Here is how a strong cup of coffee is perspective:
Tipped up, the rim is chipped horizon
and the black and grainy world ebbs in gulps.
The bad taste, the burnt tongue bitterness - each is welcome against hurt and cold and maybe rain. Sugar wouldn't be right.
The morning is still frostbound and I find myself in it, walking from glow to glow under watchful streetlights, thinking blue and orange thoughts. The empty mug feels good in my hand. When the new sun storms through the clouds, I will be ready.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Prissifying Attila
Alas! Age of Empires, I've come to a sort of crisis in my life. And by crisis, I mean one of those miniscule inconveniences that are fun to hyperbolize about. You see, I made an unofficial resolution at the library to read more European history. Most of what I already knew about it comes from you, you untouchable, august emperor of RTS games, and I, ever greedy, wanted more. So I checked out a book on Attila the Hun...
...and my world turned upside down. Because, darn it, Age of Empires, if the guy who wrote the book is right, the Romans were worse than Attila, and the great general Aetius was nothing better than a backstabbing opportunist. You got him wrong, man. In fact, the whole point of the book is to show how one Roman historian began to challenge the "civilized Rome vs. barbarian Other" concept. Which brings me to a more serious consideration.
I was about to write simply that I like my ancient barbarians to stay barbarian, because I do. The book was saturated with an irritating kind of multiculturalism, and I was kind of annoyed that the author was trying so hard to put current North American values into the fifth century Roman empire(s). Let's not prissify Attila. On the other hand, it is suddenly apparent that I'm being just like those rotten old Romans of the book, who were more comfortable with the Huns as savages than as equals. Why, exactly, do I want to view the Huns as ferociously filthy fighters on horseback and not as diplomats with all the finesse of Roman VIPs?
Partly because it makes a good story. But why does it make a good story? That opens a frightening can of worms, Age of Empires. And all because you present a suspiciously simple version of events. I don't know whether to be happy that you've made me think about things, or upset that you may have betrayed my trust. Do try to redeem yourself while I ruminate upon these matters. (Upstart book, don't think I trust you, either.)
...and my world turned upside down. Because, darn it, Age of Empires, if the guy who wrote the book is right, the Romans were worse than Attila, and the great general Aetius was nothing better than a backstabbing opportunist. You got him wrong, man. In fact, the whole point of the book is to show how one Roman historian began to challenge the "civilized Rome vs. barbarian Other" concept. Which brings me to a more serious consideration.
I was about to write simply that I like my ancient barbarians to stay barbarian, because I do. The book was saturated with an irritating kind of multiculturalism, and I was kind of annoyed that the author was trying so hard to put current North American values into the fifth century Roman empire(s). Let's not prissify Attila. On the other hand, it is suddenly apparent that I'm being just like those rotten old Romans of the book, who were more comfortable with the Huns as savages than as equals. Why, exactly, do I want to view the Huns as ferociously filthy fighters on horseback and not as diplomats with all the finesse of Roman VIPs?
Partly because it makes a good story. But why does it make a good story? That opens a frightening can of worms, Age of Empires. And all because you present a suspiciously simple version of events. I don't know whether to be happy that you've made me think about things, or upset that you may have betrayed my trust. Do try to redeem yourself while I ruminate upon these matters. (Upstart book, don't think I trust you, either.)
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Recommendations
"'What ho!' I said.
'What ho!' said Motty.
'What ho! What ho!'
'What ho! What ho! What ho!'
After that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation."
-- PG Wodehouse
Is it not splendid? Read this too:
"'Glug!' said Lord Emsworth - which, as any philologist will tell you, is the sound which peers of the realm make when stricken to the soul while drinking coffee." --from "Lord Emsworth and the Girl Friend"
Ahhh. If you haven't read it, I recommend in particular "The Crime Wave at Blandings." And one can't go wrong with the stories about Wooster and Jeeves.
While I'm enthusing and recommending and such, there's also an excellent webcomic called Girl Genius that you should check out, and, on a more serious note, a thoughtful movie called Bella that you should watch. (It has nothing to do with Twilight.)
'What ho!' said Motty.
'What ho! What ho!'
'What ho! What ho! What ho!'
After that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation."
-- PG Wodehouse
Is it not splendid? Read this too:
"'Glug!' said Lord Emsworth - which, as any philologist will tell you, is the sound which peers of the realm make when stricken to the soul while drinking coffee." --from "Lord Emsworth and the Girl Friend"
Ahhh. If you haven't read it, I recommend in particular "The Crime Wave at Blandings." And one can't go wrong with the stories about Wooster and Jeeves.
While I'm enthusing and recommending and such, there's also an excellent webcomic called Girl Genius that you should check out, and, on a more serious note, a thoughtful movie called Bella that you should watch. (It has nothing to do with Twilight.)
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Things that Don't Mix
1. Socks, wooden floors, and sprinting. Only a quick grab for the ironing board saved me from certain death minor bruises.
2. Delicious looking burritos and the dusty, spider-webby crack between the freezer in the garage and the wall.
...yes, I did get on top of the freezer, mash my too-short arm between fridge and wall and fish around for the languishing food article with a pair of long pliers. It was one of those situations where one wants to look at the item just out of reach in order to pick it up, but cannot because one's face is crushed against the area adjacent to the opening of the crack in order to stretch a few inches further. But I did manage to get it!
