I am feeling a little weakened this weekend. Not because I overindulged in Thanksgiving festivities, but that I didn't do so enough. When the time came to state something I was thankful for this year, all I could think about was that I had a group project due this Monday, and half the group had gotten a start on theirs already. I was approaching the matter holistically - trying to get a feel for the subject I was undertaking so as to notice more factors and avoid overlooking details.
It was as I told my visiting older sister, whom I adore: Whenever I conjure up my own measurements and work, I don't trust myself as a reliable source. But when I derive a metric from an online (and hopefully more current), I don't feel like I am doing valuable work in the group. I know that I tend to overthink matters, to the point of paralysis on my part. Hank Green of the VlogBrothers on YouTube entitles this frame of mind as "brain crack" - ideas that are addictive to think about, but ultimately never acted upon by the thinker.
I am aware that this double standard to my own work is a pity party parade. I do not want or expect sympathy for this behavior, but want to wield this dissatisfaction as a tool rather than letting it rule me. If my standards for proper decent work are higher than merely "plug n' chug," this skepticism could reap superior results. There remains the risk that this extra analysis might have an opportunity cost - making me sacrifice in other areas. Oh, how time is whittled away by my daily activities and pursuits. I mention it so often as a personal reminder not to lose sight of its importance.
So, I am not operating at 100% the past few days, but I have resumed reading G.K. Chesterton's "Return of Don Quixote." It took a little time, but its presence has served as an excellently entertaining companion in my time of recuperation. I don't understand all of the details of the issues discussed in the novel, but I get the gist of their underlying themes through the attitudes and reactions of the characters within.
I love the librarian character, Michael Herne. He is someone I would like to be, though I currently have a measure of his frustrating disconnect from the present period's ideas and importances. He is a scholar on a particular race of Hittites. It is his field of study and he lives in his mental landscapes and cultural customs. He is awakened to a different calling, when the daughter of the lord who employs his services is in a medieval play written by her friend, and they ask him to play a small part.
He is flustered that it is not in his period, saying that someone else who is an authority in that era should be chosen to play such a role. He takes the historical accuracy of the matter so humbly serious that he fears that if he were to attempt the role, he would act in the manner of a Hittite rather than medieval troubadour. I love the fellow so dearly, though he is one of the hardest to understand in his references.
I read chapter 11 of the book aloud to a camera, it is a fine portion of the book and a specially interesting one for Herne the librarian's character blossoming into a more obvious version of his deeply rooted demeanor. I do not live in a Chesterton novel, but the ideals and earnestness of the players make me wish I could. Their society would certainly raise my intelligence by osmosis.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
Carefull - Wreckless
I am stuffed on song lyrics right now. From Fall Out Boy's "I don't care what you think as long as it's about me. The best of us can find happiness in misery." From that to springboard to Good Charlotte's "Don't you know that misery loves company,
Yeah I heard that misery was looking for me. Happiness, is a face that don't look good on me. Yeah I heard, that misery comes looking for me
Whoa, misery's my company. Whoa, misery is looking for me." To Skillet's "Going through this life, looking for angels. People passing by. Looking for angels. Going down the street, looking for angels. Everyone I meet. Looking for angels." To Christine Dent'e's "We're lifted up by angels. Higher than the world. Strong enough to leave it. Bound to learn the secret angels never heard. Close enough to heaven. High above the rain. Darkness cannot reach us, let the angels teach us - only love remains. We're lifted up by angels."
I could continue this association for a while, but I find that I would like to leave my thought train at this station and explore my ideas on this subject further. As mentioned earlier, I love Newsboy's "Entertaining Angels." Not only is it a fine beginning with the violin, but the odd chorus fixes in my mind the idea that angels may walk among us at any time. "By the light of my TV screen, 24/7 you wait for me."
Now while it is unlikely that these celestials are television junkies, it grounds the supernatural in the perspective of the everyday routine. At one point I was suspicious that one of my friends was an angel in disguise. I had never seen him angry, he was patient and learned, and wise beyond his years. When I asked him if he was, he laughed and told me he was flattered, but was as mortal as I.
I recall a similar story as related by my mother teaching a sunday school class of 5-7 year olds. An old biker stopped to look in the class in the middle of the lesson. One of the little girls saw his long grey beard and kindly face and declared. "Are you Jesus?" The fellow sagely smiled and replied, "Far from it." But though he made that claim, that man is one of the most Christlike people I have had the pleasure of knowing. This old biker lives his life in a humble and unassuming manner, taking joy in the crafting and creating of objects. He is a skilled carpenter and wise gardener - his woodwork and tomato patches reveal the glory and beauty of nature overseen by the guiding hand of man.
But I digress. I was considering angels. While I believe in their existence, I also admit it is unlikely that I should know them for who they are at the time. Their glowing light in legend and scripture is probably derived from their presence in the company of the Most High God. In the Old Testament, when Moses met with God on the mountain for days, his face shone for days after returning to the camp. So much so, that the children of Israel asked him to wear a veil so as not to blind/distract them. Whatever the case, I serve a God in whom there is no darkness. That is a comforting and fearful thought.
Do you ever notice how something appears all clean and neat under the lighting of a florescent light fixture or fan, but then the sunlight strikes the surfaces - revealing all the streaks, dust, and imperfections that were left behind? Sometimes the truth of a matter shines upon our efforts and reminds us that there is more that can be done - that a greater degree of purity is possible now that we have been shown our errors.
Some of the time, I am resentful of this - Am I not enough already? I have put forth a good effort here, but it apparently wasn't all that it could have been. George Macdonald once said, "God is easy to please, but hard to satisfy." In the introduction in which I read that, the author commented that God is happy with our progress so far, but sees our potential for what we COULD be. However, I don't always see what shape my future might take, so my pity parties only hurt my chances that I refuse to acknowledge I have. If I wait too long, that opportunity of a future version of myself will fade, opening different outcomes and possibilities.
