I've been thinking a lot recently (partly as required by my pedagogy class) about how I learned to write - a process that is far from finished of course. But I think that whatever ability I have acquired has come from imitation, both consciously and unconsciously. We all imitate other writers on some level. When you read a lot of a single author, his/her voice gets stuck in your head, and the next thing you write sounds a little bit like you and a little bit like them. In thinking back to high school, though, I realize that I have done this intentionally. Whenever I wrote something that was particularly successful, it was because I was consciously borrowing a style from someone else - usually from one of my favorite authors, or from whomever it was that we were reading in class.
I came across a book while I was searching for possible textbooks for my Composition class next semester called Copy and Compose. It was written in the late 60's and is now out of print, so I can't use it as my textbook if it turns out to be the kind of thing I'm looking for. But it approaches the instruction of writing with exactly this idea of good writing through imitation. How can we be good writers if we don't emulate good writers? It is not an attempt to make us all sound the same or to ignore the potential for one's own creative voice, but it acknowledges that, for most of us, that voice will only come with time and practice and from assimilating the voices of many others.
I like this idea and I've been going through its exercises, realizing that I wish I had been specifically taught to write this way. It is primarily useful for style, rather than for argument, but it is incredibly effective in making one really consider the effect of language, and in giving one a sense of control.
Here are some examples I've been working on:
1) The Loose Sentence
I smoked my pipe yesterday, sitting in the cooling late afternoon air of an early Virginia spring, reading from Montaigne, dead now for nearly 500 years, and I thought about mortality and the futility of caring about one's death, while rings of smoke drifted up into the darkening sky.
2) The Inverted Sentence
Foolhardy Bush was, and his ignorance managed to derail American relations with the world.
3) Loose/Inverted
Long I walked, my belly full of beer and bourbon, dragging my feet against the dog's insistent pulling so that when she darted toward a terrified squirrel, I was facing the other way, thinking about you, and Las Vegas, and when you might come home again.
Sentences have an almost poetic obscurity when composed like this - without a larger purpose or argument. I rather like them. And I like forcing myself to think about my prose consciously. I think only good things can come of it.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
2 Corinthians, Chapter 1
Christmas break is now spiraling down, though it still has a few weeks to go (this has been the longest break I've had in my scholastic career - a combination of having no finals and going to George Mason which seems to be an institution that doesn't believe that one has to be physically present to be educated). I've had a couple of longer term writing projects going, though, honestly, by going I mean that I have thought of. My goal for the break was to do the research that these required, especially one project that requires a fair amount of reading before it will come out right. I have been doing some reading on this, but not nearly as much as I had hoped. Anyway, before this becomes that kind of a post, let me get to the point.
The last couple of days, I have felt a strong desire to write, but no real direction. I frequently get this feeling of restless energy, but I am rarely able to structure it enough to put it to useful purpose. For whatever reason, I have been unable to come up with essays to write. I've wanted to work on the larger projects I have, but of course the work that really needs to be done for them is the reading. I've had a miniature form of writer's block. I have plenty of big ideas, but part of reaching the point where I can successfully pull those ideas off is practicing my writing on smaller, more readily accomplish-able ideas. If I'm going to reach the moon, I have to start by building a ladder. Then, once I've built a sufficiently tall ladder, I'll be able to see how silly it was to try reaching the moon with a ladder and I'll go get a degree in aerospace engineering, and build myself a rocket ship. Of course I'll need materials one doesn't find in Wal-Mart. That's where the Russians come in...but I digress.
I hit on an idea I've had and practiced off and on in handwritten journals before. In my many attempts (and failures) to become a better Christian disciple, I have come to realize that even if I can get myself to read the Bible on a regular basis, I take almost none of it in unless I actually write down what I'm thinking on the subject. Mostly, in the periods where I am being more or less faithful in terms of reading, I read a chapter before I go to bed and try unsuccessfully to think about it as I fall asleep. "You know I really agree with what Paul was trying to say - shit I forgot to do my laundry today, what am I going to wear tomorrow - what's going on tomorrow, oh right I have to tutor - that girl I tutored today was hot - I wonder what J is doing tomorrow - wait wasn't I thinking something? What was it? My foot itches. Oh right, Jesus...something...." [and zonk].
So I thought, here's an idea to help with Christian Discipline as well as Writer's Discipline: I'll read a chapter, or less or more (the chapters frequently breaking in the middle of a thought) and comment on it. These comments belong here on the blog that no one reads, because, well, blogs naturally lend themselves to disjointed, unformed thinking rather than formal essays. I just need to keep my wheel's greased, I don't need to agonize over finished products. I'm on break after all.
In my latest attempt at Biblical scholarship I have been delving into Paul's letters to the Corinthians, having just finished the first letter. It's a good one. Lots about love and stuff in there. Though I noticed it does have some serious contradictions - and most of them revolve around women. One of Paul's greatest shortcomings was the extent to which he bought into the male dominated culture that surrounded him. Obviously, the whole Bible, being written entirely by Men, is full of that kind of thing, but Paul tends to run with it. To his credit though, he does stop from time to time to point out that many of his thoughts are just that, and they are not in any way direct revelation from God.
I'd just like to point out - in case you were wondering - the following observations, comments, snide remarks, and/or blasphemy is entirely my own, and not the direct revelation of God, either. So Paul and I have that in common.
2 Corinthians 1:1-11
In this first opening passage, Paul is writing about how God sends comfort to those of his servants who need it most, and how that comfort extends from one to another. At first I was confused by the use of We as in "if we are distressed...if we are comforted," etc. thinking he was employing some sort of rhetorical device - Is he using the Royal We? Is he an editor? - but now I realize that he's speaking for himself and Timothy, and even says so right at the beginning. My bad.
What seems most interesting to me in this passage is how bad Paul must have had it. The reason he is speaking of comfort is because he has just been in danger for his life in the province of Asia. I'm not sure I ever paid any attention to that before. He writes: "We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death." I think we tend to focus on how Paul is, at the time of writing the letter, now very grateful to God and comforted and we think, "Yes, that's the point, God sends comfort." And I think he does, and probably that is the point. But to me it is at least as interesting that Paul was brought to the brink of despair. He doesn't say what happened to him, and I have no idea if it is known or not, but whatever it was must have been terrible that he thought he was going to die. This, to me, is another example of how the people of the Bible are very human. There isn't a person who is alive who doesn't fear death at least a little. Even if we firmly believe in an afterlife, especially in Heaven, there is still doubt at the unknown. I do believe, like Paul, that death is an end but also a beginning to a greater and longer adventure. But I'm still afraid of it. And it seems that Paul was too. But he points out how silly that fear is, even if it is natural. After all, we believe in a God "who raises the dead." So what does it matter if we die? It is a liberating thought. If our time on this earth is only a drop in the ocean of our lives what matters is that we live well, not that we live long. It is better that we risk death in the service of something (or someone) that matters than for us to live long lives of quiet selfishness. I'd rather the fire of my life burn high and hot for a long time, don't get my wrong, but I do think it is better to burn out in one flash of warmth than to smoulder - giving no heat and no light, just smoke.
Anyway, those are my rambling thoughts for today. I will hopefully be back before too long.
All the saints send their greetings.
-St. Benjamin
The last couple of days, I have felt a strong desire to write, but no real direction. I frequently get this feeling of restless energy, but I am rarely able to structure it enough to put it to useful purpose. For whatever reason, I have been unable to come up with essays to write. I've wanted to work on the larger projects I have, but of course the work that really needs to be done for them is the reading. I've had a miniature form of writer's block. I have plenty of big ideas, but part of reaching the point where I can successfully pull those ideas off is practicing my writing on smaller, more readily accomplish-able ideas. If I'm going to reach the moon, I have to start by building a ladder. Then, once I've built a sufficiently tall ladder, I'll be able to see how silly it was to try reaching the moon with a ladder and I'll go get a degree in aerospace engineering, and build myself a rocket ship. Of course I'll need materials one doesn't find in Wal-Mart. That's where the Russians come in...but I digress.
I hit on an idea I've had and practiced off and on in handwritten journals before. In my many attempts (and failures) to become a better Christian disciple, I have come to realize that even if I can get myself to read the Bible on a regular basis, I take almost none of it in unless I actually write down what I'm thinking on the subject. Mostly, in the periods where I am being more or less faithful in terms of reading, I read a chapter before I go to bed and try unsuccessfully to think about it as I fall asleep. "You know I really agree with what Paul was trying to say - shit I forgot to do my laundry today, what am I going to wear tomorrow - what's going on tomorrow, oh right I have to tutor - that girl I tutored today was hot - I wonder what J is doing tomorrow - wait wasn't I thinking something? What was it? My foot itches. Oh right, Jesus...something...." [and zonk].
So I thought, here's an idea to help with Christian Discipline as well as Writer's Discipline: I'll read a chapter, or less or more (the chapters frequently breaking in the middle of a thought) and comment on it. These comments belong here on the blog that no one reads, because, well, blogs naturally lend themselves to disjointed, unformed thinking rather than formal essays. I just need to keep my wheel's greased, I don't need to agonize over finished products. I'm on break after all.
In my latest attempt at Biblical scholarship I have been delving into Paul's letters to the Corinthians, having just finished the first letter. It's a good one. Lots about love and stuff in there. Though I noticed it does have some serious contradictions - and most of them revolve around women. One of Paul's greatest shortcomings was the extent to which he bought into the male dominated culture that surrounded him. Obviously, the whole Bible, being written entirely by Men, is full of that kind of thing, but Paul tends to run with it. To his credit though, he does stop from time to time to point out that many of his thoughts are just that, and they are not in any way direct revelation from God.
I'd just like to point out - in case you were wondering - the following observations, comments, snide remarks, and/or blasphemy is entirely my own, and not the direct revelation of God, either. So Paul and I have that in common.
2 Corinthians 1:1-11
In this first opening passage, Paul is writing about how God sends comfort to those of his servants who need it most, and how that comfort extends from one to another. At first I was confused by the use of We as in "if we are distressed...if we are comforted," etc. thinking he was employing some sort of rhetorical device - Is he using the Royal We? Is he an editor? - but now I realize that he's speaking for himself and Timothy, and even says so right at the beginning. My bad.
What seems most interesting to me in this passage is how bad Paul must have had it. The reason he is speaking of comfort is because he has just been in danger for his life in the province of Asia. I'm not sure I ever paid any attention to that before. He writes: "We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death." I think we tend to focus on how Paul is, at the time of writing the letter, now very grateful to God and comforted and we think, "Yes, that's the point, God sends comfort." And I think he does, and probably that is the point. But to me it is at least as interesting that Paul was brought to the brink of despair. He doesn't say what happened to him, and I have no idea if it is known or not, but whatever it was must have been terrible that he thought he was going to die. This, to me, is another example of how the people of the Bible are very human. There isn't a person who is alive who doesn't fear death at least a little. Even if we firmly believe in an afterlife, especially in Heaven, there is still doubt at the unknown. I do believe, like Paul, that death is an end but also a beginning to a greater and longer adventure. But I'm still afraid of it. And it seems that Paul was too. But he points out how silly that fear is, even if it is natural. After all, we believe in a God "who raises the dead." So what does it matter if we die? It is a liberating thought. If our time on this earth is only a drop in the ocean of our lives what matters is that we live well, not that we live long. It is better that we risk death in the service of something (or someone) that matters than for us to live long lives of quiet selfishness. I'd rather the fire of my life burn high and hot for a long time, don't get my wrong, but I do think it is better to burn out in one flash of warmth than to smoulder - giving no heat and no light, just smoke.
