SVOOL, gsrg klhg rh zylfg KVLKOV!

Ave, lector!

I’m always excited in the morning because each day in college is like an inverse archeological dig.  Every action uncovers a little more of what my life will be like in the future.

And now that we’ve gotten THAT out of the way:

On the subject of PEOPLE.

People are interesting.

People are objects of remarkable depth.  Even if you’ve known a person for twenty years, there’s always a new conversation to have with one, always a unique statement to be made.

People are like onions.  Except instead of every layer making you want to cry, every layer you move past brings you closer to the truest self.

Unlike onions, however, people are infinite.  An onion eventually runs out of layers; a person is always entertaining.  Or at least more entertaining than an onion.

But a person’s ‘self’ is as fragile as it is expansive. A person once damaged may return to their life completely unharmed, or perhaps might never fully recover.  And even worse, and even less like onions, a person thus damaged could go on to damage others, and so on, sending slow ripples through the generations.

I personally choose to believe that all people are essentially good, and that each individual is unique and worthy of consideration as a unique entity, not as part of some sweeping generalization.

It makes life much better. I don’t have to bother about judging people all the time, I don’t need to pretend that anyone is particularly more likeable than anyone else, and it saves headaches and paranoia.

However, while I believe that all people are essentially good, unfortunately I rationally know that there are people who are not.  In fact, there are some people who just suck.

These people that just suck do not do so from malevolence.  They may be malevolent, but that is a result of something else, some cause or event deep in their past.  Evil does not arise of its own accord. Thus, these people should be dealt with for the good of society, but without forgetting that they are as human as any of us, and that their malevolence may even be curable.

SUBJECT CHANGE.

So last night I had an idea. I was helped into having this idea by someone else, but THAT STILL COUNTS.

The idea is this.

I, like many people, have an account on the popular social networking website called FACEBOOK.

For the next week [that is, until next Thursday] I will not log onto my FACEBOOK account. Instead, anything I have to say I will say in a blog post, which will be updated daily. People on FACEBOOK have been informed of this and are perfectly welcome to comment, providing that they do not mention my REAL NAME, which is classified.

Through this, hopefully, I will be able to see just how much artistic energy I am wasting on FACEBOOK. The answer should be frightening.  If it is not I will be disappointed.

That is all I have to say for now.  If I think of more I will write a new blog post. YAY blog posts.

MUSIC AND SQUID.

Ave, lector. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Epo8WlSQ0mk

AUGH.

Next:

Favorite animal, category: Rainforest non-legged vertebrates: EYELASH VIPER.

It’s SO PRETTY.

Pictured: something REALLY PRETTY.

This snake makes it to the top of that particular list for three reasons.

1.  It looks SO PRETTY.

2.  It is an active and enthusiastic predator, one that ‘practices’ its strikes and learns from its mistakes.

3.  It is venomous.

Together, these three characteristics add together into something wonderful that I would not mind having as a pet.

Next up on the sudden and unexpected list of THINGS I WOULD NOT MIND HAVING AS A PET, Karen Gillan! the Humboldt Squid!

D'awwwwwwwwwwwww.

Growing up to a wonderful ten feet long, these squid can be found in pretty much every ocean, eating the everlovin’ shit out of anything in their path.  They will attack fish, divers, boats, fishhooks, sharks, carrion, divers again, wounded humboldt squid, cameras, and anything else that is within tentacle-reach and looks even remotely edible (read: ANY PHYSICAL OBJECT).

I think they’re adorable.

In fact, if I could talk to animals, this would be the first creature that would come to mind as an ally.  No messing around with squirrels here–just lure your enemy into the nearest body of saline water and whistle for some of these sleek babies.  CALAMARI EATS YOU.  BAM. Problem solved, and ONCE AGAIN, THE DAY IS SAVED, THANKS TO THE POWERPUFF GIRLS  A PACK OF TERRIFYING CEPHALOPODS! 

So.

Literary assignment:

I read the short story (?) The Babylon Lottery recently for a class (that’s a Borges story, by the way), and I am assigned to write about it. So as a way of freeing up the creative powers of my mind, I will describe this story to you.

It’s actually a vaguely disturbing story.

It tells about a society in which CHANCE is embraced as the guiding tenet of all civilization, where the allegiances and obligations and fates of every man, woman, and child hang upon the results of a lottery that officially no longer exists.  The people have become so addicted to the randomness of their own fate that they have granted to the creators of the lottery ULTIMATE POLITICAL POWER.

It’s strange, and it entertains me, and I approve of it.

GEAR SHIFT.

I just finished an awesome book series.  They are unofficially called the Pendergast novels and I am amused/entertained by them.  This is important because I need to be amused/entertained by books, especially when I am reading things that are not at all amusing/entertaining as part of my college education.

Anyway, as someone fond of the Sherlock-style deduction stories and the violent-yet-chivalrous-gentleman stories, I approve of these books for anyone who is (a) over 15 (or more, depending on degrees of mental scarring) and (b) likes thrillers.

I must also salute the individual who recommended them, who shall remain nameless because EVERYONE REMAINS NAMELESS ON MY BLOG. Why? Because ALL PEOPLE ARE EQUAL.

But that’s a subject for another blog post.

FOR NOW,

I shall discuss something else.

What is it?

I don’t know.  I haven’t really thought of that myself.

