There are many facets of life both on Earth that I will never understand: it will never be completely clear to me why there is war, how humans can do such atrocities to each other, to themselves; I’ll never comprehend the forces tugging people to fit into certain parts of society, preformed niches and unnatural groups; I’ll never come to terms with the infinitesimally brief blip on the universal timeline that is humanity, let alone my own existence; and, I’ll never understand the people who blemish the beautiful place that they’ve rather miraculously found themselves alive on. Yes, this is going to be a somniferous inchoate diatribe concerning, so you’ve been warned.
Trash offends my eye. Well, both eyes, but often I’m so bloody angry I end up squinting at the rubbish in pirate-esque, villainous fashion. It’s vile, filthy, fetid, unnatural, bilious, bile-inducing, nauseatingly supercilious in its human arrogance, so utterly contemptible that it makes me feel sicker than the equally revolting contents of the ubiquitous fast-food containers and vending-machine discharge that are so sadly slathered over our campus-grounds. It makes me ashamed, to be frank, to be human, when I see that someone has seen fit to act so carelessly, or rather, not seen that their actions are bereft of true humanity. The wonderful human Carl Sagan said something along the lines of “The Earth is not a gift from the past, but instead a loan from the future”. Pretend, for a second, that you are blithely walking down your quotidian route, when you notice a dorm to one of those houses, the kind that you’ve always wanted to sneak into to explore the insides. In a fit of daring, you slip through the front door and begin to roam around, through its multiple doors and floors, over its furniture, under the tables and artifacts, around the various utensils and paraphernalia of the house—and the more you wander, the more comfortable you feel, and the more comfortable the feel the less carefully you wander—and the cycle wooshes around until you’ve somehow managed to deplete the refrigerator /and/ larders, trash the living room, and break every other electrical appliance, as well as a few works of art. Then, to your utter shame, the door creaks open, and the surprised face of the house owner enters his home turned rubbish-pit. Would you, the romping interloper, feel some moral twinge, some shame? Guilt, perhaps, given that those affected confront you?
An imperfect metaphor, I know, the main issue being the perception of time—how many, er, times have you heard the phrase, “It’ll happen to some other person far off in the future, not me or my immediate kin, so why bother worrying about it?”. The stranger whose house we have destroyed is often many years down the line in the chronology of humanity; they are not your son, your daughter, your relations, your friends, your beloved. And yet, while most humans (myself readily included) have narrow visions of the Earth they live on, oftentimes due to this limited timeframe, they neglect the net effect of their actions, the net effect of the various wastes and ways of their wayward kind. Nuclear radiation is an unfortunate exception to the rule, an exception that fortunately does turn heads—the horrors and effects of the damage can be seen within our minute life-spans (though the full totality of the environmental damage from these different disasters, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl, Bhopal, and now Japan again, has yet to be surmised). It’s a charred blessing, a kick in the rear, a reminder of the devastation we can wreak upon each other.
Littering produces no such immediate effect. The trash sits there, rustling forlornly in the wind, drawing the attention of foraging animals and misguidedly philanthropic teens. I’m sure that studies have been done and scare-tactics employed to empirically prove how disastrous littering is environmentally. Again, though, these long range projections fail to impress their full weight upon my blinkered mind, so limited and with limited time. No, the worst component of littering, in my eyes, is the facility with which it can be avoided and remedied, and yet— it still exists. It’s not terribly difficult, really, to find some trash receptacle or recycling bin; if need be, one can pocket or retain the trash until an appropriate trash burial site arises. Easy, you’d think, but the ground, whether it be the campus quad, or the school garden, or the cracking suburban sidewalks, is a testament to the reality of the omnipresent problem. The mere fact that litter exists is indicative of an unsettling human mindset.
The question remains as to what one should do about such a prevalent issue. Ideally, society would ingrain the importance of human-environment symbiosis (if not agreeable tolerance) from an early age, and the problem would vanish with the inculcation of the upcoming generations. More realistically, the palliative, retroactive cure of trash-removal is a doable option. To me, the site of a gum wrapper or discarded burger wrapper is so discordant with the lush grass and blooming flora that I’ll often stoop to remove the offending object. However, once one begins picking up trash, the sequential question of when to stop poses a bit of a problem, due to the surfeit of the material. Should one pick up a certain amount per day, or instead whatever amount one fancies? When it’s merely a matter of convenience, along a preplanned route, or wherever and however one can? How much help should one put forward? Rationally, we must put a limit on our activities and actions… but when one is struggling against problems that never will be resolved (in this manner, that is), the quantity of help is hard to deduce, and we note that this conundrum extends to more than just garbage-disposal. How much help is enough? How should one ascertain that they are even “helping”, anyway? For all I know, the trash I throw into the trashcan is dumped somewhere even less preferable than the original place from which I removed the junk; it’s very hypocritical of me, I suppose, to blindly feel like I’m doing some negligible form of good by simply taking trash from the ground and placing it into designated areas, if the full lifecycle of garbage is eclipsed by my ignorance.
