High fructose corn syrup is really bad

Powder-blue shirt hovers midscreen
white dove wings poking into frame
bright letters: peace to universe

He stabbed a pastor twenty years ago.

His white-tipped goatee
Makes him look wiser now
Than when his black skin
Earned him the death penalty

He didn't just violate his parole
He obliterated it
With drugs until the first man
To do him a favor
Showed him how insufficient
His life was

And the tip of his knife
Slipped from silver to red
Nothing against the man who stained it
Self confidence spewed
But drained faster than the blood
Pumped limply from many holes

Poem:
We watched a movie in my class today about a woman meeting with murderers in prison, and I thought it amusing that the man she talked to was wearing a shirt that proclaimed peace to the universe from it's powdery blue fabric. So I used the story he told for a poem. A bit depressing, but the movie was rather interesting, so I thought I'd write a bit about it before I forgot.

Observation:
If you've been around me as I've consumed food recently, you probably know I have recently adopted a vendetta against high fructose corn syrup. Basically, I was feeling fat one day and looking for something to blame it on, and I decided to buy into the whole "processed foods are bad for you" mindset. I told my parents, and was asked if I had any real evidence. I realized Boston Legal probably wasn't an accredited source, so I said not really and forgot about it for a while. Then I saw a commercial of a woman saying that high fructose corn syrup was fine because the sugar in it is processed the same as any other sugar. That by itself is obvious. Sugar is sugar. But that made me wonder why they needed a commercial. So I morphed into super-sleuth mode. Which actually means I turned on my computer. And I did a ton of research. Which actually means I googled high fructose corn syrup, scrolled down about five results, and clicked on a site. It had taken me about fifteen seconds of effort to completely debunk the commercial. If I had any faith that other people had also done this, I could just let the matter rest, but since it had (sadly) taken me quite a while to do it, I have no such belief. So here's the article: http://www.princeton.edu/main/news/archive/S26/91/22K07/
And because I'm sure some people are still too lazy to click that link and wade through the preamble, it basically says that when rats were given water with high fructose corn syrup at half the concentration than soda they gained way more weight than rats given the full concentration of normal sugar water. Furthermore, this weight was gained mainly in the midsection, and the type of fat was specifically linked to the type associated with artery trouble.
But the whole reason I even wanted to bring this up is because, in my effort to avoid this death syrup, I have been reading ingredients labels. While frequently depressing, yesterday this resulted in utter bafflement. I enjoy bread and butter flavored pickles. I have no idea why they are called that, but they are delicious despite their complete lack of resemblance to anything having to do with bread or butter. Anyway, I was rather excited to see they came in a larger size than just the normal "chip" cut style. Basically, they were cut lengthwise instead of in cross sections. Out of habit I checked the ingredients. You guessed it: high fructose corn syrup. But only in the lengthwise-sections! So I muttered some profanities in Vlasic's general direction and bought the other ones. Jerks.

Exercise:
The aim of this exercise is to play with rhyme. Feel free to make use of www.rhymer.com, or a rhyming dictionary if you happen to have access to one. If you feel too silly to do this exercise, then make one of your fictional characters be an avid writer of doggerel. What little rhyming poem can you come up with in five minutes?

The little ones have gone to bed
And "head" rhymes with bed and has to do with dreams
So that's the word I should have said
But rather than that it seems
I have little regard for the cordiality
Of monosyllabic, cliche rhymes
That make song lyrics a predictable reality
And less respect for rhythm and time
Which, once welcome constraints
Adding structure and form
Now steal color from the paints
Of the pictures I try to bring to life.

Me:
(I know the last line doesn't rhyme.)
Anyway, things are going pretty well. You know, other than the pickle incident. This is due largely in part to the fact that the rest of the shopping resulted in the acquisition of delectable foods which I have been partaking in consistently. And perhaps unhealthily. Peach mango salsa in particular brings a smile to my face. And sweet Bavarian mustard. Delicious.
Unfortunately while procuring said mustard, the box I was using to carry it gave way and in broke two containers. And the eggs. And then, since this happened in the store, an old guy walked over a few minutes after it happened and I was involved in cleaning it up to say "now look what you've done." I was sorely tempted to inquire whether in his many years, he had also made a mistake, but wound up holding my tongue. This might have been due to the fact that an incredibly nice store clerk had helped out with the mess saying it was no trouble, happened all the time, and not to worry about the cost. Granted, his tune might have been different had I broken something worth more than five dollars, but I was touched nonetheless. So in that good spirit, I refrained from sarcasm.
This will be formatted better when I get back to a computer, so if you're reading it before then, sucks for you, I guess.

Spring Break

Schedules

When you're paranoid even the people in front of you are stalking you.
That mirror she holds up, the vague and bouncing eye
reflected back, so all you know of her is that she wears too much mascara,
but not enough hairspray,
and exactly the right amount of perfume, a hint of which trails behind
to put you off the scent.

But she's watching in her mirror and in the shiny storefronts
just opening, lights flickering over displays of carefully positioned dolls
intermittent shadows strobing their bodies; if they move at exactly the right time
you will never know.

If a person rode the same bus every day you could stalk them from anywhere.
That woman in front, who also catches the 8:24 with her unmatched socks
and occasional  calf-covering boots could be taking her time,
watching that mirror for where you turn
so she can turn there tomorrow.

Poem:
Just a tangential thought process I was having a while ago. I was vaguely wondering if you could find out where someone was going without following them. Then I thought of how many people have such regular schedules. It's probably pretty easy to just watch where they turn and modify your route the next day until you gradually gain access to their destination. I don't know why my mind works the way it does. I figured if I set the poem in a city-ish place the commuter crowd would make the schedule/use of reflections a bit more plausible. Not sure about the style. I was trying to mix it up a bit, but I feel like I'm just worse at styles that don't some naturally.

Observation:
In Arizona everyone is on wheels.
Don't walk down the middle of the sidewalk
or you'll risk being clipped
by a biker late for class
on her forty-pound, retro-style
goliath of inefficiency
with the swept-back handle bars
and the powder blue paint,
which distinguishes hers
from the pink, green and yellow versions
(black if belonging to a guy)
all locked in leaning rows.

In the universality
many are missing wheels,
and some lack seats,
since a seeping flat
is easier fixed with theft
than a pump and a spare.
So carcasses lurk
with their front forks
attached to the spinning ground
beneath them,
mounted in the earth,
whose rotating mass
makes an ambitious wheel.

I liked the first line I wrote about my observation (which was simply that everyone in Tempe rode bikes or skateboards everywhere), so I wrote it as a poem instead. But seriously, there might have been fewer people walking than riding, which would be crazy for Ames.

Exercise:
Take these lines from a well-known novel and continue them however you want:
She had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around.....

She had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around, bright in their eyes so they couldn't help but look away, though they would no doubt glance back, curious about the origins of her treasure. He gait, her very posture ensured she wouldn't be mistaken for her old self. Her bearing brooked no questions. Leave it to them to figure out what had put the spring in her step. The smile on her face. The gleam in her eye. She veritably flaunted it. Her shyness fell away like an unneeded bathrobe, the furry comfort of demureness gone as she bared her real self to the world, looked men in the eye as they passed, and interjected in conversations with her assured opinion.