2. Delicious looking burritos and the dusty, spider-webby crack between the freezer in the garage and the wall.
...yes, I did get on top of the freezer, mash my too-short arm between fridge and wall and fish around for the languishing food article with a pair of long pliers. It was one of those situations where one wants to look at the item just out of reach in order to pick it up, but cannot because one's face is crushed against the area adjacent to the opening of the crack in order to stretch a few inches further. But I did manage to get it!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Psalm 8, of Sorts
Well, I'm back. Camping turned out pretty well, and much fun was had. Lots of stuff went down, which is to say, events occured, which is to say, I won't go over it in detail. Except about the late night campfires, because somehow, they sum up all that is the Best of Camping.
This is not really about toasty marshmallows or guitar or scalding hot chocolate, though all of those things are fine additions to the Experience. It's about the effect the fire has on the night.
I love the night, especially when it's dry, cool and windy out. When the clouds scud across a sky that looks impossibly deep, and the wind whispers in the trees and the brush, I consider myself fortunate to be alive.
But a fire enhances that by shutting it out. The world contracts around Fire, and the smaller the fire gets, the more magnetic it is. Glowing embers and flickering Orange drag my eyes away from the outside - the blackened blues and greens of the wild dark. Crackling sparks over-ride conversation. Fire commands attention.
And the Night knows this - it strains to regain a distracted audience. It looms large behind turned backs, chilling and threatening and coaxing all at once, and it washes everything in breezes. The pines groan - they have seen the Night in all its forms. They are indifferent to stars they cannot reach. But the inhabitants of the shrinking hemisphere of light and heat and sound lean in ever closer 'til their faces are nearly singed, and they think their thoughts, and the Fire dances on.
The Dark sets its jaw and waits, after that. When the last flames are finally dispelled, I am the only one left. The world expands with a whoosh, and there is the Night: cold, grim, grand - immense.
I retreat to my tent. I slip into a sleeping bag. Warmth returns. I lean over to zip my haven closed, but I let a little of the Night in, too. It curls up and goes right to sleep. The rest of it goes back to being splendid. And I am intensely glad that God has lavished so much beauty on a single day.
This is not really about toasty marshmallows or guitar or scalding hot chocolate, though all of those things are fine additions to the Experience. It's about the effect the fire has on the night.
I love the night, especially when it's dry, cool and windy out. When the clouds scud across a sky that looks impossibly deep, and the wind whispers in the trees and the brush, I consider myself fortunate to be alive.
But a fire enhances that by shutting it out. The world contracts around Fire, and the smaller the fire gets, the more magnetic it is. Glowing embers and flickering Orange drag my eyes away from the outside - the blackened blues and greens of the wild dark. Crackling sparks over-ride conversation. Fire commands attention.
And the Night knows this - it strains to regain a distracted audience. It looms large behind turned backs, chilling and threatening and coaxing all at once, and it washes everything in breezes. The pines groan - they have seen the Night in all its forms. They are indifferent to stars they cannot reach. But the inhabitants of the shrinking hemisphere of light and heat and sound lean in ever closer 'til their faces are nearly singed, and they think their thoughts, and the Fire dances on.
The Dark sets its jaw and waits, after that. When the last flames are finally dispelled, I am the only one left. The world expands with a whoosh, and there is the Night: cold, grim, grand - immense.
I retreat to my tent. I slip into a sleeping bag. Warmth returns. I lean over to zip my haven closed, but I let a little of the Night in, too. It curls up and goes right to sleep. The rest of it goes back to being splendid. And I am intensely glad that God has lavished so much beauty on a single day.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Off we go
Yessss! My family'n'I are off to Lillooet. We're road-tripping for two days, and then returning for a twinkling, and then hurrying off again to Nitinaht on Vancouver Island - for a week. Huzzahs all around, despite ominous weather forecasts. When I'm not working in it, I find I can actually appreciate the rain.
Another ominous development = a sore throat, but it isn't going to thwart me. Some kind of Tazo tea has come to the rescue! (Orange Blossom, I believe, and absurdly enough, they claim that the ancient Chinese drank Tazo (TM). Presumably while they strolled along the great wall and visited Starbucks and Ye Olde Chapters.) My friend assures me that gargling cayenne pepper is a surefire method for banishing sore throats, but I think I'll stick with tea.
Urgh. Gargling pepper.
Bye for now.
Another ominous development = a sore throat, but it isn't going to thwart me. Some kind of Tazo tea has come to the rescue! (Orange Blossom, I believe, and absurdly enough, they claim that the ancient Chinese drank Tazo (TM). Presumably while they strolled along the great wall and visited Starbucks and Ye Olde Chapters.) My friend assures me that gargling cayenne pepper is a surefire method for banishing sore throats, but I think I'll stick with tea.
Urgh. Gargling pepper.
Bye for now.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
...When It Went BANG
Land Rover people amaze me. I mean the old-school owners who are so steeped in (mechanical) lore and (vehicular) intuition that they put Himalayan medicine men to shame. They can practically smell a downed Rover. And they're so helpful. Witness:
I was at Starbucks with my sister after an unfruitful Chapters run, and we were discussing impulse buying over the rumble of the Rover when it went BANG. I stopped, got out and looked under the vehicle, because the sound was one those suspiciously dangerous sounding sounds. You know. Those ones. Of course, I saw nothing. I thought maybe my E-brake was stuck on. So I pushed it up and down a few times to make darn sure it was off.
Thirty seconds later, BANG. We hadn't even made it out of the parking lot yet. I pulled into an empty spot and looked again. No sooner was I on my hands and knees than Presto! two guys in a blue pickup pulled up. Elapsed time since first bang = < 60 seconds.
