21 November 2006
12 November 2006
A Note from Narnia
My friend Robin shared a pretty amazing quote with me today. I thought I'd pass it along.
"It is merely that when the atoms inside my skull happen for physical or chemical reasons to arrange themselves in a certain way this gives me, as a byproduct, the sensation which I call thought. But if so, how can I trust my own thinking to be true? And if I can’t trust my own thinking I can’t trust the argument leading to atheism, and therefore I have no reason to be an atheist. Unless I believe in God, I can’t believe in thought, so I can never use thought to disbelieve in God.”
-C. S. Lewis (Wikipedia)
29 October 2006
Storms in Nowhere
There's been quite a bit of rain lately. Took a picture the other day, thought it was pretty cool.08 September 2006
Education, Schmeducation
I've been trying to put words to my outlook on life lately, paying as little attention as possible to my pessimistic feelings about school, which are as follows:
A week or so ago, I ingested an almost illegal amount of caffiene so that I could comprehend all seventy pages of Gone With the Wind that I had put off until that night. I did it, and went to sleep immediately after I read the last word.
That night, I woke up several times in a caffiene-induced semi-hallucination (if such a term exists). At one point, I recall thinking that I was Rhett Butler, and I wondered aloud as to how I was to ever to cleanse my freshly polished leather boots of the red Atlanta earth. I also, much more disturbingly, awoke to thinking that I was Scarlett O'Hara, and exasperatedly expressed my frustration at having to find a more mournful atire than I already adorned so that I may dispense a socially acceptable amount of greif at Aunt Pittypat's funeral.
And I don't know that Aunt Pittypat even dies in the book!
Such traumatic situations have led me to believe that students are ridiculously over-worked. People aren't meant to wake up in a cold sweat wondering how they are to solve the equation:
And then, after completing the imposible amounts of homework and enduring countless nights of such ridiculous dreams, students have to succomb to the answer sheet God, rather than accepting correct alternative answers (for example, losing points for writing "uniformity" instead of "conformity" when the hint is "Being the same").
Homework policies are in dire need of reform. Teachers need to get a grip. Students need to sleep more. Maybe then I could rant about something worthwhile.
So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.-Peter Gibbons, Office Space (Wikiquote)
Unfortunately, School, by means of Margaret Mitchell and stoicheometry, has become my entire life. There simply aren't enough hours in a day to perform the tasks issued to us by criminally insane teachers and still maintain a "life."
I've been denying this fact for weeks now, stating that our assigned homework was possible to complete while maintaining mental health. But recent occurances have caused me to reconsider the truth behind this belief.
I've been denying this fact for weeks now, stating that our assigned homework was possible to complete while maintaining mental health. But recent occurances have caused me to reconsider the truth behind this belief.
A week or so ago, I ingested an almost illegal amount of caffiene so that I could comprehend all seventy pages of Gone With the Wind that I had put off until that night. I did it, and went to sleep immediately after I read the last word.
That night, I woke up several times in a caffiene-induced semi-hallucination (if such a term exists). At one point, I recall thinking that I was Rhett Butler, and I wondered aloud as to how I was to ever to cleanse my freshly polished leather boots of the red Atlanta earth. I also, much more disturbingly, awoke to thinking that I was Scarlett O'Hara, and exasperatedly expressed my frustration at having to find a more mournful atire than I already adorned so that I may dispense a socially acceptable amount of greif at Aunt Pittypat's funeral.
And I don't know that Aunt Pittypat even dies in the book!
Such traumatic situations have led me to believe that students are ridiculously over-worked. People aren't meant to wake up in a cold sweat wondering how they are to solve the equation:
Elmer Fudd-Winston Churchill^moveteX; Solve for X
And then, after completing the imposible amounts of homework and enduring countless nights of such ridiculous dreams, students have to succomb to the answer sheet God, rather than accepting correct alternative answers (for example, losing points for writing "uniformity" instead of "conformity" when the hint is "Being the same").
Homework policies are in dire need of reform. Teachers need to get a grip. Students need to sleep more. Maybe then I could rant about something worthwhile.
03 September 2006
Brother
[While away from home, Jim and family stop at a restaurant known for its barbecue. There are two containers of two types of barbecue sauce on the table. One contains the conventional sauce, while the other contains a hastily blended mix of who-knows-what.]
Brother: What's that?!
Waitress: That's our special barbecue sauce.
[Waitress walks away.]
Brother: What do you think it really is?
Jim: The last waitress that stole from the register.
Happy Labor Day!
Brother: What's that?!