Presently, I whimsically stoop to remove trash when my time is ample and my hands are free to do so, knowing full well that this small altruistic act costs me nearly nothing and probably garners nothing in return. Still, it pleases me, to remove some unnatural blemish from splotches of land I find beautiful. One day, perhaps, I'll have no more trash to collect; perhaps a more environmentally friendly ethos will arise in a society; perhaps all usable materials will become biodegradable and suitable to be tossed onto the ground; perhaps robots will zip around, cleaning up after us; and perhaps, one day, we’ll look back and wish that we had just one more day to fix the compounding errors of our misguided ways.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Brief Message (not 7th and final post)
The directive of our final assignment: to write in monosyllabic prose or omit all adjectives. I tried, temporarily, but monosyllabic prose seems to lend itself to melodramatic, useless poems. The challenge was too much for my feeble and senioritis encumbered mind. For example, here rots an excerpt of a rather badly formulated monosyllabic sonnet—
“Who’s there, quail I, eyes wide with fright,
Why d’ost thought turn my head so bent
With words of hope on my school night.
When work drains all and time is rent?
Ah, clucked it (as I could not tell
If this odd lilt was man or gal)
“Your plight calls not for self-thought hell,
Why not, with time, give this your all?”
Etc, etc, shudder no more, I’m not going to put myself or any unfortunate reader through any such rubbish; instead, a normal post will follow this. Directive: failed. Author: demised, despised, resides somewhere between Tripoli and Indiana, perhaps in a corn field.
“Who’s there, quail I, eyes wide with fright,
Why d’ost thought turn my head so bent
With words of hope on my school night.
When work drains all and time is rent?
Ah, clucked it (as I could not tell
If this odd lilt was man or gal)
“Your plight calls not for self-thought hell,
Why not, with time, give this your all?”
Etc, etc, shudder no more, I’m not going to put myself or any unfortunate reader through any such rubbish; instead, a normal post will follow this. Directive: failed. Author: demised, despised, resides somewhere between Tripoli and Indiana, perhaps in a corn field.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Ethic of Work
I feel that most peers justifiably place me in the “irredeemable, good student” mental compartment. In one sense this is true: I diligently complete assignments on time (excluding this blog, which may or may not be late, I don’t actually know anymore), mentally ensure that I’m prepared for exams, and generally avoid disrupting class or the other homeostatic areas of our school.
Administrators laud this as a positive attribute, teachers seem favorably disposed to the trait, some peers join in the game, and others superciliously disdain those with work ethics. Personally, I never really reflected upon my relationship with work until the commencement of high school. The first part of lower school was a time of lackadaisical assignment completion and societal bliss, where my wayward mind eclipsed most forms of worry, academic or otherwise. The sight of a ‘B’ (tangentially, I was curiously afraid of the bumbling Apis Mellifera then, but now the relationship has flipped) was not perturbing to my youthful mind. However, this attitude changed in 4th grade, for reasons either unknown or now forgotten. I began to strive for better grades, and when I shifted my academic settings to a foreign middle school, my isolation allowed for and encouraged my newfound quest: the utter dedication of my free time to a life of mundane school-work. By 8th grade, the sight of the lowly “A” was an abhorrence, a disgrace; my desire to perform well had morphed into a full-blown obsession with grades, an unfortunate liaison to my neurotic mental taskmasters, the villains exhorting me towards senseless goals. I shudder now, just thinking back upon the time I wasted then.
And yet, some students looking at the work ethic of my senior year would still shudder. In my defense, when I took a moment in 9th grade to reassess my attitude towards work, I, in a burst of unusual lucidity, arrived at the unimpressive conclusion that my Suttonic “ A+ or homelessness” attitude was unhealthy and foolish. I consequently toned down this perfectionist penchant, which freed up a bit of time to… read various sci-fi novels. Baby steps, minute locomotive motions, but still— I was happy with my newfound philosophy, which was to work less while maintaining low A’s, so that I could engage in whatever hobby was my present infatuation.
This vague idea towards work has changed a few of my habits, to say the least. Assignments I once arduously pondered and poured over are now completed rapidly, test preparations that were once begun weeks in advance are now crammed into one night of hasty material skimming, readings once reread for comprehension are now left incomplete, to be finished in a more alert state; time became the new issue, and the passing of my precious time became my new, imperious taskmaster.
Initially this worked well enough, but the advent of my internet addiction quickly submerged my interest in school. Oh, I was still bound to the agreement, still bound to complete the work, not matter how trivial; it was simply my interests and sleep that suffered. Superficially I was still a “fine” or “good” student, but cognitively, I was sorely lacking. Tests, papers, colorful French drawings, all were churned out dutifully but blandly, regurgitated in uninteresting fashion for the poor teacher to tiredly scoop up, another banal, artificial byproduct from the generic disinterested student.