That is why I believe in open theism: It is much more exciting as a Creator to allow the work of your hands to play out to its own ends. Oh, I could intervene along the way if I was in control, but only if necessary - for the observation of how the domino effects of the choices life-bearing creatures make must be entertaining for my Heavenly Father. Oh how it must delight Him when one of His creation looks beyond their own circumstances and situation, & catches a glimpse of the larger picture. Or when we declare our love and gratitude to Him for the wonderful gifts and tools He has given us to use in this beautiful sandbox of a world.
Sometimes, I make mistakes and ill choices' consequences must be weathered and lessons must be learned. As C.S. Lewis wrote: "Experience, that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God, how you learn." Thought my choices may not always be optimal or well-reasoned, I shouldn't regret them once they are set. I can only correct their damage after the fact, accept the scars I receive, and resolve to listen better and be wiser the next time something of the type happens.
Angels. Messengers of the Most High. Soldiers in His Celestial Army. Why should I expect that they should appear anthropomorphic? It is a smidge vain and egotistical to assume that God would be limited to our template of form and shape. But, as a child, I am limited and finite in my musings of the abstract - I have to remind myself that I am a child of an imaginative Father. He is Life, He is Creator, He is Sustainer. "All things were made by Him; and without Him was not any thing made that was made." John 1:3 "For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever. Amen." Romans 11:36.
So, I go through this life, this time that I am apportioned on Earth. May I be ever grateful for the span in which I have, the abilities and seasons at each stage. I look for angels, but do not demand a sign and proof of their reality. As John L. Cooper of Skillet ends last track of the Comatose project. "Angels show up in the strangest of places." - Looking for Angels.
Whoa, misery's my company. Whoa, misery is looking for me." To Skillet's "Going through this life, looking for angels. People passing by. Looking for angels. Going down the street, looking for angels. Everyone I meet. Looking for angels." To Christine Dent'e's "We're lifted up by angels. Higher than the world. Strong enough to leave it. Bound to learn the secret angels never heard. Close enough to heaven. High above the rain. Darkness cannot reach us, let the angels teach us - only love remains. We're lifted up by angels."
I could continue this association for a while, but I find that I would like to leave my thought train at this station and explore my ideas on this subject further. As mentioned earlier, I love Newsboy's "Entertaining Angels." Not only is it a fine beginning with the violin, but the odd chorus fixes in my mind the idea that angels may walk among us at any time. "By the light of my TV screen, 24/7 you wait for me."
Now while it is unlikely that these celestials are television junkies, it grounds the supernatural in the perspective of the everyday routine. At one point I was suspicious that one of my friends was an angel in disguise. I had never seen him angry, he was patient and learned, and wise beyond his years. When I asked him if he was, he laughed and told me he was flattered, but was as mortal as I.
I recall a similar story as related by my mother teaching a sunday school class of 5-7 year olds. An old biker stopped to look in the class in the middle of the lesson. One of the little girls saw his long grey beard and kindly face and declared. "Are you Jesus?" The fellow sagely smiled and replied, "Far from it." But though he made that claim, that man is one of the most Christlike people I have had the pleasure of knowing. This old biker lives his life in a humble and unassuming manner, taking joy in the crafting and creating of objects. He is a skilled carpenter and wise gardener - his woodwork and tomato patches reveal the glory and beauty of nature overseen by the guiding hand of man.
But I digress. I was considering angels. While I believe in their existence, I also admit it is unlikely that I should know them for who they are at the time. Their glowing light in legend and scripture is probably derived from their presence in the company of the Most High God. In the Old Testament, when Moses met with God on the mountain for days, his face shone for days after returning to the camp. So much so, that the children of Israel asked him to wear a veil so as not to blind/distract them. Whatever the case, I serve a God in whom there is no darkness. That is a comforting and fearful thought.
Do you ever notice how something appears all clean and neat under the lighting of a florescent light fixture or fan, but then the sunlight strikes the surfaces - revealing all the streaks, dust, and imperfections that were left behind? Sometimes the truth of a matter shines upon our efforts and reminds us that there is more that can be done - that a greater degree of purity is possible now that we have been shown our errors.
Some of the time, I am resentful of this - Am I not enough already? I have put forth a good effort here, but it apparently wasn't all that it could have been. George Macdonald once said, "God is easy to please, but hard to satisfy." In the introduction in which I read that, the author commented that God is happy with our progress so far, but sees our potential for what we COULD be. However, I don't always see what shape my future might take, so my pity parties only hurt my chances that I refuse to acknowledge I have. If I wait too long, that opportunity of a future version of myself will fade, opening different outcomes and possibilities.
That is why I believe in open theism: It is much more exciting as a Creator to allow the work of your hands to play out to its own ends. Oh, I could intervene along the way if I was in control, but only if necessary - for the observation of how the domino effects of the choices life-bearing creatures make must be entertaining for my Heavenly Father. Oh how it must delight Him when one of His creation looks beyond their own circumstances and situation, & catches a glimpse of the larger picture. Or when we declare our love and gratitude to Him for the wonderful gifts and tools He has given us to use in this beautiful sandbox of a world.
Sometimes, I make mistakes and ill choices' consequences must be weathered and lessons must be learned. As C.S. Lewis wrote: "Experience, that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God, how you learn." Thought my choices may not always be optimal or well-reasoned, I shouldn't regret them once they are set. I can only correct their damage after the fact, accept the scars I receive, and resolve to listen better and be wiser the next time something of the type happens.
