Just Another Similar Post

Slippery Sister

She struck out headstrong
in reaction to criticism
and warning
dug her blades
beneath the surface
with a purpose
and her kayak
floated away
from our resting place.

The going was smooth
for my sister
the socially acceptable sibling
who didn't criticize everyone
for anything
(at least to their faces),
and then it came time to turn around
and paddle back,
and the smoothness of motion
flipped.

She was upside-down
underwater in an instant
and in that instant
my warning of the boat's unsteadiness
made me think
"I told you so,"
while simultaneously I thought
"This is it,
she's going to die."

I could imagine her life
vest pressing her relentlessly
up into the bottom of the boat
while the splash skirt
held her legs cramped
against the blue plastic sides.

She wasn't strong enough
to say things outright
and I wasn't strong enough
to hold my tongue
and she wasn't strong enough to rip the cord
to free herself
but she was slippery
and skinny enough
to wiggle free
as it seemed she always did.

And as her face broke the surface
I wondered if she noticed
her own recklessness
how close she came to death
in my eyes
as the blue bottom of the kayak
floated empty
in the dark water.

Poem:
I'm getting into these poetry books. This one wasn't directly in the style of another author, but I really like the poem "You Can Have It" by Phillip Levine. The exercise associated with the section was about family as inspiration, and it asked me to describe a moment that epitomized a member in my family. So I tried.

Observation:
Yesterday's post reminded me of another example of a universal happy gesture: the high five. If you say something in an excited tone and follow it up with a high five, it completely circumvents any rational comprehension of what you just said. One instance in particular comes to mind. It was my junior year of high school, and the band had to play at the senior's graduation (as we did every year). This was a painful process, and not one any of us looked forward to. Then my grandmother died. I was to be out of town on the weekend of graduation, and when I told my friends, they were pretty jealous. I hadn't mentioned the reason for my absence. One of the ensuing conversations went like this:
Fellow student: I heard you're getting out of playing this weekend.
Me: Yeah! My grandma died so I don't have to play!
At this point I held my hand up for a high five, and was not disappointed. However, the look on the guy's face after he processed what I had said was pretty amusing. The pause and slow change in facial expression from a jealousy-tinged happiness to a slightly sad confusion made me laugh. Then he was sure I had been joking about my grandma dying, which made me laugh more. And then, since nobody could possibly be laughing so much about the death of a relative, he was sure I wasn't telling the truth. So I held up my hand for another high five. By the time he figured out my grandma was actually dead, he was one in quite a state.

Exercise:
"Orange Traffic Cone, etc"
Write a brief scene that incorporates the following: an orange traffic cone; a miniature cat; fried fish; velcro; Teddy Roosevelt; polkadots.

Harold was out on one of his expeditions. He wove his single speed courier bike (purchased second-hand at a rather eccentric man's garage sale) to the other side of an orange traffic cone, skirting the construction and putting him out of the busy traffic. The smell of fried fish wafted from a nearby restaurant's patio, the polkadots on the awning defying any attempt to criticize its menu. Harold pulled up to his destination, a local antiques store, and rang the bell at the glass-topped counter, momentarily distracted by the miniature porcelain cat peering up at him through the shining surface. The owner poked her head out of the back room long enough to ascertain his identity before shouting "be right out Harold!" and disappearing again. Sure enough, in a few seconds she had returned, a thin, stiff folder in her hands.
"Just as you requested. An authenticated letter signed by Teddy Roosevelt from his campaign trail. Should look good with the rest of your collection."
He nodded, undid the velcro on his shoulder bag, and gingerly took the document from her. He placed it inside the large binder contained within, and handed her his credit card.

Me:
I rode my bike outside two days in a row this week! Oh, the excitement. And the cold. Maybe that's what made it exciting. There's nothing quite like wondering whether you still have toes to spice up a bike ride. So anyway, riding was fun. It's nice to see that the hours (albeit fewer than probably advisable) I put in on the trainer haven't been completely in vain. My cadence is improved from last year (at least for now), and while the hills were a bit of a rude awakening after the monotonous landscape of my living room, it was nice to have some variation. And the company was infinitely better than the muted television. It's fun to have an activity the whole family can get into. And with my mom's history as a national record-holder, it's pretty a pretty inspiring crowd to be around, too. All in all, an enjoyable few days on the road.

In Which I Have Fun With Behavioral Analysis

Empty Chocolate Box

If life is like a box of chocolates
I can only assume it's meant to be devoured
rapidly, and wholeheartedly,
the pretty gold foil of childhood eagerly discarded
to get to the good stuff.
And when the first layer of goodness
is gone
you realize all too suddenly
you only have half left
and even though it's true
there's some marzipan in your past
and in your future,
waiting to take you by surprise
with its clash of soapy texture
and a hint of bitterness
you know it's going to be worth it
when you get to the richness of the truffles.
But those are for another time;
right now you're full of it all
and on the brink of sickness,
so you try to put back the layer of gold
even though it doesn't sit quite straight
and rattles around on top
of a cheap and empty plastic tray.

Poem:
Today's prompt was: pick an object and write a prose poem about it. Use any memories it may provoke and make comparisons in your description. The putting back of the gold top is supposed to represent a midlife crisis, but I'm not sure that comes through. I like extended metaphor, so I tried it out here. Let me know what you think!

Observation:
Today's observation was prompted by my bus driver. There was an amazingly large crowd of people waiting at the stop, and not all of them could fit on the bus. Knowing this sometimes happens, the bus company puts two buses on the route during busy times. So there's little chance of those people being left there, but they don't seem to know that. They all look aroundf confused as they come to the realization that there really isn't any way for them to cram themselves on. I'm already getting to know some people a little better than I was expecting while I was waiting next to them at the stop. So anyway, the bus driver lets almost everyone on the bus, and then the last two or three people are left on the curb as he pulls away. They look pretty sad, but to top it all off, he gives them a thumbs up.
Now, the fact that they found this reassuring amazed me. It seems there are some gestures out there that are so internalized, so universal, that they carry with them an inherent sense that everything is going well. I imagined the same situation, except without another bus on the way. I wonder how long that sense of reassurance would last. Would they turn to each other and say "No, it has to be okay. He gave us a thumbs up. No way this could turn out poorly." So the next time you want to get away with stranding someone somewhere, I guess just give them a thumbs up as you leave. The chances of them chasing after you are pretty slim. They'll probably stand wherever they are waiting for you to come back for quite some time. The thumbs-up, I have decided, is a pretty powerful gesture.

Exercise:
"The Ironic Fortune Cookie"
The fortune in the fortune cookie read: "Elegant surroundings will soon be yours." This turned out to be ironic. How so?

George pocketed his fortune and left the restaurant, eager to find out if it would prove to be accurate. "Elegant surroundings will soon be yours." He certainly hoped so. Of course, that's what the fortune-writing people expected of him. It's not like they'd put out fortunes about inelegant surroundings, or say that, while the elegant surroundings sure were spectacular this time of year, they just weren't in his future at the moment. But despite having this knowledge, he was optimistic. It was a typical midwestern winter, and the wind was whipping the snow into a moderate frenzy. The waves of white washing across the black of the road were pretty viewed from the warmth of his car. Always the practical driver, he kept an eye on the lights ahead. He noticed the next one turning yellow for the cross traffic, and, as usual (and slightly proud of himself), he didn't bother braking. Sure enough, it turned green just as he got to the intersection.
The man in the Dodge Charger, on the other hand, was much less cognizant of the light's duration. He skidded through the intersection, having only noticed the yellow light at the last minute, and as he slammed on the brakes, he met harshly with the side of George's Ford Focus. George had a brief flash of thought: "At least I know the hospital will have some elegance to it." The paramedics that arrived on the scene a while later had the man from the Charger immobilized and were optimistic that the damage to his neck would respond well to treatment. And George was buried in one of the most elegant graves in the nearby cemetery.

Me:
Throughout my life people have told me to think before opening my mouth. Recently I have decided this has never been my problem. The problem is what I think about before opening my mouth. See, I'm not thinking about whether or not I should open it. That's taken as a given. The thought process is more of an anticipation game. So rather than "what are the advantages and disadvantages of opening my mouth in this particular situation," I'm thinking "So when I say such-and-such, it's likely it will provoke a certain reaction, so I should have a response ready for that, but if they react this other way, I should be able to say something else." I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've been following directions for all these years. I give what I say a great deal of thought. I'm just not prioritizing correctly.

In Which I REALLY Wanted to Write a New Poem

Mesa Verde

The cliffs were hazardous enough even with the ladders
built for tourists not quite fit enough
to haul themselves hand over hand
using crevices in the rock.

I can't imagine the ancient people, content
in their mud-plastered city of pale yellow,
their elderly clambering up the vertical walls
still spry, or left to die.

Now the hazards include the road at the top
cars passing, blind to the once-city
directly below, and we're told to look carefully
or "boom! no more grandma!"

The canyon below is a strip of life
cutting through the arid flatness
its green bottom mocking
those thirsty people above.

Poem:
I used a prompt for this one, since I was struggling for ideas. The prompt was rather specific: Gather four distinct sets of details about an occasion and use one in each of four stanzas, each with four lines. I wrote about a guided tour at Mesa Verde, where we had to climb huge wooden ladders to even gain access to the cliff cities. I still have the tour guides "boom! no more grandma!" written down in my notebook. It was hilarious at the time, but I tried to make it a little more insightful in the poem itself. All in all, I liked the exercise.

Observation:
I made some rice a while ago, and the leftovers were in the refrigerator daring me to use them to make something delicious. Little did they know I had recently acquired a bottle of soy sauce. So I had rice, sunflower seeds, and soy sauce, and it was delicious. The observation part of this story has to do with the soy sauce. Now, I already knew soy sauce was basically just liquefied salt, but I made sure to get the one that said it had less sodium just in case that made a difference. That's what the bottle said: "Less Sodium." This is, of course, in contrast to "low sodium," which is a label found on many other foods. To put that label on soy sauce would be to say "not soy sauce." So they went with "less." Now, less apparently means that the amount of sodium has been reduced by 34% from the normal amount. Which is significant. But there's still 25% of your daily value of sodium in on tablespoon of the stuff. So while there is "less," I would have loved to see them try and get away with "low."