Sad, is it not, the stupid course in the evolution of my work ethic. Each path that I’ve taken has provided room for unhealthy obsession, first the grades, then the internet and other hobbies, more nerdiness-what-have-yous, reading, chess, video games. The swinging see-saw of the hobby-school allowed for no breadth in a subject. This was no fault of the school’s, but my own, my mindset. Where was the passion, the drive to learn more about certain things, certain experiments and mechanisms and ideas? Where was the breadth, the exploration, the joy of learning? What happened to it, in this new mindset? And yet—look! I’m a “good” student. Not pragmatic, but still good. A cookie cutter. Hand me an assignment, and I’ll snip-snap it up for you. Here, take this post, for example. I know that I should be sleeping. My body’s not-subtle signs, a hazy mind, the twitching muscles, the clumsy fingers, and the desultory train of thought all clearly indicate that I should amble over to my bed and take a nap, if not more. But no! I hardwired myself to finish the work, even if it is nonsensical or not of the utmost importance. The fact that I have potentially late work to finish keeps me glued to the laptop screen, churning out meretricious mumblings. And this disturbs me, because there is a fine line between being a sensible student and a zealot, a reasonable, rational worker and the unthinking, coffee consuming zombie. Perhaps college will help my brain rewire, reset its prioritizing circuits. Perhaps grades will be put on the back-burner, in exchange for a truer pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps the whole system is broken. Really, most people should change their attitude towards the system. I should. But should we play the game, the grade game, the college game, so that we can achieve the higher, deeper, more important level of learning later? Must one be the “good” student? No, probably not. Any college will do, after all, it’s all up to you! Enough! Peace, my sleepy mind, the assignment is close enough to being complete. If it was 8th grade, I would go back and revise this chunky non-concluding lump. But those dark days are past, brushed aside by a malaise of grey, soporific clouds, a guileful, dangerous mass that could dissolve one in apathy if one looses sight of the light, the sun, the knowledge that’s out there, somewhere.
Administrators laud this as a positive attribute, teachers seem favorably disposed to the trait, some peers join in the game, and others superciliously disdain those with work ethics. Personally, I never really reflected upon my relationship with work until the commencement of high school. The first part of lower school was a time of lackadaisical assignment completion and societal bliss, where my wayward mind eclipsed most forms of worry, academic or otherwise. The sight of a ‘B’ (tangentially, I was curiously afraid of the bumbling Apis Mellifera then, but now the relationship has flipped) was not perturbing to my youthful mind. However, this attitude changed in 4th grade, for reasons either unknown or now forgotten. I began to strive for better grades, and when I shifted my academic settings to a foreign middle school, my isolation allowed for and encouraged my newfound quest: the utter dedication of my free time to a life of mundane school-work. By 8th grade, the sight of the lowly “A” was an abhorrence, a disgrace; my desire to perform well had morphed into a full-blown obsession with grades, an unfortunate liaison to my neurotic mental taskmasters, the villains exhorting me towards senseless goals. I shudder now, just thinking back upon the time I wasted then.
And yet, some students looking at the work ethic of my senior year would still shudder. In my defense, when I took a moment in 9th grade to reassess my attitude towards work, I, in a burst of unusual lucidity, arrived at the unimpressive conclusion that my Suttonic “ A+ or homelessness” attitude was unhealthy and foolish. I consequently toned down this perfectionist penchant, which freed up a bit of time to… read various sci-fi novels. Baby steps, minute locomotive motions, but still— I was happy with my newfound philosophy, which was to work less while maintaining low A’s, so that I could engage in whatever hobby was my present infatuation.
This vague idea towards work has changed a few of my habits, to say the least. Assignments I once arduously pondered and poured over are now completed rapidly, test preparations that were once begun weeks in advance are now crammed into one night of hasty material skimming, readings once reread for comprehension are now left incomplete, to be finished in a more alert state; time became the new issue, and the passing of my precious time became my new, imperious taskmaster.
Initially this worked well enough, but the advent of my internet addiction quickly submerged my interest in school. Oh, I was still bound to the agreement, still bound to complete the work, not matter how trivial; it was simply my interests and sleep that suffered. Superficially I was still a “fine” or “good” student, but cognitively, I was sorely lacking. Tests, papers, colorful French drawings, all were churned out dutifully but blandly, regurgitated in uninteresting fashion for the poor teacher to tiredly scoop up, another banal, artificial byproduct from the generic disinterested student.
Sad, is it not, the stupid course in the evolution of my work ethic. Each path that I’ve taken has provided room for unhealthy obsession, first the grades, then the internet and other hobbies, more nerdiness-what-have-yous, reading, chess, video games. The swinging see-saw of the hobby-school allowed for no breadth in a subject. This was no fault of the school’s, but my own, my mindset. Where was the passion, the drive to learn more about certain things, certain experiments and mechanisms and ideas? Where was the breadth, the exploration, the joy of learning? What happened to it, in this new mindset? And yet—look! I’m a “good” student. Not pragmatic, but still good. A cookie cutter. Hand me an assignment, and I’ll snip-snap it up for you. Here, take this post, for example. I know that I should be sleeping. My body’s not-subtle signs, a hazy mind, the twitching muscles, the clumsy fingers, and the desultory train of thought all clearly indicate that I should amble over to my bed and take a nap, if not more. But no! I hardwired myself to finish the work, even if it is nonsensical or not of the utmost importance. The fact that I have potentially late work to finish keeps me glued to the laptop screen, churning out meretricious mumblings. And this disturbs me, because there is a fine line between being a sensible student and a zealot, a reasonable, rational worker and the unthinking, coffee consuming zombie. Perhaps college will help my brain rewire, reset its prioritizing circuits. Perhaps grades will be put on the back-burner, in exchange for a truer pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps the whole system is broken. Really, most people should change their attitude towards the system. I should. But should we play the game, the grade game, the college game, so that we can achieve the higher, deeper, more important level of learning later? Must one be the “good” student? No, probably not. Any college will do, after all, it’s all up to you! Enough! Peace, my sleepy mind, the assignment is close enough to being complete. If it was 8th grade, I would go back and revise this chunky non-concluding lump. But those dark days are past, brushed aside by a malaise of grey, soporific clouds, a guileful, dangerous mass that could dissolve one in apathy if one looses sight of the light, the sun, the knowledge that’s out there, somewhere.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Empty Connections
I was going to happily seize upon the opportunity to discuss my unusually exciting Spring Break, but this feeble idea has been usurped by a monthly event that happened to land on this day. Today I am fasting.