Angels. Messengers of the Most High. Soldiers in His Celestial Army. Why should I expect that they should appear anthropomorphic? It is a smidge vain and egotistical to assume that God would be limited to our template of form and shape. But, as a child, I am limited and finite in my musings of the abstract - I have to remind myself that I am a child of an imaginative Father. He is Life, He is Creator, He is Sustainer. "All things were made by Him; and without Him was not any thing made that was made." John 1:3 "For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever. Amen." Romans 11:36.
So, I go through this life, this time that I am apportioned on Earth. May I be ever grateful for the span in which I have, the abilities and seasons at each stage. I look for angels, but do not demand a sign and proof of their reality. As John L. Cooper of Skillet ends last track of the Comatose project. "Angels show up in the strangest of places." - Looking for Angels.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Time - Value
It is disappointing to have a divide between what I am learning about Finance and the real world situation. At this point, interest rates are dismally low. I am earning perhaps .3% on my savings. While I hear this is a borrowers market, it is not a savers - I haven't anything for which I would need a loan quite yet. Thus I stare at my bank account and sigh. It is hard to save for the future when the future prospects of tying up capital are this pitiable. Interest rates MUST go up from here, and I must wait for them to recover. Interest rates are based upon perception, and investors have been burned by the economy of late. Those in charge of the federal interest rate are in a tight spot because the crisis caught our economy while it had low interest rates already. Usually, lowering interest rates is a measure that allows an economy to recover, as cash flows are encouraged through investment in assets and expansion.
I dream of a 5% interest as illustrated in class. But, events are not allowing for this. This reminds me of what a small, infinitesimal speck I am in the vast floods of people in the world. Dave Barry once gave the illustration of an ant on a tire: "The ant is aware – on a very basic level – that something large is there, but he cannot even dimly comprehend what this thing is, or the nature of his involvement with it. And if the truck starts moving, and the tire starts to roll, the ant will sense that something important is happening, but right up until he rolls around to the bottom and is squashed into a small black blot, the only distinct thought that will form in his tiny brain will be, and I quote, ‘Huh?’…" This was concerning the relationship of men and women, but the scale feels the same between me and the vast complexity of our economy.
I know friends who play the stock market, but I don't trust its workings. There is a reason why stockbrokers have a full time job - it is the ability to read trends, understand human behavior as different groups, comprehension of timing, size, and risk, as well as a knack for self-control for when to stop.
Anything can become addictive, I hope to be habitual on in proper behaviors. I know that I overthink things, overdose and obsess over having everything available when I start. I have a great desire for control over my life, and it scares me when that illusion is ripped apart at the seams-that-be (alternatively: seems-to-be). I haven't a great amount of control, but what little measure I am given, I must learn to handle correctly. For life doesn't halt for anyone, time is not reclaimable, and entropy only grows larger over time.
For each decision, there are consequences. There are probability trees to estimate the likelihood of an event occurring, but they are just that: educated guesses. The variation depends on decisions made by others in similar veins to your own, as well as reactions to your decision from other people. There are three types of people: Proactive, reactive, and refrainers. The first two are initial motion and reaction, the last is the a conscious choice not to act. Oh how complicated things can be, it delights and confuses my mind.
God in heaven may look down at us and smile - how entertaining to watch us weave the patterns of life with the gifts and talents he gave us. May I not squander the freedom and abilities I have, cultivate, and am learning to appreciate.
I dream of a 5% interest as illustrated in class. But, events are not allowing for this. This reminds me of what a small, infinitesimal speck I am in the vast floods of people in the world. Dave Barry once gave the illustration of an ant on a tire: "The ant is aware – on a very basic level – that something large is there, but he cannot even dimly comprehend what this thing is, or the nature of his involvement with it. And if the truck starts moving, and the tire starts to roll, the ant will sense that something important is happening, but right up until he rolls around to the bottom and is squashed into a small black blot, the only distinct thought that will form in his tiny brain will be, and I quote, ‘Huh?’…" This was concerning the relationship of men and women, but the scale feels the same between me and the vast complexity of our economy.
I know friends who play the stock market, but I don't trust its workings. There is a reason why stockbrokers have a full time job - it is the ability to read trends, understand human behavior as different groups, comprehension of timing, size, and risk, as well as a knack for self-control for when to stop.
Anything can become addictive, I hope to be habitual on in proper behaviors. I know that I overthink things, overdose and obsess over having everything available when I start. I have a great desire for control over my life, and it scares me when that illusion is ripped apart at the seams-that-be (alternatively: seems-to-be). I haven't a great amount of control, but what little measure I am given, I must learn to handle correctly. For life doesn't halt for anyone, time is not reclaimable, and entropy only grows larger over time.
For each decision, there are consequences. There are probability trees to estimate the likelihood of an event occurring, but they are just that: educated guesses. The variation depends on decisions made by others in similar veins to your own, as well as reactions to your decision from other people. There are three types of people: Proactive, reactive, and refrainers. The first two are initial motion and reaction, the last is the a conscious choice not to act. Oh how complicated things can be, it delights and confuses my mind.
God in heaven may look down at us and smile - how entertaining to watch us weave the patterns of life with the gifts and talents he gave us. May I not squander the freedom and abilities I have, cultivate, and am learning to appreciate.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Valley - Purity
Beauty must be protected.
As a land is filled with life,
And with diverse species.
I look at this soil with a wistful sense of duty.
Though it is not mine,
nor do I feel a craving to claim it as such,
I desire to see its future claimant as worthy of its grandeur.
I know it is in good care now, as it flourishes
And brings a smile to my face with its liveliness.
I want to support it in my spirit,
Not because I have to do so,
but because I want the best for it.
The beauty stirs in me a longing to see
Its trends spread to neighboring lands.
It is a gentle reminder to pay notice
To the lands that are my duties now in this age of my life.
There will come a day when another will look on these,
Feel the same desire for the land,
And have a vision for how to grow it
with time & gentle care into its full potential.