Anyway, those are my rambling thoughts for today. I will hopefully be back before too long.
All the saints send their greetings.
-St. Benjamin
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
NaNoWriMo
November is National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org), and I have been thinking seriously about participating. Basically, the idea is to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. I've thought about participating before, but not seriously. This year, though, I thought - "Hey maybe that would be the push I need. Besides it's only a month!" It'd be worth it just for the ability to print business cards that say: Benjamin Wilkins - Novelist. Assuming one would stretch the project out throughout the month and get some writing in everyday (which is a pretty big assumption) it would come out to under 2,000 words a day - just under 6 pages. That'd be hard, but since the whole point is to just get words on the page (rather than say, good or even coherent words) it doesn't seem too bad.
But after some consideration, I think it would unwise. I really like the idea of getting sponsors to not only contribute to a worthy cause but to add that extra guilty umph to actually finishing. And I'd make myself do it if I thought that there was any way that I could succeed. Sometimes it's good to reach a little. Usually it's good to reach a little. But it's also important not to set impossible goals that you can never meet. School and work eat up my time, and I can't quit those. So what would suffer would be whatever downtime I have - and therefore my sanity - and likely time spent with J and that just wouldn't be wise if I want to keep all ten of my toes (she really doesn't like my toes).
Then again, I always used to talk about how I wanted to be in a job, just for a while, that was so important that it didn't have hours. It was all hours. I wanted to be Josh on the West Wing - killing myself because it was worth killing myself. Is this worth a little sanity? A good novel would be. But I'm not sure that's what would come out, even assuming I got anything out at all. I'm not really a novelist either (see last post). Maybe I could try to put together a graphic novel? Just to finish anything extra - anything that I want to work on, beyond my scholastic writing. That would be a worthy goal.
Ok, so I'll try that. A graphic novella. I think I'll tackle something that's been rattling around in my brain for a while...a fantasy that isn't really a fantasy. It'd be set in an imaginary city roughly during the late renaissance. Or a period of imaginary history in this imaginary world that is similar. And it would be about duels. And war. And love. And death. So, y'know - the good stuff.
More later, if I make any progress. If not, we won't be speaking about it again.
-George
But after some consideration, I think it would unwise. I really like the idea of getting sponsors to not only contribute to a worthy cause but to add that extra guilty umph to actually finishing. And I'd make myself do it if I thought that there was any way that I could succeed. Sometimes it's good to reach a little. Usually it's good to reach a little. But it's also important not to set impossible goals that you can never meet. School and work eat up my time, and I can't quit those. So what would suffer would be whatever downtime I have - and therefore my sanity - and likely time spent with J and that just wouldn't be wise if I want to keep all ten of my toes (she really doesn't like my toes).
Then again, I always used to talk about how I wanted to be in a job, just for a while, that was so important that it didn't have hours. It was all hours. I wanted to be Josh on the West Wing - killing myself because it was worth killing myself. Is this worth a little sanity? A good novel would be. But I'm not sure that's what would come out, even assuming I got anything out at all. I'm not really a novelist either (see last post). Maybe I could try to put together a graphic novel? Just to finish anything extra - anything that I want to work on, beyond my scholastic writing. That would be a worthy goal.
Ok, so I'll try that. A graphic novella. I think I'll tackle something that's been rattling around in my brain for a while...a fantasy that isn't really a fantasy. It'd be set in an imaginary city roughly during the late renaissance. Or a period of imaginary history in this imaginary world that is similar. And it would be about duels. And war. And love. And death. So, y'know - the good stuff.
More later, if I make any progress. If not, we won't be speaking about it again.
-George
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
O Valencia!
Ladies and Gentlebeans,
Here, now, for your viewing pleasure, a few updates on the Life and Times of Benjamin George Wilkins, Esq. First off, I really love my new program. It has been harder work than I thought it would, but it has completely fulfilled my expectations. I knew it would be difficult and I am glad that it is because it is not hard in the same way that my last program was hard. In a way, Communication was so hard because it was so easy. I could easily get away with doing the bare minimum, because I didn't care really if I was learning anything or not. Somehow though, whenever I do not give my full self to something, I find that even the little that it demands becomes much harder to give. But now, finally, in a creative writing program, I am doing what I love and working hard at it. I've never read so many books so quickly in my life (really I should be reading now - it never stops). Really, though, how many people can say that at least half of their job is reading? Not that I get paid very much for it. Still, being paid at all is pretty amazing. Say what you want about the educational system in this country - I'm getting paid to perfect my particular art. Of course I'm also being paid to tutor and eventually teach. And I still have to take out loans in order to survive, which I'll likely be paying until I'm 85. Still.
In other news - the YA book that I was working on has...well, not exactly died so much as it has been buried alive. School is too much, and it was already feeling like I digging trenches in a downpour trying to get it down on paper. I think that I will turn it into a comic, though when I'll have the time, I can't say. Maybe Christmas, maybe next summer. The whole idea started visually for me, so maybe it should stay that way. For whatever reason writing comics is never quite as daunting as writing a book. I think it honestly has to do with my lack of abilities in formal description. When I write nonfiction, description is certainly an element, but I usually tackle that sort of thing in my own voice, rather in an omniscient narrator's. And in a graphic novel script, one just has to write for the artist, not for the eventual audience. As long as I can get the image across to him/her then that is enough. There's no pressure to actually paint the picture myself. Does that mean that comic writing requires less craft and I'm just coping out? Possibly, but I don't think so. I think it requires a different skill set that I have more practice using.
Speaking of comics - Jack and I have taken up "Pilgrim" again. After the summer before last, when we really sat down and wrote it, we haven't made much progress. Partly this is because we were busy and partly it was because our Illustrator was busier still. We had to part ways, eventually. I think we parted amicably, and I hope that he feels the same. Anyway, Jack and I are meeting regularly (online) to edit the script we have. It's taking a little longer than I thought it would, but I think after one more session we'll have it done. Then we plan on sending it off to anyone who will consider a script without art. When that fails we'll try very hard to find an artist. I have one in mind, but I know she's very busy. We'll see. I still like the script though, and that's a very positive sign.
Oh, here's something for you geeks in the audience. At the National Book Festival a few weeks ago I was able to hear Neil Gaiman read, and get him to sign three of his books for me. It was...pretty freaking awesome. The most amazing person I know (J) held my place in the signing line while I sat comfy in the reading tent and listened to the man read from The Graveyard Book. Because of this we were in the first 50 or so people to get books signed and were able to get 3 signed apiece. He seemed very nice and I told him about Pilgrim. His assistant liked the title and when I mentioned that we only needed an Artist, he suggested that I "go where artists hang out." That looks like a sort of snotty, dismissive thing to say in print, but I assure you, he said it politely and with a smile on his face, and I have no doubt that he meant it as casual good advice. Of course, as J said afterwards, "Now [I] have to get it published." If only so I can send him a copy.
Well, I think that's all for now. I need to get back to my reading. On the top of the list is The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston, for my Recent American Nonfiction class. It seems good so far, though so far isn't very much. But then again, I tend to like everything. Some more, some less, but there really are few things that I've read that I could honestly say that I didn't like. O Pioneers comes to mind. Although I might not have finished it. I can't remember. Also, still reading The Graveyard Book when I can. And I'm listening to the 11th of the Wheel of Time series. I have found that I enjoy that kind of fantasy much more when I listen. Robert Jordan may have been one of the better writers in the genre, but frankly, that says bad things about the genre. He was, of course, no Tolkien. Whatever the Wheel of Time is though, it has gotten me back in a Fantasy kind of mood. I might tackle some more fantastical writing again - though I think it, too, will be in comic form.
Yours,
Benjamin George Wilkins
PS O Valencia! is from The Decemberists' song of course. I hope to see them in November and so have been listening more and more.
Here, now, for your viewing pleasure, a few updates on the Life and Times of Benjamin George Wilkins, Esq. First off, I really love my new program. It has been harder work than I thought it would, but it has completely fulfilled my expectations. I knew it would be difficult and I am glad that it is because it is not hard in the same way that my last program was hard. In a way, Communication was so hard because it was so easy. I could easily get away with doing the bare minimum, because I didn't care really if I was learning anything or not. Somehow though, whenever I do not give my full self to something, I find that even the little that it demands becomes much harder to give. But now, finally, in a creative writing program, I am doing what I love and working hard at it. I've never read so many books so quickly in my life (really I should be reading now - it never stops). Really, though, how many people can say that at least half of their job is reading? Not that I get paid very much for it. Still, being paid at all is pretty amazing. Say what you want about the educational system in this country - I'm getting paid to perfect my particular art. Of course I'm also being paid to tutor and eventually teach. And I still have to take out loans in order to survive, which I'll likely be paying until I'm 85. Still.
In other news - the YA book that I was working on has...well, not exactly died so much as it has been buried alive. School is too much, and it was already feeling like I digging trenches in a downpour trying to get it down on paper. I think that I will turn it into a comic, though when I'll have the time, I can't say. Maybe Christmas, maybe next summer. The whole idea started visually for me, so maybe it should stay that way. For whatever reason writing comics is never quite as daunting as writing a book. I think it honestly has to do with my lack of abilities in formal description. When I write nonfiction, description is certainly an element, but I usually tackle that sort of thing in my own voice, rather in an omniscient narrator's. And in a graphic novel script, one just has to write for the artist, not for the eventual audience. As long as I can get the image across to him/her then that is enough. There's no pressure to actually paint the picture myself. Does that mean that comic writing requires less craft and I'm just coping out? Possibly, but I don't think so. I think it requires a different skill set that I have more practice using.
Speaking of comics - Jack and I have taken up "Pilgrim" again. After the summer before last, when we really sat down and wrote it, we haven't made much progress. Partly this is because we were busy and partly it was because our Illustrator was busier still. We had to part ways, eventually. I think we parted amicably, and I hope that he feels the same. Anyway, Jack and I are meeting regularly (online) to edit the script we have. It's taking a little longer than I thought it would, but I think after one more session we'll have it done. Then we plan on sending it off to anyone who will consider a script without art. When that fails we'll try very hard to find an artist. I have one in mind, but I know she's very busy. We'll see. I still like the script though, and that's a very positive sign.
Oh, here's something for you geeks in the audience. At the National Book Festival a few weeks ago I was able to hear Neil Gaiman read, and get him to sign three of his books for me. It was...pretty freaking awesome. The most amazing person I know (J) held my place in the signing line while I sat comfy in the reading tent and listened to the man read from The Graveyard Book. Because of this we were in the first 50 or so people to get books signed and were able to get 3 signed apiece. He seemed very nice and I told him about Pilgrim. His assistant liked the title and when I mentioned that we only needed an Artist, he suggested that I "go where artists hang out." That looks like a sort of snotty, dismissive thing to say in print, but I assure you, he said it politely and with a smile on his face, and I have no doubt that he meant it as casual good advice. Of course, as J said afterwards, "Now [I] have to get it published." If only so I can send him a copy.
Well, I think that's all for now. I need to get back to my reading. On the top of the list is The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston, for my Recent American Nonfiction class. It seems good so far, though so far isn't very much. But then again, I tend to like everything. Some more, some less, but there really are few things that I've read that I could honestly say that I didn't like. O Pioneers comes to mind. Although I might not have finished it. I can't remember. Also, still reading The Graveyard Book when I can. And I'm listening to the 11th of the Wheel of Time series. I have found that I enjoy that kind of fantasy much more when I listen. Robert Jordan may have been one of the better writers in the genre, but frankly, that says bad things about the genre. He was, of course, no Tolkien. Whatever the Wheel of Time is though, it has gotten me back in a Fantasy kind of mood. I might tackle some more fantastical writing again - though I think it, too, will be in comic form.