Me:
It's amazing how little time this break has actually afforded me. I've been at work, then on my bike, occasionally on a field with a frisbee, and when I finally get back, I have actually had people to spend time with. A foreign sensation at this point, and not one that lends itself to writing much. So I guess once break is over and I go back to a schedule where at least I know I have certain times with nothing to do, I will be able to update this more regularly. Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed having people to talk to for a change, but I do have things I want to do, and while it's nice to be able to socialize (and vent, and just know there are people out there worth spending time with), I am a rather goal-oriented individual. So it will be nice to get back on track having gotten my socializing out of my system.

Interesting Images

Going Places

A candle whispers out, wick coughing up its last ashy remnants
which rise, single file formation, drifting east.
Fog finds cracks between peaks,
a slow-motion avalanche wiping entire valleys from view.
There are baby toys and a crib in the front yard
almost unused, still colorful, never loved.
An ocean of bricks rises up overnight to shelter those less fortunate
than millionaires, but more fortunate than community college kids
in that they get to pay more for their bricks, and their basketball teams
don't always suck.

A decrepit professor retires finally, walks out of the building;
loafers on the too-elaborate brick staircase one last time.
Class debates eschewed political correctness for content.
Clarity before courtesy - he doesn't look back.

Bushes burgeoning with robins fling squawks of spring
at fenced-in, sandboxed children waiting to be told they can resume
their studies and put down their shovels and empty their pants,
though the damage has been done. They won't sit comfortably
until they have a cure for cancer.

A low-pressure area over Nebraska dictates where air
I intended on breathing is going. I watch it depart
taking with it the smell of smoke
from the cigarette the weird bearded guy is smoking
as we wait for the east-bound bus.

Poem:
It's Friday, and I mentioned Dean Young's poetry yesterday, so here was a shot at imitating his style. It's a rather poor attempt. As far as I can tell, he relies on image impression as a way of conveying feeling to his reader, so I put most of my effort into images. I'm not sure if anyone not privy to my brain will think they're related at all.

Observation:
I found this during my extensive browsing of the internets and thought it was interesting enough to pass on:



If you want a more offensive, less to-the-point version, you can watch this (I think the only decent part is at the four minute mark):



Basically, it shows why all the people who by a Prius because they care about the environment should really do their research. The nickel that goes into the batteries is way worse than burning some extra gas.

Exercise:
You are in a waiting room (doctor's office, job interview, etc.). People are sitting more or less in a circle. Describe several of them -- focusing only on their feet! Type of shoes, cleanliness and condition of shoes, toes if they show, how they let their feet rest. Are they quiet or do the feet move? What can you tell about the person from the feet?

I'm not the sort of person to stare at other people. Nor am I the sort of person to feign interest in waiting room reading material. However, I am the curious sort. The combination of these three traits is what led to me with my eyes half-closed and pretending to ignore the people around me, all the while studiously regarding the bits of them I could see: their feet. Immediately across from me slender calves disappeared into faux-fur-lined, black suede boots, which of course looked like they had never been used to traverse anything deeper than the layer of dust on the floor. The laces were tied in a loopy bow, as though the wearer knew any detail of footwear could come under scrutiny at a moment's notice. To her (I felt safe assuming it was a her) left was her contrapositive. Hairy calves drooped into dirty white tennis shoes, their soles almost attached, and releasing water gradually into the carpet. Where he had managed to find a puddle capable of imparting that quantity of water was a bit of a mystery, so I could only assume he was the sort who couldn't be bothered to deviate from his course enough to avoid the snow's last watery remnants. And then there were the optimistic, leg-bouncing, open-toed heels. They gracefully wound their way around a solid ankle, not the sort of ankle to take no for an answer, but not pudgy either. The toenails were trimmed, but unpainted. All business.

Me:
Today was a pretty good day. I played handball at 11:00 in lieu of class (which was cancelled), and spent the rest of my free time on my iPad. I found larger versions of the apps I like on my phone, and was stunned by the amazing picture quality while watching video. After my afternoon class I ate a salad and a quesadilla before getting on my bike and heading into the wind. I went west, and the wind was from the southwest. By the time I was halfway to my destination it had shifted to a straight headwind, but I pressed on. I had the foolish idea I was going to do sixty miles. It turns out that that actually requires some amount of time. And it also turns out that if you leave in the late afternoon, the sun tends to not give you that amount of time. On a related note, it gets cold. So I made it about twenty miles before realizing it was getting dark and cooling off rapidly. I turned around, realized the tailwind was actually rather strong, and hightailed it home. It was thoroughly enjoyable. When I stopped for traffic, the street signs were rattling. The wind was whipping plant material into a frenzy, and I'm pretty sure I averaged over 28 mph on the way back. Upon my arrival, I manufactured some pasta for a post-ride binge (the best time to eat is within 20-30 minutes of concluding a workout), hauled myself upstairs, and passed out in front of the internet. I woke up some time later and had one of those instants where you don't know whether the clock means AM or PM. I think that feeling of complete temporal disorientation is fascinating. Like when you go into the movie theater in the broad daylight and come out to darkness. It's such a strange feeling. Awesome. So that's why this is getting posted at four in the morning. I've already slept a bunch, and I'm not really that tired. What a start to spring break.

Fun Stuff

Cartwheels

We were never acrobats.
In particular, me
convinced a summersault constituted
an aerial feat
of stunning quality
as foes shied away
from my twice-broken
plastic sword.

It had been reforged
in the fires of superglue.
A leap onto the couch
scaled cliffs
which would have taken hours
for lesser men.

And you applauded,
fought along side me
when the script required
and switched seamlessly
to villainy when I got bored
of chopping air.

We threw in a cartwheel
every so often,
editing the scene
(the camera panned in
so you couldn't tell
other action had ceased
for focus on the stunt work).

In everyone's mind their cartwheels are perfect.
Nobody from that upside-down disorientation
knows their legs are off to one side
or that their back is bent.
Which is to say, that sometimes ignorance is bliss,
imagination taking over.

Poem:
Just a recollection of childhood. Not much to say about it other than that.

Observation:
Another interesting discussion in my philosophy class resulted in today's little insight. As everyone knows, liberals and conservatives tend not to get along very well. But the discussion we were having concerned the distinction between being liberal (or conservative) in a political sense and being the same in a judicial sense. Now, there are obviously some similarities and overlap between the two. Conservatives, by definition, favor the status quo, resistin change. In a judicial sense this means that they tend to side with precedent, and in general resist attempts to overturn old laws. Furthermore, conservatives believe in strict interpretation, meaning that the letter of the law is what should be used in passing judgments (as opposed to intent, or some new formulation or application). Now, if you're like me, you're thinking this sounds an awful lot like political conservatism as well. But as my professor pointed out, there are plenty of cases where political and judicial conservatism (and liberalism) come apart. The most obvious of these is Roe v Wade. If you ask a political conservative what the right thing to do regarding that decision is, if they abide by the party line they will tell you that the decision in favor of pro choice should be overturned. Obviously, this flies in the face of judicial conservatism, which says that once a precedent has been established, that is what should be used in the future. Deciding to overturn a decision that establishes legal precedent is a decidedly liberal thing to do as far as the judiciary is concerned. On the other side, it is obvious that liberals arguing to let the decision stand are not judicial liberals, since saying that something is right because it is precedent is a conservative idea.