Oh, how beautiful & wonderful it will be a witness to that day.
As Saint Irinious wrote, "The Glory of God is man fully alive."
I will sojourn & labor towards that day
Where I discover this greater duty arises,
And the vision be made clear.
I pray that the land responds well to my efforts
as I learn & grow in experience in the attempt.
As a land is filled with life,
And with diverse species.
I look at this soil with a wistful sense of duty.
Though it is not mine,
nor do I feel a craving to claim it as such,
I desire to see its future claimant as worthy of its grandeur.
I know it is in good care now, as it flourishes
And brings a smile to my face with its liveliness.
I want to support it in my spirit,
Not because I have to do so,
but because I want the best for it.
The beauty stirs in me a longing to see
Its trends spread to neighboring lands.
It is a gentle reminder to pay notice
To the lands that are my duties now in this age of my life.
There will come a day when another will look on these,
Feel the same desire for the land,
And have a vision for how to grow it
with time & gentle care into its full potential.
Oh, how beautiful & wonderful it will be a witness to that day.
As Saint Irinious wrote, "The Glory of God is man fully alive."
I will sojourn & labor towards that day
Where I discover this greater duty arises,
And the vision be made clear.
I pray that the land responds well to my efforts
as I learn & grow in experience in the attempt.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Mirror - Image
I was thinking about images. One of my friends was in a picture. I asked when showing it to them - "Is that you?" "No," they replied, "I am not." I was confused, it looked as though it was a younger version with a different appearance, hair length, slightly younger shadow of who they were at the time. Before I could follow it up with a query as to whether the person in the photo was a relation, they clarified. "That was me, I am no longer that person. That image is not ME."
I understood, but it was a different perspective on the matter than was customary. Photos are moments captured in time - their subjects change & shift in minor ways that cumulate into building them to a different person. Still it felt like semantics, maybe the person was trying to be clever or make a point. Perhaps both.
It caused me to consider &, as is my habit I squirreled it away in the garden of my mind, leaving it to be fertilized by ideas old & new.
One of these is the concept of mirrors. The concept of viewing your own reflection & recognizing it as yourself is a test of self-awareness & consciousness. But mirrors are imperfect - they show a face, but it is in reverse. I have to remind myself that the image's right eye is my left, it needs to be reflected upon others to show my full profile from all angles. Yes, it is useful as a tool, but must be held as such. Images are imperfect, it takes a multitude of reflections to achieve a complete picture of yourself.
As I write this, my focus can refract into many directions & conclusions. I hope that my musings stir you to greater thought upon these, reaching conclusions I never dreamed. Maybe you don't think about this as an issue worth addressing - it is easier to accept it as a truth of life.
But I am not satisfied. I need to be provoked to thought, to progress, to action upon what weaknesses I see in my environment & myself. Too much of the time, I leave my thinking to others, outsourcing my opinions to those who have already studied & decided. I haven't gone through the process of experimenting on my own, discovering data, & understanding why the conclusions were made as they were.
Things are always moving, changing, revising. Yes, I can learn through the snapshotted views of others, but I should remember that only God knows the final truth. That should not faze me from pursuing a greater knowledge of Him & his creation. We are fearfully & wonderfully made in His image. While we are imperfect, there remains a shadow of our future perfection in Him. I will strive to be a clear glass, polished through his tempering, cleaned by His blood, reflecting His love & light to those around me. An image lasts but a moment, but the subject lasts eternal.
I understood, but it was a different perspective on the matter than was customary. Photos are moments captured in time - their subjects change & shift in minor ways that cumulate into building them to a different person. Still it felt like semantics, maybe the person was trying to be clever or make a point. Perhaps both.
It caused me to consider &, as is my habit I squirreled it away in the garden of my mind, leaving it to be fertilized by ideas old & new.
One of these is the concept of mirrors. The concept of viewing your own reflection & recognizing it as yourself is a test of self-awareness & consciousness. But mirrors are imperfect - they show a face, but it is in reverse. I have to remind myself that the image's right eye is my left, it needs to be reflected upon others to show my full profile from all angles. Yes, it is useful as a tool, but must be held as such. Images are imperfect, it takes a multitude of reflections to achieve a complete picture of yourself.
As I write this, my focus can refract into many directions & conclusions. I hope that my musings stir you to greater thought upon these, reaching conclusions I never dreamed. Maybe you don't think about this as an issue worth addressing - it is easier to accept it as a truth of life.
But I am not satisfied. I need to be provoked to thought, to progress, to action upon what weaknesses I see in my environment & myself. Too much of the time, I leave my thinking to others, outsourcing my opinions to those who have already studied & decided. I haven't gone through the process of experimenting on my own, discovering data, & understanding why the conclusions were made as they were.
Things are always moving, changing, revising. Yes, I can learn through the snapshotted views of others, but I should remember that only God knows the final truth. That should not faze me from pursuing a greater knowledge of Him & his creation. We are fearfully & wonderfully made in His image. While we are imperfect, there remains a shadow of our future perfection in Him. I will strive to be a clear glass, polished through his tempering, cleaned by His blood, reflecting His love & light to those around me. An image lasts but a moment, but the subject lasts eternal.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Nighttime - Musical
I am in my Junior year of college, and although I retain my honors status, my wits and wiles sometimes lie thin in getting work done. I sat through three classes which were interconnected in a bloc today. The first was demanding of the above qualities, for the teacher delights on minimal hints as to the text, while encouraging application of the concepts in class exercises.
The second class is taught by a professor who is class interaction heavy - his view of the text is as a resource and wants his students to come to class prepared to engage with logical progression in provide suggestions as to application of concepts. The third is my favorite, not only because it is the last, but the professor is well-experienced and gives a broad homework question which is to be answered and brought to class to share. This encourages collaboration with other students to thresh out potential details and structure for the answers as well as ingenuity and self-education in creating the individual solutions as distinctive.