"Having problems? I've got one of those at home. Maybe I can help?" said the passenger in a British accent. The driver grunted something unintelligible, but it sounded friendly. I nodded my head yes. The passenger hopped out and pulled on some gloves. It was better than BCAA. We didn't actually figure out the problem until I got home (broken U-bolt again, which means the axle could possibly have separated from the vehicle, resulting in many owies) but still - amazing! You just don't see that kind of helpfulness amongst, say, Lexus owners.
Rewind back to before the mechanical difficulties. Impulse buying is actually an interesting subject. Sis and I were talking about how hard it is to buy books from new authors. It's so risky! I hardly ever do it. You could easily end up with a dud. But when it comes to fast food, I'm ridiculously impulsive. It's kind of pressure-related. The person on duty at the till looks over and says "HihowcanIhelpyou?" all in a breath and my mind immediately stops processing words.
Generally, the people at the till are pretty quick on the draw, because they can see the sixty-odd florid fuming faces of the regulars who have just lined up impatiently behind me after battling through traffic and construction and hot, sticky weather besides. And they know what they want. So I have time to read about two or three words, and they ALWAYS jam up my brain. And the item just gets bigger and bigger until I can't think about anything else. After a few seconds, I just order it. Today, it was a white chocolate mocha, which I don't even like. Silly. Can anyone relate? Maybe I'm just eccentric...
...though that would be kind of cool. Good writers are often eccentric, right?
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Hedges and Workthink
I spent much of Today thrashing the hedges. It took some time, because I wanted to give them a proper thrasing, and at eight to ten feet tall, they were much bigger than me. And they were bristling with that badly contained rebellion so common to feral shrubs. My allies, the hedge trimmer (mortal enemy of all things hedgy) and a number of other sharp edged tools, helped me out a great deal, but the whole process was pretty laborious and consequently took forever. The redeeming feature of these circumstances was that I had plenty of time to think.
Here is an example:
How am I going to get these stupid things to look level? The ground is like a bloody sine function. Hey, ducklings. The pond is very green. I need to write a blog post sometime. I could write about ducklings. No, writing about work is no good. Too boring. But Dad said that one can make a good story out of ANYTHING... even though I argued at the time, it kind of makes a little bit of sense, possibly...
Okay, I could tie a string to that post and then to the telephone pole, and measure about 7 feet on each one. Whoa, sparrow. And then - 'nother sparrow - try not to hack through the line.
... RRRGH! #$*%@ string! Why is it so thin? Okay, what am I doing? I have all this time to think. I should write a poem right now. In my head. Then I can have something to post. What comes to mind? Uh...
...plants?
As of now, I call this workthink: the kind of thinking that one does when one is engaged in labor which fails to capture the majority of one's attention. I think most people that work alone for long periods of time experience it. And it's pretty valuable, if you use it right. The above bit is impure workthink; cutting the hedges required a bit too much of my working memory to allow a poem to form, or a useful idea for my story, but pure workthink is golden. It's a tiny bit like getting paid to write. (Woot!) Even if it's all written in my head.
Therefore, it is my privilege to inform everyone that Sooner or Later, I'll be painting fences, and the number of writerly thoughts in my brainbox should increase dramatically. Stay tuned!
Here is an example:
How am I going to get these stupid things to look level? The ground is like a bloody sine function. Hey, ducklings. The pond is very green. I need to write a blog post sometime. I could write about ducklings. No, writing about work is no good. Too boring. But Dad said that one can make a good story out of ANYTHING... even though I argued at the time, it kind of makes a little bit of sense, possibly...
Okay, I could tie a string to that post and then to the telephone pole, and measure about 7 feet on each one. Whoa, sparrow. And then - 'nother sparrow - try not to hack through the line.
... RRRGH! #$*%@ string! Why is it so thin? Okay, what am I doing? I have all this time to think. I should write a poem right now. In my head. Then I can have something to post. What comes to mind? Uh...
...plants?
As of now, I call this workthink: the kind of thinking that one does when one is engaged in labor which fails to capture the majority of one's attention. I think most people that work alone for long periods of time experience it. And it's pretty valuable, if you use it right. The above bit is impure workthink; cutting the hedges required a bit too much of my working memory to allow a poem to form, or a useful idea for my story, but pure workthink is golden. It's a tiny bit like getting paid to write. (Woot!) Even if it's all written in my head.
Therefore, it is my privilege to inform everyone that Sooner or Later, I'll be painting fences, and the number of writerly thoughts in my brainbox should increase dramatically. Stay tuned!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tree Frogs and Waterflame
I want to start light and positive, but things will get serious pretty quickly. Here we go.
Little things are great. Maybe you've read Neil Pasricha's books of Awesome, and you have a heightened appreciation of the good little things in life. Maybe you've thought up of a lot of them on your own. Maybe you are Neil Pasricha. (If somehow it is you, Neil, I love page 85 of the Book of Even More Awesome.)
I've been thinking about little things a lot lately. I'm talking about things like the way frogs croak like crazy on spring nights, and the color green, and getting a coffee from a kind co-worker in the morning (or giving a coffee to a co-worker). I think there's a whole internet subculture - ok, no, a bunch of tribes grouped under one bigger subculture - related to the noticing and writing about Awesome Little Things. The internet is the branch I'm thinking about, mainly. There are groups of Facebookers. (Think the 'like' pages.) Forums are full of this stuff, too. So are blogs. And it's great. Awesome even. Because big awesome things don't happen as often as little awesome things, and we like that extra zip in our days - the tiny connections that we form with others when we share those experiences.