Exercise:
You meet a man in a bar in a strange town. He has a cat on his lap, and he orders a cup of coffee, slowly spoons sugar into it. He strokes the cat's black fur and says, "This contact is illusory. The cat and I are separated as though by a pane of glass, because man lives in time, in successiveness, while the magical animal lives in the present, in the eternity of the instant." What do you say back to him? And he to you? What does the cat do? What happened to this man before he came into the bar?

"It seems odd to call the cat magical in that case," I reply. "Just living in the instant doesn't seem like an altogether magical thing."
"It is a power unknown to me, to us as humans, always planning, being taken over by the sequence of events, never starting the sequence ourselves." He seems half lost in his own crypticness. The cat twitches its ears, and with a brief glance at me, hops onto the bar, where it walks to the nearby corner and sits, an egyptian sculpture, serene and proud of its magical qualities.
I'm having trouble seeing how the fact we don't live in the moment separates us physically, but I'm willing to let it go. His overcoat has seen better days, and the rain outside seems to have found its way to every part of him. His long, dark hair shines black with water, and almost has an oily reflectivity in the dim bar lighting.
"Take my very being here, for example," he begins again. "I have no interest in establishments such as these. Rife with rowdy, good for nothing squanderers of intellect. But my humanity, my dependence on being effected by what comes before, dictated I stop."
I'm guessing this translates to "I got wet, so I came in to dry off."

Me:
Another exercise from the newer source. These might take longer than five minutes. I cut this short.
I'm typing this blog entry on an iPad, and so far I'm enjoying the experience quite a lot. I might have to download a designated document editor, since the note-taking application I'm using, while awesome for class notes, keeps insisting I want to do something other than type on the keyboard. But I'm having no trouble with the keyboard, which was an issue I was slightly concerned about. And I have a way to sync documents between my phone and my iPad, which should allow for mobile uploading no matter where I am. Also, I have been using the iPad for almost an hour, and it still says I have 100% charge remaining. I can only assume this is one of the many magical qualities Steve Jobs was talking about when he went gaga over his own device. And with the new one coming out tomorrow, I got this one for about 200 dollars less than retail.
Also, I just got back from playing an hour and a half of ultimate frisbee, which was really fun. It turned out I wasn't even that out of shape. Or that everyone was out of shape. Either way, it felt good to run around for a while. Handball courts don't seem cramped until you play a sport on a field. All that open space was actually a bit disorienting.

Apologies Are in Order

Ode to Trash Can

Wastepaper basket looms
over scattered almost-made shots,
three-pointer, buzzer-beaters,
fallen short, banked too harshly off the wall,
or nowhere close.
It's filled with slam-dunks,
success stories
(as distinct from successful stories)
marked over, crossed out
crumpled.
Corresponding desktop icon
never flocked by errant wads,
"send to trash"
always accurate.
Worthy trash sinks
through layers of paper
the solid stuff of life
bound for bottom.
Clinking dully
upon contact
discarded reminders
of relationships
plummet through
to the stifled blackness
to rest with rancid apple cores,
too cold for flies.

Poem:
I recently read a lot of poems by Dean Young for class, and I liked the fact that he started a lot of them with images, and then tied the images together. I intended to do the same thing here, beginning with a simple image of a trash can and moving on to other things. And then I never stopped writing about the trash can, which made the whole plan backfire. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow with something else.

Observation:
In Arizona I kept looking at the cars going by and thinking "Oh, that Dodge Charger looks cool. Too bad it's an irresponsible car." And then I realized it's only irresponsible if you live in a place that gets snow and where handling is important. Because heavy, torque-filled, rear-wheel drives are ridiculous here in Iowa for a good chunk of the year. But in Arizona? Fun all year. I am beginning to appreciate other places more and more. Also, I kept having to remind myself that the fact I was seeing all sorts of nice cars didn't mean the people there were any better off than here. I just got passed by so many cars every minute that I was exposed to a greater number of them, and since I eagerly ignored the mundane ones, the fact I was seeing nice ones so frequently skewed my perception. It was fun, though. Which reminds me: A couple of weeks ago I was biking back to my apartment after a ride that ended at my parents' house and I saw a Porsche Carrera. Since the speed limit was pretty low, I accelerated, and now I can say I passed a Porsche on my bike. Which might only be amusing to me, now that I think about it. Oh well.

Exercise:

Describe what you see in this photo. Describe what you don't see-- the interior. Describe the person who comes out of the place. What does the person do?

Sunlight settled through the gaps in the wood, making its way to the cracked floorboards, its path unimpeded by furniture. A mattress in the corner showed brief signs of movement before the figure on top fell once again into sleep, though the orange behind his eyelids betrayed the fact it had been light out for quite some time. Hours passed before he rose.
Alex was getting used to homelessness. He wasn't sure how many people remembered this place existed, but until they kicked him out, he was taking advantage of the luxury even these thin walls could provide. But the privacy was the major selling point. Well, that and the price. It was hard to attribute selling points to a squatter's residence, but he wasn't quite adapted to considering himself apart from society. He imagined the real estate listing:
One-room shack
still standing
window, door,
good view, pleasant surroundings.
He couldn't complain. And after pulling the mattress out of the dumpster and hauling it the two miles out of town, he was nearly considering the place the lap of luxury.

Me:
I found a new site with exercises/prompts, so I tried the first one out. I liked writing about an image.
I dislocated another finger at handball on Tuesday, which makes two fingers in two weeks. It is my left pinky this time, so it's not something I notice as much as my ring finger on my dominant hand. I hope this pace doesn't continue. I also got two letters of rejection in the mail for grad schools. I guess I'm just hoping bad things come in pairs these days. I played video games for eight hours straight on Monday, which is the reason I owe my readers an apology. I thought I'd have more time, but then it turned out I am as irresponsible as ever. Other than that, life is going pretty well.
That doesn't seem like enough, so here's something random: I thought the phrase was "making end's meat" instead of "making ends meet" for a very long time. Like, into high school. I have no idea why that is. I think I'll blame the fact that my family is vegetarian (though I'm not now), and as a kid I was constantly having to explain this concept to my peers or whoever else I thought needed to know. So meat was on the brain. Or maybe the fact that I was vegetarian made me unaware that there's no such thing as "end's meat." Either way, I only realized when I read the phrase in a book. It was quite a revelation.

And Just Like That, I'm Back to Inconsistency

Me:
Amazing how that works, isn't it? I'm really sorry, but it's too late for me to write today, and I am disappointed with myself, but that's the way it is. I'll get something up tomorrow, promise.