Waitress: That's our special barbecue sauce.
[Waitress walks away.]
Brother: What do you think it really is?
Jim: The last waitress that stole from the register.
Happy Labor Day!
18 August 2006
Musician
As I've mentioned before, I've sworn to myself that before I die, I'll learn to play guitar. And so, as a result of such, I recently began taking lessons.
At my last lesson, in an attempt to help me visualize the usefulness of my newly learned chords, my teacher gave me a simplified version of "Amazing Grace." Ironic, since it was the playing of that very song that inspired me to the point of learning to play guitar.
A couple of years ago, on the final day of my church's revival, a tall man with long grey hair walked into the auditorium. He appeared to be rather unkempt, which, in comparison to our then overly-up-tight congregation, could mean anything from him wearing a tee shirt to him simply not having a tie on. In one hand, he carried an old Bible that appeared to bear a considerable amount of mileage; In the other, he carried an old, ragged guitar case.
He took a seat on the front row, a sure sign in a Baptist church that either this person doesn't belong, or intends to stand before the people at some point in the service, as the back-row Baptist stereotype, at the time more so even than now, was ultimately proven each Sunday by our congregation. As the guest-pastor provided his sermon, he introduced the man as his son, and simply said that his son had asked to play his guitar at our church.
Without saying a word, the man grabbed a chair from the empty choir, sat down, and proceeded to draw a beautiful, albeit obviously used, twelve string guitar from his case, and started to play "Amazing Grace."
Conforming with the stranger's behavior and appearance, the performance was exceptional. I watched, amazed, as the man, with closed eyes and, sometimes, a risen head, played every possible layer of the song using only his guitar. Percussion, harmony, melody, and even a bit of his own creativity rang through the auditorium as this man utilized his gift to its greatest capacity. Scarce was a dry eye when the last of his notes reverberated through the room and, with a look of urgency, as if he were needed elsewhere, he left as soon as he finished playing.
The ability to convey such emotion and spirit without words was something I had never considered until this moment, and guitar lessons are my attempt to, in some effect, enable myself to do the same.
As for sky diving, well... It just seems fun...
At my last lesson, in an attempt to help me visualize the usefulness of my newly learned chords, my teacher gave me a simplified version of "Amazing Grace." Ironic, since it was the playing of that very song that inspired me to the point of learning to play guitar.
A couple of years ago, on the final day of my church's revival, a tall man with long grey hair walked into the auditorium. He appeared to be rather unkempt, which, in comparison to our then overly-up-tight congregation, could mean anything from him wearing a tee shirt to him simply not having a tie on. In one hand, he carried an old Bible that appeared to bear a considerable amount of mileage; In the other, he carried an old, ragged guitar case.
He took a seat on the front row, a sure sign in a Baptist church that either this person doesn't belong, or intends to stand before the people at some point in the service, as the back-row Baptist stereotype, at the time more so even than now, was ultimately proven each Sunday by our congregation. As the guest-pastor provided his sermon, he introduced the man as his son, and simply said that his son had asked to play his guitar at our church.
Without saying a word, the man grabbed a chair from the empty choir, sat down, and proceeded to draw a beautiful, albeit obviously used, twelve string guitar from his case, and started to play "Amazing Grace."
Conforming with the stranger's behavior and appearance, the performance was exceptional. I watched, amazed, as the man, with closed eyes and, sometimes, a risen head, played every possible layer of the song using only his guitar. Percussion, harmony, melody, and even a bit of his own creativity rang through the auditorium as this man utilized his gift to its greatest capacity. Scarce was a dry eye when the last of his notes reverberated through the room and, with a look of urgency, as if he were needed elsewhere, he left as soon as he finished playing.
The ability to convey such emotion and spirit without words was something I had never considered until this moment, and guitar lessons are my attempt to, in some effect, enable myself to do the same.
As for sky diving, well... It just seems fun...
14 August 2006
Father-Son
[Jim and his father reach the intersection at 4th and Main St. in Nowhere]
Jim: I hate this red light.
Dad: I hate all of them.
Jim: It seems like every time I get stuck at this one, it takes forever to turn green.
[Long pause. Light doesn't change.]
Dad: (Resentfully to Jim)Damn you...
Good luck this week.
Jim: I hate this red light.
Dad: I hate all of them.
Jim: It seems like every time I get stuck at this one, it takes forever to turn green.
[Long pause. Light doesn't change.]
Dad: (Resentfully to Jim)Damn you...
Good luck this week.