But I was wondering - how do we deal with this as Christians? Christianity is primarily about the big awesome thing: Jesus' death and resurrection. Being happy about stepping on really crunchy leaves (for example) is just so different from being joyful about the results of God's plan. See where I'm going with this? The two extremes are not incompatible, but...it's hard to focus on big things when most of your time is spent enjoying little things.
I'm guilty here. I love the little things - the finishing touches to life that make you realize that God is fully engaged with his creation - so much. Finding treefrogs in the garden. This song by Waterflame. Painting the last board on a fence. Making a nice girl laugh. You know? I spend a lot of life zoomed in, thinking about those things. But I can't grasp the enormity of salvation. I have a feeling this is more common. Christians know that God loves his people and sent his son to die for us. I've heard ministers talk about this as 'head knowledge.' Too bad head knowledge isn't terribly motivating. We need heart knowledge too - some thankfulness should be inspired by God's love for us. It has to mean something to us. Christianity is a kind of response.
I think we do feel thankful most of the time. I do. But for me, it's always related to other blessings, like that beautiful day yesterday, or the nice drive home, or a good talk with a friend. Basically, I get meaning and emotion from the less important things in life. They are important in a way, of course, but they pale in comparison to Christ's sacrifice on the cross. What if us seekers of little awesome things lost many of them? Do we depend on them too much? Maybe more of us get meaning from the less important places. Maybe this whole "little awesome things" move is kind of overrated. I don't want to abandon it. I don't know if writing is even possible without it. But I want to really feel the huge-ness of God's grace! I can't settle for head knowledge, and I won't settle for only the little awesome things.
Though treefrogs and Waterflame are indeed awesome, the One who made them must be a lot more so. And his Son's death (and resurrection) has got to be more important. For Christians, things are out of wack when it is easy to tell a complete stranger about our love for the cold side of the pillow but difficult to articulate our feelings about God. Actually, how do we feel about God, in comparison, say, to a free cup of coffee on a Monday morning? That should be an easy question to answer, but when we commit to total honesty and substitute other little awesome things for that cup of coffee, maybe it's not.
Thoughts?
Little things are great. Maybe you've read Neil Pasricha's books of Awesome, and you have a heightened appreciation of the good little things in life. Maybe you've thought up of a lot of them on your own. Maybe you are Neil Pasricha. (If somehow it is you, Neil, I love page 85 of the Book of Even More Awesome.)
I've been thinking about little things a lot lately. I'm talking about things like the way frogs croak like crazy on spring nights, and the color green, and getting a coffee from a kind co-worker in the morning (or giving a coffee to a co-worker). I think there's a whole internet subculture - ok, no, a bunch of tribes grouped under one bigger subculture - related to the noticing and writing about Awesome Little Things. The internet is the branch I'm thinking about, mainly. There are groups of Facebookers. (Think the 'like' pages.) Forums are full of this stuff, too. So are blogs. And it's great. Awesome even. Because big awesome things don't happen as often as little awesome things, and we like that extra zip in our days - the tiny connections that we form with others when we share those experiences.
But I was wondering - how do we deal with this as Christians? Christianity is primarily about the big awesome thing: Jesus' death and resurrection. Being happy about stepping on really crunchy leaves (for example) is just so different from being joyful about the results of God's plan. See where I'm going with this? The two extremes are not incompatible, but...it's hard to focus on big things when most of your time is spent enjoying little things.
I'm guilty here. I love the little things - the finishing touches to life that make you realize that God is fully engaged with his creation - so much. Finding treefrogs in the garden. This song by Waterflame. Painting the last board on a fence. Making a nice girl laugh. You know? I spend a lot of life zoomed in, thinking about those things. But I can't grasp the enormity of salvation. I have a feeling this is more common. Christians know that God loves his people and sent his son to die for us. I've heard ministers talk about this as 'head knowledge.' Too bad head knowledge isn't terribly motivating. We need heart knowledge too - some thankfulness should be inspired by God's love for us. It has to mean something to us. Christianity is a kind of response.
I think we do feel thankful most of the time. I do. But for me, it's always related to other blessings, like that beautiful day yesterday, or the nice drive home, or a good talk with a friend. Basically, I get meaning and emotion from the less important things in life. They are important in a way, of course, but they pale in comparison to Christ's sacrifice on the cross. What if us seekers of little awesome things lost many of them? Do we depend on them too much? Maybe more of us get meaning from the less important places. Maybe this whole "little awesome things" move is kind of overrated. I don't want to abandon it. I don't know if writing is even possible without it. But I want to really feel the huge-ness of God's grace! I can't settle for head knowledge, and I won't settle for only the little awesome things.
Though treefrogs and Waterflame are indeed awesome, the One who made them must be a lot more so. And his Son's death (and resurrection) has got to be more important. For Christians, things are out of wack when it is easy to tell a complete stranger about our love for the cold side of the pillow but difficult to articulate our feelings about God. Actually, how do we feel about God, in comparison, say, to a free cup of coffee on a Monday morning? That should be an easy question to answer, but when we commit to total honesty and substitute other little awesome things for that cup of coffee, maybe it's not.
Thoughts?
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sleep
Sleep is a giant waste of time. No two ways about it. If you're like me, you need at least four hours a night, with twice that once a week. Four hours is four pages of heavily-edited essay. Four hours is time for an oil change, a long email, learning a song on guitar, starting a novel, and writing a poem. Four hours is a precious handful of seconds - tiny little grains of time that slip through fingers like sand.