Yours,
Benjamin George Wilkins
PS O Valencia! is from The Decemberists' song of course. I hope to see them in November and so have been listening more and more.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
No offense to John McCain...
No offense, John McCain, but I'm starting to hate you. Don't worry, I wasn't going to vote for you anyway, but of all the republican candidates I wasn't going to vote for, you used to be my favorite. I liked that despite some of your more conservative tendencies you have been someone who at least seems to want to make politics better in this country. Even though I disagree with about 80% of your positions, I have always felt that your motives were mostly pure. In other words, I have always thought of you as a Statesman rather than politician.
Now I hate you. But it's not you. It's me.
I foolishly joined a graduate program that turned out to be basically everything I despise about modern education - a program that takes serious social problems, political issues, or just simple genuine conversation between two people and crushes them with the groaning weight of statistics. And now, for my political communication class, I've elected to do a presentation on your relation to the religious right. This seems like it would be an interesting topic. I love politics, and I am fascinated (horrified might be the more operative word most of the time) by its interplay with religion. So I should have enjoyed this chance to study it more closely.
But no. This program has killed all enjoyment and because I have to do something which I can't seem to make myself do, I now hate everything about it. Which means you too. No offense.
****
On another lighter, and completely unrelated note, I have taken up a diet of...coffee. Seriously, as much as I love beer (and those of you who know me, know how much I love beer) and all other things alcoholic, I think that I love coffee more. Or at least equally. And I love the effects of caffeine more than I love the effects of alcohol. Speaking of, I think the next pot has finished and I need to go inject it directly into my bloodstream.
Now I hate you. But it's not you. It's me.
I foolishly joined a graduate program that turned out to be basically everything I despise about modern education - a program that takes serious social problems, political issues, or just simple genuine conversation between two people and crushes them with the groaning weight of statistics. And now, for my political communication class, I've elected to do a presentation on your relation to the religious right. This seems like it would be an interesting topic. I love politics, and I am fascinated (horrified might be the more operative word most of the time) by its interplay with religion. So I should have enjoyed this chance to study it more closely.
But no. This program has killed all enjoyment and because I have to do something which I can't seem to make myself do, I now hate everything about it. Which means you too. No offense.
****
On another lighter, and completely unrelated note, I have taken up a diet of...coffee. Seriously, as much as I love beer (and those of you who know me, know how much I love beer) and all other things alcoholic, I think that I love coffee more. Or at least equally. And I love the effects of caffeine more than I love the effects of alcohol. Speaking of, I think the next pot has finished and I need to go inject it directly into my bloodstream.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Flying Ships and Children's Books
In honor of my acceptance into an MFA program for next fall*, I have made a number of writing related vows, one of which is to actually update this blog as frequently as I can. Lately, I've been feeling like a writer in want only, since I haven't actually finished anything since the essays that I wrote specifically for those applications. Partly, I think, it is because I am simply out of practice, or rather, that I have never had the practice in the first place. The less I write, the harder it is to make myself write without those pesky but oh-so-useful deadlines. The more I write, the more I want to do it.
In light of that, I've decided to work on a Young Adult fiction story that has been playing in the background on the movie screen of my brain for a while now. It first started just as an image, a picture of a ship, something from the Age of Sail - a period that I've always found extremely fascinating - flying through the air. I just closed my eyes one day, and there it was. The image has haunted me - I could, and still can see it so clearly. If I were a painter rather than a writer, I would simply put it on canvas. As it is, I have to let it germinate for a bit so that I can find a way of squeezing it into a story - or building a story around the image as the case may be.
Personally, I think that YA fiction is where some of the best stories have been written. Like comics, there are fewer rules and more freedom to write whatever imaginative story comes to you. Of course, you trade this for a lack of mainstream acceptance (especially in the case of comics). It's not that people won't accept and read your book, but they aren't very likely to treat it as "serious." Still, who cares? I'm not sure why I've never really thought about writing something like this before. I know that I'd be better at it than I would ever be at writing an adult fiction novel (though I think I'll still tackle the occasional short story). For a long time, I've wanted to be "great" and that has kept me from doing a lot of writing that I otherwise would have done. I wanted to be the next Dostoevsky (but seriously, let's face it, there will never be another Dostoevsky) or Faulkner, but I was ignoring the "greats" that made me want to tell stories in the first place. C.S. Lewis, Tolkien (not that LOtR is specifically YA fiction, but come on, most of us read it when we were 15), Lloyd Alexander (more for Westmark than Prydain, personally), Madeleine L'Engle, or even Robert Louis Stevenson. Stories by these authors are for "children" but they have had greater influence on my life than most books I've read. They taught me to love imagination and adventure, to believe in worlds outside and higher than my own, and in virtues higher and greater than self preservation.
To be honest, I'm a bit afraid of it, just as I would be of any major undertaking - its as hard a market as any other in the book world. And then there's the old fear - am I good enough? I can't write as well as these people. But that kind of thinking just keeps from doing anything. Who cares if its not as good, maybe it'll still be good, and maybe some kid somewhere will read it and be inspired.
So, to make a long story short - I'm slowly writing a YA book (I hope to have a rough draft by the end of the summer) and, yes, it'll have flying ships in it.
*Running tally - Accepted: George Mason University, Eastern Washington University
Rejected: University of Iowa, Notre Dame, Penn State, Hollins University
Have Yet To Hear From: University of North Carolina-Wilmington, University of San Francisco
In light of that, I've decided to work on a Young Adult fiction story that has been playing in the background on the movie screen of my brain for a while now. It first started just as an image, a picture of a ship, something from the Age of Sail - a period that I've always found extremely fascinating - flying through the air. I just closed my eyes one day, and there it was. The image has haunted me - I could, and still can see it so clearly. If I were a painter rather than a writer, I would simply put it on canvas. As it is, I have to let it germinate for a bit so that I can find a way of squeezing it into a story - or building a story around the image as the case may be.
Personally, I think that YA fiction is where some of the best stories have been written. Like comics, there are fewer rules and more freedom to write whatever imaginative story comes to you. Of course, you trade this for a lack of mainstream acceptance (especially in the case of comics). It's not that people won't accept and read your book, but they aren't very likely to treat it as "serious." Still, who cares? I'm not sure why I've never really thought about writing something like this before. I know that I'd be better at it than I would ever be at writing an adult fiction novel (though I think I'll still tackle the occasional short story). For a long time, I've wanted to be "great" and that has kept me from doing a lot of writing that I otherwise would have done. I wanted to be the next Dostoevsky (but seriously, let's face it, there will never be another Dostoevsky) or Faulkner, but I was ignoring the "greats" that made me want to tell stories in the first place. C.S. Lewis, Tolkien (not that LOtR is specifically YA fiction, but come on, most of us read it when we were 15), Lloyd Alexander (more for Westmark than Prydain, personally), Madeleine L'Engle, or even Robert Louis Stevenson. Stories by these authors are for "children" but they have had greater influence on my life than most books I've read. They taught me to love imagination and adventure, to believe in worlds outside and higher than my own, and in virtues higher and greater than self preservation.
To be honest, I'm a bit afraid of it, just as I would be of any major undertaking - its as hard a market as any other in the book world. And then there's the old fear - am I good enough? I can't write as well as these people. But that kind of thinking just keeps from doing anything. Who cares if its not as good, maybe it'll still be good, and maybe some kid somewhere will read it and be inspired.
So, to make a long story short - I'm slowly writing a YA book (I hope to have a rough draft by the end of the summer) and, yes, it'll have flying ships in it.
*Running tally - Accepted: George Mason University, Eastern Washington University
Rejected: University of Iowa, Notre Dame, Penn State, Hollins University
Have Yet To Hear From: University of North Carolina-Wilmington, University of San Francisco
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Perfect Pint
I'm killing off an old blog - really it was a new blog to replace this one. I am forever starting such new projects with slightly variant themes that usually end up sounding exactly the same. Likely this blog too will go through mulitiple name/format changes, but I've decided that I want the archives of my old posts, if only so I can go back and learn what I think about things. Similarly, I don't want to lose the 4 or so posts from The Perfect Pint even though my hatred of waste pushes me to pull up the stakes from its internet plot. So here they are, all in one go:
Monday, October 29, 2007
Pete McCarthy
Ok, so this isn't exactly breaking news, seeing as how it happened 3 years ago, but I just found out so it's breaking news to me. About a month ago JV and I were in Asheville, NC for a concert/getaway weekend. Wherever I go, I like to check out any local used bookstores, mostly because I have an uncontrollable urge to spend my hard earned money on books that I will probably never get around to reading. It's kind of like how, in Conspiracy Theory, Mel Gibson's character has to go out and buy The Catcher in the Rye in order to feel normal and not kill people. So, yes, I have to buy books or I might kill people. And used books tend to not upset my wallet quite as much - unfortunately he's very sensitive at the moment. Anyway, we were looking through this place and I had picked out a few used cds, but hadn't found much in the way of interesting books so I went to find where JV was hiding - in the travel book section of course. I found her poring over a guide to Scotland, wondering if things had really changed that much in the Highlands during the last 10 years. I wouldn't know from experience, but my guess is that things haven't changed too drastically in the highlands for a lot longer than 10 years - I mean, there's not a lot of innovation in Tweed, Sheep, or Scotch. To keep me from annoying her ("I can't find anything, what are you doing, oh Scotland that's cool are we going to go? No? Just you? Fine! I don't need you anyway, I'm going on a trip by myself to...uh...uh...Bulgaria! Ha! Bulgaria's going to be much more fun that dreary old Scotland, with it's beautiful scenery, and english speaking natives, and great whiskey, and sweaters, and loch ness monsters, and kilts, which reminds me, isn't Braveheart a fucking great movie? I mean seriously, Gibson's best, by far. I'm not a racist but I do love me some Mel Gibson movies...etc.") she pointed me in the direction of the Literary Travel section. Literary Travel is just like normal Travel except more interesting and far less useful. Picking I think at random but more probably with that freakish psychic ability that mothers teach only their daughters, she handed me Pete McCarthy's The Road to McCarthy: Around the World In Search of Ireland. Turns out the book was his second in the same vein, the first having a snappier title: McCarthy's Bar: Or Never Pass a Bar With Your Name On It or somesuch. As most of you probably know, I am enamoured of all things Irish. Well, maybe not all things (Darby O'Gill and the Little People made me forever terrified of Leprechauns, and Banshees) - but certain aspects of the culture or at least the perceived culture really appeal to me. JV went to Ireland about a year ago (shit, maybe more now) and told me how it's "very Ben Wilkins." Everyone drinks of course, but though there are plenty of your crappy American-esque bars about, the pubs tend to be a more relaxed atmosphere - a place where it's neither uncomfortable nor unusual to find yourself in a conversation with a complete stranger about history, politics, or all things literary. Plus, I really dig Irish folk and even play a little Bodhran from time to time. So - I like Irishy things, but I didn't expect too much of the book, mostly because I'd never heard of the author. But it was fantastically entertaining. It essentially consisted of Pete wandering around the world, meeting people and having conversations with them, while hunting down some historical Irish conspirators and some of his possible descendants. It was written comically, yet poignantly, with occasional observations that really struck to the core of human life - what makes us different and what makes us the same. It wasn't brilliant. But it was good, and it inspired me. This is the kind of writing that I would like to do, and after reading just a few chapters I started up this blog, and more importantly renewed my vow to keep a small notebook with me at all times to note down observations that strike me.It didn't take me long to finish the book. I searched for Pete online, hoping to find where he was off to now, but as it turns out he's passed away. This actually affected me much more than I would have expected. There's something so personal about his style of writing - it was like I had gotten to know him, and gone to all those places he did with him. I was sad to find out that he was gone. It wasn't like losing a friend exactly, more like losing a pen-pal.So. It was a sad day, three years ago, when we lost Mr. McCarthy, though I'm only noticing now. At least he left us a bit of his experiences before he took off - you should all check out both of his books. And I think that, thanks to Pete, I might do a little literary travel writing of my own. I can't travel but I could more thoroughly explore where I am now. So check back to find some interesting but fairly useless descriptions of Herndon and the greater DC area.Thanks Pete.