Exercise:
"Down into the Cellar"
The ancient door creaked open and from the darkness she caught of a whiff of something like old apples. She pulled the string to the lightbulb; the stairwell remained dark. "Bulb's dead," he said.
Write on!

The ancient door creaked open and from the darkness she caught of a whiff of something like old apples. She pulled the string to the lightbulb; the stairwell remained dark. "Bulb's dead," he said.
"Of course it is," she replied. "Nothing about this place seems to function as it should."
"It is beautiful, though." He stumbled over some old equipment on his way to the only window before letting some light through. He opened the shutter, and through the cloud of dust that billowed inward, the sun shone bright. The brick walls surrounding them seemed to be biding their time, waiting to be extracted from the layers of cobwebs before glowing once more with the warmth of being lived in.

Me:
I have terrible hygiene. It's no secret to the people that know me. But this has finally come around to interfere in my life directly. It was inevitable, really. Here's what happened: I got the hot and cold taps of the shower mixed up. Apparently I take showers so infrequently I can't even remember how to control the temperature. And it hurt, since I was trying to make it colder. And because I'm so insensitive, after I turned up the hot water I just thought I must not have turned it enough to make it colder, so I turned it up more before figuring it out. And then I felt really dumb and vowed never to make that mistake again. And I figure the best way to avoid making the mistake is to just never shower again. Seems logical.

In Which I Eat Irresponsibly

Driving West

Where are the houses?
All I see are cars,
and few enough of those.
Portable lives, I suppose,
which I can access, briefly,
if I choose to stare
as we pass,
living life out in the interim
between destinations.

Too bad for those others
going east,
too blurred for me to discern
their busy lives.
And at this speed
I don’t have to worry
that their problems
will become mine,
that the parents are unhappy,
only taking the kids on vacation
as an unconscious apology
for their impending and ugly divorce.
The brief passing period is perfect
since I see their lives
but don’t have to.

Poem:
I got curious about the people I pass or who pass me on road trips. It's quite interesting to think about all the people on the road at any one time. Thousands of people in motion all over the country. So much of human life is spent in transit these days, and I just felt like writing a poem about what that feels like as I peer into their car windows every once in a while.

Observation:
Today I showed up to class to find out it was canceled. This is hardly the first time this has happened, but seeing as I spend an inordinate amount of time on my computer, I always get an email before I leave saying there's no reason to leave the apartment. No email today. So I sat on a bench outside the classroom and watched people walk up, read the sign on the door, look around in the same confusion I did, and walk away. Then a guy I've known since elementary school walked over to me and struck up conversation. Ben Ruppert is a Baptist, and one of the only religiously-inclined people I actually enjoy talking to about the subject. We have an unspoken agreement to remain reasonable and only talk about things we feel comfortable with. And since he's started taking some philosophy classes, we have a context in which we can do this. Ben defends what I see as the only viable defense for the existence of God. It's called
presuppositional apologetics, and if that name isn't enough to scare you off, you're doing better than most. Basically, it describes why rational, science-minded people like myself will never agree with rational, religious-minded people like Ben. It's a really fun thing to talk about, especially if you both agree to remain calm, reasonable, and avoid name-calling and cheap shots. So instead of class, I spent my hour from eleven to noon engaging in real philosophic discussion. It was a nice change of pace, since the class is progressing slowly and only occasionally deserving of its claim to philosophy.

Exercise:
"Hank and Helen: The Beachfront Condo"
This is a dialogue exercise. Hank and Helen are married. Hank is a pessimist. Helen is an optimist. They discuss whether or not to buy a beachfront condo.

"I don't know. It can't be much worse than it is here, I guess." Hank looked around their half-million dollar apartment with a critical eye. The shower had started dripping just yesterday, and if that wasn't a sign of impending disaster, it was at the very least an immense annoyance. The whole point of owning a nice apartment was so you wouldn't have to associate with people like plumbers. It might be a better bet to just buy a new place. Chances were good that the people looking to sell had just fixed all the little things in an effort to make the condo more appealing. "First it's the shower, then it's the refrigerator, and all of a sudden, the roof is caving in."
"Don't be silly," Helen replied. "There's nothing wrong with our place that a little love won't fix I have the plumber coming on Tuesday. Everything will be fine."
"You say that now, but once we let the plumber in, it's a sure bet he'll find something else that needs fixing. And then it's a never-ending process of repairs. In no time we'll have plumbers coming in to re-plumb the mistakes the first plumber made. No thank you."
Helen rolled her eyes. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound? It's just a little drip in the shower. If you're so worried about it, we can just have the shower replaced. No need to look at a whole new property. Besides, I have high hopes for the garden I started on the roof here. And I'm just sure that Mrs. Mathews will warm up to us eventually. She can only hold our slight disruption against us for so long, after all."
"That slight disruption you're talking about wouldn't happen to be when the movers broke her door with the armoire, would it?"
"Well..."

Me:
I ate too much today, and it kind of ruined my night. I went into the kitchen with the intent to make a couple of pieces of bread with pesto, cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes, but I opened the bag of bread to see a bit of mold on parts of it. So, like any irresponsible college student, I picked off the moldy bits and promptly stuck all of the remaining pieces in the toaster two by two and consumed them. Eight pieces of delicious bread later, and I was full, but I had already started dinner by that point, and wound up eating that too. So I retreated to my room to lie down for a while. This was a fine state of affairs, but I let myself have a day off of biking yesterday, so I felt obligated to get back to it today, which only resulted in my stomach feeling terrible. I made myself stay on the bike for quite a while, but I don't feel like I did very well, and I didn't feel very well doing it. Stupid bread. And just to clarify, I'm fully aware that if there's mold on the bread, it means the whole amount of bread is technically infected with the mold. It's not that I pick off the mold and think I've sanitized it. It's just that I don't like looking at mold as I eat it. That is to say, I'm not opposed to the principle of eating mold; I just don't like seeing it as I do so.

Blogs in General, and Some Poems (potential)

Separation

There is no drinking allowed on the college campus,
but the campus ends at Lincoln Way.
Good old honest Abe
trying to separate the alcohol from the students.
But Welch Avenue spearheads into Lincoln Way,
trying desperately to rip through it
to reach those kids who try so hard to stay focused
and touch them with the outside world.
The name changes at the next intersection.
Welch becomes "Union Drive"
but not before it has encroached ever so slightly
into the land of academia.
And Lincoln goes back on his word
as they swarm across at the conclusion of class
and wait in the cold (and sometimes rain)
to go in to the bars.

Poem:
I have decided to keep the exercise section to just fiction exercises, since the only poetry exercises I'm planning on doing will have poems as their direct result. I think it would be silly to have two poems in a post, especially when I have a hard enough time coming up with them as it is. So on days like today where I use one of my books' exercises, I'll just post the prompt in this section so you have some idea of how it came about. Prompt for today:Write about where you live as if you've never been there. Use specific names.
I tried to be a bit fancy, and I really don't like how it turned out. I was giving the whole "double meanings" thing a shot, with "welch" meaning to go back on one's word, and Lincoln Way as more of a principle than a street name. But I think it just got confusing. I've just always gotten a kick out of how our campus is so set apart from the rest of town, and yet the "real world" crowds right up to us and the bars are right across the street. But I think there's a better way to go about capturing that idea.

Observation:
I've frequently clicked the little button at the top of the page that says next blog. Every time I do, I get my hopes up, but I don't think they have ever been satisfied. It seems like a huge number of the blogs out there are family ventures. They write about their days now instead of calling people on the phone, I guess. It makes sense from some points of view. This way they don't have to tell each friend individually what's going on in their life. They just post it for them to see when they have time. And they get to say exactly what they want to say without having to worry about being interrupted. I know I hate it when I'm trying to tell a story about my puppy and the person I'm talking to thinks their story about their dad dying is more important. Well, this solves that problem. But probably the biggest problem it solves is the problem of having to actually care about other people at all. Every person can post what's going on with their family and never have to read about their friends' activities. It's like there is this whole blogging "community" where everyone has agreed to write down their heartfelt experiences to be mutually ignored. But at least they can say they shared. In case you haven't picked up on this, I'm against the use of blogs for the purpose of meaningful communication, in much the same way I am against the idea of Facebook as a site for friends. Both blogs and Facebook have their uses, but they're not the ones they claim when they advertise.
Which makes me wonder what my blog looks like to any people who stumble across it using that button up there. Am I only interesting to the people who already know me? Would I stop and look at my blog if it wasn't mine? I have no idea, but I sort of doubt it.

Exercise:
"Your Best Friend is a Mirror"
Make this old saying your first line--- and start writing.

Your best friend is a mirror. They are perfectly capable of showing you who you really are, but most of the time they just lie to you because you let them. It's always the lighting, if I'm not mistaken. All of the mirrors in the world are located under harsh florescent lights, and you just can't trust what they're telling you. The acne looks worse, and your body is always falling apart. But you know it's just the bad lighting. Just like when your friend looks at you and shakes their head. As long as you stop them before they say what they're thinking, as long as you squeeze in your side of the story, you can change the light they see you in. You can take the florescence and turn it into the soft light of a restaurant, or the flickering of a fireplace. You can stop them from showing you what you really look like. Just make sure you get the first word in.