30 July 2006
Johnny Hendrix
I've sworn to myself that before I die, I'll sky dive and play guitar. And so, being the resourceful over-analyst I am, I took an unbelievably simplified guitar class at my summer Christian-camp of choice.
Upon entering the room, I performed my usual routine of finding the most empty piece of wall real-estate and thusly planting my self there on the floor.
Surveying the room revealed a pod of cheerleaders, a brace of Louisiannans, the clan of we-make up-half-of-the-camp Westside Baptist Church members, and myself. My point in saying this is not to highlight my individuality (unfortunately, I'm rather typical), but rather to highlight the individuality of the next guy that walked into the room.
While expectations based on this vague detail may involve such trendy demographics as music-buff or uber-emotional (think black), this fellow was actually his own person. He sat down on the floor beside me and, in an obnoxiously thick accent, announced, "My name's John. I'm from Mississippi. How 'bout you?"
John was a stocky, seemingly dull-witted guy; the kind of guy with a frustrating tendency to strike everyone's last nerve despite having the best of intentions. He was very friendly and had a knack for breaking our class's only rule:
Rule #1: Don't play guitar while teacher is talking.
While under normal circumstances, this would be only a minor annoyance, keep in mind that people who take guitar classes are doing so because they are clueless when it comes the instrument (and southpaw "Johnny Hendrix" was no exception).
As we became familiar with our chords, song time arrived, and we were all ready to play the contempo-praise song "Marvelous Light."
While our teacher was strumming along with his students, he would sing the words to the song, adding in the names of the chords, never breaking away from the tune of the song.
"'G' Into marvelous light I'm running/'C' Out of darkness out of shame 'E minor...'"
Several times through his new song, John decided that less play and more sing was in order, and so put down his guitar. John started singing the song at the top of his lungs, even including the awkwardly harmonic "C", "G" and "E minor" that the teacher was singing.
What makes this amazing rather than rant-worthy is that John sang with a frank spirit of praise rather than one of sarcasm or entertainment. While all week everyone had been annoyed by John, today everyone joined in, sang along with praise, "E minor" and all.
Upon entering the room, I performed my usual routine of finding the most empty piece of wall real-estate and thusly planting my self there on the floor.
Surveying the room revealed a pod of cheerleaders, a brace of Louisiannans, the clan of we-make up-half-of-the-camp Westside Baptist Church members, and myself. My point in saying this is not to highlight my individuality (unfortunately, I'm rather typical), but rather to highlight the individuality of the next guy that walked into the room.
While expectations based on this vague detail may involve such trendy demographics as music-buff or uber-emotional (think black), this fellow was actually his own person. He sat down on the floor beside me and, in an obnoxiously thick accent, announced, "My name's John. I'm from Mississippi. How 'bout you?"
John was a stocky, seemingly dull-witted guy; the kind of guy with a frustrating tendency to strike everyone's last nerve despite having the best of intentions. He was very friendly and had a knack for breaking our class's only rule:
Rule #1: Don't play guitar while teacher is talking.
While under normal circumstances, this would be only a minor annoyance, keep in mind that people who take guitar classes are doing so because they are clueless when it comes the instrument (and southpaw "Johnny Hendrix" was no exception).
As we became familiar with our chords, song time arrived, and we were all ready to play the contempo-praise song "Marvelous Light."
While our teacher was strumming along with his students, he would sing the words to the song, adding in the names of the chords, never breaking away from the tune of the song.
"'G' Into marvelous light I'm running/'C' Out of darkness out of shame 'E minor...'"
Several times through his new song, John decided that less play and more sing was in order, and so put down his guitar. John started singing the song at the top of his lungs, even including the awkwardly harmonic "C", "G" and "E minor" that the teacher was singing.
What makes this amazing rather than rant-worthy is that John sang with a frank spirit of praise rather than one of sarcasm or entertainment. While all week everyone had been annoyed by John, today everyone joined in, sang along with praise, "E minor" and all.
16 July 2006
Puppet Shows
Recent re-evaluations have revealed that I, in fact, am a professional puppeteer; an old, lonely, self-loathing puppeteer. While I spend time lurking somewhere above the stage, my shiny marionette dances gaily around the floor, shouting, "Look at all the ignorance!" and acting as the only peice of me that the audience may ever know.
And how I love my marionette. When I indulge myslef with my pseudo-existence through him, I don't think of me as myslf, but rather something more beautiful; something worthy of justifiably making radical statments about the audience and receiving applause afterward. If the puppeteer tried this, he'd be pelted with tomatoes.