I like psychology.

In fact, almost everything about psychology sounds interesting to me.  Studying people, learning how their minds work, learning what influences how they make life decisions, all of that sounds fascinating.

Why? Because people are cool.  And like all cool things, they’re even cooler when you know more about them.  When you can understand how they respond to all the varied vicissitudes of life.

Not to mention the fact that psychology is a humanizing science.  When you realize the infinite capacity of the mind to adapt and recreate itself to mitigate traumatic events, the myriad ways in which a single trauma can completely shatter a perfectly well-formed personality, then suddenly every form of abuse is an outrage, any form of antagonism repugnant.

Inversely, psychology can be a weapon.  In a hostage situation, in real life they don’t call a superhero–they call a negotiator, a psychologist, an analyst trained to follow the workings of the criminal mind.  In a confrontation–be it a game of spoons or an armed robbery–knowledge of how people think and decide can play a crucial role in survival, or in your chances of grabbing a spoon.

Helping people becomes much simpler once you know how the mind reacts to stress and what behaviors are helpful or healthy.  I don’t know for sure yet if I want to be a psychologist (although I am very close to deciding whether or not to go for a Ph.D), but I do know I will take at least one class on that subject in the next two semesters.

Also: Psychology is just plain cool.  To me, not much is cooler than being able to know just what to say to someone to make them feel completely at ease.  In films or fiction, simply shooting someone isn’t particularly impressive, but the moment in Silence of the Lambs where Hannibal Lecter literally convinces a man to kill himself is pretty ******* badass. [honorable mention in this category goes to book 10 of the "Pendergast novels."]

In short: I like psychology.  Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to master it, and although that is a daunting prospect indeed I very much hope that I have the strength of character needed to carry it out. If not…well, I’ll burn cross that bridge when I come to it.

Notice something?

My writing became animated as I began to talk about psychology.  As time progressed it became apparent that this subject puts fire in my veins.  If you could see my face as I discuss it, you’d have the same impression.

So what makes you do that, lector?  What field of study puts a light in your eyes and a spring in your step?  What inflames you so that you could talk about it for hours, so that you would give your right arm to have the mastery of it?

Whatever it is, even if it is not what you are meant to do, it is at the very least a part of who you are trying to be, who you are, and it is something that you should listen to.

So examine that passion.  Scrutinize that art, that thought, that action that galvanizes you, that makes you burst with energy.  If you apply your thought to it, it will in time yield up its role in your future, and you will be freed to attack it with all your might.

And then, you will be INVINCIBLE.

So on that note, I will leave you to ponder.  What makes me end the post with this, I have no idea, but merely the vague and inscrutable feeling that this is meant to be the end of my speech to you.

So vale, lector, and best of wishes for the day that follows, for it is indeed true that in each day is the potential from which you can create your own joy.

Have a nice day.

–Tor

College Thinking

Ave, lector.

Interesting how the mind adjusts to new situations, isn’t it?   Well, you might not think so, but shut up, I don’t care about you anyway.

CROSS ANOTHER READER OFF THE LIST OF PEOPLE TO OFFEND.

The college I go to provides each meal each day of the week, except Sunday dinner.  I enjoy this so far, as although the food is not the highest quality it is clearly made with love in every helping.  Also lots of salt.

An interesting side effect of this is the way I evaluate free food now that I have no refrigerator and one meal each week to account for.  Now when I look at an advertisement or event I think “Hmm, how well would that keep just sitting on my desk for a day? No, it probably would not be good to eat on Sunday even if I locked it in a drawer for the intervening 72 hours…” or “No, I won’t be going to that, I only need food on Sunday evenings and I can always just eat toothpaste then.”

I have noticed that reading too much David Thorne tends to make me contemptuous of commas and omit them from many of my sentences.

For example that last sentence could have used a comma or two and is sadly bereft of them in a way which is vaguely unsettling.

Okay. I’m going to stop that now.

Any more violations of unwritten grammar laws in that fashion and I would be forced to make my fingers commit harakiri.  This would have been painful, and quite irritating, as it takes such a long time for fingers to grow back.

I wonder how long it takes other people to grow their fingers back? I should ask someone.

I feel much more whimsical today. Perhaps it’s because I had a legitimate quantity of sleep this past night.

Remarkably, my sleep has been quite sound for nearly the entirety of the previous fortnight.  This is remarkable mostly because I sometimes wake up and then cannot return to the wonderful world of sleep for hours on end.  This is often frustrating, because being awake in the middle of the night trying to fall asleep is boring.

As you can tell, I don’t really have a topic.

I’m just writing whatever floats into my head and EVENTUALLY something will fall out.

I think.

Today I made music.  I didn’t write it down, so, uh, oops, but on the plus side I did record a video of myself playing it.  Now I can transcribe it, albeit slowly and painfully.

I hate writing down music as I think of it.  It takes way too long.  I rather wish I had a musical notation software more formidable than Noteflight, which, although helpful in constructing little pieces, is not at all helpful in swiftly notating music as I play it.

What would be wonderful is a program that would notate music AS I PLAYED IT, taking down the notes and letting me set the rhythm later.  This program has probably already been invented, but I do not have it. This presents an unfortunate problem.