They Begin Again: The First of Many

Solitaire

He sat in a courtroom playing solitaire
as verdicts sent people off to unpleasant company,
relishing the fact that he was no longer packed
between bars. Between people who smelled like urine
and those who reeked of cruelty,
fists constantly clenched, bodies bunched,
bruises appearing mysteriously as soon as backs were turned.

He sucked at solitaire.
The old lady sitting next to him wept as her son was convicted,
her wrinkled face capturing some tears for later
and her classical lavender perfume
reaching out in one last attempt
to convince the judge “He was a nice boy, really.”

She stood to leave, a little more hunched
than when she entered. He remained,
remembering the empty courtroom which had bid him farewell
and lost another game of solitaire unable to think far enough ahead

to remember which cards were coming
and which ones he needed to move
to get at the aces
so he started over.

Poem:
There's nothing quite like necessity to serve as inspiration. I got back from my trip on Monday, slept through most of that day, got caught up on stuff Tuesday, and then Wednesday realized I needed a poem for class. I was just laying in bed playing solitaire, and I was trying to think of something interesting to write about. Then I just thought "what if I took what I was doing and changed the setting?" I thought a courtroom would be a pretty strange location, and briefly debated having it be one of the attorneys playing, but decided to go with this idea instead (obviously). So I created the characters as I went along, and I kind of like how it turned out. I guess it's kind of depressing in points, but I thought it concluded with a bit of an uplifting note, like the guy, despite being alone and sort of at a loss regarding what to do, at least has a chance to start over and do something decent with his life.

Observation:
I guess there's no real way for me to avoid procrastinating. I have a lot of little notes jotted down to write about in the upcoming entries, and I've had this particular entry plotted out in my head for a couple of days now. You'd think that would make it easy to get started. But somehow, knowing what I want to write meant that, since it was going to be easy, I could do it in a small amount of time, which meant I kept saying to myself "Nah, I already know what I want to say, so I can just do it before I go to sleep. Just a few more video games (or iPhone dalliances, or minutes of doing nothing particular at all)." And what resulted was this waiting to be published for quite a while. So this has encouraged me to renew my resolve, make time for writing again, and actually churn out some more entries. I might try blaming my procrastination on my tournament, saying something like "I was out of town and busy, and then it took a while to get back into the swing of things" but really, I just used the tournament as an excuse to not update. Which is sad, since it's not like this is some obligation I have to a huge fan base or my living or something. This is what I want to be doing. So I'll try to remember that in the future.

Exercise:
I recently received the following message, so I decided to use it: I was walking to class and overheard this snippet between two people. I wanted to hear what the rest of their conversation was about but also kind of not, because I'm afraid it's much less exciting than what I imagine. Anyway, it reminded me of your 5-min writing exercises. Here it is:
1: "I'm not trying to scare you-
2: "No, no, no!"
1: "but I think they get their...

"I'm not trying to scare you-"
"No, no, no!"
"but I think they get their ingredients from the same places other stores do," Colin finished.
"But their an exotic french restaurant! Don't ruin this for me!" Elizabeth seemed on the verge of tears. Evidently, she quite enjoyed her french food.
"Their a restaurant in Iowa. It's not like their clientele are going to know the difference between French cuisine and potash anyway." Colin felt he was being quite reasonable. Plus, his dish had looked remarkably similar to the frozen food he occasionally purchased at Sam's Club in bulk.
Elizabeth was desperate. "But you can't KNOW! Sure, it's not likely, but you can't know it's not flown in or something. I've been going there and shelling out money like every month for this stuff!"
Realizing this might be something more serious than he thought, Colin backed off. Some people's twilight-zone-style-revelations were a little less extreme. "No, of course I can't know. I'm sorry. It just looked familiar." And they kept walking, Elizabeth's shaking subsiding gradually as she began to rationalize her way back into her fantasy. They probably have a secret tunnel.

Me:
Ah, where to begin? I participated in the National Collegiate Handball Tournament last week. I took my iPhone, but realized it wasn't ideal for updating this. I could have used one of my dad's laptops, so I'm just making excuses, but it was certainly interesting to note there's no good way to write anything of length on it. It was awesome to have, though. It entertained me, kept me informed with email, news, etc, and, best of all, I used it to skype to people in Ames. So some people actually got to watch my games live, which was pretty cool. It was heartening to know I had an audience, even if they weren't there or audible. As for the tournament itself, things went pretty well in general. Sure, I dislocated a finger and was in a lot of pain for a while, but I still won the Intermediate division title, and the whole experience was great. (For those who want a bit more on the whole "dislocated my finger story, I dove for a ball, slid into a wall, and came up with my finger bent backward, the tip pointing at me.) My finger is recovering well, and I'm happy with the trophy. Also, my philosophy professor told me I could rework and expand my paper and maybe submit it for publication, which would be pretty cool. Then I would have a national championship, a patent, and a journal publication. Quite a good school year. Now if I could just get into a grad school, things would be ideal.

Too Many Topics to Talk About

Window

Classic cross window
wood tables slick with beer
music hides sound from even those
not deaf
a level playing field

panes of glass
one sight removed
from reality
a fine mist fogs slick surfaces
the cold at bay,
the humidity
of personhood omnipresent

looking out from
warm wetness
at stiff steel structures
waiting to collapse
with ground's thaw.

Poem:
It's been a while since I tried a style variation, and since I didn't have an author I really wanted to imitate, I just tried writing in the way my teacher keeps telling me to. Basically, she just thinks the fewer words the better, that sentences have little place in poetry, and that pure images can convey enough for the reader to take something away. I disagree on all counts, but I figured I'd give it a shot. I might even turn this in and see what she says.

Observation:
I saw this and thought more people should too:



(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgk654mV-9g)

In case you don't want to spend ten minutes watching, it's basically a video of a "psychic" using common sense to beat grandmasters at chess. What I liked most was that I had no clue what was going on, but the revelation was a complete "duh" moment. Of course, he still had to have a pretty good memory.
And because that wasn't an observation so much as a "look what I found," here's another bit of something I found interesting: my professor told us to use wikipedia to research background information for philosophy stuff. I've been told since high school not to use the site, but am fully aware that most people use it anyway. But I can't decide whether this is an indication that the site has become popular enough that professors are fine with it, or whether the site itself is improving. It might be that it really wasn't a good source during the times I was being told not to use it. Or it might be that the professors then were just wrong. Either way, it was just amusing to hear that it was credible enough to rely upon during at least this college class.


Excercise:
"Dry Skin"
Take this as your opening line:
He had the driest skin they had ever seen.

He had the driest skin they had ever seen. The hairdressers conferred amongst each other briefly, though it was mostly just to marvel at the sheer amount of dandruff flaking from his scalp with each run-through of the comb. It was almost inconceivable how this situation could have resulted.
"You'd have to try to get your hair that dry!"
"Do you think he knows?"
"How could he not? He'd have to look in the mirror sometime."
"I wonder what color his hair is. Any ideas on how to fix it?"
"We could shave it and try a skin cream. But it might just be easier to convince people he's a localized weather event. You know, a snow storm or something."
They all burst into a tittering laughter, covering their mouths as though it would prevent anyone from noticing, but when they looked up, the man was gone, a cloud of floating skin left in his wake, drifting down in a loose cluster of pale particles.

