War: Part One

Photos

A wall of smiling faces is waiting to ambush whoever crests the stairs.
Children of innocence who haven't quite learned to grin on command,
who had to be taught to fake happiness
so the Christmas cards could represent the perfection
which runs on the surface deep into the generations,
sit still now, momentarily for eternity,
when we all know, as soon as the camera-flash faded
they were back to chattering, arguing,
then screaming for attention while older siblings
did endless somersaults in circles around the living room
and came up beaming in smiles and dizziness that didn't want for authenticity.

Poem:
The prompt I worked from said to take a photograph and extrapolate characters and their actions from it. I worked off a rough real-life setting, but mostly I just wanted to talk about the fact that as kids we (or at least I) placed no importance on these photographs. They were interruptions. I know I never could smile convincingly. I think it's sort of a bad sign that we put so much emphasis on our ability to fake a smile. It's indicative of nothing if not misplaced priorities.

Observation:
My class has us separated into conservatives and liberals for debating purposes. I am on the liberal side, since the middle ground filled up fast. On the far side across from me are a group of people with crew cuts who spend every pre-class minute discussing their ROTC training. I'm not going to comment on their conservative leaning. For all I know, they don't even know what political conservativism is. I'm certainly not sure I do. But it occurred to me as I overheard their boisterous conversation that the army is full of normal people. This thought occurred to me quite a long time ago when we were asked to recognize the people going into the military at my high school graduation. I couldn't participate wholeheartedly, since from the people that were standing I wasn't sure our military was being done any favors. Let's just say it wasn't the cream of the crop. But this feeling is reaffirmed on a daily basis now that I have to listen to these people talk to each other.
They invariably talk about their workout regimen. What they had to do as punishment for being late or answering questions incorrectly. They discuss the brutality of having to run two miles at a seven-minute pace. I ran two miles in 10:30 in high school. I'm sure I could do it in under 12:00 today. When they have finished bonding over their physical trials and tribulations, they move on to the difficult academic work. Sometimes they commiserate over how incredibly dense and inscrutable the reading material for the class was. I had no trouble. It's much easier than most of the stuff I read in my philosophy classes. At least political scientists sometimes want normal people to be able to understand them. The prevailing theory among philosophers seems to be, "the fewer people that can understand me, the less criticism I shall receive." Basically, I'm questioning the effectiveness of our military. This is nothing new, of course. I've always been a bit suspicious of anyone willing to risk life and limb for whatever it is they think they're fighting for. But in my politics class, we are currently discussing the nature of war, and it makes me curious just what it is soldiers intend on doing when they enroll in the ROTC. I'll talk more about that next time.

Exercise:
"The Piano Tuner"
Describe the piano tuner. What did he do to the piano bench?

Friedrich knew pianos. With a name like Friedrich, you had to know something, after all, and it had to be something finely balanced between practicality, sophistication, and the artistic. Friedrich took his name to heart (exactly as his parents had intended), and in no time his rapport with the instruments was widely known. Rich people never stopped needing their Steinways tuned, even if they never played them. The point was that they might someday, and when that day came, they had better not sound like rubbish. And since they couldn't quite tell when it was they started to sound like rubbish, Friedrich kept getting his calls. He spent a good deal of time in the same homes every year. Almost nothing was required of him, but since he loved being around the instruments, he was never opposed to a useless visit. One family in particular became so accustomed to his tune-ups they had him scheduled to come by on the third weekend of every other month for the next three years. And it was then that his bad habit began. It was boring to tune an in-tune piano every other month, and while he wanted to express how useless his visits were, he couldn't bear to let down the instrument in any way. He knew it was never played, but the principle of the matter prevented him from expressing his frustration. The piano bench, however, was an altogether different matter. Each visit, Friedrich would make a little mark on the left front leg. Not much more than a scratch, but to these people, even a scratch carried great importance. Every two months, the leg became more noticeable, a trail of horizontal tracks leading down to the floor.

Me:
My anticipation is starting to grow regarding my impending trip to Colorado to compete in a handball tournament. Really, it's more of a warm-up for the national collegiate tournament I'm entering later this month, but any handball outside of Ames is something worth getting excited for. I've actually been practicing on my own for a while now in an effort to improve my left hand, so it will be fun to gauge where I'm at. Other than that, life is progressing normally. I have a bunch of reading to do for my classes, some of which is interesting (as with the topic of war in my political science class), and some of which is merely obligatory. It will all get done, though, despite my lack of enthusiasm. It's my last semester, after all. I wouldn't want to start sounding stupid now.