February 2, 2011

(The Much Anticipated) Part Two

Broken Brick

When the first brick fell, nobody noticed much
it's sheer red face splintered slightly
as it made contact with the cement below,
and the noise it made echoed only once,
bouncing off the wall it came from
and then out into the expanse of basketball courts
cracked open with weeds,
supporting poles bent in humility
as the rusted rims
and chain nets
waited for their turn to fall.

The brick sat undisturbed
as dust and grit worked their way gradually underneath
blown by the wind to probe the narrowness
between the sharp corner and the concrete.
And when the brick was picked up
an imprint of its intricacies remained,
fine lines unnoticed and quickly erased
by the same wind that put them there.
And when it was hurled through the nearest window
to land on a desk in front of a blackboard
it would have been justified in wondering
"I spent all that time protecting this?"
as its counterparts came tumbling down.

Poem:
I was just looking at my brick wall, and this is what happened. I thought of an abandoned school building and the role a brick plays or could play. And how that building must accumulate dust
and be worn down gradually, even though the same people that erected it might be the ones tearing it down. Anyway, I'm happy with it.

Observation:
When I say I don't understand why people my age (or high school age) find the ROTC appealing, I don't mean that it's bad to like the United States. I honestly believe this country is the best one available, and while there are obviously flaws (which might be getting worse all the time), it's as close as I think anyone's come to establishing a decent functioning government. What I don't understand is our military. This sentiment began a long time ago, but it's easier for me to articulate now that I have a bit of philosophy (and a hint of political science) under my belt. Let me begin by saying violence is not a way to actually resolve conflicts. This should be rather self-evident. Wars result when two nations can't actually come to an agreement. I think of it as a sort of mutual resignation to the fact that politics has failed. So the idea of the military from that perspective is depressing in itself.
From a different viewpoint, let's think about what it is the people in the military actually do. Let's face it: the people on "the front lines" are equipped with some of the least efficient weapons we have at our disposal. The idea of shooting little lead pellets at single targets at a time is an embarrassment to the powerful technology every nation knows is out there. Biochemical warfare, tactical strikes, and all sorts of crazy things that make people miserable/dead. Even if we delude ourselves into thinking that the threat of warfare plays an important role in establishing power relations, it isn't the people with the little rifles that are keeping other nations in check. It is our threat of complete destruction and the acknowledgment of our technical and tactical superiority. And it doesn't take a particular mile time to push a button or make a phone call, so the ROTC training doesn't make that much sense to me.

Exercise:
"Gone Fishing"
Bob and Joe went out in their canoe. What they reeled in was not a fish. What was it?

Bob and Joe were well aware their friendship wasn't advisable as far as naming was concerned. Who would believe two people with stereotypical, monosyllabic names just happened to hit it off? But there they were, in the canoe, having a great time, monikers be damned. When they reached the isolated area Bob had decided offered the most potential for fish, they put up their paddles and broke out the rods and tackle. Or rather, Bob broke out the rods and tackle, and Joe broke out the beer and his smartphone. Between downing beers and checking some scores, Joe shared some funny fishing videos. There were the classics, like the two lines getting hooked under the boat, and the fishhook to the hair of the beloved girlfriend, but the one that had Joe laughing the hardest involved a man who had hooked something fixed rather permanently to the bottom of the lake with the end result of both breaking the rod and in the resulting momentum change, taking his leave of the boat, much to the surprise of the dog who just sat there with a bewildered look on his face. Just to stay in the spirit of things, as he leaned over to show Bob a particularly salient detail, Joe took the liberty of looping the line he was about to cast around the box of bait. This resulted in a rather spectacular liberation for the worms, as well as a startled Bob and Joe spending the next few minutes extracting them from their clothes and hair.

Me:
I had a great day of class today. Also, yesterday I mailed in my entry to the national collegiate handball tournament. I would be more confident of its arrival had not a blizzard struck that day, but that's not the point. The point is that on the back of the current student status verification form was a square of thermochromic ink. And that stuff is awesome. In case you don't know, this ink changes with temperature. The instructions in fine print below the box read something like "This certifies the legitimacy of the document. It should fade when breathed on or rubbed." I paraphrased, since my memory wasn't considering that important when I was busy breathing on this little pink square over and over. It was like magic. It's true what they say about the little things. Made my day.

February 1, 2011

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.

January 30, 2011

A Quick Post

The Bike

Power pressed these pedals once,
propelled her in painful ovals,
around banked turns,
hunched low with a grimace
as she suffered alone.

A lone figure in the stands
yelled times from his watch
as she sped by
first thirty minutes:
a record,
and then the reality
that another thirty minutes
remained.

The record stands
at Major Taylor Track.
The bike stands
in dust at the top of the stairs.

Poem:
I figured I'd include this one here both because I'm too tired to write a new poem and because it was remarkable that we got to ride outside three days in a row. So anyway, the poem is about my mom's record-setting ride. She set a lot of national records all at once, which I thought was a cool (and difficult) thing to do. So she set the half-hour record (along with some others) en route to the hour record. As far as poetic technique goes, I like how I repeated the word stands in the last two stanzas.

Observation:
The Australian Open is finished. As a die-hard Federer fan, I was less than thrilled with the final. Some good tennis got played, of course, but I figured I'd use this entry to document what really made this tournament fun to watch. Now, the air bubble under the court is in a previous post, but in that same spirit, here's another funny malfunction:



The best part is obviously the look on her face when she's just holding the handle of her racquet. Now, I have no idea how it's physically possible for a racquet to be holding itself together while she's standing there and then completely come apart, and I'm pretty sure this isn't in quite the same spirit as my other observations, but it was too funny to not share.

Exercise:
"Napo Says"
One way to bring energy into your writing is to bring in other voices. Try this: write something -- anything --- that includes at least two of the following quotations by Napoleon I:
"There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous"
"[The Channel] is a mere ditch"
"Not tonight Josephine"
"An army marches on its stomach"

"Not tonight Josephine." Reginald just wasn't in the mood for another argument. Especially not with his cat. She had been angrily stalking around the house for the past half hour trying to attract his attention in an effort to procure more food. An army marches on its stomach, after all, and if she was to spend the night on the lookout for intruders (or stray bits of plastic and string), she was sure she was going to need another helping. Reginald put down his paintbrush and gave her a glance. She fell over. Her legs stretched out behind her as she arched her back and twisted, bringing her belly into full view. "As if you're going to convince me you need more food by showing off how fat you are." But Reginald got up anyway. As he did so, he bumped the easel and the painting fell forward onto the stool he had just vacated. He swore briefly, grabbing at it quickly and setting it back on its tray. The damage had been done. He chuckled. The perfect nature scene he had been working on now contained what was unmistakably a flying saucer. "I guess it's true. There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous."

Me:
I have a temper. Sometimes I regret having matured the small amount that I have, since I recall fondly the days of slamming doors and stomping off. The days when noise was all that was needed to alert everyone to my bad mood and let off some steam. But all of this is really just serving as preamble so I can introduce this other clip from the Australian Open:



Now, Wawrinka is by no means the first guy to break a racquet in frustration. However, he is the first guy I've seen to do it in so impressive a manner. Again, the physical properties of tennis equipment bewilders me. I was sure the racquet would at least bounce. When it snapped along that axis, I was sure this must be something Wawrinka practices. Like "Okay, I've hit my 300 forehands for the day, now to work on my racquet-breaking."
In other news, I actually have a fair number of things noted to write about in the future. I was just a bit tired tonight. Today was my birthday, so I'm still trying to digest all the sugars I ingested. So stay tuned, I guess.