Me:
Yesterday I was sitting in class and I dropped my drivers license under this little cart thing that holds the projector. Rather than bend down and reach around under there to pick it up, I attempted to gradually move the cart thing with my foot until the license was exposed enough that I felt less awkward trying to surreptitiously retrieve it. All this while I was thinking about how silly it was that I cared about looking weird bending over and rooting around under the cart. And none of that matters, really, except that I keep telling myself I'm maturing and don't really care about stuff like that. But it seems that's not quite true.
I was really planning on updating last night, but I decided I'd spent far too long ignoring other obligations that have been put by the wayside by blogging fairly consistently. In this case, it was editing the blog I wrote a few summers ago. I told my dad I was giving him a printed copy for Christmas just as soon as it was edited, but then I started this at the new year. So I spent last night removing extra letters from words, switching commas for periods, and feeling nostalgic about that awesome trip. (We biked across the country, in case you don't know. It can be found by googling "split trans-am.") I noticed I had so many things to write about each day, which made me wonder just how my life would be if I spent more of my days doing something. When you bike for ten hours a day, things are guaranteed to happen to you. Not so much the case when I'm in my apartment. Or even during my little thirty mile rides around here.

In Which I Brag About How Incredibly Well My Life is Going

Double Exposure

A twice-exposed photograph is composed
of two half-stories, and only the film sees the lies for what they are:
Cover-ups, preventing light from striking sensitive surfaces.

The ignorance it brings is beautiful,
the viewer left to wonder how coffee became the stuff of words
and how those words were swallowed
thick and bitter.
















Poem:
Another poem done on request. I was told to write about double exposed photographs, and draw big profound connections. I gave it a shot, but it seems like most of my connections these days are somewhat depressing. Which is weird, because things are going really well currently. Anyway, the image was a fun one. The rest can be found here: http://m.gizmodo.com/5761009/85-daring-double-exposures

Observation:
My iPhone is actually doing something more useful than I would have expected. Yes, I now get to listen to my music, play games, take photos, and do generally amusing things. But I'm also more in touch with current news than I have been in years. I have an entire screen of my phone devoted to news apps, and my new habit is to catch up on events during my commute to class. It is through this process that I read about IBM's computer defeating Ken Jennings at Jeopardy. I don't have a problem with this. What I do have a problem with is the claim that this is a huge step in the development of artificial intelligence. It seems to me that there is a misunderstanding about what artificial intelligence entails. Jeopardy is not an intelligence test. Nothing about the show tests a person's ability to communicate (beyond the most basic level), their ability to problem-solve, or their ability to act human, all of which are traditional hallmarks of what an artificially intelligent things should be able to do. The only advancement Watson has shown is a leap forward in language recognition. The fact that Watson was rarely stumped is actually pretty remarkable given the difficulties presented by the English language, particularly in Jeopardy questions. But the fact that Watson answered the questions correctly isn't what showed intelligence. That's just regurgitating canned responses. So the advancement we should be paying attention to isn't the fact it knew the answers, but that it knew what the questions were asking. And that's a long way from intelligence, since it's just (a valiant and surprisingly well-accomplished) ridding human language of ambiguity.

Exercise:
"The Morning After the Party"
Describe an apartment the morning after a party.

The state of affairs defied explanation. Not only were empty containers of alcohol strewn everywhere, but John had no idea what to make of the person passed out on the couch, or the fact that she was apparently attempting to cuddle with the toaster. He vaguely recalled the kitchen appliance being thrown around briefly in an attempt to recreate scenes from "The Brave Little Toaster." Come to think of it, that might also explain why the radio was perched precariously in the middle of the stairway. Thank goodness he didn't own an electric blanket or an upright vacuum cleaner. "I do have an air conditioner, though."
He stumbled into the next room, and sure enough, his air conditioner was covered in duct tape, with what appeared to be a pair of very angry, if lopsided, eyes drawn on in magic marker. At least it was still there. He wandered back to stare a bit more at the figure on the couch. She must have shown some significant dedication to protect the toaster even into her sleep.

Me:
I received some pretty awesome news today. I'm going to be listed as an inventor on a patent on a gene-isolating procedure. For any of you who don't know what this means, what's going to happen is that nothing will change except for the fact that I will soon be carrying a plaque with me wherever I go. I won't be making any money from it, but the effects this will have on my resume alone will be dramatic. And I plan on introducing myself occasionally (rarely) as: Ryan Pesch, Inventor. I still find the situation amusing. I can only imagine the story as explained to an outsider:
My boss: Well, we'd like to work on this new project to isolate and identify this gene we put into this corn plant. Do we know anyone?
Boss #2: Wait, didn't Carol say her son was kinda smart?
Boss #1: You mean the dishwasher kid? Didn't he say he was in school for something silly? Like, philosophy?
Boss #2: But we wouldn't have to gather applications and go through the process of explaining why all our equipment is outdated...
Boss #1: Well, it's worth a shot.

And here we are. One patent on its way. Well, applied for with an almost-guarantee of acceptance.

The news about my patent was a huge surprise, and almost excessive considering I had just recently gotten back a test I took that I scored well on. I missed two questions, argued back one, and the test was curved one question's worth. So I guess I got 100%. When I was talking to my professor about the question I thought was worded poorly I said I didn't really need the point, but that if other people had been thinking along the same lines as me, she might consider that option. She said that it was perfectly fine, and it was good I brought it up in case I wanted her to write me a letter of recommendation. That was completely out of the blue, since this is the first class I've had with her, and it's still early in the semester. But it's good to know I probably don't have to worry about finding people willing to write me letters if all it takes is one month and a decent test to have that offer put on the table. All in all, this has been a good day.

Trees, Ownership, and Weather (Almost sounds like it's about the environment. Nope.)

Pines

Their branches form a spiral
staircase for sappy youths
who clamber up to see the tops of townhouses
(and he who climbs highest
sees the most shingles) before
settling stickily back to earth
sometimes swinging down from the limbs
a gymnast's dismount
but not bothering to stick the landing
as they run off to snacks and seesaws.

Poem:
I remember climbing pine trees at camp and I don't think I ever once came down without sap all over me. And it was a competition to see who could climb the highest, and since I was afraid of heights even then (though certainly not so much as I am now), I don't think I ever won. But pine trees are the easiest to climb, with their branches extending almost perpendicular to the trunk. It was a simple matter to make your way as high as you wanted, until the branches grew flimsy, that is. And I felt like writing a poem about it, obviously. That's about all there is to it.

Observation:
It was brought to my attention recently that our right to life can be used to derive our right to ownership. I guess I always thought owning things was more of a privilege than a right. Like, yeah, you can have things, but only until someone who is bigger and stronger (or richer) wants them. But if you believe in the basic human right to life, then it follows that there is a connected right to not have your things taken away from you. The argument goes something like this:
1. We have a right to life.
2. Our lives are made up of time
3. How we spend our time is, for the most part, up to us.
4. So if we spend time working on something, that time is a part of our life.
5. That time translates into wealth (monetary or material).
6. So if something is stolen or broken, it is as if that person took or made worthless the part of our life that we spent acquiring it.