Me:
I really like the idea from the exercise above. I think I'll write a poem about it. That took much less than five minutes to write, but I was happy with where it was going and didn't feel like I could do the idea justice without properly thinking about it, so I cut out a bit early. I read the prompt and was very skeptical of the metaphor. I have never considered best friends to be mirrors, nor have I heard that saying. So I took it as a bit of a challenge, and I'm really glad I did. I'm going to post this now so it's up before I leave for the rest of the morning. Nothing that interesting has happened to me anyway. I know on days like that I promised I'd fill you in a bit on my past, so here's the random fact for today: I've always plunged headfirst into things. Those things have been intangible, like sports, books, and big ideas, but in this case I mean it a bit more literally. Like open windows, metal poles, and doorways. It's a miracle I have any functioning brain cells left at all. The best was the time I got four stitches in my forehead trying to run away from a dodgeball. I dodged the ball really well. Not so much for the volleyball net-pole.

Cold and Air Bubbles

A Cold Walk

There is only a thin crust of ice on the puddles
still crisp and rippling underneath
when pressed on, and the grass stems poking
through, like straws letting in the air
are weak points from which cracks radiate
as my foot forces water out around the edges
and bubbles skirt along the underside.

Eventually one foot sinks through.
Nothing that delicate can hold for long
under the constant pressure,
and water wells up out of the hole,
its release a relief
like a secret you knew you couldn't keep
but were waiting for the right time to share.

Poem:
It's Friday, which means I'm supposed to be expanding my style by encountering the work of other authors. Up for today's consideration is the work of Ted Kooser. If you haven't heard of him, you should look him up. I particularly like the style he uses in poems like "Mourners."

Mourners

After the funeral the mourners gather
under the rustling churchyard maples
and talk softly, like clusters of leaves.
White shirt cuffs and collars flash in the shade:
highlights on deep green water.
They came this afternoon to say goodbye,
but now they keep saying hello and hello,
peering into each other's faces,
slow to let go of each other's hands.

Ted Kooser
Delights and Shadows
Copper Canyon Press (c) 2004

I'm not sure it's legal to put this on my blog, but I don't think people should be mad at me for spreading good poetry. If anything, this should be incentive for you to buy the book if you like it. He didn't get to be Poet Laureate without knowing how to write poetry, after all. If I get yelled at, I'll take it down.

Observation:
I turned the heat down at my apartment yesterday after looking at my gas bill. Not that it was horrendous or anything, but it was about double what it was at this time last year, which drew my attention to the fact that I'm living less frugally than I used to. My bedroom is still quite warm though. The two televisions, the computer, and my almost constant body heat make it easily five to ten degrees warmer than the rest of the place. It's a bit inconvenient, though, since I like the air outside of my blankets to be cold when I fall asleep. That's the only time though. And if I turn the heat down to the point where my room is the right temperature for falling asleep, there's absolutely no way the rest of the apartment will be bearable. I guess this makes a good argument for having separate rooms for my technology and my sleeping quarters. Or maybe it's an argument for a one-room dwelling, so I wouldn't have to worry about the rest of the place being cold. Sounds like I'm destined for a trailer park.

Exercise:
"Lulu & Sandra Make Salad"
Lulu and Sandra are sisters. Lulu is jealous of Sandra. Sandra thinks Lulu is bossy. They are in Lulu's kitchen preparing a salad. Write the scene with dialogue.

Sandra wasn't sure the salad ingredients required quite as much attention as Lulu was giving them. She was sure that there must be something else Lulu could do other than look over her shoulder.
"Now, I know you probably don't do this much at home, what with having your own maid and all, but it's important not to cut the peppers too small. People like a bit of a crunch to their peppers, I've found."
"Okay, Lulu; I've got it. Isn't there something else you could be doing?" Sandra's grip on the knife was growing decidedly less relaxed, and her motions became more deliberate with her sister's criticism. Lulu was reveling in the fact she was finally the one in charge. Normally these dinners were held at Sandra's house, but Lulu had risen to the occasion after the recent fire.
"I suppose I could find something," Lulu said. She didn't move. If anything, she hovered closer.
"Well?" Sandra turned, knife still in hand. "Why don't you do that?"

Me:
Last night there was an interesting phenomenon at the Australian Open, where there was an air bubble underneath the surface of the court. This air bubble stopped the ball from bouncing at all, which was sight I found completely astounding. I have decided my blog might be less boring if I add things like this for you to see for yourself.

So that was definitely something I had never seen or heard about before. The way the ball didn't even roll was just hilarious to me. Apparently they just wound up using a power drill and a hammer to get the air out and continued play.
In what is hopefully the last chapter in the saga of the deaf girl, she was back in class today. This might still be an indicator that she's secretly reading my blog and accepted my implied apology.
Also while I was on campus, I began to think today might be particularly cold, as four different people commented on my shorts. Two of them were exclamations made to friends that I overheard, and two people just directly informed me of the facts of my attire. Much to their surprise, I was already aware of what I was wearing. I do appreciate their good intentions though. If I had been wearing them by accident, I certainly would have been glad to have my attention drawn to that fact.

In Which I Make it Really Hard to Come Up With Titles for My Entries Due to Their Random Contents

2 degrees off

You did more than a 180,
turned further from me
than opposite can imply,
and now suddenly
we joke and such
like 360 happened
and it’s okay again.

But really it’s a 358
or so, since there’s a gap
I’m not sure we can close.
2 degrees of difference
between the way we were
and now, slightly askew
2 pointer fingers trying to meet
with one eye closed
and depth perception a bit off.

Poem:
I'm constantly fascinated with other people's ability to put things behind them. I am not that sort of person. So when people pretend that things are okay when I know they're not, I try to play along, but always feel what I hope this poem conveys. And the worst part is, I'm pretty sure everyone feels this way during these awkward situations where we all pretend things are okay, but nobody can break the facade. Nobody wants to, I guess. So we just keep going, a bit off, until we forget. Except I rarely forget.

Observation:
In the class that I dropped (Philosophy of Technology), my professor said that we students were part of the computer generation. He said he had experienced the boom of computer use, but that we were the ones raised on it. I found myself questioning this. It may be true that I am quite dependent on computers. I take them for granted, use them constantly, and understand almost nothing about them. But I look at the people these days who are even more attached to their iPods and phones than I am, and I wonder whether there will ever be an actual computer generation. I remember when the internet was relatively new. I remember using floppy disks that stored almost nothing. Compared to what the kids today are used to, that stuff is ancient. And I'm sure it will be the same when those kids age ten years. My dad remembers when calculators were a ridiculously expensive commodity, and he's obviously lived through everything I have. Sure, if it's understanding how computers work that defines the computer generation, he's not a part of it, but then neither am I. And neither are the kids today. As technology becomes more prolific. complicated, and specialized, the number of people who understand all of any single thing diminishes. Programmers understand software (though not usually all the programming languages involved), developers understand hardware (and hardly ever all hardware), and the common people understand what's still wrong. So if there is a computer generation, it's certainly not mine, or if it is, I'm not part of it.

Exercise:
Your Mom at Five"
Imagine you are your mother. You're five years old. What are you seeing / thinking / doing?

I just finished watching a nature show, and oh my goodness the animals and the trees and the water and the grasses and everything looked so interesting. I've never seen anything like a crocodile here, but I guess they wouldn't like the ice very much. They would look so funny slipping around on their short legs! I guess I'll just take it for granted that huge things like rhinos and elephants exist. I know monkeys exist, because people have told me not to act like one, but they look like they're having so much fun that I don't want to stop. But the best part was the giraffes. I'm even less sure they are real. They're taller than my house, and their colors are like the fieldstone of the walls around me, all spotted with brown. They look so funny when they bend down to drink, front legs splayed open and maybe one good shove could send them tumbling. But I love them, and when people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I know exactly what to tell them. "I'm going to be a giraffe," I say, and I stretch my neck as far as I can. I dream big.

Me:
And now you all know my mom wanted to be a giraffe when she grew up. True story. At least nobody told her she couldn't be. I actually have no idea how that came about, or at what age, so forgive my inaccuracies. But it's worth a story, I think.
Brownies were made at my apartment recently, which is an event I have mixed opinions on in retrospect. See, I eat an unhealthy amount every time they come out of the oven, which is obviously terrible. But on the other hand, I then feel sick for the rest of the night, which prevents me from eating as much quantity-wise as I might normally. Yes, this is a horrible thing, and bad for me in that it stops me from eating vitamins and results in me eating unhealthy or useless calories, but by the time I went to bed, I actually did weigh a bit less than I normally do at night.
And the last thing I have to say: the deaf girl I wrote about a while ago was gone from my last class. I really hope my blog had nothing to do with it. I'm quite confident it didn't, since according to the statistics it shows me readership peaked about a week ago and has been declining ever since. So I guess this is my desperate plea for you to spread the word if you enjoy reading. Thanks (both for reading, and in advance for any readers you might send my way).

Winter

Spring

It is that day
when everyone else realizes
spring is inevitable
swarming the newly-soft ground,
spreading their blankets
where I stood in the drifts
just a week ago.
They throw Frisbees,
running, catching, dropping,
imperfect and annoying,
since I had laid claim
to this spot when it was still,
ice, and snow.

Poem:
I used to spend a lot of time on campus. I would hang out in computer labs, meet people to throw frisbees at all hours, and just be there in general. On multiple occasions I went on the open area of central campus while it was still covered in a foot of snow and threw with some equally crazy people. So this poem is about that. And about the fact that other people are only willing to do these things when the weather is perfect. I like to think that sets me apart. The thing I dislike most about this poem has to be the title, which is incredibly cliche.