Do you cut back on sleep to squeeze something extra into most days? Me too. After a while, it's pretty hard to relax and turn off your brain. I spend my pre-sleep hour thinking about life, how I'm going to find time to write in the near future, life, work, books, life, cutting back on sleep, whether or not thinking about sleeping makes it hard to fall asleep, whether or not thinking about not thinking about sleep counts as thinking about sleep, and life. It's not exactly insomnia, but I envy people who can fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
My friend, on the other hand, once told me that he just "stops thinking about stuff" and goes to sleep. Is this a common thing? How is it even possible to voluntarily stop thinking?
If it is, I would like to learn how to turn off my brain at will. That would be grand. I know I said earlier that four hours of sleep is a waste of time, and I stand by that, but if I'm going to waste time, I'm darn well going to waste it sleeping, and not staring at the ceiling listening to random creaking and snoring sounds.
On a somewhat relevant note, dryers and washing machines are the best.
Do you cut back on sleep to squeeze something extra into most days? Me too. After a while, it's pretty hard to relax and turn off your brain. I spend my pre-sleep hour thinking about life, how I'm going to find time to write in the near future, life, work, books, life, cutting back on sleep, whether or not thinking about sleeping makes it hard to fall asleep, whether or not thinking about not thinking about sleep counts as thinking about sleep, and life. It's not exactly insomnia, but I envy people who can fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
My friend, on the other hand, once told me that he just "stops thinking about stuff" and goes to sleep. Is this a common thing? How is it even possible to voluntarily stop thinking?
If it is, I would like to learn how to turn off my brain at will. That would be grand. I know I said earlier that four hours of sleep is a waste of time, and I stand by that, but if I'm going to waste time, I'm darn well going to waste it sleeping, and not staring at the ceiling listening to random creaking and snoring sounds.
On a somewhat relevant note, dryers and washing machines are the best.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Man in the Mickey Mouse Shirt
A lot of times, people let us down. Case in point: I think I've been disappointing anyone who reads my blog lately. And we know that the let-downs that everyone experiences from time to time are often much worse than that. So isn't it awesome when people (especially perfect strangers) exceed expectations?
Consider the man in the Mickey Mouse shirt. (I'll call him M.) He appeared one morning when I was weeding in the rain at my boss's office. It was a garbage job, and I was tired and sore and grumpy and the light was as darkness in my eyes. It was one of those days. I was savagely ripping horsetails and dandelions from the ground when I heard, "Hey! Have you seen my rabbit?" It was M., of course.
He was a short guy with a high tenor kind of voice, and dirty blue coveralls. His face was crinkled into a smile. Wispy brown hair topped him off. I figured he was anywhere from 50-60 years old. While I was looking at him with that look that irrationally angry people have when they're interrupted, he said, "Yeah, there's a rabbit that always hangs around in the weeds here. I like to watch him eat the dandelions." He said something pleasant about the hedges too.
I was crouching in a pile of mangled dandelions just then. It occured to me that the rabbit probably wouldn't show up again any time soon. I sought for an appropriate facial expression in lieu of something to say. M. smoked a cigarette for a bit. Eventually, he left.
Hours later, it'd stopped raining and I was cheered up. I was finished the most outrageously overgrown bits of the garden and was working on a resistant clump of grass when M. suprised me again. "Whoa! You're still here!" he grinned. "I thought you were gone and forgot your coat!" He pointed to my coat, which was draped over a rock. I smiled, but words failed me again. What does one say to that, except 'nope' ? Besides, now that his work coveralls were gone, his Mickey Mouse shirt was kind of distracting me. Not very many fifty-something mechanics wear Mickey Mouse shirts, do they?
He continued, "This all looks good. Really really good. 100% better," and my worries that he was grieving for his rabbit's habitat were put to rest. I said, "Thanks." He drove away in an old blue clunker. Mentally, I shook his hand for being a friendly old mechanic in a mickey mouse shirt. Props to him.
Consider the man in the Mickey Mouse shirt. (I'll call him M.) He appeared one morning when I was weeding in the rain at my boss's office. It was a garbage job, and I was tired and sore and grumpy and the light was as darkness in my eyes. It was one of those days. I was savagely ripping horsetails and dandelions from the ground when I heard, "Hey! Have you seen my rabbit?" It was M., of course.
He was a short guy with a high tenor kind of voice, and dirty blue coveralls. His face was crinkled into a smile. Wispy brown hair topped him off. I figured he was anywhere from 50-60 years old. While I was looking at him with that look that irrationally angry people have when they're interrupted, he said, "Yeah, there's a rabbit that always hangs around in the weeds here. I like to watch him eat the dandelions." He said something pleasant about the hedges too.
I was crouching in a pile of mangled dandelions just then. It occured to me that the rabbit probably wouldn't show up again any time soon. I sought for an appropriate facial expression in lieu of something to say. M. smoked a cigarette for a bit. Eventually, he left.
Hours later, it'd stopped raining and I was cheered up. I was finished the most outrageously overgrown bits of the garden and was working on a resistant clump of grass when M. suprised me again. "Whoa! You're still here!" he grinned. "I thought you were gone and forgot your coat!" He pointed to my coat, which was draped over a rock. I smiled, but words failed me again. What does one say to that, except 'nope' ? Besides, now that his work coveralls were gone, his Mickey Mouse shirt was kind of distracting me. Not very many fifty-something mechanics wear Mickey Mouse shirts, do they?