Posted by Benjamin Wilkins at 10:23 AM 0 comments
Monday, October 22, 2007
Human Echolocation
Apparently this kid has been famous for this for a while, but I just saw this last night when I was bored and scanning Current.com (more on that later). It's pretty incredible - so much so that I would normally be inclined to think it's a hoax, but there are enough sources that I think he's the real thing. I couldn't find the original video I watched on current, but here's one I found on Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpBm4KoWsrYCheck it out. He's like Daredevil. Seriously.
Posted by Benjamin Wilkins at 1:13 PM 0 comments
Labels: ben underwood, blind, daredevil, human echolocation, incredible, senses
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Turtle Power
There's something about the DC Metro area that encourages exploration. Often spontaneous "there's a road, slam on breaks and turn down it, I don't care if we might flip" kind of exploration. I guess it's not exactly a mystery that does it - it's the mindnumbing traffic. If you sit in it for too long something happens to your brain where any road, other than the road you're on, suddenly becomes a wormhole that can take you directly to your destination. It doesn't matter that it is actually in the exact wrong direction, or that you tried that particular road last week and it ended up adding an extra half hour to your trip. While you're staring at the flat ass of the Prius directly in front of you, moving an average of .1 miles per hour, nothing matters except moving, turning, doing anything different. If no road is available the median starts looking incredible attractive. "I've got a truck," you think, "trucks were made to drive on the median - what civilized country would pass a law against that?"So, this feeling struck me unusually quickly as I left for work the other day. I was sitting at the edge of my apartment complex, about to make my first turn, when traffic going my way suddenly peaked and there didn't seem to be a break for, well at least a few seconds, but it was a few seconds too many. I found my arms working of their own volition and the car turning away from my usual route and in a northerly, opposite from way I needed to go, sort of direction. "It's ok," I thought, "I might know a shortcut." The biggest problem with taking "shortcuts" around here is that everyone has tried them once or twice and they all have a devoted followed who will swear against all evidence that they are the faster way to go. Which, of course, means that they are usually as crowded as the main roads, only they don't have the advantage of more than a single lane. This is, however, the sort of logical thinking that hours of fighting traffic quickly destroys, followed quickly by your will to live. Talk about your enhanced interrogation techniques - just put a suspected terrorist in a car and make him drive from Fredericksburg to DC on 95 several times a day and he'll tell you everything he knows.Suffice to say that my shortcut didn't really turn out. It was, in fact, a longcut. Still, it was at least a nice change of scenery. It's reassuring at times to know that all of Northern Virginia hasn't been paved over and become a disgustingly suburban sprawl of asphalt and shopping centers. There are a few spots of fields, although I doubt, judging from the number of For Sale/Development signs, that they will last very long. As I was driving, I was passing one such field, so shrouded in fog that I could have been in Ireland, when a giant sign materialized in front of me announcing the fields imminent demise. "5 Awesome! New Homes!" it practically shouted at me. I wonder who thought that Awesome New Homes! wasn't good enough and thought: "Nope, that's too dull. We need something with pizzaz. Something that'll really attract attention. Oh I've got it. More exclamation points! Awsome! !!!!!! "What, are they really advertising homes for people raised on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, now?" I mused, which of course led me to sing the song. Out loud. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, heroes in a half shell, TURTLE POWER! And then the rap from Turtles II. T-U-R-T-L-E Power! Ninja Ninja Ninja Rap!Then it hit me, like a kick to the face. People raised on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were buying houses. They were having families and looking to buy awesome! new homes. Sigh. And what was I doing as a member of this mutant ninja generation? At least I know what I'll be doing tonight: renting all three turtles movies and eating pizza. Cowabunga!
Posted by Benjamin Wilkins at 8:04 AM 0 comments
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
No, Seriously.
Ok, I thought I'd start this baby off with bang - and by bang I of course mean a run of the mill introduction explaining how this blog is different from others, and how it should be taken seriously. Don't worry, I won't take too long, but I think it's important to establish a few boundaries before we get going.In this blog, unlike many others, I plan on offering an array of services, bringing my considerable knowledge and discernment to bear on any number of issues - both contemporary and historic - and to do this in an amusing, insightful way that leaves one refreshed, thinking, "Ah. So the internet isn't just for pornography and lovesick teenagers after all." Yes, like most blogs I'll be posting on what's going on in my life, but, luckily, my life isn't all that interesting so there'll be plenty of time for me to bring important news to your attention, or to review new books, cds, movies, etc. Some of you may have read earlier blogs of my college exploits, most of them revolving around drunken carousing and may suspect that this will be more of the same. I assure you this isn't the case. At the risk of alienating most of my potential audience I proclaim that this attempt at serial non-fiction will be different: it'll be in good taste. So, Ladies and Gentlebeans, without further ado, the first post:"Hey, Nice Dick!"As I was walking around George Mason University the other day, where I am currently, but perhaps not for long, a grad student, a car slowed beside me and a kid in the backseat leaned half out of his window towards me. I imagine he would have leaned out further but had trouble getting his giant head through the childproof window. Anyway, as the car slowed I looked up and he looked at me and shouted, "Hey, Nice Dick." Like an idiot, my first reaction was to look down at my crotch as if to say, "Oh. Is my penis showing?" As if it were somehow possible for me to have not only forgotten to zip up after a trip to the bathroom but that I had walked around outside for most of the day with my penis hanging out of pants and hadn't noticed. As the car sped away to the muted sounds of laughter, I still haven't quite digested what has occurred. I think I should be angry and so I try, even knowing the car is long gone, to think of some kind of a snappy comeback that I could shout if ever this happens again. How should I know? Maybe some fraternity at GMU does this all the time - driving around and complementing the packages of other men. Maybe, I think, I should be flattered even. After all, he did say, "Nice dick." He could have just as easily insulted it. "Hey, you're dick is a jerk. And...and...and...it's got a stupid haircut." And what would I have said to that?Ten minutes later, sitting in my car on my way home a smile spreads across my face. I've got it. "Oh yeah? Nice vagina." That'll teach him to be snarky with me.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Pete McCarthy
Ok, so this isn't exactly breaking news, seeing as how it happened 3 years ago, but I just found out so it's breaking news to me. About a month ago JV and I were in Asheville, NC for a concert/getaway weekend. Wherever I go, I like to check out any local used bookstores, mostly because I have an uncontrollable urge to spend my hard earned money on books that I will probably never get around to reading. It's kind of like how, in Conspiracy Theory, Mel Gibson's character has to go out and buy The Catcher in the Rye in order to feel normal and not kill people. So, yes, I have to buy books or I might kill people. And used books tend to not upset my wallet quite as much - unfortunately he's very sensitive at the moment. Anyway, we were looking through this place and I had picked out a few used cds, but hadn't found much in the way of interesting books so I went to find where JV was hiding - in the travel book section of course. I found her poring over a guide to Scotland, wondering if things had really changed that much in the Highlands during the last 10 years. I wouldn't know from experience, but my guess is that things haven't changed too drastically in the highlands for a lot longer than 10 years - I mean, there's not a lot of innovation in Tweed, Sheep, or Scotch. To keep me from annoying her ("I can't find anything, what are you doing, oh Scotland that's cool are we going to go? No? Just you? Fine! I don't need you anyway, I'm going on a trip by myself to...uh...uh...Bulgaria! Ha! Bulgaria's going to be much more fun that dreary old Scotland, with it's beautiful scenery, and english speaking natives, and great whiskey, and sweaters, and loch ness monsters, and kilts, which reminds me, isn't Braveheart a fucking great movie? I mean seriously, Gibson's best, by far. I'm not a racist but I do love me some Mel Gibson movies...etc.") she pointed me in the direction of the Literary Travel section. Literary Travel is just like normal Travel except more interesting and far less useful. Picking I think at random but more probably with that freakish psychic ability that mothers teach only their daughters, she handed me Pete McCarthy's The Road to McCarthy: Around the World In Search of Ireland. Turns out the book was his second in the same vein, the first having a snappier title: McCarthy's Bar: Or Never Pass a Bar With Your Name On It or somesuch. As most of you probably know, I am enamoured of all things Irish. Well, maybe not all things (Darby O'Gill and the Little People made me forever terrified of Leprechauns, and Banshees) - but certain aspects of the culture or at least the perceived culture really appeal to me. JV went to Ireland about a year ago (shit, maybe more now) and told me how it's "very Ben Wilkins." Everyone drinks of course, but though there are plenty of your crappy American-esque bars about, the pubs tend to be a more relaxed atmosphere - a place where it's neither uncomfortable nor unusual to find yourself in a conversation with a complete stranger about history, politics, or all things literary. Plus, I really dig Irish folk and even play a little Bodhran from time to time. So - I like Irishy things, but I didn't expect too much of the book, mostly because I'd never heard of the author. But it was fantastically entertaining. It essentially consisted of Pete wandering around the world, meeting people and having conversations with them, while hunting down some historical Irish conspirators and some of his possible descendants. It was written comically, yet poignantly, with occasional observations that really struck to the core of human life - what makes us different and what makes us the same. It wasn't brilliant. But it was good, and it inspired me. This is the kind of writing that I would like to do, and after reading just a few chapters I started up this blog, and more importantly renewed my vow to keep a small notebook with me at all times to note down observations that strike me.It didn't take me long to finish the book. I searched for Pete online, hoping to find where he was off to now, but as it turns out he's passed away. This actually affected me much more than I would have expected. There's something so personal about his style of writing - it was like I had gotten to know him, and gone to all those places he did with him. I was sad to find out that he was gone. It wasn't like losing a friend exactly, more like losing a pen-pal.So. It was a sad day, three years ago, when we lost Mr. McCarthy, though I'm only noticing now. At least he left us a bit of his experiences before he took off - you should all check out both of his books. And I think that, thanks to Pete, I might do a little literary travel writing of my own. I can't travel but I could more thoroughly explore where I am now. So check back to find some interesting but fairly useless descriptions of Herndon and the greater DC area.Thanks Pete.
Posted by Benjamin Wilkins at 10:23 AM 0 comments
Monday, October 22, 2007
Human Echolocation
Apparently this kid has been famous for this for a while, but I just saw this last night when I was bored and scanning Current.com (more on that later). It's pretty incredible - so much so that I would normally be inclined to think it's a hoax, but there are enough sources that I think he's the real thing. I couldn't find the original video I watched on current, but here's one I found on Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpBm4KoWsrYCheck it out. He's like Daredevil. Seriously.