Observation:
People are like gas. And, while it may seem like something I would say, in this case I am not talking about flatulence. I'm talking about how they expand to fill whatever space they are given. But I guess they're really more like a liquid, since they are obviously strictly bound by gravity, and so tend to stick to the surface. Either way, this characteristic can be quite annoying. It makes it incredibly hard to pass people on a bike, for one thing. I can't begin to count the number of times I've been stuck behind a group of chattering girls taking their sweet time walking between classes. They hardly make way for people going the opposite direction, so it's no surprise they take no account of the fact that there could be a person on a bicycle behind them who is constrained to the sidewalk by snow and yet doesn't really care what they put in their hair this morning. When I'm biking with someone else it's not too difficult to remedy the problem. I simply start talking really loudly as we make our approach. Sometimes I talk really loudly about the fact that it's necessary to talk really loudly in order to get people to let you by. Now, I know people think they make bicycle bells for this sort of thing, but I can't stand them. I generally can't stand the people that use them. "Ding ding! Make way, for it is I, the person so uptight and snobbish that I feel it is necessary the tone of a bell precede me wherever I go." Not for me. In general, I'm perfectly fine making a jaunt off the sidewalk to go around, but this snowy weather is interfering. It was slow going today between classes. I was almost late, despite leaving earlier than usual.

Exercise:
"Extremely Famous"
You (or your fictional character) are suddenly extremely famous. In what ways does your (or your character's) life change?

His meteoric rise to fame was nothing like he had pictured it. He was supposed to make it big with his voice. He had auditioned for American Idol on three separate occasions, for crying out loud. Every time they told him to keep trying, that if he loved singing, to keep at it. He wasn't supposed to be famous for simply being alive. The floods had been getting a lot of local news coverage, but when the video of him on his porch floating downstream hit the internet, something about it struck a national chord. He had just been sitting there. Well, and when he noticed the camera, he had started singing. He wasn't the kind of guy to pass up a bit of attention. And now here he was, the star of YouTube smash hit "Weird Singing Guy Floating Away" and he was being interviewed by morning talk shows and the local newspaper. Even his friends were calling him up to talk. At first he tried to use the attention to get some recognition for his voice, but he soon realized the laughter directed his way was not due entirely to his sense of humor. Disheveled and a bit downtrodden, he went back to his porch (the only part of his house he could reliably locate), and sat wondering what to do next. Fame was fine and all, but it hadn't gotten him off the porch.

Me:
I felt surprisingly bad today. I never really got my day going how I was hoping, and it all concluded with a rather poor showing on my bicycle. My legs were tired, my calf was cramping, and I just couldn't get focused. Things I take for granted were giving me pain, and for that reason, I retreated to my room to try and at least enjoy my night. But for some reason, that didn't quite go according to plan either. I can't really explain it. Some rhythm of my day was off, and it persisted. There was nothing I could point to as the cause, but the accumulation of it all left me quite underwhelmed. I don't know whether this is a common occurrence among others, but I can't really recall it happening prior to this. Maybe it's what they refer to as waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Anyway, hopefully it will be gone soon.
I had my first poetry class today, and I plan on using it and this blog in tandem to improve my writing. I think I'll start including some poetry exercises on occasion, too, since I have two books centered around finding things to write poems about, and I wouldn't want them to go unused. Besides, it good to have a break from fiction exercises every once in a while.

Oh Television...

Why I’m not Sleeping

It’s too nice to take a nap,
so I go outside and look at the clouds
for inspiration,
but it’s too sunny to write,
and I’d rather lie down
where the wind doesn’t reach
and enjoy the red and orange
heating my eyelids as I turn my face
and listen.

You’re a continent away
as your voice breaks the ambiance.
Out of reach,
but tempting me to grasp-
though my hand remains empty
in the end-
and yet, for a while,
I can feel your softness
as it slides away.

Poem:
This one is included here by request. I undoubtedly would have gotten around to putting it on here anyway, but having someone actually like my poems enough to request one pretty much trumps whatever else I might have done. So let this be a lesson to you, dear reader. If you have any interesting ideas for a poem, just comment on my post. It can be as vague as “write a poem about a piece of jewelery,” or as specific as “remember that time we were hanging out and the television wouldn't work so we played cards instead and even though the cards were really bent and you could tell when the jack of spades was coming it was fun? Could you write about that?” I'd be delighted. (That never actually happened, but it's a pretty specific example.) Or if you are familiar with any of my poetry, you can of course let me know what you like.

Observation:
I just saw a commercial for a VW Jetta that highlighted its intelligent crash-response system. Now, I'm generally all for technology doing things for us, but is it really that necessary to have your doors unlocked for you when you're in a crash? I'm oblivious to the details required to make this a feature, but obviously there's something tied into the door's locking mechanism, so isn't that just another thing that could go wrong with your door's ability to open at some point down the road? And that's really a small gripe compared to the issues I have with the commercial in general. Maybe it's just me, but the commercial seems to be taking it for granted that whoever buys this car is going to crash it. I would really like to think that the selling points of a car could be things that make the driving experience better rather than implying there's a good chance you're going to be in a life-threatening situation.
It's gotten to the point where any feature a company can think of to stick in a vehicle automatically becomes something they think will make buyers want to spend thousands of dollars on. I can sort of see the logic with truly interesting ideas, like when all-wheel drive was invented, or integrated GPS/MP3 technology, but this seems to have gone a bit off-target. Just to reiterate, the company is saying, “Now, we know our car might poor handling and could exhibit brake failure at any moment, but don't worry. We've thought of that. No, we haven't tried to prevent crashes. But when you do find yourself closely acquainted with whatever tree, lamppost, or pedestrian happened to be in your way, we have this really swell technology that will make sure you can get out and start running from the cops right away.”

Exercise:
"Shelly's Scene Objective"
Actors identify their characters' overall objective, as well as their scene objective. Applying this to writing, assume your character is "Shelly"; her overall objective is to get married; her scene objective is to get "Kyle" whom she has just met, say, in a coffee shop, to ask her on a date. Write the scene from Shelly's point of view.

Kyle would do nicely. He seemed to be of an appropriate age, his build suggested moderate physical activity, and the computer in front of him demonstrated both means and intelligence. In short, there was nothing wrong with him. Good enough. Shelly carefully looked just past him, making sure there was no way she could be mistaken for staring, just waiting for him to make a move. While she was prepared to stay like this for hours, she was sure the coffee she had noticed him drinking (at a not-displeasing rate) would necessitate locomotion of some sort in the near future. And she would be ready. Her napkin was all set at the edge of the table, just waiting to be blown slightly by an inexplicable breeze, and she was poised just as precipitously, ready to retrieve it. It would be no fault of hers that Kyle might be passing her table just as she leaned down, and certainly she couldn't be held responsible should she require him to introduce himself after such a rude oversight. Yes, it was the waiting, the stalking, Shelly enjoyed the most.

Me:
I might be letting television back into my life. It's astonishing the way it doesn't seem important until you look to see what's on. After that, there's almost no resisting. Luckily, most of what I'm watching right now is sports, and since I can't stand the commentators anyway, I can mute them and do something else at the same time. Today that activity was biking with a basketball game on in the background. Unfortunately, I noticed immediately that there was a decrease in my form on the bike while I was trying to watch the action on screen. Perhaps I should have shut off the game and focused on my riding, but I told myself that there will be things happening during a race too, and I will need to maintain good form through distractions all the time. So I came up with a compromise. I took the commercial breaks as a time to focus on form and do a bit of an interval-style workout and just focused on keeping my cadence up while the big people on TV were doing interesting things. I'm not sure how I did, but I think if I can use this to develop the habit of maintaining a good cadence no matter what is going on around me, that will be significant accomplishment.

The Australian Open and Other Things I Can't Help But Watch

Walls

Thank you for walls,
the thin boundaries
preventing
life from entering my day.
The door to the classroom
closes,
and you are forgotten
for the most part,
but when I leave
my thoughts alone
they turn
to places I can no longer go.
So I prolong my day
with people,
only alone
to fall asleep
but inevitably
there is that moment
(those hours)
between climbing into bed
and forgetting
that belongs to you.

Poem:
This one doesn't really require any explanation. Upon looking at it again, I'm not too sure of some of the really short lines, but that might just be left over from yesterday's style change.

Observation:
I went to see "The Social Network" recently at our local discount movie theater. I mention this not because I'm intending to write a movie review, but simply to discuss my reason(s) for seeing it. I hold no delusions. I'm perfectly aware that the only reason I ever wanted to see it was because of the previews. In fact, I distinctly recall thinking, "That movie looks really bad, but I need to know what happens after that scene in the preview." You know a method is effective if it works despite its incredibly obvious nature. It's sort of like blackmail that way. They hold the rest of the movie hostage, issue you a ransom note in the preview, and to fulfill your desire you have to fork over perfectly good money. And the whole time you're thinking, "Is this really necessary?" Now, I'll admit I have left some of my metaphorical loved ones to die. I was fully intending to see movies like "Despicable Me" and "Dinner for Schmucks" even though I was pretty sure they held no value beyond a couple of forced laughs. But I just never had the heart to pay the fee required of me, and left them at the mercy of those toying with me.
But "The Social Network" was just too tempting. All of the scenes that showed Mark Zuckerberg in a supremely confident position even as he was being sued for millions of dollars, then cut out before I learned anything quite relevant just frustrated me enough to spend some money. And I was completely right. So I guess I can't be disappointed with the movie, since it did absolutely everything I was expecting. I'm now in this interesting dichotomy, where I'm a bit disappointed that it didn't do more that I was expecting, but not allowed to be disappointed because it did exactly what I knew it was going to do. There were the gratuitously underdressed girls, the beginning of the company, the computer jargon-filled phrases, and the completely unwarranted scenes included only because they were guaranteed a few laughs. All in all, I thought it was worth my time, since I saw it late at night and wasn't going to be doing much otherwise, but it's not really a movie I would recommend. Unless you've seen the previews. Then your decision to spend the money is completely warranted.

Exercise:
"Popol Vuh: Seven Random Bits"
I just pulled the Popol Vuh off the shelf and found these seven random bits:
~sweet drink!
~Jaguar
~undone
~you tricksters!
~And they remembered what had been said about the East.
~vagabonds
~corn with fish
What can you write in five minutes that incorporates all of these?