What would also be lovely is a program that will notate music based on ‘hearing’ it played.  This would only work for single-instrument pieces, but it would be a great way to capture improvisation, to simulate an entire orchestra for one musician, and really learn what those people on Youtube are doing.

The sound on my video seems to have dissociated from the video itself. Remarkable, since it was perfectly coordinated when I uploaded it.  I can only hope it is the poor internet connection I possess.

Ah, that’s better. As I write I can see Thorne fading away and Pendergast coming to take his place.  I must say, I much prefer the more cultivated accent of that particular law-enforcement official in my writing.

Mimicking other writers is a bad habit, I am aware, but one which I find myself reluctant to break.

SPEAKING OF BREAK.

…

…is there a sadder thing than a segue’ without a purpose? I think not.

WELL.

By now the next 30 minutes of Sherlock should have finished buffering, and soon it will be time for dinner, so I will upload this rambling argument against the existence of human sanity and begone.

COMING UP NEXT TIME:

I talk about something!

DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN

Did you look at the nature photos from last post, dear lector?  I hope so.  One of the portraits of a waterfall is now my desktop. I realise this does not narrow it down, as there are a number of portraits of waterfalls, but I leave the guesswork to you.

I cannot really say anything about the number of waterfall pictures.  I confess I was rivuleted by the multitude, and I would not brook any delays in the process of downloading at least one to grace my desktop.  I began streaming it immediately.

BUT ENOUGH PUNS.

Farewell, until next time, internet/reader/psyche.

Ta,

…

Fire and Fury

Fire:

Evil.

Lots of people have written about it.

According to some, it is a proof of the nonexistence of God, or at least of a god as we would conceive of him.

According to others, it is a manifestation of free will, an unavoidable side effect of being able to control our own destinies.

I myself have not had enough direct experience with evil to even begin to draw my own conclusions, but I can say with certainty that it exists, and debates as to its nature are at best academic.  I can only identify it by my own response.

When I see/hear/read of something evil or malevolent, there is a particular chilling sensation that sweeps through me, accompanied by an immediate desire for a physical action in response.  It may not be much of an action–a blink, a closing of the fist, a spoken response or a shift of the posture, but it is a reaction all the same.

My definition of ‘evil’ is fuzzy in this case.  It can be something truly ‘evil,’ or it can be something unjust or even just hurtful.  Whatever it is, if it sets off my hate-o-meter, I classify it as ‘not good’ in this instance and respond to it as such.

For example, this particular piece of footage sets the hate’O'meter a ‘tickin’.

http://www.rawstory.com/rawreplay/2011/09/wisc-state-police-drag-protesters-out-of-assembly-for-filming/#.TnIvBSGHRkw.facebook

Now, this is a nice gut reaction, but it is not infallible.  An obvious protest/example of fallibility might be whether or not that video was edited to show the actions in their worst possible light.  The hate’O'meter also goes off for movies, novels, stories that I hear secondhand…oh, and this…

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/09/22/republican-debate-dadt-repeal-rick-santorum_n_977105.html

…my point being:

Evil is present.  It may be quiescent, dormant, or even shrouded in seeming good, but it is a real part of the world.  People make bad choices, sometimes even good people, and when this happens there should be a response.

I am not advocating violence. 

The thought of injuring another human being who is not actively engaged in mutilating me or a family member or a  friend disgusts me.

[The thought of injuring a human being who is engaged in mutilating myself or another close individual is one I will discuss later]

In fact, I think our response to evil should (with a few exceptions I will also discuss later) be nearly the opposite.  Water quenches fire. We should respond to malevolence with its antithesis, counter inhumanity by becoming more humane still.

http://slatest.slate.com/posts/2011/09/22/lawrence_brewer_no_more_last_meal_for_texas_inmates_on_death_row.html

Case in point: the above link.  I believe this to be the wrong decision.  Do not mistake this for sympathy on the behalf of killers (although enough people have been executed on questionable evidence to make that a viable concern).  But I think that the last meal is not, necessarily, a gesture of sympathy.

It is a kindness.  A simple, stupid, pointless human kindness, providing one last celebration to mark the close of a life.  For however that life was lived, however poorly the paths were chosen, it was still a human life, and by granting that little kindness we, in a sense, acknowledge their humanity.

We could not do otherwise–should not do otherwise, for to do so is to reduce the vast system of our society to the same level as the killer, a machine calmly and coldly and inexorably carrying out the murder of a single human being.  By this idiotic little gesture, this last humane act, we assert that we do this not for justice, but for mankind, ending one life so that more might be spared.

Evil is not the problem.

What troubles me is that when evil surfaces, men turn readily to evil as a solution.  We call it kidnapping when one human holds another against their will, yet perform the same act upon the kidnappers who fail.  We condemn murder, the murder of many even more so, and yet calmly execute one individual after another in a long list of slow punishments for crimes long past.

I do not have a solution to this.  Perhaps no one ever will.

Or perhaps, just maybe…

Perhaps one day in the future psychology will provide us with an answer.  Perhaps psychiatry may enable us to truly reform criminals, to help them work through their anger and their actions and their guilt and give them a place among mankind.   Perhaps neuroscience will grant us the means to help a sociopath understand the meaning of happiness and melancholy and all the wonderful emotions we experience.  Perhaps wisdom will grant us the strength to look at our laws and our customs in a new light, to embrace humanity and to usher in kindness.