This all started two months ago, when I, furious at a bout of nasty blood glucose levels (see here), obstinately decided to halt all carbohydrate consumption for a day, in a misguided attempt to stabilize my fluctuating blood sugar [Misguided, I say, for this fails for reasons I shan't elaborate on here]. For the heck of it, and in part inspired by Wole Soyinka's brief essay, I decided to extend this regimen to a fast, and attempted to abstain from food for a 24 hour chunk of my life. This avoidance did not extend to water or tea, though, as the prospect of undergoing biking, fitness, and general daily happenings without a drop seemed too intense. Perhaps on a particularly insipid weekend, though. After all, a friend of mine's religion compelled him to abstain from food and water for a month, and he did so, despite this occurrence intersecting his cross-country season (ouch).
Despite the consolation of unlimited tea and water, the first fast was exceedingly hard for myself, though nothing, I'm sure, compared to what my friend underwent, nor what all the starved of the world suffer. Still, the experience was certainly interesting. The feeling of tea and water hitting an empty stomach is odd. Those weird stomach noises , its rumbles and gurgles. The pressure behind my eyes and temples that I envision as the entombed brain's plea for nutrients. A feeling of weakness, lethargy. Occasional faintness. Hunger. Nothing too exciting, to be sure, but crucially, still an overall state that is different .
For my whole life, I've always had good, wholesome, three-times-a-day-forever-and-ever meals. The extent to which I'd felt any semblance of hunger would have been the time I forgot my lunch in lower school. Even now, what I'm attempting to ignore via typing about could hardly be branded as "hunger". But I have a partially clearer notion of what it means to be hungry. I acknowledge, can't deny, the increasing fatigue of my mind and body (though mostly the mind, I'm pleased to note. And why not, with all the ample reserves, stored up over almost two decades of consistent eating?). Perhaps I could argue that this gives me a better perspective on the famished, the starving. But it's true, fasting like this doesn't actively accomplish anything externally. I'm helping nobody except myself. Perhaps, then, this fasting is an indulgence? It's aim, it appears, would be to only change my internal state. For example, I appreciate food a whole lot more now. Augustine says "Even the natural pleasures of human life are obtained through distress, not only through the unexpected calamities that befall against our will but also through deliberate and personal discomfort. There is no pleasure in eating and drinking unless the discomfort of hunger and thirst have preceded them". I agree, Augustine, I agree. After the first fast, the neglected, crusty piece of pizza nestled in the back of the fridge tasted incomparable to the piping hot delivery two days before.
Added to this increased appreciation for what some may take for granted (my body certainly does, it expects to be fed now, but not yet, not yet!) is the somewhat illusory feeling of control. Part of the pleasure of a successful fasting is undeniably the victory over the body. However, this sentiment of control is all too superficial and potentially disastrous; fasting, when done badly or with the wrong mentality, is one step away from an eating disorder. My hypochondriac mother was quick to point this out, which was not a surprise, given her incessant worryings. What was a bit surprising was a piece of her history that I had not known prior to my decision to fast: she had, around the same time (between the high-school to college transition) decided to fast, and for the same, vague reasons: to see what it feels like, to remind oneself what others constantly face, etc.
Weird. My decision, time, and rationalization to fast was almost identical to what my mother did so many years ago. Genetics strikes again, extending its grasp past the phenotype and into complex behavior. Or something like that. You'll have to excuse me, the tired typist doing a poor job ignoring the borborygmus while sipping my tea with dignity. I flail and fatigue, and I honestly can't wait until I can eat again tomorrow. For now, though, what an odd sensation, this stomach, this mind. Would I recommend that you, sparse readers, try it? Perhaps. Keep in mind, though, that this is by no means an extreme act; instead, it is merely a once-a-month event for an opportune time, such as when a weights-day and bad weather (read: no biking) coincide. Reportedly bad weather, I should amend, while I frown at the weatherman. But no matter about him. Well. I suppose if you take your food, your life, your daily schedule for granted, then yes, try a fast. If you are bored, complacent, angsty, whiny, yes. Try it one day, then perhaps afterwords your mundane schedule will feel decidedly more pleasant. Just some food for thought.