And the village was concerned about the jaguars, for they remembered well what had been said about the East and how it had been foretold that at the first sign of the large cats, ominous things were to follow. They organized a feast, inviting important members from surrounding village councils to partake in what might be the last gathering before the supernatural events overwhelmed them. They had corn with fish, potatoes, and in the center of the long, crudely cut table, a boar sat, roasted in all its glory. And the drink. Sweet drink! Mulled wine of many varieties, touches of honey, and for those who wanted, grain alcohol. They were merry in the face of unusual portents, and by the time the last vessel of wine had been emptied, they had almost put them out of mind. But in an instant, it all came undone. The table shook, the sky flashed, and a deep unease came over the crowd. All they could think of was the influence of the supernatural, and they raised their faces to the sky, crying "You tricksters!" at the gods, sure that in no time they, the chiefs of the area, would be reduced to vagabonds.

Me:
I'm just sitting here wondering how many people have realized the headings of my blog sections spell "poem." Other than that, not a lot of interesting stuff has been happening. Except, of course, for the beginning of the Australian Open. I still enjoy tennis a great deal, and I am conveniently awake for a decent amount of the live broadcast. I started tennis on a whim, for the most part. It all started at some courts near my grandma's house in Wisconsin, where my mom and I went to hit for some reason I don't remember. Well, I had seen some of my high school classmates playing on various occasions, but once I'd tried it out for a while, I began to question what about the sport was so difficult. This was at the beginning of my sophomore year. By the spring I had made the bottom of the varsity team. The next year I was near the top, and ready to work toward a state title for my senior year. I was serving at over a hundred miles and hour, and with some work on my backhand, I felt like I could make a good showing. And then it ended. As has happened with almost everything I've tried, I just lost my grasp on what was important about the sport. My period of rapid improvement had expired, and I realized that even if I did as well as I was hoping, I wouldn't be in a good position to continue playing in college. So I cut my losses, or so I told myself. Looking back, it's more obvious that I didn't like dealing with the pressure. Once I had stopped exceeding expectations and started simply meeting them, it became harder to motivate myself. It had lost its appeal.

Friday-ish Post

Fat

When a man dies of starvation in the United States it's a real trick,
since calories are everywhere, waiting to be picked up
and put back in play, burned off and added to entropy.
We seem to pride ourselves on our food, and our practice
of discarding food, which is probably fine, since it gives the homeless
something to do. The dumpsters have ladders on the outside
to encourage clambering up to peer over the edge
like a toy boat in a stream, hovering just before it plunges
over the cascade. But should they take the plunge into the manky smells
they will note there is no such convenience to help them out.
Peeking in is encouraged, and it's sure sometimes there will be
that treasure glinting back up at you. They put it there to tempt you,
the expiration date just yesterday, and not even old enough
to start changing colors or smells. Its nutrition information
says it has calories galore, and who cares the vitamin percentages
dwindle in reverse proportion to the percentage of daily value
of saturated fat? It's a trap. It shouldn't be a surprise.
I mean, they didn't even put a ladder on the inside.

Poem:
Since I missed my update for Friday, I thought I'd do my “in the style of another poet” poem for today. I have a number of poetry books on my shelf, and I was planning on doing one in the style of Lawrence Raab, whose book The Probable World I greatly enjoyed. But then I realized the reason I enjoy it is because we have similar styles and views on a lot of things. So I wound up opening a book I have for my poetry class this semester for the first time. It's called Inseminating the Elephant. I'm not really sure was was going through the author's head when she called it that. Who wants to admit they're reading a book with that title? But anyway, that's the style I tried to imitate. Some things that are different from the way I normally write: sentences ending in the middle of a line
longer lines in general
obscure analogies
talking about death in a casual way
train of thought style
uncommon descriptive words

Observation:
In my Philosophy of Law class there are two people in the front of the room. One is obviously the professor, but the other is a sign language interpreter, which is something I was not really expecting. Now, I sit in the front row, and I happen to be on the side of the deaf girl, so I am uniquely positioned to make a few comments on the situation. Obviously, I have nothing to say against the idea of there being a deaf person in the class. But if I'm not allowed to do things unrelated to class because the people around me might find it distracting, what should be said of having a person right in front of me gesticulating wildly? Granted, it's not like she chose to be deaf, and it's not like this introductory class requires my undivided attention, but if I'm frequently busy watching the sign language communication, and I can only assume I'm not the only one thoroughly intrigued.
And as long as I'm on the topic of special accommodations, I guess I'll mention the fact that the teacher requested that someone take notes in a carbon-sheeted notebook so the girl could have a copy. But the teacher already writes all of the important things on the chalk board. So I'm not sure what the deaf girl is actually doing all class. She doesn't have to take notes and she doesn't have to participate. It probably sounds like I dislike her being in class. This is not the case. I just wanted to point out some things that people might not be considering.
On that same line, I want to talk about some other things this has made me think of. The first is that knowing sign language must be pretty awesome. It's so easy to talk without people knowing what you're saying. For all I know, the translator person is saying funny jokes about how awful I dress. Then it occurred to me that while there are some fun sides to sign language, it must suck occasionally. Like, whenever you want to do something with your hands, it means you're essentially mute for the duration you want to be, for instance, writing something down. Also, it was quickly made evident that some things are just really cumbersome for sign language. The teacher made some point about mathematical constants, and to illustrate it she put the equations for gravitational attraction saying “gravitational force equals the product of the two masses times the universal gravitational constant divided by the distance squared.” As she said that, I looked at the interpreter-person in the front of the room. She looked so depressed.

Exercise:
"Grandpa Is Backing Out..."
Grandpa should not be driving. But no one dares to hide the car keys. What happens this time? Write the scene.

Rich old men have the fastest cars to ever travel ten below the speed limit. That is, except for Herbert. Herbert isn't about to let all that money go to waste. He spent half on his car, and put half aside for speeding tickets and, should the need arise, bail. When I watch from across the street (usually from the relative safety of my living room), I wince every time the garage door opens. Before it's even two thirds of the way up, out tears the Ferrari Enzo, glaringly red, with sunglasses doing their best to hide the wrinkles behind the steering wheel. A mashing of gears ensues, and a thunderous noise later he has disappeared from view, though the black number eleven he has left behind remains a testament to his takeoff. Screeches, honks, and dull roar echo back over the housetops, and I am impressed by the fact that all of these fade without the din of sirens being added to the mix. “Huh. He doesn't usually make it quite that far,” I remark to myself as I turn away from the window. We'll see if upon his return he has the patience to wait for the garage door to open all the way. Last time he didn't quite, and there's still a bit of a red streak along the bottom of the door.

Me:
I'm okay, I guess. I'm afraid class being back in session means that my thoughts have turned away from the interesting things going on around me and toward the interesting things going on in my head. So all that's really been preoccupying my time has been silly philosophy, none of which is interesting enough to include here. Examples of topics include what makes “acting” distinct from other ways of “doing,” the difference between rationality and reasonability, and the idea of diversity. The most interesting of these might be diversity, since in class we were discussing whether or not diversity could be something that could be forced. We had just concluded that at least some types of diversity were necessary (a conclusion I'm still not quite sure I agree with, though I can see why people might think so), and that led to the question of what would happen if diversity stopped occurring naturally. Like, what if we all grew so homogenized that it wasn't quite natural to think of ourselves as a diverse populace? Could we force people into diversity in order to maintain the discourse many think is necessary for any sort of progress?
Speaking of diversity, I learned that one of the biggest determining factors for a person's opinion on gay rights is whether or not they know a homosexual. A person who comes in close contact with someone who identifies as gay is incredibly more likely to vote for things like gay marriage and anti-discrimination legislature. This probably seems obvious, but it made me think of how many people are afraid to come out to the people they know. Because of this fact, though, when a person stays in the closet, not only are they making themselves unhappy, they are making it harder for people like them. According to factual sources (Wikipedia), between two and thirteen percent of people identify as homosexual. Now, even taking a number near the bottom of that range, say five percent, means that if every homosexual made their orientation known, and if everyone had twenty close friends/family members, everyone would support gay rights legislation. Obviously these leaps in conclusions are incorrect due to population distribution and peoples' standards for friend selection (among many other things), but I still think that fact should lend encouragement to the people out there who are struggling.

A Eclectic Collection: Poem, Rant, Humor, and Tiredness (in that order)

Persistence

There is a stubbornness
to these old trees,
ugly in their contortions
but beautiful in their persistence,
wrapped around rocks
and rooted in nothing
as they project from the sides
of sheer red sheets.
There is a coldness
to the baking boulders,
which, when forced free
by tree roots,
fall and fracture
into manageable masses.
These treacherous traverses
tumble the tired
on their untrusted legs,
hinder progress, and force retreat,
but it’s worth the twisted ankle
and the wrenched knee
to see the rest of the scholarly,
the sophisticated,
turning back.

Poem:
I guess this is another poem about going places out west m0st other people don't make the effort to go. I like this one because of the analogy to the trees, which really are impressive in their ability to stick around in the strangest places. And their ability to shape the rock faces with their roots is a testament to their stubbornness. I edited this to be more focused on concrete detail. The original was more concerned with the abstract concept of persistence and nature's ambivalence to human contact, but I thought this still captured a good deal of that, and the description makes it more intelligible.