For, in the end, the greatest weapon in our arsenal is simple empathy.  Kindness and understanding.

Fury: 

Anger is a powerful force.  Righteous anger, whether justified or not, is still more so.

When I think of what angers me, I picture injustice, or hasty condemnation, or overzealous judgement, or the harm of another living creature, or even just the sheer, cruel randomness of fate.

At these moments I would not mind being my namesake.

To be able to move from place to place as swift as thought and place myself before the victim.

I am not my namesake, however.  And on weekdays I exist only in one place at a time.

And moreover, I am not yet familiar with my own mind.  I do not fully know its limits, nor how it would respond to the aftermath of a moment of urgency.

I know how my mind would behave in these moments, for I have had them, albeit not in a life-threatening context–and my mind works exactly the same, save that under every thought there lie two considerations:

Thinking takes too much time. 

AND

Why am I not more upset by this?

I can then say that in a ‘moment of truth’ I am reasonably confident my mind would remain clear.

I am not sure what would happen afterward, if I actually was forced to bring violence against another creature, even to defend another.

So all I can say is that I hope it doesn’t happen.

For the sake of my own mind.

For the sake of others.

And for the sake of the dry-cleaning bill which I do NOT have money for.

And:

NATURE PHOTOGRAPHY

http://immortal-sun.deviantart.com/

THAT.

IS.

ALL.

WHOA.

Dang.

Oh right, that’s why I don’t play computer games.

Because they SUCK MY BRAIN OUT. 

I’m not even joking.  I had to actually unplug the internet in order to do my acting  assignment.

This is interesting.

My system has a predisposition to alcoholism, or so I’ve been told, I think.  I wonder if that’s not so much a tendency to become addicted to alcohol or a tendency to become addicted in general? Because I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I don’t do any other drug. None of them hold any interest for me, either. But a computer game can just vacuum up my whole day if I don’t stay on guard, and not just that: it keeps my thoughts rattling around inside my head, making me as a whole less bubbly and outgoing.

Hmm.

…wait, I didn’t even finish my assignment yet!

GOD DAMMIT INTERNET.

More later.

–

Oh Dammit The Timer’s Going, Now I Have To Think Of A Title

I think I like Montaigne.

I was reading his essay today entitled “That Intention is the Judge of our Actions,” which is basically a brief statement on how not to be a total scumbag.  In fact, it’s so brief, I’m actually going to quote the whole damn thing for you.

“‘Tis a saying, “That death discharges us of all our obligations.” I know
some who have taken it in another sense. Henry VII., King of England,
articled with Don Philip, son to Maximilian the emperor, or (to place him
more honourably) father to the Emperor Charles V., that the said Philip
should deliver up the Duke of Suffolk of the White Rose, his enemy, who
was fled into the Low Countries, into his hands; which Philip accordingly
did, but upon condition, nevertheless, that Henry should attempt nothing
against the life of the said Duke; but coming to die, the king in his
last will commanded his son to put him to death immediately after his
decease. And lately, in the tragedy that the Duke of Alva presented to
us in the persons of the Counts Horn and Egmont at Brussels,
–[Decapitated 4th June 1568]–there were very remarkable passages, and
one amongst the rest, that Count Egmont (upon the security of whose word
and faith Count Horn had come and surrendered himself to the Duke of
Alva) earnestly entreated that he might first mount the scaffold, to the
end that death might disengage him from the obligation he had passed to
the other. In which case, methinks, death did not acquit the former of
his promise, and that the second was discharged from it without dying.
We cannot be bound beyond what we are able to perform, by reason that
effect and performance are not at all in our power, and that, indeed, we
are masters of nothing but the will, in which, by necessity, all the
rules and whole duty of mankind are founded and established: therefore
Count Egmont, conceiving his soul and will indebted to his promise,
although he had not the power to make it good, had doubtless been
absolved of his duty, even though he had outlived the other; but the King
of England wilfully and premeditately breaking his faith, was no more to
be excused for deferring the execution of his infidelity till after his
death than the mason in Herodotus, who having inviolably, during the time
of his life, kept the secret of the treasure of the King of Egypt, his
master, at his death discovered it to his children.–[Herod., ii. 121.]

I have taken notice of several in my time, who, convicted by their
consciences of unjustly detaining the goods of another, have endeavoured
to make amends by their will, and after their decease; but they had as
good do nothing, as either in taking so much time in so pressing an
affair, or in going about to remedy a wrong with so little
dissatisfaction or injury to themselves. They owe, over and above,
something of their own; and by how much their payment is more strict and
incommodious to themselves, by so much is their restitution more just
meritorious. Penitency requires penalty; but they yet do worse than
these, who reserve the animosity against their neighbour to the last
gasp, having concealed it during their life; wherein they manifest little
regard of their own honour, irritating the party offended in their
memory; and less to their the power, even out of to make their malice die
with them, but extending the life of their hatred even beyond their own.
Unjust judges, who defer judgment to a time wherein they can have no
knowledge of the cause! For my part, I shall take care, if I can, that
my death discover nothing that my life has not first and openly declared.”

WASN’T THAT WONDERFUL? 

Now, before I even start to talk about that, let’s talk about the word PHASE.