This all started two months ago, when I, furious at a bout of nasty blood glucose levels (see here), obstinately decided to halt all carbohydrate consumption for a day, in a misguided attempt to stabilize my fluctuating blood sugar [Misguided, I say, for this fails for reasons I shan't elaborate on here]. For the heck of it, and in part inspired by Wole Soyinka's brief essay, I decided to extend this regimen to a fast, and attempted to abstain from food for a 24 hour chunk of my life. This avoidance did not extend to water or tea, though, as the prospect of undergoing biking, fitness, and general daily happenings without a drop seemed too intense. Perhaps on a particularly insipid weekend, though. After all, a friend of mine's religion compelled him to abstain from food and water for a month, and he did so, despite this occurrence intersecting his cross-country season (ouch).
Despite the consolation of unlimited tea and water, the first fast was exceedingly hard for myself, though nothing, I'm sure, compared to what my friend underwent, nor what all the starved of the world suffer. Still, the experience was certainly interesting. The feeling of tea and water hitting an empty stomach is odd. Those weird stomach noises , its rumbles and gurgles. The pressure behind my eyes and temples that I envision as the entombed brain's plea for nutrients. A feeling of weakness, lethargy. Occasional faintness. Hunger. Nothing too exciting, to be sure, but crucially, still an overall state that is different .
For my whole life, I've always had good, wholesome, three-times-a-day-forever-and-ever meals. The extent to which I'd felt any semblance of hunger would have been the time I forgot my lunch in lower school. Even now, what I'm attempting to ignore via typing about could hardly be branded as "hunger". But I have a partially clearer notion of what it means to be hungry. I acknowledge, can't deny, the increasing fatigue of my mind and body (though mostly the mind, I'm pleased to note. And why not, with all the ample reserves, stored up over almost two decades of consistent eating?). Perhaps I could argue that this gives me a better perspective on the famished, the starving. But it's true, fasting like this doesn't actively accomplish anything externally. I'm helping nobody except myself. Perhaps, then, this fasting is an indulgence? It's aim, it appears, would be to only change my internal state. For example, I appreciate food a whole lot more now. Augustine says "Even the natural pleasures of human life are obtained through distress, not only through the unexpected calamities that befall against our will but also through deliberate and personal discomfort. There is no pleasure in eating and drinking unless the discomfort of hunger and thirst have preceded them". I agree, Augustine, I agree. After the first fast, the neglected, crusty piece of pizza nestled in the back of the fridge tasted incomparable to the piping hot delivery two days before.
Added to this increased appreciation for what some may take for granted (my body certainly does, it expects to be fed now, but not yet, not yet!) is the somewhat illusory feeling of control. Part of the pleasure of a successful fasting is undeniably the victory over the body. However, this sentiment of control is all too superficial and potentially disastrous; fasting, when done badly or with the wrong mentality, is one step away from an eating disorder. My hypochondriac mother was quick to point this out, which was not a surprise, given her incessant worryings. What was a bit surprising was a piece of her history that I had not known prior to my decision to fast: she had, around the same time (between the high-school to college transition) decided to fast, and for the same, vague reasons: to see what it feels like, to remind oneself what others constantly face, etc.
Weird. My decision, time, and rationalization to fast was almost identical to what my mother did so many years ago. Genetics strikes again, extending its grasp past the phenotype and into complex behavior. Or something like that. You'll have to excuse me, the tired typist doing a poor job ignoring the borborygmus while sipping my tea with dignity. I flail and fatigue, and I honestly can't wait until I can eat again tomorrow. For now, though, what an odd sensation, this stomach, this mind. Would I recommend that you, sparse readers, try it? Perhaps. Keep in mind, though, that this is by no means an extreme act; instead, it is merely a once-a-month event for an opportune time, such as when a weights-day and bad weather (read: no biking) coincide. Reportedly bad weather, I should amend, while I frown at the weatherman. But no matter about him. Well. I suppose if you take your food, your life, your daily schedule for granted, then yes, try a fast. If you are bored, complacent, angsty, whiny, yes. Try it one day, then perhaps afterwords your mundane schedule will feel decidedly more pleasant. Just some food for thought.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The King's Speech
I’m not a frequent moviegoer, which stems from my family’s lack of interest in most forms of electronic entertainment. Thus, when my mother and father disappeared from the house for a few hours and returned, praising the movie “The King’s Speech,” I was both surprised and intrigued.
My initial qualms over the rating of the movie (as I do have a, ah, mildly delicate constitution) were quenched by my mother, who scorned the R rating as “laughable” and “unwarranted”. This from one whose nature is more prone than mine to feel the unwanted emotions (fear, disgust, shock etc) caused by the manipulating images on the screen.
A few days later, I found myself at the theater with a good-natured group of comrades. Oddly enough, I left the movie feeling unquestionably pleased. Wait. I walk out of the theater… from a movie in which no violence, intrigue, or hair-brained plots have been glorified and unforgivably expounded upon. None of that commonplace material one grows tired of merely by hearsay (as I’ve said, I don’t watch enough to profess being a connoisseur in this area.) No, this movie’s primary constituents were: believable actors, good dialogue, a simple story entwined with raw emotion, and even a bit of history. All in all, I greatly enjoyed it.
Now. Fear not for any major spoilers, though if you have a penchant for divining the outcome of events via minute tidbits of information, you might wish to halt your reading here.