On the way outside the building, I notice the rain soaked landscape, the overcast sky. It brings to mind the Reliant k lyric "Lately the weather has been so bi-polar , and consequently so have I." (High of 75, Mmhmm). This wasn't one of the affected days, I was cheerful in the aftermath and delightedly scampered the empty streets of my downtown area. My mother warns me that I will eventually be reckoned for my reckless attitude towards crosswalks & impatience to keep moving when I have somewhere to go. I take joy in the feeling of the whistling wind as my backpack slaps in a side-to-side rhythm and my coat flares behind. I was listening to a Nerdist podcast and picked up my pace during the 8-bit theme. Electronic music is an effective pace-creator and motivator to prolong sprints. The episode's content wasn't particularly interesting at times, but the overall effect of enthusiasm and amusement of Hardwick & company's banter was pleasant.
It helped to pass the time as I awaited public transport homeward - because parking at college is notoriously frustrating and it is cost effective to buy a discount pass from the University than paying for gasoline. I have more time than I have cash flows, so it is a trade-off that I recognize and accept. I had G.K. Chesterton's "The club of queer trades" in my backpack, but didn't withdraw it as is my usual habit in deference to the still unfinished podcast. The book is a collection of interconnected short stories with a reoccurring cast. As with most of Chesterton, the story is a vehicle for the author's views of humanity in a greater point. The tales are contrived, but cleverly and deftly so. Even when I do not understand everything taking place, I want to learn quickly and thus pay greater notice to the words he chooses and themes upon which he expounds.
When I arrived home I had in mind to work ahead of my schoolwork tomorrow. My friends ran a simulation as part of a class and their scores were superior to my own experiences. After retrying the parameters for forty-five minutes, I was no closer to solving the formula for how they had managed to accomplish the feat. I scrolled through my twitter feed and happened across my internet friend @soldeglo announcing a BlogTV hangout. As I had never attended one of the previous shows - I was late or without proper access, I determined to visit this one.
It was delightful, I enjoy this lady's perspective - she is insightful, thoughtful, talented, and has a beautiful perspective on life in general. I don't recall how I first stumbled upon her channel, but I quickly became an avid follower. She reminded me of my older sister by two years who I have ever adored and looked up to my life. She was a peer, who laid voice to many thoughts that I hadn't put into words, admitted to thinking, or would have the skill to speak as she did.
I attach a great interest to other people and was soon hungering for more of her thoughts as her video blogs grew further and further apart. It was like finding a new favorite author and reading their recent releases, only to run out of fresh material and start rooting around bookshops and libraries in search of their older works. The difference here was that I was forced to view her as a real, tangible person who responded to my comments and thoughts, rather than an abstraction or ideal. It is ironic that I hate the idea of putting people into simple categorical boxes, yet I often find myself doing it to people. Nay, people are more like flowerpots - their roots run deeper and thoughts grow higher than I suspect, I can only focus on one portion at a time. They are no less complex, but I hope that my self-awareness of this pratfall trains me to question it healthily and not reduce others, but build them up, supporting their work.
I didn't want to be an aggressive stalker, but a curious observer as to what else Soldeglo held as an opinion and observation. Tonight she and her sister played piano, did impressions, and sang duets. It was charming and entertaining - it reminded me not to take my own family for granted. My younger sisters are also interesting and warrant my attention. (Often deserving more than I bestow, for I can be absent physically and mentally at times.). The sisters showed love and sisterly inside jokes with one another. While they may not always be on the best of terms - this was a treat and they enjoyed it thoroughly. I wanted to thank them for allowing friends and strangers to view a window into their lives. Jake Sidwell, by the username of Cohenism on YouTube, patrolled the text feed for his friend, kicking out the stranger strangers. I was pleased at his diligence and learning slightly more about him. Jake's work on YouTube is very well polished, he is studying the art of filmmaking and his finished products are a wonder to see. I admire him as well, but he is slightly reclusive and restrained in his internet interactions at times and I respect him all the more for that. His scripts are poetic and his speech eloquent in metaphor and associations - he has a gift for putting vague emotions and feelings into paragraphs that arrest the audience's attention and imagination.
I thank God for wonderful people like this, who remind & reinvigorate me as to the reason for living well. There is a purpose and beauty behind all this environment of nature and creation of man. I need times like these to refocus and glory in the moment I have, while it is still called today.
The second class is taught by a professor who is class interaction heavy - his view of the text is as a resource and wants his students to come to class prepared to engage with logical progression in provide suggestions as to application of concepts. The third is my favorite, not only because it is the last, but the professor is well-experienced and gives a broad homework question which is to be answered and brought to class to share. This encourages collaboration with other students to thresh out potential details and structure for the answers as well as ingenuity and self-education in creating the individual solutions as distinctive.
On the way outside the building, I notice the rain soaked landscape, the overcast sky. It brings to mind the Reliant k lyric "Lately the weather has been so bi-polar , and consequently so have I." (High of 75, Mmhmm). This wasn't one of the affected days, I was cheerful in the aftermath and delightedly scampered the empty streets of my downtown area. My mother warns me that I will eventually be reckoned for my reckless attitude towards crosswalks & impatience to keep moving when I have somewhere to go. I take joy in the feeling of the whistling wind as my backpack slaps in a side-to-side rhythm and my coat flares behind. I was listening to a Nerdist podcast and picked up my pace during the 8-bit theme. Electronic music is an effective pace-creator and motivator to prolong sprints. The episode's content wasn't particularly interesting at times, but the overall effect of enthusiasm and amusement of Hardwick & company's banter was pleasant.
