter Colorado day, the January sun illuminates the snow-dusted mountains and there is nothing new about the New Year.
The sun parts the winter clouds, a ripe, juicy apricot plump with potential and change.
No part of faith makes any sense. If the church is built upon a foundation of stone, it is a stone impossible recognize.
Through a series of entirely impossible circumstances, quarter after quarter, Alec finds a divine mercy which provides just enough money for him to pursue Theology at SPU. Like manna from the heavens, it appears overnight and unexpected.
I am a 19 year old man from white Parker, CO who has seen very little of the world.
I dream nightly of distant cities and empty seas, have explored a thousand times over ancient ruins, and gambled with cut throats and saints.
Philosophy is saving me; philosophy has damned me.
The sun parts the winter clouds, a ripe, juicy apricot plump with potential and change.
No part of faith makes any sense. If the church is built upon a foundation of stone, it is a stone impossible recognize.
Through a series of entirely impossible circumstances, quarter after quarter, Alec finds a divine mercy which provides just enough money for him to pursue Theology at SPU. Like manna from the heavens, it appears overnight and unexpected.
I am a 19 year old man from white Parker, CO who has seen very little of the world.
I dream nightly of distant cities and empty seas, have explored a thousand times over ancient ruins, and gambled with cut throats and saints.
Philosophy is saving me; philosophy has damned me.
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