One interesting scene found the protagonist, King Charles VI, attempting to read a passage from Shakespeare to his speech therapist, Lionel. The King utterly failed when he could hear his own voice, but while listening to blaring classical music, he was able to read fluidly from the passage. I have no idea if this has any scientific backing, as well as no clue as to why the King simply did not listen to music at every instance in which he was required to give a speech. But, the idea of something inside one balking at one's own voice, or at least, being affected by one’s own voice, is a relatable theme. I am greatly perturbed when I hear recordings of my voice on the family's answering machine. This is often the case for most people I’ve met (omitting the chorally gifted, who have the arduous task of hearing recordings of themselves singing).
More unusually, though, is my reaction whenever I, by chance, encounter a mirror. I move from initial, brief confusion to amusement and worry (amusement at my countenance, worry if my visage is unusually pale or emaciated). Is this lack of self-consciousness a bad thing? I can't say. This temperament has its pros and cons: on the one hand, I don’t have the psychological make-up to worry over my external portrayal; on the other hand, I may talk too loudly, or offend the eyes of others with my appearance.
Annoyingly, it is usually most prudent to work towards the happy-medium between the two poles. Optimistically, I feel that it is better to move from my current extreme to the other, as overtly self-conscious people tend to annoy more than their opposite.
My initial qualms over the rating of the movie (as I do have a, ah, mildly delicate constitution) were quenched by my mother, who scorned the R rating as “laughable” and “unwarranted”. This from one whose nature is more prone than mine to feel the unwanted emotions (fear, disgust, shock etc) caused by the manipulating images on the screen.
A few days later, I found myself at the theater with a good-natured group of comrades. Oddly enough, I left the movie feeling unquestionably pleased. Wait. I walk out of the theater… from a movie in which no violence, intrigue, or hair-brained plots have been glorified and unforgivably expounded upon. None of that commonplace material one grows tired of merely by hearsay (as I’ve said, I don’t watch enough to profess being a connoisseur in this area.) No, this movie’s primary constituents were: believable actors, good dialogue, a simple story entwined with raw emotion, and even a bit of history. All in all, I greatly enjoyed it.
Now. Fear not for any major spoilers, though if you have a penchant for divining the outcome of events via minute tidbits of information, you might wish to halt your reading here.
One interesting scene found the protagonist, King Charles VI, attempting to read a passage from Shakespeare to his speech therapist, Lionel. The King utterly failed when he could hear his own voice, but while listening to blaring classical music, he was able to read fluidly from the passage. I have no idea if this has any scientific backing, as well as no clue as to why the King simply did not listen to music at every instance in which he was required to give a speech. But, the idea of something inside one balking at one's own voice, or at least, being affected by one’s own voice, is a relatable theme. I am greatly perturbed when I hear recordings of my voice on the family's answering machine. This is often the case for most people I’ve met (omitting the chorally gifted, who have the arduous task of hearing recordings of themselves singing).
More unusually, though, is my reaction whenever I, by chance, encounter a mirror. I move from initial, brief confusion to amusement and worry (amusement at my countenance, worry if my visage is unusually pale or emaciated). Is this lack of self-consciousness a bad thing? I can't say. This temperament has its pros and cons: on the one hand, I don’t have the psychological make-up to worry over my external portrayal; on the other hand, I may talk too loudly, or offend the eyes of others with my appearance.
Annoyingly, it is usually most prudent to work towards the happy-medium between the two poles. Optimistically, I feel that it is better to move from my current extreme to the other, as overtly self-conscious people tend to annoy more than their opposite.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Augustine
With the lackadaisical air of a second-semester senior, my philosophy class is grudgingly working its way through Saint Augustine’s The Confessions. As our progression clomps along, halted frequently by the obligatory dialectical quibbles and questions that crop up via my (perhaps overtly) argumentative peers, a vein of time has been opened in which I’ve found a few interesting quotes from this book.
Augustine’s stories and perspective on the world are, at times, scarily similar to things and ideas I hear about or personally experience. Now, this is a guy from 354 AD (BCE, have what you will), or 1657 years ago. And yet I can’t help but laugh or agree with some of his resonant and applicable ideas. Plus, he’s a bloody genius and, of course, rather loquacious. So the odds of something being true are good. But still, look at the below quote. How many of you tired teenagers have not shared this sentiment?
Thus writes the most influential interpreter of the bible (up to his time, that is), commiserating with all who face the daily grind of this waking life. This may be a touch irreverent, but it’s amusing to picture Augustine lying in bed, discoursing with himself on the merits of rousing or sleeping. If I had more skill I’d draw a comic, but alas imagination will have to substitute for whatever pathetic images I can generate.
Not only does Augustine relate the allure of a blissfully warm bed, but his take on peer pressure and gossip are also interesting. This sentence, for example, in which he recalls his mother’s ability to avoid gossip:
Fantastic wordage and verbage, potent imagery; and look at its relevance! How many times have we heard, or, Augustine-forbid-us, personally flailed at the images and reputations of others when they are not present and able to defend themselves? What terrible ego-buffing occurs among the high school comrades, those that cruelly reveal other’s shortcomings, use the inevitable human failings of others as their own stepping stones to rise higher in the social circle of vicious treachery, maliciously laughing as they pass the trailing strands of broken trust that they have so readily severed. For shame, you belching dyspeptic discords, for shame.