Now, some people are not FAZED by the fact that there are two words that sound like this, and have decided to gradually PHASE in a new era of interchangeable words, where you could switch PHASES in a paragraph and use either one of two words that have completely different definitions while remaining completely UNFAZED by your own heinous molestation of the laws of the English language.

IN SHORT:

PHASE: To gradually move into or pass through. Ex: “To phase out the exploding Prius.” Nerdy definition: To pass through something as though it is immaterial; ex: “Kitty Pryde can phase through solid objects!”

FAZE: To cause to doubt, or to doubt. I know the context, probably everyone else does too. Ex: “The cat was unfazed by the sudden appearance of a second laser pointer, and redoubled his efforts to capture them.”

DO NOT MAKE THIS MISTAKE

OR I WILL SHOW UP AT YOUR HOUSE AND SING “ON THE STREET WHERE YOU LIVE” INTO YOUR EAR WITH A MEGAPHONE.

Now back to Montaigne.

In my opinion, if I am going to take anyone’s advice on matters of honor, it will either be a 15th-century Frenchman,  a samurai, or Brad Pitt. I don’t know what Brad Pitt’s stance on honor is, but if he told it to me, I would take his advice, because let’s face it, he’s kinda awesome.

I agree with Montaigne there.  Your actions define your words, not the other way around.  Only what you do can justify what you say. Et cetera.

In other news, I’ve been reading Jung.  I really do love reading his stuff. It’s so nice to be reading a complex (yet bizzarely intuitive) argument against the thought that evil is merely the “absence” of good, or privatio boni, and then to have the author pause and note that the phrase privatio boni sounds remarkably like a euphemism.

I’m not even joking, that actually happened. And it was wonderful.

Now here we go. Finally. It’s been two nights now that I’ve had something to say, but finally we’ve gotten to the moment of truth: I have nothing at all coming to mind. Right now all I’m doing is writing about nothing coming to mind.

In other news, I’ve got the best dinner ever. Forget the dining hall–a big piece of cheese, a big piece of bread, and a pear is all I need. Once I’m done with my evening “morning” pages, I’ll sit down, slap it all onto my one plate, pour some blue Gatorade into my Dalek mug, and chow down while writing my latest story.

Hey, here’s something! A writing tip. I was thinking about it the other day, and perhaps the best bit of advice I got was from a screenwriter, who advised me to try and encapsulate each story I write in one sentence.

Before you start writing.  Before you start mapping out the story, even perhaps before you have characters. Sit down. Write the story in one sentence.

A short sentence; not one of those mideaveal sentences that goes on and on, like all those 15th-century Frenchmen loved to write; sometimes those just grate on the nerves, and you really want to skip ahead, particularly in the greatest and most notorious users of this style: Descartes, Montaigne, and even Alexandre Dumas (one of these things is not like the other!) fall into this category.

No, write a REAL sentence.

Then do three sentences–one for each major movement of the story. Let’s do Lord of the Rings in a sentence.

A band of heroes must come together and carry a powerful object to a volcano in the land of darkness, to defeat the evil wizard once and for all.

Now Lord of the Rings in three sentences, one for each book.

A band of heroes travels through forests, caves, and enchanted woodlands on a quest to defeat the Dark Lord. Even though they are split up, they still possess the strength to change fate and guide the course of events.  Finally, as the world begins to fall into chaos, the dark lord’s greatest weapon is destroyed, and ONCE AGAIN THE DAY IS SAVED, THANKS TO THE POWERPUFF GIRLS.

Can you see how it helps? How it makes the story just a little bit easier to grasp?  Even just a bit of help is good. A bit of clarity in the story-writing process.

Twelve minutes left. Part of me is tempted to go and watch the latest episode of Doctor Who. Who would know? (ha, ha).

But no. I will not succumb.

I actually am running out of ideas, which is a problem.

I’ve just added a metric crapload of music to my ipod. A lot of Irish folk/rock and Beethoven. Interesting contrast, there.

I like Beethoven. There’s an exuberance and a mania to his music that just strikes a chord with me.

GET IT?

But seriously, enough music jokes. They’re starting to fall flat. If I don’t find some sharp-er ones, I’ll be be-clef-t of words, and frankly to continue treble-ing you with bad puns like this would be a base treachery indeed.

…yeah.

I packed six books for college. I brought Lovecraft’s Necronomicon, Hodgeman’s “Areas” and “More,” Jung’s “Memories/Dreams/Reflections,” a collection of Jung’s writings on the subject of evil, and The Ghost Map.  Oh, and the computer game known as Prototype. Why did I bring that? I have no idea.  In retrospect I should have instead brought my copy of Snatch. That movie I would watch every night forever until the end of always.

All the cicadas are dying. It’s sad. I really am not fond of seeing things die. But they’ve had their fun, I imagine–they got to fly around in the sun, getting it on with one another, making really loud irritating noises while we’re trying to study…

Heyyyyyyyy, cicadas seem to have a lot in common with UC Santa Cruz students!

THAT WAS A LOW BLOW. I APOLOGIZE.

I watched Fight Club last night.

[spoilers]

With friends. It was awesome, even if it was a slightly innacurate representation of Multiple Personality Disorder. You see, normally in cases of MPD, I would advise seeing a doctor…and not shooting yourself in the face.  I think that form of therapy went out when Descartes finally succumbed to the crab-person mind-slaving machine that had been stalking him for four decades. The irony is staggering, as was Descartes.