He continued, "This all looks good. Really really good. 100% better," and my worries that he was grieving for his rabbit's habitat were put to rest. I said, "Thanks." He drove away in an old blue clunker. Mentally, I shook his hand for being a friendly old mechanic in a mickey mouse shirt. Props to him.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Good Books, Anyone?
Well, it's summer now, which hopefully means more time for reading. But I went to Chapters the other day and couldn't decide what to buy. I ended up with two books: War and Peace and What Ho! The Best of P.G. Wodehouse. (Haven't started W&P but the Wodehouse anthology is hilarious and worth the read, if you like bumbling British aristocrats and competent butlers.) Anyone have any other good books that they'd recommend?
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Hang an intro. Here's my thesis: The Best Part of Work is being around birds.
Part of my summer job includes taking care of roughly forty chickens. In other words, there are thirty-seven Harry Houdinis at work (thirty-nine if you count the cows that keep busting out of their fences, but that's another story). Chains are as straw to them. High walls are as spacious arches. They could find their way out of Daedalus' labyrinth blindfolded and hobbled with leg irons. It's incredible. I attempt to keep them in an aging chicken coop with three layers of chicken wire, rotten netting and numerous baler twine patches. Somehow, one or two chickens always manage to get out. And of course, they instantly lose their heads and can't find their way back in. If they don't make it back before night time, they become hors d'oeuvres for the coyotes. It is a constant struggle for survival. They try to get themselves killed, and I try to save them.
I'm not terribly fond of chickens, but they are funny to watch. I resolved to write this post when I was collecting eggs today. Here is the situation: I am moving from left to right. I collect eggs from vacant nesting box 1. I move on to nesting box 2 just as Chicken A hops on to the ledge of the same nesting box. We have an awkward moment, and Chicken A, no doubt embarassed to be caught shirking her egg-sitting responsibilities, shuffles sideways to move in front of nesting box 3. I collect the eggs from nesting box 2. Chicken A has now figured out that something is wrong. She is not in front of the right nesting box, and she can't go back to brooding on her eggs. But when she sees me finishing up, she hastily dives into nesting box 3. Chicken A then discovers that nesting box 3 is already occupied by Chicken B. Chicken B makes a strangled noise - in pain, I think. Chicken A is now perched on top of her, anxiously checking to see if maybe it is Chicken B who has made the mistake and got in her nesting box accidentally and sat on her eggs. Chicken B's head is squashed down into her feathers. There are more strangled noises. Chicken A emerges when she realizes that no, it is definitely the wrong box, and I collect the eggs from under Chicken B. Chicken B is highly disgusted by the whole thing.
As I see it now, the above paragraph is a big chunk of text with too many As, Bs, Chickens and 1, 2, 3s in it, but it can't be helped. I was leading up to the sparrows, you see. They hang around the chicken coop because of the feed, but they spend most of their time chasing sweethearts or else in hot debate. Blows are frequently exchanged. But I don't want to spend much time on them, because there are swallows around too, you know. They fly like F-16s and poop like horses. When you think about how many insects they would have to eat to produce the messes they make on barn floors everywhere, it's kind of sickening...
Ah, and there are ungainly herons and nesting eagles and even pileated woodpeckers - and I could probably write volumes about the mallards that waddle around with their babies stumbling along behind them. Red-winged blackbirds and Canada geese come visiting too. And some birds I've never seen before (spotted towhees, I think, but it's hard to say.)
Conclusion: Birds are awesome.
If you wrote a book in which a bird was a character, what kind of bird would it be, and why?
Part of my summer job includes taking care of roughly forty chickens. In other words, there are thirty-seven Harry Houdinis at work (thirty-nine if you count the cows that keep busting out of their fences, but that's another story). Chains are as straw to them. High walls are as spacious arches. They could find their way out of Daedalus' labyrinth blindfolded and hobbled with leg irons. It's incredible. I attempt to keep them in an aging chicken coop with three layers of chicken wire, rotten netting and numerous baler twine patches. Somehow, one or two chickens always manage to get out. And of course, they instantly lose their heads and can't find their way back in. If they don't make it back before night time, they become hors d'oeuvres for the coyotes. It is a constant struggle for survival. They try to get themselves killed, and I try to save them.
I'm not terribly fond of chickens, but they are funny to watch. I resolved to write this post when I was collecting eggs today. Here is the situation: I am moving from left to right. I collect eggs from vacant nesting box 1. I move on to nesting box 2 just as Chicken A hops on to the ledge of the same nesting box. We have an awkward moment, and Chicken A, no doubt embarassed to be caught shirking her egg-sitting responsibilities, shuffles sideways to move in front of nesting box 3. I collect the eggs from nesting box 2. Chicken A has now figured out that something is wrong. She is not in front of the right nesting box, and she can't go back to brooding on her eggs. But when she sees me finishing up, she hastily dives into nesting box 3. Chicken A then discovers that nesting box 3 is already occupied by Chicken B. Chicken B makes a strangled noise - in pain, I think. Chicken A is now perched on top of her, anxiously checking to see if maybe it is Chicken B who has made the mistake and got in her nesting box accidentally and sat on her eggs. Chicken B's head is squashed down into her feathers. There are more strangled noises. Chicken A emerges when she realizes that no, it is definitely the wrong box, and I collect the eggs from under Chicken B. Chicken B is highly disgusted by the whole thing.