Posted by Benjamin Wilkins at 1:13 PM 0 comments
Labels: ben underwood, blind, daredevil, human echolocation, incredible, senses
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Turtle Power
There's something about the DC Metro area that encourages exploration. Often spontaneous "there's a road, slam on breaks and turn down it, I don't care if we might flip" kind of exploration. I guess it's not exactly a mystery that does it - it's the mindnumbing traffic. If you sit in it for too long something happens to your brain where any road, other than the road you're on, suddenly becomes a wormhole that can take you directly to your destination. It doesn't matter that it is actually in the exact wrong direction, or that you tried that particular road last week and it ended up adding an extra half hour to your trip. While you're staring at the flat ass of the Prius directly in front of you, moving an average of .1 miles per hour, nothing matters except moving, turning, doing anything different. If no road is available the median starts looking incredible attractive. "I've got a truck," you think, "trucks were made to drive on the median - what civilized country would pass a law against that?"So, this feeling struck me unusually quickly as I left for work the other day. I was sitting at the edge of my apartment complex, about to make my first turn, when traffic going my way suddenly peaked and there didn't seem to be a break for, well at least a few seconds, but it was a few seconds too many. I found my arms working of their own volition and the car turning away from my usual route and in a northerly, opposite from way I needed to go, sort of direction. "It's ok," I thought, "I might know a shortcut." The biggest problem with taking "shortcuts" around here is that everyone has tried them once or twice and they all have a devoted followed who will swear against all evidence that they are the faster way to go. Which, of course, means that they are usually as crowded as the main roads, only they don't have the advantage of more than a single lane. This is, however, the sort of logical thinking that hours of fighting traffic quickly destroys, followed quickly by your will to live. Talk about your enhanced interrogation techniques - just put a suspected terrorist in a car and make him drive from Fredericksburg to DC on 95 several times a day and he'll tell you everything he knows.Suffice to say that my shortcut didn't really turn out. It was, in fact, a longcut. Still, it was at least a nice change of scenery. It's reassuring at times to know that all of Northern Virginia hasn't been paved over and become a disgustingly suburban sprawl of asphalt and shopping centers. There are a few spots of fields, although I doubt, judging from the number of For Sale/Development signs, that they will last very long. As I was driving, I was passing one such field, so shrouded in fog that I could have been in Ireland, when a giant sign materialized in front of me announcing the fields imminent demise. "5 Awesome! New Homes!" it practically shouted at me. I wonder who thought that Awesome New Homes! wasn't good enough and thought: "Nope, that's too dull. We need something with pizzaz. Something that'll really attract attention. Oh I've got it. More exclamation points! Awsome! !!!!!! "What, are they really advertising homes for people raised on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, now?" I mused, which of course led me to sing the song. Out loud. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, heroes in a half shell, TURTLE POWER! And then the rap from Turtles II. T-U-R-T-L-E Power! Ninja Ninja Ninja Rap!Then it hit me, like a kick to the face. People raised on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were buying houses. They were having families and looking to buy awesome! new homes. Sigh. And what was I doing as a member of this mutant ninja generation? At least I know what I'll be doing tonight: renting all three turtles movies and eating pizza. Cowabunga!
Posted by Benjamin Wilkins at 8:04 AM 0 comments
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
No, Seriously.
Ok, I thought I'd start this baby off with bang - and by bang I of course mean a run of the mill introduction explaining how this blog is different from others, and how it should be taken seriously. Don't worry, I won't take too long, but I think it's important to establish a few boundaries before we get going.In this blog, unlike many others, I plan on offering an array of services, bringing my considerable knowledge and discernment to bear on any number of issues - both contemporary and historic - and to do this in an amusing, insightful way that leaves one refreshed, thinking, "Ah. So the internet isn't just for pornography and lovesick teenagers after all." Yes, like most blogs I'll be posting on what's going on in my life, but, luckily, my life isn't all that interesting so there'll be plenty of time for me to bring important news to your attention, or to review new books, cds, movies, etc. Some of you may have read earlier blogs of my college exploits, most of them revolving around drunken carousing and may suspect that this will be more of the same. I assure you this isn't the case. At the risk of alienating most of my potential audience I proclaim that this attempt at serial non-fiction will be different: it'll be in good taste. So, Ladies and Gentlebeans, without further ado, the first post:"Hey, Nice Dick!"As I was walking around George Mason University the other day, where I am currently, but perhaps not for long, a grad student, a car slowed beside me and a kid in the backseat leaned half out of his window towards me. I imagine he would have leaned out further but had trouble getting his giant head through the childproof window. Anyway, as the car slowed I looked up and he looked at me and shouted, "Hey, Nice Dick." Like an idiot, my first reaction was to look down at my crotch as if to say, "Oh. Is my penis showing?" As if it were somehow possible for me to have not only forgotten to zip up after a trip to the bathroom but that I had walked around outside for most of the day with my penis hanging out of pants and hadn't noticed. As the car sped away to the muted sounds of laughter, I still haven't quite digested what has occurred. I think I should be angry and so I try, even knowing the car is long gone, to think of some kind of a snappy comeback that I could shout if ever this happens again. How should I know? Maybe some fraternity at GMU does this all the time - driving around and complementing the packages of other men. Maybe, I think, I should be flattered even. After all, he did say, "Nice dick." He could have just as easily insulted it. "Hey, you're dick is a jerk. And...and...and...it's got a stupid haircut." And what would I have said to that?Ten minutes later, sitting in my car on my way home a smile spreads across my face. I've got it. "Oh yeah? Nice vagina." That'll teach him to be snarky with me.
Superheroes and Cubicle Cursing
This is a great Michael Chabon article from The New Yorker on the nature of Unitardian superhero costumes and why they appeal to us:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/03/10/080310fa_fact_chabon?currentPage=1
Its worth the read for all of you aspiring superheroes, like myself, who have occasionally donned the cape just to see what it might feel like.
Now for something else entirely. I'm sitting at work in my cubicle (doing the grunt work of media research for Communication professor at George Mason University), generally slacking off even more than usual because my boss is out of town for the week*, when I hear the angry and intensely punctuated whispering that means Tamara, my fellow researcher but not fellow student, has arrived. Unlike myself, she actually has a specific cubicle to call her own, while I have to fight for a new one each day with the other student workers - hoping I can arrive early enough to get the one where my boss can't constantly look over my shoulder. Tamara's seniority as a seasoned "coder" guarantees here this, as well as a salary from the research institution instead of tuition credits from school.
All day she mutters to herself. Although sometimes I think she's on the phone, but its very hard to tell the difference. We document the news, so its not as crazy as it sounds - she could very well be simply commenting on what she's watching. I do it sometimes, especially when I'm logging jokes - which means covering shows like The Daily Show, or Letterman. So I laugh when they say something funny. Most of the comments I get floating over the grey walls of my cubicle are more like: "Yeah right, fucker." "You dumb son of a bitch" "Who the hell do you think you are?" "Oh that's just stupid. Fuck you."
Or just more angry whispering that is just barely audible and incredibly annoying as somehow its pitched at the right vibration to penetrate my headphones and be distracting. I can't wait to get out of here.
*One thing that's nice about not really having a readership - it makes it much less likely that your boss is going to stumble onto your blog. The fewer people that read my blog, the fewer edits I have to make when I make fun of them.
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/03/10/080310fa_fact_chabon?currentPage=1
Its worth the read for all of you aspiring superheroes, like myself, who have occasionally donned the cape just to see what it might feel like.
Now for something else entirely. I'm sitting at work in my cubicle (doing the grunt work of media research for Communication professor at George Mason University), generally slacking off even more than usual because my boss is out of town for the week*, when I hear the angry and intensely punctuated whispering that means Tamara, my fellow researcher but not fellow student, has arrived. Unlike myself, she actually has a specific cubicle to call her own, while I have to fight for a new one each day with the other student workers - hoping I can arrive early enough to get the one where my boss can't constantly look over my shoulder. Tamara's seniority as a seasoned "coder" guarantees here this, as well as a salary from the research institution instead of tuition credits from school.
All day she mutters to herself. Although sometimes I think she's on the phone, but its very hard to tell the difference. We document the news, so its not as crazy as it sounds - she could very well be simply commenting on what she's watching. I do it sometimes, especially when I'm logging jokes - which means covering shows like The Daily Show, or Letterman. So I laugh when they say something funny. Most of the comments I get floating over the grey walls of my cubicle are more like: "Yeah right, fucker." "You dumb son of a bitch" "Who the hell do you think you are?" "Oh that's just stupid. Fuck you."
Or just more angry whispering that is just barely audible and incredibly annoying as somehow its pitched at the right vibration to penetrate my headphones and be distracting. I can't wait to get out of here.
*One thing that's nice about not really having a readership - it makes it much less likely that your boss is going to stumble onto your blog. The fewer people that read my blog, the fewer edits I have to make when I make fun of them.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Plague
Dearest Everyone,
I'm so sorry I haven't called. I know, I know, that's what they all say. But I'm actually sorry - I mean, I am writing you right? That's worth something right? The time we've had together has been special...sometimes really special. And not just physically, all the talking parts too. You're the first person I've ever opened up to, the first person I've been able to share with. I know you're thinking, then why did I leave? Why would I take what we had and throw it all away by not showing up for weeks at a time? Was there someone else? Am I leading two completely different lives? Am I really a secret agent? So many questions you must have. Well, unfortunately the answer is much simpler. I've had the plague. And believe me you don't want the plague. This is what my insides look like:
Disgusting eh? So you understand. It's not that I'm unfaithful, if anything, you should have been there for me. But I forgive you. Now go make me a pie, woman.
I'm so sorry I haven't called. I know, I know, that's what they all say. But I'm actually sorry - I mean, I am writing you right? That's worth something right? The time we've had together has been special...sometimes really special. And not just physically, all the talking parts too. You're the first person I've ever opened up to, the first person I've been able to share with. I know you're thinking, then why did I leave? Why would I take what we had and throw it all away by not showing up for weeks at a time? Was there someone else? Am I leading two completely different lives? Am I really a secret agent? So many questions you must have. Well, unfortunately the answer is much simpler. I've had the plague. And believe me you don't want the plague. This is what my insides look like:
Disgusting eh? So you understand. It's not that I'm unfaithful, if anything, you should have been there for me. But I forgive you. Now go make me a pie, woman.
Friday, December 08, 2006
There's Something About a Cigar
Effective January 1st 2007 one will no longer be able to smoke in bars, clubs, etc., anywhere in DC. No cigarettes, no cigars, and sad sad sadly, no pipes or hookas. I understand the argument. Really it's not such a bad one - secondhand smoke does suck. Especially if you're trying to eat. And I couldn't imagine how horrible it would be to get cancer if you weren't even intentionally taking the risks.
Then again, part of me just wants to say, grow a pair of balls you goddamn hippies.
I refer you to a selection from a play written by a young Jack Kerouac, which is the namesake for this blog:
"But, there's something about a cigar just the same. Like the time I walked out of a movie in New York and began to walk home along Broadway. I was cold, and shy of the world. Suddenly, I saw a cigar store. I said to myself, "Zagg, you're going to go in there and buy yourself a cigar. What for? I don't know. I'm glad I don't know. I don't want to know. I'll just buy one and smoke it." So I bought a cigar and lit it, and walked out and went right along the street, a new man. I looked at everyone with new interest, because the cigar gave me courage. It made me say, "Well hello there. How the hell are you, you little pavement cipher, you little nameless, faceless cinder of Wolfe? I'm Zagg and I've got a cigar and I don't give a damn for anything, nor do I reject anything. I think that you're an ugly puss, but I like you because you inhabit this earth with me and we're both in the same boat.""
You get the idea. There's something morbidly noble about smoking - about saying to the world that you know the consequences and fuck it, you choose wrongly on purpose and to hell with everything else.
Then again, part of me just wants to say, grow a pair of balls you goddamn hippies.