Well, I’ve got 45 seconds left on the clock. I hope this episode of Doctor Who is entertaining, at the very least–I would hate for it to be boring. That would be sad–but so far, I haven’t been bored yet. I’ve had a few “WHAT THE F” moments, but no boredom.

THAT IS ALL.

–Tor

An Auspicious Start

Yes, that’s right folks, after promising to write something for the blog every day, what do I do?
THE VERY NEXT DAY I BLOW IT OFF TO SEE A MOVIE.

I applaud myself.

Truth be told, I had a momentary doubt.  A writer to whom I usually pay a great deal of attention told me that what I’m doing is essentially “morning pages,” I.E. the freeform writing done to loosen up by a writer, kinda like the stretches a gymnast does before performing their routine.  He also said that usually morning pages work best if you keep them private, because when you write for an audience, you write differently.

So I thought, maybe I should keep it private. I’ll just write every day and then not post it. After all, Montaigne didn’t publish what he wrote right away. Jung only posted his scribblings after extensive review and editing.  Descartes waited until after he actually died to publish his ramblings, making him possibly one of the first authors to actually plan to publish their book while dead.

You can see where I’m going with this:

Clearly, Descartes was a zombie.

BUT I DIGRESS.

I decided no.

I’m going to write here. And it’s going to work, for three reasons.

One.

No one reads this blog. I know. I have the stats in real time in the right-hand corner of this blog post screen. So it might as well be private.

Two.

I don’t really care. There’s a very short list of things I won’t tell other people, and I really don’t think about them all that often anyway.

Three.

When I write like this, reader, I’m not talking to you. I’m not talking to some imaginary internet person.
I’m talking to myself.
Aloud.

That’s right, you heard me. Aloud. I’m just transcribing.

Well, I take that back. I don’t always talk aloud. But I do talk to myself. About myself. I direct commentaries at various Jungian archetypes–

LIKE, FOR EXAMPLE

Anima! Haven’t seen you in ages. Not in dreams, not in those sudden bursts of recognition when passing a picture, not in any urge to write, just in those fleeting moments of crazed joy while I’m in the middle of playing my instrument.  Perhaps that’s because I’ve grown more mature emotionally. Perhaps it’s because I now have many more assertive feminine figures in my life than I did in that hellhole that is Orange County, so you’ve less need to step in to keep me balanced and sane.

Regardless, of the reason, I’m not sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, a vague sense of loss, like after one of your dreams. On the other…well, actually, not anything on the other. Interesting.

No nightmares, though. None at all. Not a peep from anyone even mildly cthlonic. Which is very nice–it means that this is a REALLY good place.  Which is good, because I like it here.

It’s raining. Finally.

I like rain. Everything seems more alive in the rain–the squirrels are running around frantically, the cicadas get even louder in protest, the trees move and rustle in the wind, and even the sky begins to talk, thundering far off in the distance.  Greens get deeper, colours more vivid.  Walking for an hour in bright sunlight is a chore–walking an hour in rain is a pleasure.  Water gets into your shoes and squishes charmingly.

I especially like thunderstorms. I hope we get one soon–there’s a gazebo out in the middle of the common grass that would be a perfect place to sit and watch the wild rage of a storm.

Someone on Facebook asked a while ago which X-man powers I would take, if I could only have two.  And after much deliberation, I’ve finally got an answer.

Of course,  Facebook has moved on, and is no longer interested, but I am, and so I’ll recount it.

Telepathy and weather control.

Telepathy not so much for the mind control aspect–I really think that could be boring, if the only thoughts around you were your own. More for knowing people–seeing what’s troubling them, knowing which subjects to avoid, (always remembering birthdays!).

Weather control for an entirely selfish reason: I’ve always had this kind of mental image of standing in the eye of a hurricane, high above the ground, watching the storm rage and lightning crash on every side. It’s an image that surfaces occasionally in my drawings or my writing. Plus, I like rain. And I could carry a little bubble of rain and cool air with me and ALWAYS BE ABLE TO WEAR A COOL TRENCHCOAT.

Think about it: if you can control the ambient temperature, you can ALWAYS wear your favorite articles of clothing. No matter what the weather around you is like.  Love that shirt, but it’s snowing outside? No sweat–bump the temperature up to 70 and strut around in your favorite tee.

That would be awesome. In fact, I think weather control would be my first choice. Because think! What better way to make a living? Live in Florida, or anywhere in the Midwest, or anywhere along the east coast, getting paid to fly around and divert hurricanes and tornadoes!  That would be AWESOME.

So no, I’m not writing for anyone. Well, I suppose that might be untrue. I am writing for myself, as I said, and that means all of me.

WHICH, by the way, reminds me of something.

I got an odd look a few days ago when I said that perhaps American students should forego helping abroad when there are people still starving in our own country. It was an undeveloped thought–one of the many that go flying out of my head in the course of a day–but the response from a friend was immediate and quite deep. She replied that it’s not so much a matter of who gets helped as it is of the emotional growth of the people who help them, and the lessons they can learn–in short, that you learn from helping others, no matter who it is.

Which is a good point, and one that pretty much crushed my statement entirely. I agree with it, too, which is even worse–it’s hard to argue against something you are 100% in favor of.