Observation:
I'm dropping my philosophy of technology class. Here is a rant to explain why. I walked in today to a very full classroom. I think all but one or two desks were full, and the room was pretty packed. This is a larger class than I like for philosophy, since it encourages professors to adopt a more lecture-based approach rather than center the class around discussion. The professor for this class has only been here a short time, and from the beginning of the period it seemed like the class was going to be tedious. He began by trying to get to know every person's name. He would read a name, and then ask for a fact to associate with whoever was called to help him out. With some effort, this occupied a good 15-20 minutes of class time. During this process, he felt obligated to offer his own opinions at random. When one girl said she enjoyed showing dogs, he asked her what her favorite breed was. When she replied she had an Irish Setter/Spaniel, he just said "Wrong. The only answer is Golden Retriever. They are the best dog."
I was displeased.
So with twenty of our ninety minutes gone, he introduced his lecture topic. It happened to be the definition of technology. Now, this concept is a bit more complicated than it might appear at first, since when you're in a philosophy class, all definitions are quickly deconstructed and analyzed based on their subjective interpretations. So I acknowledged the need for this defining to take place. But rather than get on with it and either give us a definition to discuss or ask for our input, the next thing he did was break us up into small groups. I don't like small groups, and this was no exception. After the process of rearranging the class needlessly had been accomplished, he gave us two questions. The first asked for a feature common to all technology, and the second asked for two types of technology that weren't electronic.
These questions would have taken me less than a minute to answer on my own. He gave us fifteen. And the worst part is, it took us fifteen. I said what I thought was the right answer, and my group ignored me. I stated again that I thought all technology was comprised of tools used for a specific purpose or the facilitation of certain tasks. My group somehow interpreted this as a segue into whether or not technology had to be physical. So they spent the next six minutes discussing this random tangent, and I sat there and fumed. Eventually they put down some random thing as an answer that was incredibly vague. I think it was that technology is something used to solve a problem. That was fine. It was quite similar to what I had said at the outset of our group's little discussion, but as long as it wasn't obviously wrong, who was I to complain?
The second question somehow took an equally long time. I said, "just write down combustion and medicine." They interpreted this to mean go back to their discussion about whether the non-physical could be a type of technology. At one point they had on the piece of paper that philosophy was an example of technology. I was on the verge of tears. Eventually I convinced them that the question wasn't hard and that the obvious answers I had provided would serve the purpose admirably.
Forty of our ninety minutes had passed.
The next fifteen were not occupied by a class discussion of our groups results. That would have been the obvious thing to do. Nope. Naturally, the next thing we did was, on the count of three, point to the person we thought had contributed most to our group's discussion. We weren't allowed to point at ourselves. We did this three times. We were in groups of six, so this meant that half of the members were given extra points. Not a single person in my group pointed at me. Not once. I was baffled. Only after we had rated each others' helpfulness did we learn how accurate their contribution was. This seemed backward to me. How were we to know who was most helpful without knowing who was closest to being correct? But we were finally going to get to the point of the lecture, so I shut up and stuck it out.
I was wrong.
We spent the next ten minutes shouting out what we had come up with. The first group's response was that technology consisted of tools used to solve problems. The rest of the answers, while phrased differently, neatly fit into that definition, but we took the time to go through and say them all anyway. Then we tested them to see if they were all right. Finally, we got to the definition the professor was going to use. "A tool used to accomplish a task." The revelation was unsurprising. It had taken us 75 of our 90 minutes to arrive at this single point. The next fifteen were spent clarifying the point. At the end, he told us he was very glad with our discussion, and he could tell this was going to be a great class. Oh, and never mind what we thought, the Patriots were going to win the Super Bowl. I'm not sure why he bothered to ask our opinion to begin with.
I have no idea how this passes for teaching. We literally learned one thing in ninety minutes. It's an embarrassment. If wasting time is something that passes for a teaching strategy, I'm pretty sure there is something wrong with our methods. I'd much rather just walk in, sit down for twelve minutes, get the information I need, ask any questions, and leave. This was a waste of my time. And the group work? I had given correct answers within the first 30-45 seconds, but received no credit for participation because I refused to partake in substandard conversation.
It's no surprise I've dropped. I'm just sad I won't be able to fill out a teacher evaluation form at the end of the semester.

Exercise:
"Dream Solution"
Your character has a nightmare. But in the middle of it, he or she creatively solves the problem. For example, Ted dreams that he is being backed to the edge of a cliff by someone coming at him with a saber. All of a sudden, Ted realizes that the saber is made out of the same tin foil his wife used to wrap up the peanut butter cookie dough for the freezer. Hey, have fun! What is your character's nightmare, and what is his or her "dream solution"?

Poor Gladys had never been fond of mirrors. It might have had something to do with her unshapely figure, or her perpetually unkempt hair, but mostly it was because she couldn't stand looking herself in the eye. So when, one night, her dreams led her to a funhouse filled with reflections, she was in quite a predicament. When the mirrors fell away and the reflections were left standing, she started to scream. As the various contorted versions of herself advanced, all desperate for eye contact, she came to the sudden realization that, since she was almost completely sure this wasn't a viable scenario in the world she usually frequented, she was probably dreaming. Unfortunately, this realization did little to help. Gladys, you see, had never been quick to think on her feet. She wasn't really quick to think in general, but standing was obviously her worst position. So she sat down. This helped matter immensely. Not only was her mind instantly more agile, but she no longer had to contend with the eyes. Except for those of the particularly squat version waddling over from her left. But, in full control now, she concocted a solution. In front of each of the lumbering figures appeared a mirror, perfectly flat and perfectly accurate. Gladys sat in the middle of the circle, happy to realize they were constructed of one way glass. She delighted in watching the facial expressions of her doppelgangers as they were introduced to their harsh reality, and woke up still chuckling.

Me:
My legs are tired, and I'm approaching that state myself. It's one of those times where if I were more alert I might have the energy to bore you with philosophy, but as it is, I'm not quite up for it. Instead, I will simply comment that I enjoy chocolate to an unhealthy degree, that it is convenient I'm dropping the only class I didn't order every textbook for, and that I have yet to find a main dish that doesn't benefit from some amount of sunflower seeds. When I acquire what I deem a large amount of a new additive, I start trying it on everything. Most recently these additives are sunflower seeds and lemon juice, both of which come in quantities far superior to the amount anyone needs in the near future. Lemon juice is not as universally appealing as sunflower seeds. In case that wasn't obvious. Good night.

In Which I Finally Get Around to Opening My Notebook

I wonder whether those tattooed knuckles
ever considered autism
as a possibility as the ink was pressed
into the rebellious skin.
I wonder whether the teen
at the tattoo parlor
intent on etching her soul
on her hands
was thinking about kids
or about wrinkles
which fold some of the ink away
keeping it secret
as other parts fade in the sun.
And I wonder what she thought
when those hands picked up her son
for the first time, the dark ink contrasting
harshly with the soft, pale skin.
Did it ever seem foolish?
Were the tattoos more planned
than the pregnancy?
Did her rebellion fade gradually with the ink
or was it a sudden separation
when the stick showed positive?

Poem:
I'm finally getting around to opening the notebook I try to carry with me everywhere, and this poem was inside from a time I (obviously) saw a woman with old tattoos trying to deal with her crying boy. She looked around constantly, her gaze both apologetic and defiant, and when she noticed my attention, she told me he was autistic, like she needed to make an excuse. Too bad my parents didn't have that one at their disposal. All of my public scenes would have been a lot easier to explain, I'm sure. I just nodded at her. I wasn't intending to convey disappointment or anger or anything. I just wanted to write things down in my notebook. So this poem resulted. This is obviously a rough draft, but I think it has potential, even though the idea of old tattoos is obviously not a new topic.

Observation:
In my political science class there was a guy with a laptop. On the laptop were two stickers. The first said "Abort73.com" and the second said "IHOP mission base." Now, I knew absolutely nothing about either of these things, but I was made curious because obviously abortion is a big issue, and IHOP to me is a place that makes some fantastic pancakes. This guy didn't seem like a guy particularly interested in either of these things. When the professor asked us to seat ourselves based on political self-identity, he moved to the far right. So I knew I absolutely had to figure out what these things meant in order to make fun of them. Sure enough, Abort73.com is an anti-abortion website purporting to provide all the facts you need to know about how people with a different viewpoint murder innocent babies every day, and IHOP, rather than being an establishment focused on deliciousness, stands for International House of Prayer.
As a pro-choice atheist, I feel I am obligated to make fun of these things. Not their beliefs. I'm not going to open that can of worms here (and if you want to talk with me about my views, it's possible I won't even be that open to sharing them in private). I have long since resigned myself to the fact that people on both sides are unable to benefit from argumentation. But I will poke merciless fun at these stickers. Now, when I saw the sticker "Abort73.com" I was taken aback. I honestly thought that this person was making a statement about a goal. Like, everyone should abort 73 fetuses. The NFL has a program called the play60 program that encourages kids to play for 60 minutes a day, for example. I'm sure there is some logical reason for their website name, but honestly, I think they should have thought it through a bit better. And the IHOP one is equally poorly targeted. If there were a mission that involved eating pancakes, rest assured I would be all over that. This was almost cruel in the way it got my hopes up. If there was a pancake rebellion that needed to be put down, or an evil pancake dictator that needed to be consumed, I was fully prepared to report for duty to whatever mission base there was. And there's no way this organization doesn't know that acronym is more commonly associated with breakfast food. So I think in both cases, these methods of spreading the word need some serious reconsideration.

Exercise:
"Falling Mattresses"
"They had been waiting, umbrellas up, for the falling mattresses." Take this as the first line of your story and start writing.

They had been waiting, umbrellas up, for the falling mattresses. There was little doubt they would be on their way soon. The forecast had called for it, after all. The dogs and cats came plummeting to earth just as predicted, and it was sure that the mattresses would be close behind. The people in the streets had little idea just what kind of mattresses to expect. The prevailing theory held that a twin-size was the maximum the clouds above could produce, but a few Mastiffs and Maine Coons had wound up on rooftops when the estimates had called for the largest of each species to be Golden Retrievers and slightly-overweight Calicoes. So the people, while figuring the upcoming shower to be a mostly crib-sized affair, were ready to duck under nearby overhangs at a moment's notice.