As I see it now, the above paragraph is a big chunk of text with too many As, Bs, Chickens and 1, 2, 3s in it, but it can't be helped. I was leading up to the sparrows, you see. They hang around the chicken coop because of the feed, but they spend most of their time chasing sweethearts or else in hot debate. Blows are frequently exchanged. But I don't want to spend much time on them, because there are swallows around too, you know. They fly like F-16s and poop like horses. When you think about how many insects they would have to eat to produce the messes they make on barn floors everywhere, it's kind of sickening...
Ah, and there are ungainly herons and nesting eagles and even pileated woodpeckers - and I could probably write volumes about the mallards that waddle around with their babies stumbling along behind them. Red-winged blackbirds and Canada geese come visiting too. And some birds I've never seen before (spotted towhees, I think, but it's hard to say.)
Conclusion: Birds are awesome.
If you wrote a book in which a bird was a character, what kind of bird would it be, and why?
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Experience and Knowing: Why do we Believe?
I probably should have gone through this stage already... we all know the commonplace "The more you know, the less you know." Anyway, even if it's all old hat, it is probably useful to review, because it relates to how we talk about God and Christianity and the big things we believe. The short answer to the title question is that we just do. The long answer is below.
Our idea of knowing - it's kind of problematic. Some people had this idea (I think it was Locke that really picked up on this) that what we know for certain is only what we experience with our senses. Some other people worried that we can't actually know anything for certain because our sense mediate reality - so somewhere in the process of perceiving, we're transforming reality into something else. Still other people retorted that if we can't truly get at reality, then reality is our perceptions.
I'm going to go with Locke for now, because in the western world, we seem to have gone with him, and we value hard facts. We want evidence, right? Rational thought and reason are important too. We discover/develop a system (with heavy influence from Aristotle) that we call logic/reason, and we use it to sort and analyze our experience - the information that we get directly from our senses. So, assuming we use logic/reason correctly, and assuming that the system we've worked out is a good one, we can do a pretty good job of figuring out the world, right?
Maybe. The amount of sensory information you can take in during your lifetime is a drop in the bucket compared to the sensory information that is out there waiting to be perceived. We can't apply our reasoning to everything, because we don't have all the available information. So we have to rely on others for a sorted version of that information. Did they sort it correctly? We hope so. Sometimes, we don't think so. We develop a system that allows us to transfer more information and to get a rough estimate of how qualified people are to sort and analyze certain types of experience. A doctorate degree in botany means people are likely to trust the doctor's sorting/analyzing skills in all things plant-related.
But remember that our ultimate standard still seems to be one that highlights personal experience. Reading words on a page, even if they represent well sorted and accurately analyzed information, is not the same thing as directly experiencing the raw sensory info that went into the ideas, which were transformed into words and put on paper by someone else. We're at least at two or three removes from the actual experience. When we begin to rely on evidence that has been filtered through generations of experiencers, we are removed even further from the experience. This is not surprising: as I mentioned before, there are serious limits to what we can phsyically experience. And the proper sorting of some experiences requires prior knowledge that we just don't have time to gain independently. However, it is probably a good thing to examine the degree to which this second or third or fifth or tenth hand information is true.
What about experts who disagree? They invariably do (especially in composition theory). How do we know which expert is right? Is it true that the most well informed experts are always right, or can we only say that they are usually right? Think about online interactions for a second: Most internet forums involve some sort of debate. One thing that is noticeable is that appeals to experts are rarely, if ever, effective in silencing the opposing side.
I think this is because we are always removed from the actual relevant experience that would validate our claims, and sometimes at an incredible distance. When it comes to hearing some biker tell us about biking based on experiences he/she has had, there is usually a high probability that we can accept their sorting of experience as valid. In most cases, we can trust that they're being accurate. It isn't too specialized, and we can compare to our own experiences or the experiences of others we trust. We don't have to worry too much about testing this type of information. But when it comes to academia, we have to rely on all sorts of specialized people, who have in turn relied on other specialized people, who have...and so forth, to produce a very specific type of sorted experience.
All this requires a lot of trust, and when we read about things like the theory behind writing pedagogy, we hope that everyone has got it right, even though we argue all the time about experience, about truth, and about how things are, which means that somebody has got something wrong. Usually, somebody does mess up. Someone or a few someones sort experience incorrectly. In fact, most people do at some point. Think of the distortion a bad worldview (a medium through which experience is filtered) can cause.
Admittedly, I don't see an alternative to this system. We can hardly rely on personal experience for even a tenth of what (we think) we know. And yet when we try to apply our knowledge to certain things, like the truth of the Bible, or the truth of Creation, we ultimately fall back to relying on the experience of others, and we run into problems. To fully support the Bible with facts, you'd have to be an expert in a ridiculous number of fields. No one can know all the relevant information through personal experience at once.
And people don't trust that many removes from actual experience, because they know that somewhere along the line, somebody screwed up and sorted their information badly. There is also the possibility that we will never have all of the necessary information we need to get everyone to agree. So our own system defeats us. The scientific method is useful, but it can't account for the loss or distortion of knowledge through hundreds or resorting and reanalyzing attempts.
I think this explains why I'm not satisfied by writers like Lee Strobel who try to convince others about the truth of Christianity through scientific facts. By emphasizing facts, he's appealing to a system that generates uncertainty. To his credit, he tries for personal experience. He works to test his facts and minimize uncertainty. And we're partially at fault for his approach, because we demand facts. But I keep thinking It isn't enough. The Bible is too big - it involves too many fields. There will always be people who question Expert X's opinion, and they will always have some grounds to do it. Strobel just can't dig that deep. He'll only live to 125 or less. He doesn't have time, and neither do we. It's not even guaranteed that we've found all the necessary information to verify the facts.