SUBJECT CHANGE

College. Freshpeople. Beer.  Of course most of them drink. Well, I don’t know about “most”–this is very much a campus that puts the “liberal” in “liberal arts,” and everyone is free to drink whatever they like. But some people do drink. And too much at that.

At an earlier stage in my life, I might not have liked that. I might have followed friends around trying to protect them from themselves and herd them home when they got smashed. But I can’t.

I can’t help everyone. And this fact royally pisses me off, but it’s true. I can’t be everywhere, I can’t predict everything, and I sure as hell don’t know everything. All I can do is act upon my immediate surroundings, and that I do. I rescue bugs. I talk to sad people. I offer tips on anything I have any relevant knowledge about. Little things. But they’re little things that count to me, and they count to the ones I help (I hope; otherwise I might spiral into an existential crisis, but no one’s asked for a refund yet).

And someday, this work I’m doing will pay off. I’ll acquire that swift insight that Jung and Descartes and Montaigne developed through their works–that immense self-knowledge that manifests itself as an awareness of how the human soul functions. And I’ll be able to tell at a glance who is troubled and who is simply cranky, able to predict how best I can help, even if that way is nothing at all.

It’s odd. I really never thought about my name until a few months before I came to college. I Googled my name, and what came up was the wikipedia entry for the archangel Michael.

Michael’s not just “some guy” as angels go. He’s a guardian angel, the self-proclaimed defender of the weak and the general of the armies of Good, who once fought Satan in a knock-down dragout cage match and won.  His shield is emblazoned with the words “quis ut deus,” latin for “who is like God,” which is in Hebrew quite literally the word “Michael.”  It is both a statement (he is one of the highest of angels) and a challenge to evil (who possesses the arrogance to place themselves as the master of reality?).

That’s a weighty name to live up to. But you know what? Challenge ****ing ACCEPTED. I’ll take up that mantle.  I’ll become a philosopher and an artist and a champion and a guardian, and before I’m done the world will be a far better place for the works of another Michael.

The rain’s turned to a storm.

I’ve opened my window. It’s cool outside, and the room is rapidly following suit, but I don’t mind. The thunder is enough to make me feel at home.

Perhaps I’ll live in Pittsburgh. I liked it there, liked it alot.  Or perhaps I’ll even live here, in this little town. We’ll see how the winter turns out.

Everyone’s been warning me that the winter will be brutal, but I don’t care–I’ve faced cold before, and it utterly fails to faze me.

Besides–the longest walk I have to make is ten minutes.  It may be the coldest ten goddamn minutes of my life, but it’s ten minutes. No major tissue damage can occur in ten minutes, unless I’m in goddamn space. And I’m not in space. You know how I can tell? My eyeballs are still in my head. That’s right, I went there.  Eyeballs. 

2 minutes left on the timer, and almost time for lunch.

I love lunch here. [Almost] everyone eats at the common dining hall, and students are not allowed to bring books/backpacks in. You are literally forced to stop studying and socialize. The library closes at 10 most days, meaning you are obliged to go to your room and, ideally, get some sleep rather than burn out studying. And the people!

Well, suffice it to say I have not yet met a single person who I would not want to have a three-hour conversation with. And in some cases I did. And it was wonderful.

18 seconds left. Put that 90 wpm to good use with random thoughts.

I hope there’s pasta.

That is all.

–Tor

Essays 2.0

Hi Internet! It’s been a while. How are you? Coming along well? Good.

Since last we met, I’ve done something interesting. I’ve gone to college. WHOA.  Yeah. Exactly.

Yep, I am now a Freshperson on the proud campus of a liberal arts college, rubbing elbows with all kinds of liberal, artsy people, eating cafeteria food and getting very excited about sitting in classes for several hours per day.

Now, one of my classes has been given a book. This book is very special. It is the Essays, by Montaigne.

If you’re not familiar with Montaigne, here’s the Cliff Notes off-the-top-of-my-head version:

In, around, or near 1570, this french guy named Montaigne essentially locked himself away in a corner of his mansion somewhere near Bordeaux. He spent pretty much the rest of his life writing short, stream-of-consciousness pieces of literature on whatever the hell he felt like writing about.
He called these pieces essais, from the French word meaning to try or to attempt.  Yes, that’s right, Montaigne invented the essay.

Put the pitchforks down. 

Chill the **** out.

Montaigne didn’t invent the boring essay.  He wrote about everything that came into his head–and, seeing as he was a learned Renaissance man, that was quite an expansive subject.  He wrote about thought, about sensations and feelings and perceptions, and while his countrymen were off killing each other quite violently he pioneered the field of subjective literature.  If you haven’t read his Essays, you really should.

No, seriously.

http://oregonstate.edu/instruct/phl302/texts/montaigne/m-essays_contents.html

There they are.  Read a few.  Or read them all, if you have a week or so.

WHEN YOU’VE DONE WITH THAT:

So here’s what’s up.

I like Montaigne.

I like what he did.

And his writing had a dramatic effect on his mind.  He became more perceptive, better able to focus, more sensitive, and developed a preternatural gift for translating thought and emotion into language.   He was able to stay in the moment–to simply be where he was, something that even the most advanced of Zen students sometimes struggle for.

This is not unfamiliar to me.

In fact (YOU KNEW IT WAS COMING) it reminds me of Jung.