And where would gossip be in the social setting without the co-villain, peer pressure? …Look out! You’re rushing into the same trap that Augustine and other children fell headlong into a millennia and a half ago.
How many boasts and brags, bets and fools, have been made among the students and adults who care for these petty appearances? How many trivial competitions flourish within our hearts, oh Augustine? Apologies; I facetiously am mocking no singular being, but the stereotypical image I find some peers conforming too. But to lighten this lengthy preachy compilation of denunciation and condemnation, here’s an interesting statement.
I have to agree with the above, and this time less scathingly. How miserable I am, the odd times I find myself in a car, being shuttled from my warm home to this cozy school; how infinitely better it is, the trauma of waiting for the bus in sub-zero temperatures only to be joyously relieved by the warmth, once taken for granted, now greedily cherished. How peaceful it is, to bask in the warm environs of the rickety MTD, how basic the pleasure of a warm enclosure. Current depravations and wants only make their later deliverance all the more powerful. Food, water, Starcraft. Sleep!
It’s odd, the resonance and fraternity I feel for the occasional anecdote in Augustine’s writings. Perhaps my mind happily latches onto the more vituperative statements because, like Augustine, the vile debauchery of society has overwhelmed my soul. I jest, though, rather I’m simply anti-social. Woe to me!
Augustine’s stories and perspective on the world are, at times, scarily similar to things and ideas I hear about or personally experience. Now, this is a guy from 354 AD (BCE, have what you will), or 1657 years ago. And yet I can’t help but laugh or agree with some of his resonant and applicable ideas. Plus, he’s a bloody genius and, of course, rather loquacious. So the odds of something being true are good. But still, look at the below quote. How many of you tired teenagers have not shared this sentiment?
“I was thus weighed down by the pleasant burden of the world in the way one commonly is by sleep… No one wants to be asleep all the time, and it is generally agreed among sensible people that being awake is a better state, yet it often happens that a person puts off the moment when he must shake himself out of sleep because his limbs are heavy with a lassitude that pulls him toward the most attractive alternative, even though he is already trying to resist it and the hour for rising has come…”
Thus writes the most influential interpreter of the bible (up to his time, that is), commiserating with all who face the daily grind of this waking life. This may be a touch irreverent, but it’s amusing to picture Augustine lying in bed, discoursing with himself on the merits of rousing or sleeping. If I had more skill I’d draw a comic, but alas imagination will have to substitute for whatever pathetic images I can generate.
Not only does Augustine relate the allure of a blissfully warm bed, but his take on peer pressure and gossip are also interesting. This sentence, for example, in which he recalls his mother’s ability to avoid gossip:
“She would hear many a bitter accusation from each against the other, of the kind that lumpy, ill-digested discord is wont to belch forth when someone dyspeptic with hatred spews out acid talk to a present friend concerning an absent enemy”
Fantastic wordage and verbage, potent imagery; and look at its relevance! How many times have we heard, or, Augustine-forbid-us, personally flailed at the images and reputations of others when they are not present and able to defend themselves? What terrible ego-buffing occurs among the high school comrades, those that cruelly reveal other’s shortcomings, use the inevitable human failings of others as their own stepping stones to rise higher in the social circle of vicious treachery, maliciously laughing as they pass the trailing strands of broken trust that they have so readily severed. For shame, you belching dyspeptic discords, for shame.
And where would gossip be in the social setting without the co-villain, peer pressure? …Look out! You’re rushing into the same trap that Augustine and other children fell headlong into a millennia and a half ago.
“I rushed on headlong in such blindness that when I heard other youths of my own age bragging about their immoralities I was ashamed to be less depraved than they….when I had no indecent acts to admit that could put me on a level with these abandoned youths, I pretended to obscenities I had not committed, lest I might be though less courageous for being more innocent, and be accounted cheaper for being more chaste.”
How many boasts and brags, bets and fools, have been made among the students and adults who care for these petty appearances? How many trivial competitions flourish within our hearts, oh Augustine? Apologies; I facetiously am mocking no singular being, but the stereotypical image I find some peers conforming too. But to lighten this lengthy preachy compilation of denunciation and condemnation, here’s an interesting statement.
"Even the natural pleasures of human life are obtained through distress, not only through the unexpected calamities that befall against our will but also through deliberate and personal discomfort. There is no pleasure in eating and drinking unless the discomfort of hunger and thirst have preceded them".
I have to agree with the above, and this time less scathingly. How miserable I am, the odd times I find myself in a car, being shuttled from my warm home to this cozy school; how infinitely better it is, the trauma of waiting for the bus in sub-zero temperatures only to be joyously relieved by the warmth, once taken for granted, now greedily cherished. How peaceful it is, to bask in the warm environs of the rickety MTD, how basic the pleasure of a warm enclosure. Current depravations and wants only make their later deliverance all the more powerful. Food, water, Starcraft. Sleep!
It’s odd, the resonance and fraternity I feel for the occasional anecdote in Augustine’s writings. Perhaps my mind happily latches onto the more vituperative statements because, like Augustine, the vile debauchery of society has overwhelmed my soul. I jest, though, rather I’m simply anti-social. Woe to me!