I'm not sure how persuasive I find this argument. It seems that time is a bit of an elusive thing to try and pin down by means of "ownership." I guess I'm not sure that a person "owns" the time they are alive. But if we believe in our right to spend that time alive, I guess it makes some sense that we also have the right to spend it acting in a manner of our choosing.

Exercise:
Today's exercise is to write a brief sketch-- perhaps the beginning of a longer story-- that is delicious and luxurious. Begin with the word "Even" and include: an orange; a hungry baboon; a piano; an elderly man in a perfectly crisp suit.

Even the hungry baboon stopped. It had been peeling the orange recently acquired from a tourist, but the respect Lorenzo commanded upon entering the courtyard brought everything to stillness. His suit was perfectly crisp, and his shoes echoed on the cobblestones as he strode to the black towncar already running in anticipation of his departure. He made his way with purpose to the car's door, and the only sign of his advancing age came when he eased himself down and into the rear seat, folding his body gingerly, and lifting his legs carefully in after. The slam of a door, and the car was gone. The baboon focused once more on the orange at hand, and somewhere inside, piano music began. It started off as a low clatter, missed notes as frequent as melody, but after a few measures, the rhythm returned to the old woman's hands, and the new strings resounded into a veritable symphony.

Me:
As much as I like being "that guy," it turns out my feet need some time to adjust to wearing sandals again. My toes had the beginnings of blisters on them after just a few jaunts to class. I fondly recall the days I'd basically live in those things. Sure, I'd kick them off to throw a frisbee around for a while, but other than that, it was all fine. Today my aching toes are a cruel reminder of how long the weather has been forbidding sandals from my feet. Don't get me wrong; I loved the weather these past few days. In fact, a surprising number of people were willing to credit me with the nice weather. I was told on multiple occasions that my shorts finally brought good weather. It's nice to be noticed. But it's also nice to not be the only one in shorts, as was the case today. I'm fairly certain it was a severe case of optimism, but there were numerous people wearing fewer clothes today. Some of them didn't even look like they were shivering.

Killing With a Hint of Death

Shoes

Their leathery tongues languish in the heat,
poking limp
from their abandoned forms strewn careless in the street
waiting for the fire to fade
the building shells to stop their flickering, shifting, shadow-show
so they can be dragged away,
the dirt scrubbed off their faces
before they're boxed up and sold back
to the unsuspecting Americans.

Poem:
The prompt I used for today was: describe a pair of shoes in a way that a reader will think of death. I have no idea whether I succeeded or not, but it was a fun exercise. I tried to make it about soldiers, but I'm not sure how much that comes through. I also tried some subtle rhyming, because I fondly recall my high school days when rhyming was a fun challenge and didn't sound stupid. Now it just seems too singsong-y.

Observation:
In one of my philosophy classes we were talking about moral ignorance. One philosopher (J.L.A. Garcia) holds that there is an innate nature to morality, and even though we might be raised poorly, we all have some instinct we must disobey in order to commit immoral action. He uses this idea to say that this makes it impossible to kill a person in order to "save their soul," and then claim that this is not an immoral action, since it was done with good intentions. I disagree. I think this is a part of what makes religion so scary. I really think that it is possible for a person to think in this way legitimately. That is to say, there isn't a part of their brain thinking, "this is wrong" as they are committing what we take to be an immoral action. And the weird part is that we then have a hard time evaluating how much blame to attribute. Because if they really weren't acting maliciously, they still might be a basically good person, just with a few mistaken beliefs about what being a good person entails. In actuality, they are striving to be good, and it seems that if one does believe in many of the major religions, he or she would be justified in committing many such actions while operating under that belief.

Exercise:
Opening a piece with "At least" is to open in medias res, that is, in the middle of the action. For example:
At least the cake was white. Or:
At least they approved of the groom's gerbil.
The exercise is this: Pick one of these lines (or one of your own, beginning with "at least") and continue writing.

At least they approved of the groom's gerbil. It didn't say much for the personal qualities of the groom himself (other than his decent taste in rodents), but it was better than nothing. Clara had the irritating habit of bringing back the least interesting guys to meet her family. Thanksgiving hadn't been a pleasant affair in more than four years, what with Gerald, Claude, and Jarome (and then Claude again, briefly) taking up space at the table. And that's all they seemed to do. When conversation was effort-fully directed their way, they had wasted no time in not only killing the current topic, but eliminating any further areas of inquiry. But at least Wallace had his gerbil. From what anyone could tell, that's all he had. It was impressive how he managed to relate it to every conversation. And it was by all accounts better than nothing. Until he requested that it be the ring-bearer.


Me:
My hip hurts. And I feel like complaining about it. And my headache. With that out of the way, I figured I'd thank all of the people kind (or silly) enough to click on my blog yesterday. I was confident that my lack of self-promotion on Facebook was detrimental to getting people to read, but I was not expecting so many people to read more than the post I put up. So it was, by far, my most views in a day. Which makes me wonder whether or not I should put a link there whenever I update. I think that's going a little too far, though. Maybe once a month or something, just to remind people that I'm incredibly important and not to forget it. (I'm really against the idea of having a Facebook.) All of this is getting in the way of what I wanted to say, though, which is: thanks. The idea that people might be reading this is a large part of my motivation for writing. Like right now. It's way too late to be doing this. I'm probably not thinking or writing coherently, but I know I need to post. So I'm doing it. For the family members that read this daily because they have to, the random people who get linked here, and the people I just tricked by posting on Facebook. Thanks.

A Reintroduction

I figured I'd briefly reintroduce my blog so I'd have a definite place to send people if they are interested in what I'm doing. First off, I want to make it clear that this is mostly a tool to help me write more consistently. I've been considering pursuing writing in a serious way for a couple of years now, and since I've applied to some grad schools to get a masters in creative writing, I figured I owed it to myself to make this effort. Anyway, every entry I write starts with a poem. This blog is mostly centered on brief, separated writing segments. If you're more interested in longer work, I recently posted all of my fiction and nonfiction pieces in another blog, located here:

http://scantstories.blogspot.com/

The next section is where I explain what I was trying to accomplish with the poem, which can be something as simple as capturing a significant detail in life, or something as complex as using sibilance and end stopped lines to mimic a mood. Fridays are usually devoted to investigating the styles of other authors.
Third is an observation, either something I noticed during my day or something I've been thinking about a lot recently. These tend to either be humorous or way too serious. Unfortunately, I'm a philosophy major and have a hard time curtailing my tendency to ramble on esoterically.
In an effort to work a bit on my non-poetic creative writing, I have been doing a five minute writing exercise every entry. I've been taking them from C.M. Mayo's blog of daily writing exercises, but I usually only use the ones that are story-oriented. (A lot of them are like "describe the hands of five people," or some such silly thing that won't result in a story. So I don't bother.)
Finally, and least significantly, I include a bit about me, since what sort of person starts a blog and doesn't talk about themself? So I would recommend skipping over that section for the most part unless you actually care about what's happening in my life. It's generally just me complaining, but there's an occasional anecdote that might be worthwhile.
So without further ado, here's the poem I wrote for today:

Simplify

Occam's Razor never rests.