I refer you to a selection from a play written by a young Jack Kerouac, which is the namesake for this blog:
"But, there's something about a cigar just the same. Like the time I walked out of a movie in New York and began to walk home along Broadway. I was cold, and shy of the world. Suddenly, I saw a cigar store. I said to myself, "Zagg, you're going to go in there and buy yourself a cigar. What for? I don't know. I'm glad I don't know. I don't want to know. I'll just buy one and smoke it." So I bought a cigar and lit it, and walked out and went right along the street, a new man. I looked at everyone with new interest, because the cigar gave me courage. It made me say, "Well hello there. How the hell are you, you little pavement cipher, you little nameless, faceless cinder of Wolfe? I'm Zagg and I've got a cigar and I don't give a damn for anything, nor do I reject anything. I think that you're an ugly puss, but I like you because you inhabit this earth with me and we're both in the same boat.""
You get the idea. There's something morbidly noble about smoking - about saying to the world that you know the consequences and fuck it, you choose wrongly on purpose and to hell with everything else.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Some thoughts on Justice
A couple of nights ago I walked into the middle of a conversation between a jubilate friend of mine and a vocal atheist. We were at the U-Singers/Symphony Christmas concert and my friend had asked this guy (who I guess he knew was an atheist from something else he'd seen him at) if he celebrated Christmas or just secular "Holiday Season" and how he felt about the traditional music that was being played. Anyway, by the time I walked in on the conversation he was philosophizing about the nature of God's Justice and how for God to be infinitely Just he could not be a loving God, because it would be injust for him to save any of us, etc. Therefore there is no God because an entity cannot logically be in contradiction with itself.
It's actually an old argument. Very old. Early humanists confronted this problem 700 years ago, and it was one of the complications during the Reformation. I think, but I could be completely wrong, that it was the early Reformation thinker (and genius actually, getting his Doctorate of Theology at 19) Phillip Melancthon who first said that "God cannot be infinitely just and infinitely merciful." Someone look it up so I don't look stupid. Anyway, it got me thinking about the nature of God's justice. There are two ways that I look at it. First, I'm inclined to think that maybe this guy was right - it isn't just of God to forgive us without punnishment. Therefore, maybe God isn't infinitely Just. Maybe we should just get over it and be grateful.
But that's not really satisfying is it? That would basically be to say that whatever we do doesn't matter - our actions have no consequences. Everything about that is wrong to me. If there are no consequences then it follows that there is no responsibility, that there is nothing expected of us, which means there is no growth and no possibility to be more than animals, creations, rather than children and honored servants of God. (Note that this is not a discussion of Free Will, or Grace vs. Works - I think wherever you stand on the Elect, you can agree that God expects certain things of you, even if already saved).
Here's an alternative view. Maybe our conception of Justice is misguided. We tend to think of it as putting things right. That in the end, the bad people will be punished while the good victims will get their due. But that sounds oddly like revenge, not like Christian doctrine. Yes, of course, "Vengenance is mine sayeth the Lord." but if we are all potential children of God, and he loves the most base villain, then vengenance is not what he's primarily after. If you pull back to get some perspective, maybe it's not just at all. After all what would you do if a Toddler kicked you in the shins? Is it just to kick him back with equal force? Of course not. What if there was some awful tragedy and two of your kids were fighting, maybe one was emotionally disturbed and killed his brother. You would be heartbroken, but could you possibly want the police to take your other child to be executed? Our very nature rebels against this, and tells us that this is wrong, that it doesn't make anything right or better, which is what Justice is really all about. So maybe it's not as contradictory as it seems to be both Just and Merciful - perhaps they're not so far apart.
Finally, a third but related view (I know I said 2 but I can't help myself). To the Christian view there cannot be a paradox. God created a world in which actions mattered, and we had to take the consequences. Unfortunately, that means we all deserve death. Whenever we treat a fellow human being as a tool, whenever we cheapen a fellow soul by making them into nothing but an animal (either in a small way - using someone for sex - or a large way - the holocaust) we deserve for God to treat us the same way. In other words to take away our eternal nature as well, aka death. So to satisfy Justice, to make sure that our actions still mattered, but that his desire for us to live with him as human beings forever (love) also be satisfied, he died himself to pay the price. Whether you believe or not, if you assume a Loving God, but also a Just God, as well as our own fairly easily corruptible natures, then it makes sense that events would play out in this way.
It's actually an old argument. Very old. Early humanists confronted this problem 700 years ago, and it was one of the complications during the Reformation. I think, but I could be completely wrong, that it was the early Reformation thinker (and genius actually, getting his Doctorate of Theology at 19) Phillip Melancthon who first said that "God cannot be infinitely just and infinitely merciful." Someone look it up so I don't look stupid. Anyway, it got me thinking about the nature of God's justice. There are two ways that I look at it. First, I'm inclined to think that maybe this guy was right - it isn't just of God to forgive us without punnishment. Therefore, maybe God isn't infinitely Just. Maybe we should just get over it and be grateful.
But that's not really satisfying is it? That would basically be to say that whatever we do doesn't matter - our actions have no consequences. Everything about that is wrong to me. If there are no consequences then it follows that there is no responsibility, that there is nothing expected of us, which means there is no growth and no possibility to be more than animals, creations, rather than children and honored servants of God. (Note that this is not a discussion of Free Will, or Grace vs. Works - I think wherever you stand on the Elect, you can agree that God expects certain things of you, even if already saved).
Here's an alternative view. Maybe our conception of Justice is misguided. We tend to think of it as putting things right. That in the end, the bad people will be punished while the good victims will get their due. But that sounds oddly like revenge, not like Christian doctrine. Yes, of course, "Vengenance is mine sayeth the Lord." but if we are all potential children of God, and he loves the most base villain, then vengenance is not what he's primarily after. If you pull back to get some perspective, maybe it's not just at all. After all what would you do if a Toddler kicked you in the shins? Is it just to kick him back with equal force? Of course not. What if there was some awful tragedy and two of your kids were fighting, maybe one was emotionally disturbed and killed his brother. You would be heartbroken, but could you possibly want the police to take your other child to be executed? Our very nature rebels against this, and tells us that this is wrong, that it doesn't make anything right or better, which is what Justice is really all about. So maybe it's not as contradictory as it seems to be both Just and Merciful - perhaps they're not so far apart.
Finally, a third but related view (I know I said 2 but I can't help myself). To the Christian view there cannot be a paradox. God created a world in which actions mattered, and we had to take the consequences. Unfortunately, that means we all deserve death. Whenever we treat a fellow human being as a tool, whenever we cheapen a fellow soul by making them into nothing but an animal (either in a small way - using someone for sex - or a large way - the holocaust) we deserve for God to treat us the same way. In other words to take away our eternal nature as well, aka death. So to satisfy Justice, to make sure that our actions still mattered, but that his desire for us to live with him as human beings forever (love) also be satisfied, he died himself to pay the price. Whether you believe or not, if you assume a Loving God, but also a Just God, as well as our own fairly easily corruptible natures, then it makes sense that events would play out in this way.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Civil War in Iraq
So the new debate about Iraq (new a relative term of course) seems to be whether or not the "country" is in a state of Civil War. The Bush Administration desperately wants for the conflict not to be characterized in this way, suspecting that the terminology could cause further political fallout and erode support for the war even more than has been done so far. Democrats looking for a way to pull out want to use the term for exactly the same reason - thinking that it will give support for the argument that it is no longer our conflict. Meanwhile, news organizations seem to be trying to give themselves a harder image by "telling it like it is."
My problem is that to me - it's not a civil war, it's far far worse. Here's an apt description of the conflict by CNN's Michael Ware (as quoted by Washington Post's Dan Froomkin):
"I mean, if this is not civil war, where there is, on average, 40 to 50 tortured, mutilated, executed bodies showing up on the capital streets each morning, where we have thousands of unaccounted for dead bodies mounting up every month, and where the list of those who have simply disappeared for the sake of the fact that they have the wrong name, a name that is either Sunni or Shia, so much so that we have people getting dual identity cards, where parents cannot send their children to school, because they have to cross a sectarian line, then, goodness, me, I don't want to see what a civil war looks like either if this isn't one."
Only the situation Mr. Ware is describing isn't Civil War at all. Civil War, as horrific as it can be, implies some kind of organized insurrection from an established government. This isn't civil war it's anarchy. It's the complete absence of the rule of law, replaced by the law of the sword (or in this case the AK-47). It's gang violence on a national scale.
I guess what my point is that debating semantics is useless. Whether we call it a Civil War or not doesn't change the fact that if we (or preferably the whole international community) don't stop the extremists from killing every last moderate left, there will be no Iraqi nation, in fact there won't be even a Sunni nation fighting a Shia nation, there will only be neighbors brutally murdering their neighbors - chaos and the end to any semblance of civilization.
Forget words, forget religion, forget politics. We fucked up big time by causing this - we can't pretend we're not involved, but neither can we say we've fixed it or that it hasn't gotten worse. It's not about Democrat or Republican, or Christian or Muslim, or who did what when. It's about the people who just want their kids to go to school, who just want to work and laugh and live getting the shit kicked out of them and even if the level of violence it's reached hadn't been our fault, we would still have a responsibility as a witness to stop it from happening.
Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. -- John Donne
My problem is that to me - it's not a civil war, it's far far worse. Here's an apt description of the conflict by CNN's Michael Ware (as quoted by Washington Post's Dan Froomkin):
"I mean, if this is not civil war, where there is, on average, 40 to 50 tortured, mutilated, executed bodies showing up on the capital streets each morning, where we have thousands of unaccounted for dead bodies mounting up every month, and where the list of those who have simply disappeared for the sake of the fact that they have the wrong name, a name that is either Sunni or Shia, so much so that we have people getting dual identity cards, where parents cannot send their children to school, because they have to cross a sectarian line, then, goodness, me, I don't want to see what a civil war looks like either if this isn't one."
Only the situation Mr. Ware is describing isn't Civil War at all. Civil War, as horrific as it can be, implies some kind of organized insurrection from an established government. This isn't civil war it's anarchy. It's the complete absence of the rule of law, replaced by the law of the sword (or in this case the AK-47). It's gang violence on a national scale.
I guess what my point is that debating semantics is useless. Whether we call it a Civil War or not doesn't change the fact that if we (or preferably the whole international community) don't stop the extremists from killing every last moderate left, there will be no Iraqi nation, in fact there won't be even a Sunni nation fighting a Shia nation, there will only be neighbors brutally murdering their neighbors - chaos and the end to any semblance of civilization.
Forget words, forget religion, forget politics. We fucked up big time by causing this - we can't pretend we're not involved, but neither can we say we've fixed it or that it hasn't gotten worse. It's not about Democrat or Republican, or Christian or Muslim, or who did what when. It's about the people who just want their kids to go to school, who just want to work and laugh and live getting the shit kicked out of them and even if the level of violence it's reached hadn't been our fault, we would still have a responsibility as a witness to stop it from happening.
Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. -- John Donne
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Happy but not Content
I've come to realize that I am, whatever momentary storm clouds of despair may float across my subconscious, incredibly and stupidly happy. I have so many things in this life to be happy about. I've managed to come through the public educational system virtually unscathed, with the ability to at least fool myself into believing that I can think for myself. Opportunities abound for me, and my future actually looks like it might have promise - I may never have the chance to do anything great, but I will have ample chances to do something good, maybe even lasting. I've had money enough to experience life without obsessing about survival, yet not enough to take away a sense of the value of a hard day's work.