It helped to pass the time as I awaited public transport homeward - because parking at college is notoriously frustrating and it is cost effective to buy a discount pass from the University than paying for gasoline. I have more time than I have cash flows, so it is a trade-off that I recognize and accept. I had G.K. Chesterton's "The club of queer trades" in my backpack, but didn't withdraw it as is my usual habit in deference to the still unfinished podcast. The book is a collection of interconnected short stories with a reoccurring cast. As with most of Chesterton, the story is a vehicle for the author's views of humanity in a greater point. The tales are contrived, but cleverly and deftly so. Even when I do not understand everything taking place, I want to learn quickly and thus pay greater notice to the words he chooses and themes upon which he expounds.
When I arrived home I had in mind to work ahead of my schoolwork tomorrow. My friends ran a simulation as part of a class and their scores were superior to my own experiences. After retrying the parameters for forty-five minutes, I was no closer to solving the formula for how they had managed to accomplish the feat. I scrolled through my twitter feed and happened across my internet friend @soldeglo announcing a BlogTV hangout. As I had never attended one of the previous shows - I was late or without proper access, I determined to visit this one.
It was delightful, I enjoy this lady's perspective - she is insightful, thoughtful, talented, and has a beautiful perspective on life in general. I don't recall how I first stumbled upon her channel, but I quickly became an avid follower. She reminded me of my older sister by two years who I have ever adored and looked up to my life. She was a peer, who laid voice to many thoughts that I hadn't put into words, admitted to thinking, or would have the skill to speak as she did.
I attach a great interest to other people and was soon hungering for more of her thoughts as her video blogs grew further and further apart. It was like finding a new favorite author and reading their recent releases, only to run out of fresh material and start rooting around bookshops and libraries in search of their older works. The difference here was that I was forced to view her as a real, tangible person who responded to my comments and thoughts, rather than an abstraction or ideal. It is ironic that I hate the idea of putting people into simple categorical boxes, yet I often find myself doing it to people. Nay, people are more like flowerpots - their roots run deeper and thoughts grow higher than I suspect, I can only focus on one portion at a time. They are no less complex, but I hope that my self-awareness of this pratfall trains me to question it healthily and not reduce others, but build them up, supporting their work.
I didn't want to be an aggressive stalker, but a curious observer as to what else Soldeglo held as an opinion and observation. Tonight she and her sister played piano, did impressions, and sang duets. It was charming and entertaining - it reminded me not to take my own family for granted. My younger sisters are also interesting and warrant my attention. (Often deserving more than I bestow, for I can be absent physically and mentally at times.). The sisters showed love and sisterly inside jokes with one another. While they may not always be on the best of terms - this was a treat and they enjoyed it thoroughly. I wanted to thank them for allowing friends and strangers to view a window into their lives. Jake Sidwell, by the username of Cohenism on YouTube, patrolled the text feed for his friend, kicking out the stranger strangers. I was pleased at his diligence and learning slightly more about him. Jake's work on YouTube is very well polished, he is studying the art of filmmaking and his finished products are a wonder to see. I admire him as well, but he is slightly reclusive and restrained in his internet interactions at times and I respect him all the more for that. His scripts are poetic and his speech eloquent in metaphor and associations - he has a gift for putting vague emotions and feelings into paragraphs that arrest the audience's attention and imagination.
I thank God for wonderful people like this, who remind & reinvigorate me as to the reason for living well. There is a purpose and beauty behind all this environment of nature and creation of man. I need times like these to refocus and glory in the moment I have, while it is still called today.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Conclusion - Inscribed
Kiley's Adventures, Part the Final.
"It's been 3 weeks," Rachel grumbled, "I have been pulled into being involved in a writer's nightmare - a place that looks & sounds like it would be a simply wonderful paradise. What we forget is all the work that has to go into constructing & supporting the infrastructure." The TARDIS's holographic interface had been quiet until now. "There is always the exit route through Austen's rendezvous to consider." "What is that?" Rachel perked up, "Is that some Gallifreyan equation or protocol that solves this world's problem of Silence?" "No Scribe, it is the alternate destination which you deferred by coming here - Tea with Jane Austen the author. There now exists a probability problem in a time loop - You are not the Scribe unless Jane Austen entitles you as such during your meeting. However, until you resolve this planet's menace of the Silence, the interference issues will not allow the egress functions to take effect." "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Rachel stopped her pacing. "I di-" the hologram started before Rachel facepalmed. "You did, didn't you - all those bloody error messages. I thought it was one of those quirky time travel issues, the obscure balancing act that the Doctor always has to keep track of in his eons old TARDIS. Only he has almost 1000 years of experience to match them. I am a horrible heroine. I just want to go home, write LBD episodes, hang with Kylie & MK in coffee shops and bars."
Rachel straightened, "What if I never go see Jane? Then I will no longer be the Scribe who is supposed to solve the Silence problem." "Inadvisable - I have run that scenario as you were suggesting it. The results are an 87% probability of you warping out of time altogether, 7% that you will hit an alternate universe, 4.67% of dimensional malfunction results in a timequake between streams, and 1.23% that we will explode from the strain of running against a hard patch of redundancy logic." Rachel considered, "None of those options appears to be successful. What is the .10% remaining?" "General standard of margin of error in calculations. Even a core as sentiently skilled as I cannot prepare for every variable involved. You requested an adventure & a drink when we started this jump. Here lies your adventure - as stated on your interim planet's history. 'It is a bitter cup to drink, but it is the one I have chosen.'" Rachel nodded. "So, no escaping this time? Why did I ever want to be the Doctor? I'll view episodes of the show in a whole new light after this." She walked over to the box of elephants, patting Dumbledwarf on the ear as she emptied the waste into a cone of crumpled manuscript. At least it was being useful for something.