There is no room for detours
no space for silly sidetracks.

If you can push a button
and in three minutes
dinner is done
that's economic:
four shrill beeps
and back to business.
If you can type some words in,
each keystroke crisp and pointed,
and press search,
text instantly inundating,
overwhelming,
and skimmed for importance
that is all you need
for your efficient education.

It is a noble goal,
separating the chaff
from the stuff worth savoring
the fluff filling the air
leaving the kernels below
hard and ready to be put away
in the silo of memory.

But what if, in the extraneous,
on the side road your GPS would have never
recommended,
is that moment you've been waiting for
when it all falls away
and the only way to get there
was the wrong way?

Poem:
I've been wondering about how to go about life recently. It seems important to stick to plans in order to ensure something gets done, but some of the best times come from spur of the moment, unnecessary actions. So, as with whenever something is on my mind, it comes out in my writing. Some of the analogies seem a bit forced here, but it was the idea more than the perfect poetic form I was going for. Feel free to offer suggestions. I might use the opening a different way in the future, just because I like the idea of Occam's Razor as a topic.

Observation:
So I'm in this minority ethics-based class and we're talking about racism. It turns out racism is bad. But I'm actually learning other things too, which was a bit unexpected. What recently caught my attention has to do with the "Out of Africa Hypothesis." As I'm sure most people know, it's generally accepted that the oldest human remains point to a point of origin somewhere in Africa. From there they spread to other continents, etc. But what's interesting is the conclusion that this means there is nothing inherently "black" about African people. According to this geneticist whose paper we read, there has been plenty of time since Africans started migrating to account for the minute amount of genetic drift needed to produce pigment change. We actually have no idea what skin tone the original homo sapiens had. So all the pictures that show primitive African people could be completely inaccurate. I don't know why I found this so interesting. Maybe it's because as I was going about acquiring my Anthropology minor I was treated to so many pictures of ancient people. And it amused me to think that the artist was taking whatever liberty he liked when he drew them. Which, if you think about it, makes him racially obtuse.

Exercise:
"Image Patterning, Starting with Jell-O"
This is an exercise in working with imagery to create a sense of connectedness within a narrative. Take this as your opening line:
The Jell-O was not his favorite dessert.
Write on --- anything --- but be sure to use the following imagery (in addition to Jell-O): overdone steak; a barking dog; too much perfume; a squishy blue velvet couch. Then, tie it up with an ending that somehow -- in some way -- returns to the Jell-O.

Jell-O was not his favorite dessert. This was evidenced by the fact his Jell-O almost invariably wound up on the floor, or in some cases, in the lap of the person next to him. None of his fellow retirees knew why he was so opposed to Jell-O. He ate almost everything else. When other people complained about their steak being overdone, his was gone in a moment. When the wrinkled women with too much perfume talked about the applesauce with hints of rebellion, his plate was clean. But when the Jell-O came around, even when it had some whipped cream on top and everyone looked at it with saliva practically brimming over their dentures, his found its way to the wastebasket.
The day after his most recent Jell-O incident, a therapy dog came to visit. He showed little interest. It walked over to where he sat on the squishy blue velvet couch, and his knees snapped together, with his arms crossing soon after. The aides asked him what was wrong, if there was anything they could do, but all he could think about was the time, sixty-five years ago, he had dropped the Jell-O on the floor for the dog to eat. He hadn't known his mom was striding by at that moment. A comedic pratfall later, and the only sound to be heard was the barking of the dog. Had the aides known been privy to this little scene they might have interpreted his Jell-O dropping for what it really was: a tiny rebellion. Each drop, an subtle assassination attempt.

Me:
I don't know why I want to expand my readership, but I do. It probably has to do with feeding my ego. But this reintroduction also gave me a chance to give that link to my other writing. I'll put more on there if I write more fiction soon.
In other news, I rode my bike today! I went out with my parents and my mom and I rode forty miles. In about two hours. So that's a good benchmark, and I'm pretty happy with how it went. We started out into a pretty strong headwind, but through careful planning we milked the tailwind for all it was worth. I was incredibly hungry at the conclusion of the ride, but about twenty minutes after gaining entrance to my apartment my stomach had changed its position on the idea of food. It had gone from an incessant yearning to a full-on rebellion against the idea, and it was all I could do to crawl into bed before remaining immobile for quite a while. I regret nothing. Food is delicious.

Egypt and Such

Quesadilla-Maker

Head-full of spinning importance
balanced by a handful of shredded cheese
Politics, philosophy, poetry:
peppers, picante
salsa, mild so as to not overwhelm
the senses.

Centuries of thought
dissolve in the crusty tortilla
lost in the maze of melting mozzarella,
distilled into simplicity
a poignant pique
of sundried tomato
poking through, then resigned
to the warm aura of sunflower nuts
and mushrooms.

Poem:
It's about how taking pleasure in doing some basic things well can outweigh the cerebral. Sometimes focusing on something smaller-picture can bring things into focus. This poem was a result of a request. Something as basic as "write a poem about a quesadilla." So if you're wondering what can be written about an everyday object or event, or just curious how I'd deal with a challenge, feel free to let me know. I think I'll probably come back and revise/add to this one later, but I think I'm off to a decent start. I sort of used it as a way to incorporate the sense of taste into my poetry, which is something I've never done and been wanting an excuse to try.

Observation:
My last entry had a poem about the riots in Egypt. I am not incredibly informed as to what is going on there, but I am afraid things aren't going to turn out as everyone hopes. This is not to say I think the riots won't accomplish their intended goal. I fully expect them to throw out the ruler that is (by all accounts) oppressing the citizens of the country. I even support this. However, this is a topic I have been discussing at length as it relates to some of my classes, and there is a very important distinction between political freedom and freedom from oppression. And I think we are conflating the two terms when we think that what is going on in Egypt is an amazing step forward for their country. Yes, they need to get rid of the dictator. That is only a small part of what it means to be free. They are primarily concerned with making things better for themselves in the immediate future. They see a problem, and the solution is to eliminate what is the most obvious aspect of that hindrance. But unless what they are striving for is a long-lasting political arena where people can interact as equals, this gap created by the absence of this dictator will simply be filled by another form of oppression. And unless they get their priorities together and stop acting as a mob only concerned with eliminating the immediate problem at hand, they will never achieve more than a temporary alleviation of their pain.