It's one of those things that just seems more easily explained metaphorically. The me that you see and hear tends to cry, "Hipocrites!" at the drop of a hat, while the me I have to be stuck with just keeps pushing aside the option of stepping onto the stage himself.
Does the story have a moral?
And how I love my marionette. When I indulge myslef with my pseudo-existence through him, I don't think of me as myslf, but rather something more beautiful; something worthy of justifiably making radical statments about the audience and receiving applause afterward. If the puppeteer tried this, he'd be pelted with tomatoes.
It's one of those things that just seems more easily explained metaphorically. The me that you see and hear tends to cry, "Hipocrites!" at the drop of a hat, while the me I have to be stuck with just keeps pushing aside the option of stepping onto the stage himself.
Does the story have a moral?
09 July 2006
peace. love. judgement.
I have several friends who I believe desire qualification as modern day hippies (at least in philosophy, I'm not implying the use of illicit substances by any means). They own websites that proclaim the amazing benefits of world peace and wear clothes that set them apart and often times bear some sort of tribute to the Beatles or John Lennon.
But in their natural habitat, they represent completely different ideas. Much as I love my friends (and much is an understatement) I can't support their hipocritical behavior.
"I honestly cant stand [person]"
"So we told her that she was the ugliest..."
"You actually listen to [artist]... and you like it?!"
This to me is as far from love as a person can distance themselves. If we place judgement where compassion, understanding, and a give-it-a-try mindset should be, then how much progress have we made toward making the world a better place? How can we love people and be loved if we spend our time making ourselves feel better by finding others' faults?
I simply play the role of furniture when I'm around these people, so as to avoid such comments being made in my direction. And though I realize that I shouldn't care what others think, anyone who says that hurtful comments aren't quite so hurtful to them is being rather dishonest with themself.
I love these people; they're fun to be around and I don't laugh quite as much when I'm not with them, but I can't shake the feeling that my every move is being critiqued and that as soon as I get out of earshot I'll become a topic of conversation.
But in their natural habitat, they represent completely different ideas. Much as I love my friends (and much is an understatement) I can't support their hipocritical behavior.
"I honestly cant stand [person]"
"So we told her that she was the ugliest..."
"You actually listen to [artist]... and you like it?!"
This to me is as far from love as a person can distance themselves. If we place judgement where compassion, understanding, and a give-it-a-try mindset should be, then how much progress have we made toward making the world a better place? How can we love people and be loved if we spend our time making ourselves feel better by finding others' faults?
I simply play the role of furniture when I'm around these people, so as to avoid such comments being made in my direction. And though I realize that I shouldn't care what others think, anyone who says that hurtful comments aren't quite so hurtful to them is being rather dishonest with themself.
I love these people; they're fun to be around and I don't laugh quite as much when I'm not with them, but I can't shake the feeling that my every move is being critiqued and that as soon as I get out of earshot I'll become a topic of conversation.
28 June 2006
3... 2... 1... Ignition
For thirty minutes now, I've been trying to invent an epic first sentence that would eventually spawn an equally epic first paragraph, and then on to an epic first post. I'd love to be able to send everyone to dictionaries with big words, or convey emotions as effectively as does music, but writing is very much like life, in that there is no controlling the sequence or nature of things, it all simply just happens in accordance to a greater power.
I write this simple truth because it is one that I have only just learned. For nearly two years, I've been an infinitesimally small speck on a desert island somewhere in the blogosphere, feeling compelled to litter the internet with whatever garbage lie around on the surface of my mind. While my motivation, simply to be approved of by a jury of my peers, was the same as everyone else's, my execution was laughable.
This time around, though, I intend to do something worthwhile. Rather than complain about how the bread on my sandwich is stale, or how much I disike Person A or Person B, as I am rather guilty of, I want to use blogging as I believe it should be used: as a conveyor of ideas, a place at which to defend stances, and a means by which I can achieve some sense of community.
What now? When to start? We'll see; things just happen.
I write this simple truth because it is one that I have only just learned. For nearly two years, I've been an infinitesimally small speck on a desert island somewhere in the blogosphere, feeling compelled to litter the internet with whatever garbage lie around on the surface of my mind. While my motivation, simply to be approved of by a jury of my peers, was the same as everyone else's, my execution was laughable.
This time around, though, I intend to do something worthwhile. Rather than complain about how the bread on my sandwich is stale, or how much I disike Person A or Person B, as I am rather guilty of, I want to use blogging as I believe it should be used: as a conveyor of ideas, a place at which to defend stances, and a means by which I can achieve some sense of community.
What now? When to start? We'll see; things just happen.
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