From what Rachel surmised of the scattered conversations, the Silence was indefeatible - any time someone came up with a solution for eliminating the creature, its natural amnesiac defense wiped their short term memory - the notes to the solution were scattered among the reams of failures. The creature didn't appear hostile, only that its continued existence appeared to frustrate the inhabitants for some unlearned reason. Tired, frustrated, and disheartened, most of the people lay as scattered as their work on the planet's surface, sleeping and wracking their brains for a solution. Rachel walked over to Simeon, one of the believers in the Scribe movement. Leaning over, she tapped him on the shoulder to wake him from his nap. "Hullo Sim, just so I understand this a little better, can you explain the Movement to me one more time? This go 'round, keep it short and to the point - all these other interviews have tended to be peppered with sob stories of previous failures."
Sim yawned, then brightened for a moment, "See, this place is a dream planet to which writers throughout the galaxy visit through their subconscious astral forms when they sleep. Story logic is translated to dream logic over the journey." Looking up at Rachel, he noted her confusion. Sim swept the ground clear and used the other end of a pen in the dust. He illustrated a series of roughly circular points surrounding a larger central point. "When writers dream, their internal genius and creativity come here to play around with ideas in a solidified form." Sim drew lines radiating from to the central point. "When the issues concerning the writers are resolved here, the consciousness returns to the writer, translating back to story logic to be captured in narrative form back home." At this point, Rachel was skeptical of the reality, but curious as to how Simeon and the others rationalized this concept. "And if the problem isn't resolved?" She gestured at the general chaos. Sim gave a nod. "Sometimes, a problem baffling one writer becomes a parasite of their concentration, and the mind which brought it to life starts asking others how to resolve the issue. Things... Escalate as the problem isn't solved. Soon, it is too big for any of us to solve and without a resolution, we all become stuck here until it is. Thus the term 'Writer's Block' - we cannot return to our writers without a solution to whatever vexed them to travel here in the first place." Rachel smiled despite herself: What a fanciful concept. Still it was better than a lot of explanations for the term's origins. Sim continued, "That is what happened with the Silence. So while brainstorming, a group of us hit upon the idea that maybe some other writer could conjure up the Silence's bane. Thus the Scribe movement."
Rachel felt like this was about all the history she could take. Now for more practical matters. "So, what have you tried so far?" Sim frowned, "We tried standard combat measures and weapons - Its hands shock like a taser when engaged head on by one of us. If we bring any offensive construct to confront it, the Silence has a sort of 'negation field' which dissolves the object's corporeal density before it is a threat." "Have you tried talking to it?" Rachel asked. Sim laughed. "Sorry, that is such a girlish stereotype - I can't take it seriously." He paused wheezing. "No, we were not equally prone to the cliche - we tried. But no matter how much we bargain, plead, cajole, threaten, or reason - the thing just looks at us with those unsettlingly empty voids it has for eye sockets." Rachel felt the beginnings of an idea, then fed it slowly with the reasons why she might have been brought here as the Scribe. Throughout these weeks she had been asking the right question the wrong way: "Why her?" She tested her hypothesis with a question. "You said it never replies at all?" "Yes!" Sim responded, yawning again, "Just stays silent." He chuckled sleepily at his own joke. "But that is it! You stupid, brilliant, literal-minded scribblers - It is silent because it was written to be that way. Why would a living breathing concept of Silence talk?"
"Thank you!" Rachel chortled as she dash-hopped away.
Rachel arrived near the TARDIS and looked around earnestly. "Oy! You! Silence!" She yelled, "Where are you? I am the freakin' Scribe for a reason and I think I know why!" She turned in a slow circle, only to find the creature 6 feet to her right. She focused on it. It stood looking sad and expectant in its black jacketed suit, familiar with nothing but attempts on its life and abuse. "You look lonely all by yourself, and I think that is the problem at hand. I may not know much about combat, but I do know about relationships and their problems. I am the queen of free shipping!" Rachel paused in her enthusiasm - somehow that had come out wrong. "So, anyway. You know what I never saw on Doctor Who? A female Silence. It figures that no writer on this planet ever thought of a solution that didn't involve punching away their problems. (Wait, that is another stereotype. Whatevs)." Rachel drew her sonic sharpie and uncapped the end. Picking up a discarded tablet computer, she shipped with her sharpie as if her trip home depended on it. Blotting over the Ariel font on the screen with bold black strokes, she wrote the other half of the Silence into existence.
After she signed the endnote of her work, she looked up to glimpse the Silence embracing for the first time. The two negations cancelled each other out of existence on the dimensional plane. The TARDIS door swung open behind her. "Ready for another adventure?" The interface inquired. Rachel limped in on her tweaked ankle. "I've had my fill of adventures, where the devil are my ruby slippers?"
"It's been 3 weeks," Rachel grumbled, "I have been pulled into being involved in a writer's nightmare - a place that looks & sounds like it would be a simply wonderful paradise. What we forget is all the work that has to go into constructing & supporting the infrastructure." The TARDIS's holographic interface had been quiet until now. "There is always the exit route through Austen's rendezvous to consider." "What is that?" Rachel perked up, "Is that some Gallifreyan equation or protocol that solves this world's problem of Silence?" "No Scribe, it is the alternate destination which you deferred by coming here - Tea with Jane Austen the author. There now exists a probability problem in a time loop - You are not the Scribe unless Jane Austen entitles you as such during your meeting. However, until you resolve this planet's menace of the Silence, the interference issues will not allow the egress functions to take effect." "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Rachel stopped her pacing. "I di-" the hologram started before Rachel facepalmed. "You did, didn't you - all those bloody error messages. I thought it was one of those quirky time travel issues, the obscure balancing act that the Doctor always has to keep track of in his eons old TARDIS. Only he has almost 1000 years of experience to match them. I am a horrible heroine. I just want to go home, write LBD episodes, hang with Kylie & MK in coffee shops and bars."