Exercise:
"Euphemisms"
For example:
~ garbage collector ---> "sanitation engineer"
~ tax collection ---> Internal Revenue Service
~ innocents killed / injured ---> "collateral damage"
Usually euphemisms are made up of latinate words; they tend to sound pompously obscure, as indeed, they are intended to obscure something unpleasant, low-status, or offensive. Have fun with this one! Try concocting euphemisms for the following:
~candy for breakfast-Temporary Energy Solution (or, Pessimistic Diet Plan, since when in doubt, eat dessert first)
~a defective tricycle-Aspiring Lawn Ornament (or, Bicycle)
~a gas guzzler-Oil Depletion Awareness Vehicle (or, A Saudi Conspiracy)
~a ridiculously big bouffant hairdo-Mobile Landmark Solution
~unemployed-Temporarily Transient
~painted the wrong color-A Good Base Layer (or, It Looks Fine, Honest, depending on who did it)
~a stolen election / ballot stuffing-Optimistic Interpretation of Public Will (or, Family Reunion, since we'd been wondering how our dead relatives would have voted)
~excessive redtape-Laziness Deterrent (or, Pure Motive Assurance)
~a cover-up of heinous corruption-Public Image Restructuring (or, Need To Know Basis)
~the dog peed on the carpet-Urine Trouble (get it, You're In Trouble, haha)
~civil war-Intra-country Dispute/Disagreement (or, We'll Handle Our Own Problems)
~a failing grade-Almost Passing (or, Lowering Expectations so When I Ace My Next Class Everyone is Impressed)
~tax evasion-Civil Disobedience (or, Gambling)
~a size too small-Self-Motivating Purchase (or, Ambitious Self-Image)
~this building could not withstand a minor tremor-Commentary on Transience of Human Architecture (or, Hoping This Isn't California)
~the living room is the size of a mop closet-Family Bonding (or, An Excuse to Reevaluate What's Important in Life)

Me:
I usually try and have my writing exercises be in story format, but this one looked too entertaining to pass up. Also, my apologies for not updating as regularly as usual. There are a number of contributing factors, but the truth is that I just didn't have a lot to say and didn't really feel like forcing the time into my day to come up with something. Which defeats the purpose of the whole "blog to force myself to write regularly thing." As far as excuses go, I actually did have some schoolwork to do, which was an interesting change of pace. I had a paper to write, and I have two tests tomorrow/today. And I got a Verizon iPhone. I'm not incredibly sure which of these was more to blame for my lack of posting. I'll probably go with the schoolwork, if only because I think I played with my phone mostly outside of my apartment, which is time I couldn't really be updating anyway. That might change with my new purchase though. I'm not sure how viable it will be to write whole posts on that small device, but I could probably save drafts of stuff and then finish/revise it later. Anyway, I've been keeping busy, but I'll try and keep things going here. Oh, and I'm trying to get the word out about my writing here, so there might be a post coming up in a different format from the usual, just to explain to any new readers what's going on.

It's Been a While

Fiddling

"Writing poetry can sometimes feel like breaking out the fiddle
as Rome burns to the ground."
So as Egypt bursts at the seams
and into flames,
I take up my bow; the strings scream
with protest
as unlyrical notes
drop onto the page
their echos wavering
in the heat.


Poem:
I've been hearing a lot about the protests in Egypt during classes, from news sources, etc. I figured I would write something about it, and wanted to really focus on the dual-meanings of some particular words. So the strings are "protesting" and "screaming." It's a bit of an analogy. Basically, this was an attempt at complexity. The lyrical is a bit ironic with the rhyme between the third and fifth lines, but obviously the poem is not focused around "poetic" lyricism, similar to how protests aren't concerned with "sounding good" even though they rely on the media's portrayal (just as the poem relies upon poetic devices).

Observation:
When people who have committed horrific crimes are asked why they did so, they almost always give a response related to an imbalance of power. It made them feel powerful to strangle their spouse after they were cheated on and felt helpless, for instance. Or they were abused as a kid, and so they abuse as an adult because they enjoy the reversal. Or they don't feel like there is a way for them to break the routine of their daily lives, and so they do something extreme to demonstrate they are not just another member of the silent masses. It is this constant assessment of who is in control that leads to so many discontented individuals. Especially when it turns out that very few come to the conclusion that it is they who have power over their choices. Kings (CEO's, the President, etc.) are enslaved by their responsibility to those they "rule," their very reign restricts their freedom of choice. They cannot, for instance, walk around normally without some precaution. And the underlings (peasants, laborers, aides, etc.) are obviously restricted by their lack of outright power. Unfortunately, it seems as though these power imbalances are nearly unchangeable, and if we continue to think in the same way we do now, societal contentment might be unachievable. One bright side might be that there is nothing forcing us to stick to this mentality as individuals. One of the greatest achievements in (relatively) recent history is that we have come to believe in (even if we don't consistently recognize) the fact that there is an inherent value to individual life. That is, it has stopped being the case that only a select few lead "meaningful" existences, and it has become the case that almost anyone can have their voice heard if they try hard enough. Sure, there are challenges, but increasingly constricting social and economic conditions actually have little to do with the political realm. So the next time you feel as though your voice is drowned out, or that you have no power to do anything, think about what it is that's really holding you back. I bet it's not your inability to engage yourself in discourse (meaningful interaction in an arena of equal footing, where equality refers to your right to hold a particular view).

Exercise:
"Quilt & Quotient, Etc."
Write a brief scene that includes the following:
~a quilt
~the word "quotient"
~a ball of rubber bands
~a morbidly obese hippopotamus
~the perfume of lilies
~the sound of popcorn underfoot

It was surprising sometimes what the well-meaning people sent to the children they sponsored. James walked into the community center, roughly constructed but still the center of life for the surrounding families. A popcorn machine in the corner, red and shining, was glaringly out of place, clashing with the peeling paint and boarded windows, the kernels underfoot popped in stuttered intervals as he walked by and into the office of the village leader. Just yesterday he had been on safari, witnessing what appeared to be morbidly obese hippos, some giraffes, and even (from quite a distance) what the guide assured him was a lion. But now he was taken aback by the conditions these people were in. And the rich people donating what they saw as essential amenities just made things worse. The gaunt girls with imploring eyes received the perfume of lilies from an old grandma who knew it went with anything. Who doesn't like to smell good, after all? And the beautifully-stitched quilt for the family across the street served little purpose in the sweltering heat. Eventually, when it stopped being a novelty, it would be shredded for cloth and used for sweat rags or toilet paper. Perhaps the only useful gift was sent by a young girl, who sponsored an equally young boy with her weekly allowance. Accompanying her last gift was a ball of rubber bands. After it had been thoroughly bounced, a few of the rubber bands had been requisitioned for various tasks. They held back mosquito netting, or immobilized a rattling part of the water pump. And despite its brief dismantling, the ball remained a pleasure, since when a heartfelt gift is divided, the quotient can sometimes be more than the dividend.

Me:
I had to stretch that last line a bit. The math terms were just a bit too out of place. Oh well...

The gap in my posting has been the result of my recent participation in a handball tournament in Fort Collins, Colorado. I am not too disappointed with how I played, even though I lost my second match. It was a great warm up for the national collegiate tournament in a few weeks. However, my inability to update (or access the internet at all) really highlighted how much I will appreciate my new iPhone, which is going to be here Thursday. I would certainly enjoy being an Apple fanboy if it weren't so much cheaper to build PC's myself. This will give me the opportunity to express my happiness with Apple's products without bankrupting myself (all at once, anyway).

(The Much Anticipated) Part Two

Broken Brick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

War: Part One

Photos

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Quick Post

The Bike

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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.