Me:
In general, today was a pretty mediocre day. I missed the bus I wanted to catch after my first class. I saw the bus which immediately precedes it leaving the stop, so I started jogging, sure that I would get there just as the one I wanted arrived. Sure enough, I walked up just as it got to the stop. It paused, and I started walking toward it, only to have it leave again as I was looking through the doors. It must have been the only time I've seen that bus stop at that stop without anyone disembarking, too. It's a major stop on the route with transfers to all the other routes around town, and to have it leave after I was so sure I wouldn't have to walk back to my apartment in the cold was a disappointing turn of events indeed.
Switching topics completely, in my philosophy of law class we were challenged to come up with an example of a self-evident moral truth. As a graduating philosophy major in an intro-based class, I am greatly looking forward to dismantling peoples' responses. I have discussed the idea of an objective morality in at least three separate classes, and I don't think we've ever been able to come up with an example, but it's always fun to see people try. I honestly think morality is a myth. It's a well-perpetuated myth, and it does a lot of good, but to suppose that any action is objectively wrong is presumptuous on a couple of counts. The first is that I think a situation can be thought of to justify any action. Now, the more horrific the action, the more convoluted the situations become, but that doesn't mean the situation doesn't exist. The second reason I scoff at people assuming there is an objective morality is that, even if there is one, it's impossible for us to be sure we are interpreting it correctly. In other words, even if there is a right and wrong to the universe, there's no way for us to know at the time we make our choice, what the right option is. Even looking back, there is no way to know absolutely we made the wrong decision, since the alternative could have led to a completely different outcome than we assume. Suppose you regret running a stop sign, for example. There is no way to know that, had you obeyed the law, the few seconds you were set back wouldn't have resulted in you hitting a small kid whose ball happened to roll into the street. It's the whole "butterfly effect" thing, essentially.
Sorry to have gone off on a philosophy tangent. It will undoubtedly happen again in the "me" sections, since it's what I think about a good deal. Thanks for bearing with me, though. Oh, and sorry for the extremely delayed posting from yesterday.

Poptarts are Puzzling

The Ocean, that is

I'm a stranger to the ocean,
though perhaps a familiar one,
as with the girl in class
who I nod to outside in passing
without knowing her name.

They are both attractive,
though only one will move first
if I stand here, toes in the sand
and wait for the tide to change.

I see her often enough,
the ocean, that is,
to know she's worth knowing better
and to attract me every time I smell
that distinctive scent.

So each time I near her,
the ocean, that is,
I silently hope this time
we won't stay separated
by this strange familiarity.

Poem:
Ah, yes. This poem. I wrote this a while ago laughing at myself because I wasn't willing to make the first move. Like, ever. I always just sat there and hoped to be approached. Now, there's nothing really wrong with that, I suppose, since I wound up with the girlfriend I have now, and she's awesome. But I've always hoped I wouldn't be such a passive person. And I'm pretty sure I haven't changed. So this poem is just sort of lecturing myself about what I could do differently. And it's also about the ocean, which is pretty nifty in its own right. A bit too big for my taste, but fun to meet up with every once in a while.

Observation:
I bought a package of poptarts from a vending machine today. It wasn't my proudest moment, but necessity dictated I put something in my stomach. The ingredients list is atrocious, but they were the best deal as far as amount of food per dollar was concerned. So I walked to the microwave, put them in, hit the "plus thirty second button" and then realized I should figure out how long they should actually be in there. I grabbed the package out of the top of the trash, flipped it over, and to my surprise, the directions said to microwave for 3 seconds. Well, at this point the microwave said they had been in for 11 seconds, and by the time I got the door open (in a bit of a panic, I assure you), a good 13 seconds had passed. No flames seemed to be issuing forth, so I curiously prodded them slightly. No response. My finger remained intact. I removed the pastries from the microwave and cautiously took a bite. Delicious. They were the perfect temperature.
Now I was sure the instructions on the back of the packaging were an error. Perhaps the 3 was supposed to be followed by a zero. So, like any reasonable person, I googled it. It turns out I am one of the last people in the world to discover this. Also, I am not the first person to write a blog post about it. But since this was one of the major discoveries of my day, I decided it warranted a comment.

Exercise:
"OCD"
Your character is an obsessive compulsive. Describe his or her morning. Do not use the words "obsessive compulsive."

My bathroom floor is always cold, which wouldn't be such a bad thing if I hadn't lost my slippers a few days ago. To make the situation bearable, I brought a rug up from downstairs. After straightening it to line up with the tiles, I realized it was a slight bit larger than the area between my door and the bottom of the sink. If I scooted if forward, it wouldn't line up with the line of tiles, but if I left it lined up, the door wouldn't close properly. I resorted to leaving the door open, straightening the rug one last time before brushing my teeth. I opened a new toothbrush from my cabinet, noted I was running low, and reminding myself to pick up another bulk package of them from Wal-Mart on my way home. I noticed a fleck of toothpaste on the back of my my right ring finger, so I washed my hands briefly. I used the toilet, washed my hands thoroughly, and made my way downstairs to my kitchen. Then I realized I was unable to close the door behind me as was customary. I took the rug with me downstairs.

Me:
It took a good portion of my willpower to get on my stationary bike tonight. I came back after two and a half hours of handball and was feeling a little beat up. I made the unfortunate decision to run the back of my head into the wall, which resulted in a bit of a headache, and my hip was scraped and bruised from other actions that were a bit reckless on the court. But I did it, and I felt proud of myself. And then I went to bed and didn't update. So now this is really late. Sorry about that.

Hasty Update: Bike Crash and Weather Stuff

Bicycle Accident

When I fell, plummeting slowly,
and saw the sandy roadside
casually lifting itself closer,
I knew my mistake
merited a deeper concern.
And when time sped up again,
and I was instantly acquainted
with every intricacy the road could offer,
I decided, quite spontaneously and unwillingly,
to go into shock.

The middle-aged woman who stopped
soon after, who rolled her window down
and frowned at me with concern,
was not convinced I was fine.
Neither was the doctor
who pulled out the pieces
of road I had tried to smuggle
into his room without anyone knowing.
And when the shock wore off
and things became less funny,
I was forced to concur.

Poem:
As I mentioned in my last post, I crashed my bike while going rather rapidly down a mountain in Oregon. I was pulling a trailer on my bike, and when I hit a couple of huge cracks in the road I was catapulted over the handlebars. I skidded to a stop on the shoulder, and I didn't feel like I was too bad off until I looked down and realized I had no fingertips. And there was a huge hole in my palm. I was rescued by a nice woman who dialed 911 for the $800 ambulance ride. I had anesthetic poured all over my arm, and it was pretty painful, but after it took effect it was fun to watch the doctor pull chunks of asphalt out of my arm. I still have a scar that's tinged black from the road. So the poem is just my thought process, how things slowed down for a bit before impact during the panic, and how I went into shock for a while and didn't think things were as dire as everyone was making them seem.

Observation:
Oh boy were those weather forecasters wrong for today. They said there was a possibility of ten inches of snow falling overnight, but I woke up to absolutely no change from the day before. I guess the snow removal guys had already been paid to work in anticipation or something, because I saw three 0f them brushing already clear sidewalks in their little vehicles. I had enough time to get back from my first class, and then the snow started falling. Foolish boy that I am, I tried biking to class again later in the afternoon, and was somehow unsurprised to see no snow removal happening whatsoever. After sliding around on my bike for a while, I made it to class in one piece. I don't know what governs the decision-making of the mysterious snow people, but I'm pretty sure it's not based on what's best for me. It was fun to watch people gawk at the stupid guy biking in terrible weather. And I was in shorts, which made matters all the more entertaining.

Exercise:
"Flying a Kite"
Describe a person flying a kite:

It wasn't as fun as he remembered. When he was a child, flying kites has been his favorite weekend activity. He even had different fields he would travel to depending on which direction the wind was from. Now, standing in his "easterly" location, he struggled to recall what had been so addictive to his smaller self. The kite rose hesitantly, its tail draping drably down. He played out the line gradually, wishing the wind were strong enough to threaten to rip him from the ground. As a ten year-old, he had exhilarated in jumping with the gusts, trying to time his leaps well enough to leave the world behind. It hadn't worked, and now he had no intention of trying.

Me:
I have a lock. It turns out that mentioning things in your blog can make your mom pity you enough to purchase things. Not only that, but the lock is the best lock ever. I complained that combination locks were too tiresome, and keyed locks were a hassle because the last thing I need is one more thing to keep track of. This lock works like a combination, but has a slider that moves in four directions. You decide the password, which can be any length and any combination of moves. It's way too much fun. I must have spent fifteen minutes trying to decide which ways I liked moving it and setting the combination. Then I spent another ten minutes just opening and closing it. It's just a satisfying experience. The enjoyable clicks of the sliding mechanism, the speed with which it operates, and the fulfilling clunk at the end as it opens are addictive. The only problem I can think of is that there is a high likelihood that I will be doing this all the time, making it impossible to keep my code a secret. My stuff will probably get stolen anyway. But I will have fun until it does.

Handball Stuff

Handball Floor

There are sweat splotches on the floor
where droplets landed after being flung
from whirling bodies
which pivot in the corners
like tops that can't quite seem
to stop bouncing off the walls.

The floor is filmed with dust
and footwork requires focus
on its slick surface,
except where swaths
have been cleared
by sliding bodies,
impromptu brooms
thrown about ungracefully
and thudding in desperation.

Grown children
clinging clumsily to their fascination
with a bouncing ball.

Poem:
I'm not sure this is finished. I feel like I should add more to it, and if it comes to me I'll probably do so. I haven't ever really written about a sport I play, and I wanted to try it. I'm undecided whether or not I will try it again. The reason I chose this in particular is (aside from it being the sport I played most recently) that the floors of our courts are in increasingly bad condition. People disregard the signs specifying which types of shoes to wear, they are never cleaned, and our previous best court has been taken over and destroyed by the boxing and cycling clubs. So the topic was on my mind.