“… the woe I felt over my woe was yet another woe, and I was distressed by this double sadness.”
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Reality
The world that I perceive and inhabit is rarely affected by the things I read or hear about in the news, the happenings in foreign countries I can’t ever visualize or sometimes even locate on the map. Because of this disconnect, and perhaps my inherent inability to empathize strongly with foreign places, I find it particularly difficult to even care about these events. I live in an isolated bubble of school and family life, books and writings and perhaps a pinch of video games. The external world is unfathomable to me when I attempt to understand it through my life lens. Take, for example, the protests in Egypt.
You know that something “historically significant” is happening when your history teacher assigns you a paper on a current event, especially given that only three brief papers are the total summation of a semester’s work. The revolution is Egypt is causing many heads to turn; the whole world is watching the ensuing upheaval as thousands clash and march in the streets. I too can watch this with a vague feeling of interest, but I can not imagine or feel what it would be like to live there at this time. People’s lives and entire beings are invested in this moment, for a cause, a belief, a hope— and all I can feel is the slightest stirring of interest as I skim the news on BBC, news that I’ll hardly think about or consider any further, albeit for given assignments and discussions. Left to my own devices, I know I won’t dwell on the turmoil in Egypt or any world events. I can not imagine the tensions and roiling pot of emotions that permeate the major cities in Egypt, I can not even imagine the sensation of a crowd, much less a massive protest…
It is not that I don’t believe these events occur— I’ll blindly trust the news, I’ll “believe” that Egypt is a real place and that no insane, mass-conspiracy shenanigans are playing out— but my life continues as if no news has happened, so it may as well be pretend for me, it might as well be a fictional story. The plane of reality that these events inhabit in my mind is equivalent to the plane where tales from novels reside. I doubt this can be good, for one is reality and the other is not. Perhaps if I watched the news instead of reading of it I would more readily empathize with the events. Even then, though, while my emotions would be briefly riled, the passing of time would glaze things over, and soon all would be forgotten.
Even news in America fails to truly engage me; really, if I’m honest, news from my humble town seems as remote as the protests in Egypt. My unawareness, apathy, isolation, whatever it is, may be traced back to my parents or upbringing; perhaps the absence of TV, or the familial distaste for the paper (excluding the comics). But inside, I feel that this distance is simply part of who I am. It is not a good quality, but at the same time, forcing myself to care about the world, to go out and help and understand different places and cultures— to place that upon myself would be dishonest to those I would be trying to help, and would ultimately only hurt myself. Self-imposed interests and benevolence are of no use, for they can not fully accomplish anything; projects would be feebly started then dropped, ideas morphed, partially implemented, then forgotten. No, I currently can not feel that link to the real world, it is beyond my personal sphere— I am only affected by those who are close to me. These, my family and friends, are the people I can and will help, the people I can connect with and care for.
You know that something “historically significant” is happening when your history teacher assigns you a paper on a current event, especially given that only three brief papers are the total summation of a semester’s work. The revolution is Egypt is causing many heads to turn; the whole world is watching the ensuing upheaval as thousands clash and march in the streets. I too can watch this with a vague feeling of interest, but I can not imagine or feel what it would be like to live there at this time. People’s lives and entire beings are invested in this moment, for a cause, a belief, a hope— and all I can feel is the slightest stirring of interest as I skim the news on BBC, news that I’ll hardly think about or consider any further, albeit for given assignments and discussions. Left to my own devices, I know I won’t dwell on the turmoil in Egypt or any world events. I can not imagine the tensions and roiling pot of emotions that permeate the major cities in Egypt, I can not even imagine the sensation of a crowd, much less a massive protest…
It is not that I don’t believe these events occur— I’ll blindly trust the news, I’ll “believe” that Egypt is a real place and that no insane, mass-conspiracy shenanigans are playing out— but my life continues as if no news has happened, so it may as well be pretend for me, it might as well be a fictional story. The plane of reality that these events inhabit in my mind is equivalent to the plane where tales from novels reside. I doubt this can be good, for one is reality and the other is not. Perhaps if I watched the news instead of reading of it I would more readily empathize with the events. Even then, though, while my emotions would be briefly riled, the passing of time would glaze things over, and soon all would be forgotten.
Even news in America fails to truly engage me; really, if I’m honest, news from my humble town seems as remote as the protests in Egypt. My unawareness, apathy, isolation, whatever it is, may be traced back to my parents or upbringing; perhaps the absence of TV, or the familial distaste for the paper (excluding the comics). But inside, I feel that this distance is simply part of who I am. It is not a good quality, but at the same time, forcing myself to care about the world, to go out and help and understand different places and cultures— to place that upon myself would be dishonest to those I would be trying to help, and would ultimately only hurt myself. Self-imposed interests and benevolence are of no use, for they can not fully accomplish anything; projects would be feebly started then dropped, ideas morphed, partially implemented, then forgotten. No, I currently can not feel that link to the real world, it is beyond my personal sphere— I am only affected by those who are close to me. These, my family and friends, are the people I can and will help, the people I can connect with and care for.
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