Rachel straightened, "What if I never go see Jane? Then I will no longer be the Scribe who is supposed to solve the Silence problem." "Inadvisable - I have run that scenario as you were suggesting it. The results are an 87% probability of you warping out of time altogether, 7% that you will hit an alternate universe, 4.67% of dimensional malfunction results in a timequake between streams, and 1.23% that we will explode from the strain of running against a hard patch of redundancy logic." Rachel considered, "None of those options appears to be successful. What is the .10% remaining?" "General standard of margin of error in calculations. Even a core as sentiently skilled as I cannot prepare for every variable involved. You requested an adventure & a drink when we started this jump. Here lies your adventure - as stated on your interim planet's history. 'It is a bitter cup to drink, but it is the one I have chosen.'" Rachel nodded. "So, no escaping this time? Why did I ever want to be the Doctor? I'll view episodes of the show in a whole new light after this." She walked over to the box of elephants, patting Dumbledwarf on the ear as she emptied the waste into a cone of crumpled manuscript. At least it was being useful for something.
From what Rachel surmised of the scattered conversations, the Silence was indefeatible - any time someone came up with a solution for eliminating the creature, its natural amnesiac defense wiped their short term memory - the notes to the solution were scattered among the reams of failures. The creature didn't appear hostile, only that its continued existence appeared to frustrate the inhabitants for some unlearned reason. Tired, frustrated, and disheartened, most of the people lay as scattered as their work on the planet's surface, sleeping and wracking their brains for a solution. Rachel walked over to Simeon, one of the believers in the Scribe movement. Leaning over, she tapped him on the shoulder to wake him from his nap. "Hullo Sim, just so I understand this a little better, can you explain the Movement to me one more time? This go 'round, keep it short and to the point - all these other interviews have tended to be peppered with sob stories of previous failures."
Sim yawned, then brightened for a moment, "See, this place is a dream planet to which writers throughout the galaxy visit through their subconscious astral forms when they sleep. Story logic is translated to dream logic over the journey." Looking up at Rachel, he noted her confusion. Sim swept the ground clear and used the other end of a pen in the dust. He illustrated a series of roughly circular points surrounding a larger central point. "When writers dream, their internal genius and creativity come here to play around with ideas in a solidified form." Sim drew lines radiating from to the central point. "When the issues concerning the writers are resolved here, the consciousness returns to the writer, translating back to story logic to be captured in narrative form back home." At this point, Rachel was skeptical of the reality, but curious as to how Simeon and the others rationalized this concept. "And if the problem isn't resolved?" She gestured at the general chaos. Sim gave a nod. "Sometimes, a problem baffling one writer becomes a parasite of their concentration, and the mind which brought it to life starts asking others how to resolve the issue. Things... Escalate as the problem isn't solved. Soon, it is too big for any of us to solve and without a resolution, we all become stuck here until it is. Thus the term 'Writer's Block' - we cannot return to our writers without a solution to whatever vexed them to travel here in the first place." Rachel smiled despite herself: What a fanciful concept. Still it was better than a lot of explanations for the term's origins. Sim continued, "That is what happened with the Silence. So while brainstorming, a group of us hit upon the idea that maybe some other writer could conjure up the Silence's bane. Thus the Scribe movement."
Rachel felt like this was about all the history she could take. Now for more practical matters. "So, what have you tried so far?" Sim frowned, "We tried standard combat measures and weapons - Its hands shock like a taser when engaged head on by one of us. If we bring any offensive construct to confront it, the Silence has a sort of 'negation field' which dissolves the object's corporeal density before it is a threat." "Have you tried talking to it?" Rachel asked. Sim laughed. "Sorry, that is such a girlish stereotype - I can't take it seriously." He paused wheezing. "No, we were not equally prone to the cliche - we tried. But no matter how much we bargain, plead, cajole, threaten, or reason - the thing just looks at us with those unsettlingly empty voids it has for eye sockets." Rachel felt the beginnings of an idea, then fed it slowly with the reasons why she might have been brought here as the Scribe. Throughout these weeks she had been asking the right question the wrong way: "Why her?" She tested her hypothesis with a question. "You said it never replies at all?" "Yes!" Sim responded, yawning again, "Just stays silent." He chuckled sleepily at his own joke. "But that is it! You stupid, brilliant, literal-minded scribblers - It is silent because it was written to be that way. Why would a living breathing concept of Silence talk?"
"Thank you!" Rachel chortled as she dash-hopped away.
Rachel arrived near the TARDIS and looked around earnestly. "Oy! You! Silence!" She yelled, "Where are you? I am the freakin' Scribe for a reason and I think I know why!" She turned in a slow circle, only to find the creature 6 feet to her right. She focused on it. It stood looking sad and expectant in its black jacketed suit, familiar with nothing but attempts on its life and abuse. "You look lonely all by yourself, and I think that is the problem at hand. I may not know much about combat, but I do know about relationships and their problems. I am the queen of free shipping!" Rachel paused in her enthusiasm - somehow that had come out wrong. "So, anyway. You know what I never saw on Doctor Who? A female Silence. It figures that no writer on this planet ever thought of a solution that didn't involve punching away their problems. (Wait, that is another stereotype. Whatevs)." Rachel drew her sonic sharpie and uncapped the end. Picking up a discarded tablet computer, she shipped with her sharpie as if her trip home depended on it. Blotting over the Ariel font on the screen with bold black strokes, she wrote the other half of the Silence into existence.
After she signed the endnote of her work, she looked up to glimpse the Silence embracing for the first time. The two negations cancelled each other out of existence on the dimensional plane. The TARDIS door swung open behind her. "Ready for another adventure?" The interface inquired. Rachel limped in on her tweaked ankle. "I've had my fill of adventures, where the devil are my ruby slippers?"
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