Observation:
Handball is a pretty weird sport. For example, the best player in the world is an overweight ex car salesman. Athleticism, while obviously beneficial, plays less of a role than in most other sports I've tried. Strategy and a good sense of where the ball is going are essential, and it encourages constant adaptation. It's also one of the few sports I've played that doesn't skew itself toward tall people. When I played tennis I wanted to be taller to take advantage of more serving angles. Basketball is a no-brainer, and ultimate frisbee, where at least there are situations in which height should be dominated by tall people as well. A bigger wingspan for throwing means a harder time for the defense, and tall people obviously have an easier time getting the the disc first. But in handball, being taller just means you have to bend down more to get the shots near the floor. Long arms, while useful in many situations, are ungainly for shots that are directed into the body. All in all, this is the sport for me. I don't have the raw sprint speed required for other sports, but in handball I can make up for it with good anticipation. And my hand-eye coordination is pretty decent, allowing me to pick up shots on the fly and disrupt the rhythm of the game. I would try and get more people to play this sport, but there's a problem: you have to hit the ball with your hands. When first starting out, the sport is a bit of a chore. After my first time playing, I took my glove off and my hand was so swollen I couldn't distinguish the knuckles as I biked home. Now, there are more intelligent ways to go about starting the sport. There are lighter balls beginners can use, padded gloves, and if you acquire good technique, that will take a lot of the stress off the palms of your hands. But coming from tennis, I just smacked the ball with my hand in a flat motion repeatedly, and the bruises I wound up with made playing in the future a trying experience. So when people ask me whether or not it hurts my hands, I say "Only for the first month or so." Which is a pretty big commitment to ask of someone who isn't sure about the sport and just wants to try it out. For me, it was worth all the pain and then some to finally find a sport to which I was well-suited.

Exercise:
"Your character visits the dentist"
Your character visits the dentist. Write the scene.

Typical waiting room. Tropical fish meander around their tank, tireless in their attempts to hypnotize the waiting patients. I'm watching the blue one, which is smaller than most of the others, but follows a less-established pattern. I don't think I've ever been to a waiting room without a fish tank. I briefly wonder whether tank maintenance is part of the dental school course requirements. I can imagine students interspersing their knowledge of teeth with facts about pH levels and salt concentration. The species of fish seem pretty standardized as well. They're probably given a formula sheet. For a tank of size x, fishes y and z are required in a 4:3 ratio, but only if fish q is included and the water is changed every other week.
My reverie is broken when my name is called, and I realize that, yet again, the tank has done exactly what it is supposed to: distract me from my visit. For all the trepidation that accompanies the scheduling of the appointment and the days leading up to it, the few minutes closest to the moment of truth never seem so bad. And it's all due to these stupid fish tanks. They won't even let me wallow in my stress. As I walk by the tank, I give the blue fish a dirty look. He seems pretty unconcerned.

Me:
I was the victim of a crime yesterday, which was a new-ish experience for me. I've had my bike snatched from bike racks before, I guess. That was actually kind of amusing, since the bikes I ride around town are usually pretty junky. My dad throws them together from a combination of garage sales and whatever he has lying around, which usually means their net worth is around ten dollars. And the person who stole my bike left my sixty dollar helmet. So I was less disappointed than one might think. I guess the people stealing bikes aren't the sort who want their heads protected anyway, so it worked out for the both of us.
But today I had my stuff stolen out of a locker while I was playing handball, which was a much less fun experience. I had employed a similar strategy as with the bike case; I didn't have anything I thought was worth taking. But they took it anyway. So I went and reported it, and they said they'd been having problems with this sort of thing. There's a fake camera-looking thing in the hallway, but I guess the thieves found out it was fake or just didn't care. The person I was reporting the theft to told me that they had found other stolen stuff around the building after the thieves had abandoned it, so while I filled out the form, one of my playing companions, Piper, went out searching. Sure enough, it hadn't gone far. In fact, the thieves had returned it to the hallway. They had decided my team biking coat, bright red puma shoes, phone, and driver's license weren't things they could effectively commandeer, as they were all things that could readily be identified with me. One thing I am confused about is why they bothered to return it to the hallway. Now, I do appreciate the fact that it was easy to find, but it seems like a terrible idea from the thief's perspective. Where is the one place he/she knows the person missing the stuff could be? Answer: that hallway. What are thieves never supposed to do? Answer: return to the scene of the crime. It would have been really funny if they had been caught returning my stuff.
So I wasn't in a very bad mood as I left. I was surprised someone would actually take all of my stuff from the hallway, especially when I knew there wasn't really anything worth their while. I had just assumed they would go through the pockets wherever my stuff happened to be and then leave, hoping I didn't notice anything amiss. But I had my coat, so I wasn't too upset. Then later I realized I didn't have my iPod, and I was a lot less content with my coat. The thing I missed the most? The picture I had been drawing on my sketchbook application. I had spent hours on that. I can replace the music, apps, etc. for free, but the pictures on there were unique. And if you recall, I just cracked the screen. So even though I didn't ever mean to have it in my pocket, it still wasn't something I thought someone would steal. I'm not sure what I'm going to do in the future. I still don't think I have anything someone would want, but I guess that doesn't matter as much as I thought. So maybe I'll get a lock.

A Bunch of Unrelated Stuff

Germophobe

He carried a bottle of Purell everywhere
and a package of handiwipes.
He had started with just the Purell,
but one day a stranger asked to borrow it,
and since he wasn't a weirdo
just a germophobe,
he had been quite willing to relinquish it temporarily.
But when the bottle was returned
it came with a little bit of doubt.
Where had that man's hands been?

It had been his practice to apply Purell
after every contact with the vast, germ-filled world,
but now the bottle of Purell
belonged to that world.
He couldn't very well Purell his hands
after every time he used the stuff.
He'd be Purell-ing perpetually.
So now he had the handiwipes.

Poem:
I thought of that poem literally four minutes ago as I was typing something else, so I guess if you were wondering what my writing looks like unedited, you have a prime example. I'll leave it that way, but I'm pretty sure I'll change the ending when I go back to it. It seems too clean. I feel like the life of a germaphobe shouldn't end cleanly like that. I didn't get into the real conflict the man might experience. But I do love the phrases "Purell-ing perpetually, and "just a germaphobe." I know germaphobe isn't the technical term. There are two different things "germaphobes" might be suffering from. The most obvious is OCD, but there's also a more specific term, mysophobia. Either way, I wanted to write a poem about it, but I am not in a serious mood. Maybe I'll re-write it in a serious way in the future, but for now, that's what we've got.

Observation:
There's nothing like playing sports with girls to make you feel better about yourself. I would assume it's pretty common knowledge by now that men and women are built differently, so hopefully I won't be harangued by people who think I'm being sexist. It's really just the fact of the matter. I'll leave that debate for now and move on. The sport I'm talking about in this case is ultimate frisbee, which in case you don't know, originated as a sport for hippies to play together and feel good about themselves. And then we took it and put it into the competitive arena with shouting matches, intentional fouling, and grudges. The objective is to move a disc (frisbee, to the less enlightened) into an endzone without letting it contact the ground. But the important detail of this story is that I am a boy and the people I played with yesterday were girls.
Now, the women's team at Iowa State is a good team. They went to the national tournament two years ago, and some of them play on a team from Ames that won the mixed division world championships in Prague. But we still needed some rules to equalize the playing field. The first rule was that I would play left-handed. I am not left-handed. In a sport that revolves around throwing (and involves a rather complex throwing motion to boot), this was a pretty big setback. The next rule was that if I played defense on a girl, I wasn't allowed to jump. When things still weren't quite evened out, jokes were made about blindfolding me and making me run backwards. All in all, it was quite a boost for the old ego. Not that it needed it.

Exercise:
"Magical Furniture"
This is a little exercise in magical realism. With realistic detail, write a scene in which your character had a conversation with a piece of furniture. Assume the person and the piece of furniture disagree about something.

She didn't know the bench was so immature. That might have surprised her even more than the fact that it started talking when she tried to clean it.
"Hey hey hey. What are you doing?" were it's first words. They were pretty unimpressive, to be honest. Until you remembered they were coming from a wooden bench. That fact added a certain something.
Julie responded with surprising poise. "I'm going to clean this bench," she said, looking around a bit. Now, granted, if she had thought the bench was actually talking to her, she might have reacted with a bit more incredulity. But she was poised nonetheless.
"No! I don't wanna be cleaned!" Had the bench possessed arms, it would have crossed them defiantly, and if it had eyebrows, it would have frowned. As it was, if you squinted really hard, you might have been able to notice a slight shift in the grain of the wood on the top surface.
"Oh!" She approached gradually, eyes flicking everywhere in an attempt to isolate the source of the sound. She knew speakers could be made awfully small these days. "Why not?"
"I just don't." The four legs tried their darnedest to stomp for added emphasis, but to no avail.
"It will make you shiny and pretty. That sounds nice, right?" She had paid extra close attention that time, and either this prank was unbelievably elaborate or she had some serious reevaluating to do regarding her preconceptions of benches.
"No!" The petulant bench showed no sign of backing down.
Julie had never been one to force things upon others, but she also had never been one to have a dirty entry hall. The conflict threatened to compromise her very identity. More so than any fact of the bench talking, this dilemma made her sit back and think things through.

Me:
I'm fine, how are you?

I don't have a lot to say about me. When this occurs, I will simply provide a random fact from my past. I used to juggle. My mom taught me because I wanted to give a presentation on how to juggle in the fourth grade, but couldn't actually do it. So I learned, and eventually it led me to exciting places like Madison, Wisconsin for an event called "Madfest." It's a pretty awesome experience. Anyone could come up to you at any point and ask you to juggle with them. At this level, juggling can involve intricate patterns passing clubs between people at odd intervals, and crazy tricks. I got okay at juggling, and even juggled in our middle school talent shows. At one point I tried to bike across the country with a juggling group to benefit the Shriner's Children's Hospitals. I crashed at 30 mph and lost a good portion of my skin, which ended that. I can still juggle, of course, but I haven't done much with it for years. It's a good skill to have, I think.