In 1914, Jung began to experience bizarre visions.  Disturbing dreams.  A cloud of cosmic ice descended and froze all the land, killing every living thing, a dream he experienced in April, May, and June of that year.  In the final appearance of the dream, a leafless tree remained after the frost, laden with berries, and Jung provided these grapes to a waiting crowd.

August 1, and the first World War broke out. Jung took it as his mission to document these dreams and provide the record to the world–but he wrote down not only his fantasies.  He wrote down images, thoughts, emotions, everything that came into his head, in a sweeping, grandiose style that grated on his sensibilities and yet flowed from his unconscious.

And when Jung opened himself up to the gates of his thought, his soul responded.  He, too, came to learn/develop/experience this mysterious wonder of being wholly absorbed in the moment, able to see people as they are without judgement or clouded thought–the philosopher’s gift.

I’ve been inspired by this, I’ll admit.  Montaigne has joined my long list of people over whom I am effusive in praising, sitting in my personal hall of fame along with Jung, Jacques Cousteau, Alexandre Dumas, John Hodgeman, H.P. Lovecraft, Shakira, and many more.

So.

I’m restarting.

Consider this a re-beginning of the blog. A reimagining, if you will.  Because here is what I will do. Every day, at 4:30 Central American time, I will sit down at my gleaming, sexy Toshiba laptop, turn on the instrumental music (Bach’s Toccata And Fugue in D Minor, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, selections from Two Steps From Hell, various Irish folk songs), and write.

I have a timer. It’s bright red, and it’s set for 35 minutes.
Each day, I will sit down, roll up my sleeves, hit ‘play,’ and whap that START/STOP button. And I will write for 35 minutes. About anything. About everything.  Probably at least once about nothing at all.

When I’ve done writing this, I will then put an emphatic period, sign it with –TOR, and hit “Publish.”

I will not edit it.  I will not consider. I will not permit myself to alter anything other than the sentence I am typing at any given moment. You will be direct recipients of my stream of thought.  Within a few days I will have no more readers.  These two are not unrelated.

I also will no longer be able to guarantee the parental safety of a blog post. Because, frankly, what’s in my head is not always pretty.   But I will do my best to keep obscenity at bay because, frankly, I don’t like it.  I’ve never liked profanity.  It just strikes me as boring.  It serves exactly one purpose: to make me feel better when I stub my toe.

In fact, from this point on I will be doing my utmost to avoid the use of any obscenity at all, aside from perhaps ‘crap,’ ‘shit,’ and ‘ass,’ because, frankly, if you don’t know those words, you shouldn’t be on the internet.  Go ask mommy what they mean.  Also keep an eye out for ‘bugger,’ ‘nifty,’ and our special triple-points word of the month, ‘pretentious.’

I’ve been called pretentious before.  My immediate response is amusement and pleasure.  However, after some consideration I have to take issue with this.

How, exactly, am I pretentious? I don’t ‘pretend’ to be anything.  I may be flamboyant, enthusiastic, and downright nerdy, but really, I strive to be myself.  There really is no one else I’d rather be, except perhaps for a gentleman from Gallifrey.  But that’s true for a lot of people.  And that’s why I have a trenchcoat.

Perhaps it’s sarcasm.  I use so much of it, I can see how it would be hard to separate the bullshit from the truth upon an initial meeting. But rest assured, if I tell you that I am the coolest person ever, it’s meant to be intensely sarcastic.  In point of fact, I do not believe I am the best person ever.  That award has not yet been given, but I am pretty sure it will go to Bono.

Speaking of Irish music, I just went on an Itunes binge. You know, when you get a gift card and suddenly buy everything you’ve ever wanted? Well, I went out and I bought a whole bunch of Irish folk rock.  Which, I’ve decided, is my favorite genre. Ever.

…I think I want to form an Irish folk rock band, or at least a rock band with a fiddle player/violist.

That would be easy, because I’ve met a lot of violists since I got to college. You can’t throw a rock without hitting one here. And then they’ll get all huffy and go on about how they deserve special treatment just because they have their own clef.

That’s the fifteenth time I’ve used that joke since August 22nd, and it’s probably still funny to someone. Not to me, though. It’ll be taking a break for a while.

Which reminds me: How am I supposed to respond when someone says they like my glasses? I mean, my glasses are cool, I’ll agree, but I hardly know how to segue a conversation out of that.  If I’m really lucky the other person will be wearing glasses too. Then I can say where I got mine and ask them how they got theirs, and BAM, conversation! If not, I’ll just have to make some witty comment and make the first conversational move.

It’s not my favorite thing, starting a conversation. BUT EVERYONE IS SO GODDAM SHY AROUND HERE.

I’m not sure if they’re shy or polite, in retrospect.

But seriously. GAHHHHHH

I’ve been spending hours at the dining hall.  A la Spain, I go to dinner, grab some food, sit with someone, and talk and eat for a while.  They leave, I get more food, and I repeat the process. In this way, when dinner ends, I’ve been talking nonstop for about an hour and a half, two hours if I’m lucky, arguing, joking, and just generally enjoying a conversation.

I’ve been conversation-starved for years. Orange County really is a social wasteland. I can’t believe I even survived there, and I pray for my family back home.

19 seconds left.

Um.

I’d like to thank the Academy?
Or Montaigne?
MORE TOMORROW CAPS LOCK FOR SPEED