There are many things on this earth that I honestly love. There are great roaring fires in the family hearth that keep away the bitterness of a winter night. There is good food to be eaten, good tobacco to fill my pipe, strong drink to fill my cup. There is wind in the trees that sounds like poetry, and poetry when read that sounds like music, and music that sounds like hope, or rage, or sadness, or love, or peace, or passion. There is Shakespeare, and Milton, Coleridge and Wordsworth, T.S. Elliott and Robert Frost. There is Poe, Joyce, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Kerouac, Tolkien and Lewis, and a million others. Pages and pages of dreams that remind us how much more there is beyond our own petty little lives. There is a smile from a beautiful stranger, the shared pleasure of a beaming child, the love of a loyal dog with his head resting across your lap.
There are memories: of walks under the moon, of football games played or watched, of little league, of my own drunken (figurative or literal) stupidity, of girls I've kissed and those I wish I had, of songs sung, dances danced, of life...lived.
And I am especially happy for those people - friends and family alike - who intrude on my solitude, who break me away from myself and my own egomania. People who, no matter how much you despise them from moment to moment, inspire you to love fiercely because they accept you for yourself even when you don't know who or what that is. People who somehow help you towards becoming the person you think you should become.
Here's the thing though. All these things make me happy because they remind me of home - and I don't mean Lexington, VA. I mean Home. I mean that place from which we've all been expelled or exiled, or just lost. You can call it whatever you want - Heaven, Never Never Land, the place between awake and asleep where you can still remember dreaming, The Far Country.
So I know that I will never always be happy. I know that things can go wrong for me - that my good life could end. But even when I am most satisfied, I know I will never be completely content. I can surround myself with all those things that remind me of home, but they will never be home. At my happiest there is that hunger, that pit of longing and desire for something that I know is so much better - like when you look at pictures of someone you've loved and lost. You love the picture, and couldn't part with it - but in some ways it actually makes the pain far worse. So, I'll keep searching for the hidden country, the door to the lost city, the key to a forgotten language, the leaf, the stone, the door. One day, God willing, I'll make my way back to Ithaca and the things I love then won't fill me with biting sadness, but with simple, happy, fierce content.
There are many things on this earth that I honestly love. There are great roaring fires in the family hearth that keep away the bitterness of a winter night. There is good food to be eaten, good tobacco to fill my pipe, strong drink to fill my cup. There is wind in the trees that sounds like poetry, and poetry when read that sounds like music, and music that sounds like hope, or rage, or sadness, or love, or peace, or passion. There is Shakespeare, and Milton, Coleridge and Wordsworth, T.S. Elliott and Robert Frost. There is Poe, Joyce, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Kerouac, Tolkien and Lewis, and a million others. Pages and pages of dreams that remind us how much more there is beyond our own petty little lives. There is a smile from a beautiful stranger, the shared pleasure of a beaming child, the love of a loyal dog with his head resting across your lap.
There are memories: of walks under the moon, of football games played or watched, of little league, of my own drunken (figurative or literal) stupidity, of girls I've kissed and those I wish I had, of songs sung, dances danced, of life...lived.
And I am especially happy for those people - friends and family alike - who intrude on my solitude, who break me away from myself and my own egomania. People who, no matter how much you despise them from moment to moment, inspire you to love fiercely because they accept you for yourself even when you don't know who or what that is. People who somehow help you towards becoming the person you think you should become.
Here's the thing though. All these things make me happy because they remind me of home - and I don't mean Lexington, VA. I mean Home. I mean that place from which we've all been expelled or exiled, or just lost. You can call it whatever you want - Heaven, Never Never Land, the place between awake and asleep where you can still remember dreaming, The Far Country.
So I know that I will never always be happy. I know that things can go wrong for me - that my good life could end. But even when I am most satisfied, I know I will never be completely content. I can surround myself with all those things that remind me of home, but they will never be home. At my happiest there is that hunger, that pit of longing and desire for something that I know is so much better - like when you look at pictures of someone you've loved and lost. You love the picture, and couldn't part with it - but in some ways it actually makes the pain far worse. So, I'll keep searching for the hidden country, the door to the lost city, the key to a forgotten language, the leaf, the stone, the door. One day, God willing, I'll make my way back to Ithaca and the things I love then won't fill me with biting sadness, but with simple, happy, fierce content.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Look Homeward Angel
The Death of Benjamin Gant
The rattling in the wasted body, which seemed for hours to have given over to death all of life that is worth saving, had now ceased. The body appeared to grow ridid before them. Slowly, after a moment, Eliza withdrew her hands. But suddenly, marvellously, as if his resurrection and rebith had come upon him, Ben drew upon the air in a long and powerful respiration; his gray eyes opened. Filled with a terrible vision of all life in the one moment, he seemed to rise forward bodilessly from his pillows without support - a flame, a light, a glory - joined at length in death to the dark spirit who had brooded upon each footstep of his lonely adventure on earth; and, casting the fierce sword of his glance with utter and final comprehension upon the room haunted with its gray pageantry of cheap loves and dull consciences and on all those uncertain mummers of waste and confusion fading now from the bright window of his eyes, he passed instantly, scornful and unafraid, as he had lived, into the shades of death.
We can believe in the nothingness of life, we can believe in the nothingness of death and of life after death - but who can belive in the nothingness of Ben? Life Apollo, who did his penance to the high god in the sad house of King Admetus, he came, a god with broken feet, into the gray hovel of this world. And he lived here a stranger, trying to recapture the music of the lost world, trying to recall the great forgotten language, the lost faces, the stone, the leaf, the door.
O Artemidorus, farewell!
The rattling in the wasted body, which seemed for hours to have given over to death all of life that is worth saving, had now ceased. The body appeared to grow ridid before them. Slowly, after a moment, Eliza withdrew her hands. But suddenly, marvellously, as if his resurrection and rebith had come upon him, Ben drew upon the air in a long and powerful respiration; his gray eyes opened. Filled with a terrible vision of all life in the one moment, he seemed to rise forward bodilessly from his pillows without support - a flame, a light, a glory - joined at length in death to the dark spirit who had brooded upon each footstep of his lonely adventure on earth; and, casting the fierce sword of his glance with utter and final comprehension upon the room haunted with its gray pageantry of cheap loves and dull consciences and on all those uncertain mummers of waste and confusion fading now from the bright window of his eyes, he passed instantly, scornful and unafraid, as he had lived, into the shades of death.
We can believe in the nothingness of life, we can believe in the nothingness of death and of life after death - but who can belive in the nothingness of Ben? Life Apollo, who did his penance to the high god in the sad house of King Admetus, he came, a god with broken feet, into the gray hovel of this world. And he lived here a stranger, trying to recapture the music of the lost world, trying to recall the great forgotten language, the lost faces, the stone, the leaf, the door.
O Artemidorus, farewell!
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Carnifex
For those who may be interested, I've started writing a story, slowly, on another blog. It's fantasy story and mostly has evolved from the days when my brother and I were obsessed with fantasy books, yet couldn't stand them at the same time because they were so poorly written. We've always thought that we could essentially shit out books that would be better than the...well shit that's out there. So in that spirit you can feel free to read along as we write Carnifex (a horrible title that'll probably change - it means, among other things, executioner in Latin).
A word of warning - most of the posts for that story are, like this blog, largely unedited. While that means you get to see my unadulterated, raw, natural writing talent, it also means you get to see my raw, natural writing talent if you know what I mean. I'm doing this piecemeal when I have time and mostly as a writing exercise rather than as anything too serious. It is fantasy after all. And for once, I'm not trying to pretend to be greater than I am. This is run of the mill adventure type fantasy - not Tolkien.
Feel free to leave comments of approval, disdain, hatred, love, scorn, pity - etc. You can even suggest plot turns if you'd like, but I can't promise I'll listen to you.
A word of warning - most of the posts for that story are, like this blog, largely unedited. While that means you get to see my unadulterated, raw, natural writing talent, it also means you get to see my raw, natural writing talent if you know what I mean. I'm doing this piecemeal when I have time and mostly as a writing exercise rather than as anything too serious. It is fantasy after all. And for once, I'm not trying to pretend to be greater than I am. This is run of the mill adventure type fantasy - not Tolkien.
Feel free to leave comments of approval, disdain, hatred, love, scorn, pity - etc. You can even suggest plot turns if you'd like, but I can't promise I'll listen to you.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Evangelical Agendas
In a story by washingtonpost.com today prominant Evangelicals, both liberal (relatively speaking of course) and conservatives joined in announcing a broader agenda including the environment, poverty, and even taking action to intervene in Darfur. First, I think this is great news. It's nice that even conservatives are finally admitting that there are more issues in the Bible than Homosexualtiy and Abortion. I'd love to see them go further and drop all political action on those two issues, but still, it's a welcome change.
The move hasn't been without it's opponents however. Just read this piece of the article, quoting the Rev. Michael Haseltine.
"I definitely don't like the widening of the agenda, because it muddies the water. Be good stewards of the environment? Sure, but how? These tree-huggers and anti-hunters think it's terrible to kill animals. Oppose poverty? Sure, but what's the best way to do it? We can't solve everybody's problems for them," he said. "Family and life issues -- abortion, sexuality -- they're much more clear from the biblical standpoint."
I think, Reverend, that if you read the Bible, nothing comes across quite as clear as the need to care for the poor. There's no muddying there. Not to mention the fact that, yes, as christians we should do everything we possibly can to solve other people's problems for them. Why not? It's what I believe Jesus did for me, and what you claim to believe. I'm not saying it's easy and I'm not even saying it's possible in this world, I'm just saying it's a noble goal. Far nobler a task for a Christian to undertake than thinly disguised gay bashing. It's positive rather than negative. Helping people rather than trying to force legislation that restricts them.
Fighting for legislation to "protect" traditional family values isn't the hard thing, it's the easy thing. It's getting off the hard road onto the grass in Pilgrim's Progress because they seem to go side by side. As Christians we're called to do the hard thing, because the hard thing was done for us.
The move hasn't been without it's opponents however. Just read this piece of the article, quoting the Rev. Michael Haseltine.
"I definitely don't like the widening of the agenda, because it muddies the water. Be good stewards of the environment? Sure, but how? These tree-huggers and anti-hunters think it's terrible to kill animals. Oppose poverty? Sure, but what's the best way to do it? We can't solve everybody's problems for them," he said. "Family and life issues -- abortion, sexuality -- they're much more clear from the biblical standpoint."
I think, Reverend, that if you read the Bible, nothing comes across quite as clear as the need to care for the poor. There's no muddying there. Not to mention the fact that, yes, as christians we should do everything we possibly can to solve other people's problems for them. Why not? It's what I believe Jesus did for me, and what you claim to believe. I'm not saying it's easy and I'm not even saying it's possible in this world, I'm just saying it's a noble goal. Far nobler a task for a Christian to undertake than thinly disguised gay bashing. It's positive rather than negative. Helping people rather than trying to force legislation that restricts them.
Fighting for legislation to "protect" traditional family values isn't the hard thing, it's the easy thing. It's getting off the hard road onto the grass in Pilgrim's Progress because they seem to go side by side. As Christians we're called to do the hard thing, because the hard thing was done for us.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Collaborative Work
I've discovered something about myself - well part of it I've known for a very long time. I have no self-discipline. I mean none. I do what I like, but I can't stop myself from doing it to excess. Or I can't make myself do something that's hard, even if I do like it. For example - I want to be in shape, but it's extremely rare that I can make myself get off my ass and do any serious exercising. So when I do, I feel so accomplished that I convince myself not to do it again for a week.
What I'm really talking about is writing though. I love to write. I really do. I have so many stories that I want to tell: simple stories, complex stories, rants about politics or religion (see below), didactic thoughts on the human condition, etc. Only it's a hard thing to do. Confronted with a blank page (or far worse, a blank computer screen) I panic and give in to one of my easier excesses (see below).
But the new thing that I've found is that I can steal discipline from other people. I'm like a discipline vampire, sucking creativity and drive from those more ambitious than myself. Or even if they aren't - somehow my sense of responsibility makes up the difference. If I feel that someone is depending on me, I work hard not to let them down.
Lately the Jubilate Basses have been working on our Act for Variety Show (saturday 3-5 at University Baptist Church). Basically the writing has come from Dan, Zach, Tad, and I (with some help last night by Joseph) sitting in the old apartment shooting ideas and lines back and forth. Even when it's been especially hard, I love it. I really enjoy working in that kind of environment, and the hours just slip past. Not only does it produce quality work (and it's not always easy to bring the funny) but we actually get it done. By myself I can't make myself work for more than 20 minutes so nothing ever finishes. Maybe I'm destined to work on a sitcom or some other TV show where most of the writing is collaborative.
Only...I still don't want to share the credit.
What I'm really talking about is writing though. I love to write. I really do. I have so many stories that I want to tell: simple stories, complex stories, rants about politics or religion (see below), didactic thoughts on the human condition, etc. Only it's a hard thing to do. Confronted with a blank page (or far worse, a blank computer screen) I panic and give in to one of my easier excesses (see below).
But the new thing that I've found is that I can steal discipline from other people. I'm like a discipline vampire, sucking creativity and drive from those more ambitious than myself. Or even if they aren't - somehow my sense of responsibility makes up the difference. If I feel that someone is depending on me, I work hard not to let them down.
Lately the Jubilate Basses have been working on our Act for Variety Show (saturday 3-5 at University Baptist Church). Basically the writing has come from Dan, Zach, Tad, and I (with some help last night by Joseph) sitting in the old apartment shooting ideas and lines back and forth. Even when it's been especially hard, I love it. I really enjoy working in that kind of environment, and the hours just slip past. Not only does it produce quality work (and it's not always easy to bring the funny) but we actually get it done. By myself I can't make myself work for more than 20 minutes so nothing ever finishes. Maybe I'm destined to work on a sitcom or some other TV show where most of the writing is collaborative.
Only...I still don't want to share the credit.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Tridentine Mass
So the Pope is apparently about to make it easier for Catholics to worship like they did in the old days - with the priest speaking purely in latin to the altar rather than the parishioners (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/10/12/AR2006101201563.html?referrer=email). First, not being Catholic, I don't really care too much. It's not like either my father or Tom Leland are going to start preaching in Latin. And second, I'm not saying that Latin mass can't be beautiful - I'm sure it can be very moving. Also, to be fair, the Pope is not saying that everyone must start speaking latin, he's only making it easier to do so.
Still, it seems like a bad idea in general to me. Services in English can be beautiful as well, and you know what's going on. Most Latin masses throughout history consisted of the priest mumbling to the altar in psuedo-latin. He could be saying anything he wanted. It's not like Latin is really the holiest of languages. He could easily just quote Roman graffiti:
Quisquis amat. veniat. Veneri volo frangere costas
fustibus et lumbos debilitare deae.
Si potest illa mihi tenerum pertundere pectus
quit ego non possim caput illae frangere fuste?
Whoever loves, go to hell. I want to break Venus's ribs
with a club and deform her hips.
If she can break my tender heart
why can't I hit her over the head?
How many people would really know the difference? I'm not anti-Catholic by any means - I know a number of devout Catholics whom I respect greatly (sounds like I'm saying I've got a black friend doesn't it?). Neither do I have illusions about protestantism. I just disagree more with the Catholic system in place, not to mention the insistance that it not be questioned. I think it makes it easy to assume that what's important isn't belief, but just showing up.
Still, it seems like a bad idea in general to me. Services in English can be beautiful as well, and you know what's going on. Most Latin masses throughout history consisted of the priest mumbling to the altar in psuedo-latin. He could be saying anything he wanted. It's not like Latin is really the holiest of languages. He could easily just quote Roman graffiti:
Quisquis amat. veniat. Veneri volo frangere costas
fustibus et lumbos debilitare deae.
Si potest illa mihi tenerum pertundere pectus
quit ego non possim caput illae frangere fuste?
Whoever loves, go to hell. I want to break Venus's ribs
with a club and deform her hips.
If she can break my tender heart
why can't I hit her over the head?
How many people would really know the difference? I'm not anti-Catholic by any means - I know a number of devout Catholics whom I respect greatly (sounds like I'm saying I've got a black friend doesn't it?). Neither do I have illusions about protestantism. I just disagree more with the Catholic system in place, not to mention the insistance that it not be questioned. I think it makes it easy to assume that what's important isn't belief, but just showing up.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The Everlasting Man
I've been reading G.K. Chesterton's The Everlasting Man over the past couple of weeks (it's taking me so long becuase I read it online when I'm at work, a paragraph here and there). If you haven't read any Chesterton, you should, if only to see that, yes, there are Christians (even Catholics) who use their brains. These days it's easy to find examples of so called Christians unwilling to use the reason that God gave them - worshipping not God but some psychotic bastard who hates the majority of his creations and doesn't believe in the natural workings of the world that he created and controls.
In the latest chapter I read he makes a very compelling argument for the divinity of christ, or rather, not for the divinity, but for the honest consideration of that divinity. There is a popular idea - popular in Chesterton's day as much as in ours - that the historical Jesus was a very learned and wise Jewish rabbi. He was a teacher, a wise man, even a prophet. The view stems from two things, both are rational assumptions. First, it is highly unlikely that Jesus the man, this historical Jesus as he is often referred to, did not actually exist. To say otherwise is simply ludicrous. It's to argue that shepherds and fishermen were able to dupe the world with a vast conspiracy that would have little point if they didn't believe it in the first place. In fact, it would have been a suicidal conspiracy - leading them largely to violent death at the hands of authorities or insane mobs, and certainly not leading them to riches and glory. This is like saying that the government caused 9/11 so that they could invade Iraq. As much as certain members may be capitalizing off tragedy, to say that there was a conspiracy involving hundreds of high level officials and no legitimate reporter has ever found out is basically retarded.
The second view of Jesus the teacher comes from reading the gospel. Anyone can see that the man must have been intelligent, as well as wise well beyond his time. The greatest atheist, if he honestly approaches it, cannot read the Parable of the Prodigal Son without thinking at the least - "Here was a great moral reformer." The longevity of his teachings elevates him far above the average philosopher and numbers him among the greats. His teachings are without exception, to my mind, beyond his own time and place: universally applicable. To love your enemy was as near an impossible thing but a uniquely insightful thing then as it is now. The greatest intellectual could not but look at his apparently paradoxical words about dividing with the sword and delight in the subtlty of his thought. As Chesterton points out, Jesus was a man of peace who knew full well that a good peace was better than a good war, but a bad peace infinitely worse. There is universal wisdom here.
That being said, I can agree with the popular view. However, those wanting to claim Jesus as great moral thinker run into a problem. He claimed, quite clearly, that he was the Son of God. This isn't the claim of a great man, this is the claim of a small man who might very likely be insane. One could never imagine a true thinker, whatever his pride, actually claiming to be the Almighty. That kind of egomania is the province of small minded men, unable or unwilling to see how they are men like everyone else. It is easy to discount, because it does not seem logical at all for a man to actually be the Son of God. If one approached the Gospels as someone who had never heard the name Jesus before, one couldn't discount it however. It would, in fact, be incredibly shocking. The speaker of the Sermon on the Mount - preaching wisdom, tolerance, love and moderation - suddenly makes the absurd and insane claim that he's God. There is a serious paradox here that can't be easily ignored.
The obvious option is to say that Jesus never said it. His followers must have added that bit later on. After all the Gospels were written some time after the fact. Only if that's true, and though I personally don't believe it to be true I'm willing to admit that in fact it could be, then it is the only mistake like it that has ever been made. Muslims don't confuse Mohammed with God, Jews don't confuse Moses with God, no one ever thought Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle were God. If it is indeed an error then it is a unique one. If it is a coverup written as it was after the fact, but when there were those who had lived through the events covered, it is an impressive conspiracy. Logic dictates that that is incredibly unlikely. How could one keep a stranglehold on all those who knew the truth?
If one accepts that Jesus was a great moral reformer, logically one must at least consider the possibility that he was telling the truth.
In the latest chapter I read he makes a very compelling argument for the divinity of christ, or rather, not for the divinity, but for the honest consideration of that divinity. There is a popular idea - popular in Chesterton's day as much as in ours - that the historical Jesus was a very learned and wise Jewish rabbi. He was a teacher, a wise man, even a prophet. The view stems from two things, both are rational assumptions. First, it is highly unlikely that Jesus the man, this historical Jesus as he is often referred to, did not actually exist. To say otherwise is simply ludicrous. It's to argue that shepherds and fishermen were able to dupe the world with a vast conspiracy that would have little point if they didn't believe it in the first place. In fact, it would have been a suicidal conspiracy - leading them largely to violent death at the hands of authorities or insane mobs, and certainly not leading them to riches and glory. This is like saying that the government caused 9/11 so that they could invade Iraq. As much as certain members may be capitalizing off tragedy, to say that there was a conspiracy involving hundreds of high level officials and no legitimate reporter has ever found out is basically retarded.
The second view of Jesus the teacher comes from reading the gospel. Anyone can see that the man must have been intelligent, as well as wise well beyond his time. The greatest atheist, if he honestly approaches it, cannot read the Parable of the Prodigal Son without thinking at the least - "Here was a great moral reformer." The longevity of his teachings elevates him far above the average philosopher and numbers him among the greats. His teachings are without exception, to my mind, beyond his own time and place: universally applicable. To love your enemy was as near an impossible thing but a uniquely insightful thing then as it is now. The greatest intellectual could not but look at his apparently paradoxical words about dividing with the sword and delight in the subtlty of his thought. As Chesterton points out, Jesus was a man of peace who knew full well that a good peace was better than a good war, but a bad peace infinitely worse. There is universal wisdom here.
That being said, I can agree with the popular view. However, those wanting to claim Jesus as great moral thinker run into a problem. He claimed, quite clearly, that he was the Son of God. This isn't the claim of a great man, this is the claim of a small man who might very likely be insane. One could never imagine a true thinker, whatever his pride, actually claiming to be the Almighty. That kind of egomania is the province of small minded men, unable or unwilling to see how they are men like everyone else. It is easy to discount, because it does not seem logical at all for a man to actually be the Son of God. If one approached the Gospels as someone who had never heard the name Jesus before, one couldn't discount it however. It would, in fact, be incredibly shocking. The speaker of the Sermon on the Mount - preaching wisdom, tolerance, love and moderation - suddenly makes the absurd and insane claim that he's God. There is a serious paradox here that can't be easily ignored.
The obvious option is to say that Jesus never said it. His followers must have added that bit later on. After all the Gospels were written some time after the fact. Only if that's true, and though I personally don't believe it to be true I'm willing to admit that in fact it could be, then it is the only mistake like it that has ever been made. Muslims don't confuse Mohammed with God, Jews don't confuse Moses with God, no one ever thought Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle were God. If it is indeed an error then it is a unique one. If it is a coverup written as it was after the fact, but when there were those who had lived through the events covered, it is an impressive conspiracy. Logic dictates that that is incredibly unlikely. How could one keep a stranglehold on all those who knew the truth?
If one accepts that Jesus was a great moral reformer, logically one must at least consider the possibility that he was telling the truth.
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