At bottom, we believe things on faith. If some of us believe in the goodness and rightness of our system of logic and reason (if it has flaws, they probably originate in us as imperfect users), we believe it on faith. And if some of us believe the Bible, we believe it on faith. Scientific facts, to me, seem a lot more like probabilities than we're letting on. When we appeal to facts, we do it because of our faith in the system that we have for organizing and packaging reality. Believing in the Bible and being a Christian is not crazy if believing in the goodness and rightness of our system of reason isn't crazy. I don't think we should rely on facts to show it.
Our idea of knowing - it's kind of problematic. Some people had this idea (I think it was Locke that really picked up on this) that what we know for certain is only what we experience with our senses. Some other people worried that we can't actually know anything for certain because our sense mediate reality - so somewhere in the process of perceiving, we're transforming reality into something else. Still other people retorted that if we can't truly get at reality, then reality is our perceptions.
I'm going to go with Locke for now, because in the western world, we seem to have gone with him, and we value hard facts. We want evidence, right? Rational thought and reason are important too. We discover/develop a system (with heavy influence from Aristotle) that we call logic/reason, and we use it to sort and analyze our experience - the information that we get directly from our senses. So, assuming we use logic/reason correctly, and assuming that the system we've worked out is a good one, we can do a pretty good job of figuring out the world, right?
Maybe. The amount of sensory information you can take in during your lifetime is a drop in the bucket compared to the sensory information that is out there waiting to be perceived. We can't apply our reasoning to everything, because we don't have all the available information. So we have to rely on others for a sorted version of that information. Did they sort it correctly? We hope so. Sometimes, we don't think so. We develop a system that allows us to transfer more information and to get a rough estimate of how qualified people are to sort and analyze certain types of experience. A doctorate degree in botany means people are likely to trust the doctor's sorting/analyzing skills in all things plant-related.
But remember that our ultimate standard still seems to be one that highlights personal experience. Reading words on a page, even if they represent well sorted and accurately analyzed information, is not the same thing as directly experiencing the raw sensory info that went into the ideas, which were transformed into words and put on paper by someone else. We're at least at two or three removes from the actual experience. When we begin to rely on evidence that has been filtered through generations of experiencers, we are removed even further from the experience. This is not surprising: as I mentioned before, there are serious limits to what we can phsyically experience. And the proper sorting of some experiences requires prior knowledge that we just don't have time to gain independently. However, it is probably a good thing to examine the degree to which this second or third or fifth or tenth hand information is true.
What about experts who disagree? They invariably do (especially in composition theory). How do we know which expert is right? Is it true that the most well informed experts are always right, or can we only say that they are usually right? Think about online interactions for a second: Most internet forums involve some sort of debate. One thing that is noticeable is that appeals to experts are rarely, if ever, effective in silencing the opposing side.
I think this is because we are always removed from the actual relevant experience that would validate our claims, and sometimes at an incredible distance. When it comes to hearing some biker tell us about biking based on experiences he/she has had, there is usually a high probability that we can accept their sorting of experience as valid. In most cases, we can trust that they're being accurate. It isn't too specialized, and we can compare to our own experiences or the experiences of others we trust. We don't have to worry too much about testing this type of information. But when it comes to academia, we have to rely on all sorts of specialized people, who have in turn relied on other specialized people, who have...and so forth, to produce a very specific type of sorted experience.
All this requires a lot of trust, and when we read about things like the theory behind writing pedagogy, we hope that everyone has got it right, even though we argue all the time about experience, about truth, and about how things are, which means that somebody has got something wrong. Usually, somebody does mess up. Someone or a few someones sort experience incorrectly. In fact, most people do at some point. Think of the distortion a bad worldview (a medium through which experience is filtered) can cause.
Admittedly, I don't see an alternative to this system. We can hardly rely on personal experience for even a tenth of what (we think) we know. And yet when we try to apply our knowledge to certain things, like the truth of the Bible, or the truth of Creation, we ultimately fall back to relying on the experience of others, and we run into problems. To fully support the Bible with facts, you'd have to be an expert in a ridiculous number of fields. No one can know all the relevant information through personal experience at once.
And people don't trust that many removes from actual experience, because they know that somewhere along the line, somebody screwed up and sorted their information badly. There is also the possibility that we will never have all of the necessary information we need to get everyone to agree. So our own system defeats us. The scientific method is useful, but it can't account for the loss or distortion of knowledge through hundreds or resorting and reanalyzing attempts.
I think this explains why I'm not satisfied by writers like Lee Strobel who try to convince others about the truth of Christianity through scientific facts. By emphasizing facts, he's appealing to a system that generates uncertainty. To his credit, he tries for personal experience. He works to test his facts and minimize uncertainty. And we're partially at fault for his approach, because we demand facts. But I keep thinking It isn't enough. The Bible is too big - it involves too many fields. There will always be people who question Expert X's opinion, and they will always have some grounds to do it. Strobel just can't dig that deep. He'll only live to 125 or less. He doesn't have time, and neither do we. It's not even guaranteed that we've found all the necessary information to verify the facts.
At bottom, we believe things on faith. If some of us believe in the goodness and rightness of our system of logic and reason (if it has flaws, they probably originate in us as imperfect users), we believe it on faith. And if some of us believe the Bible, we believe it on faith. Scientific facts, to me, seem a lot more like probabilities than we're letting on. When we appeal to facts, we do it because of our faith in the system that we have for organizing and packaging reality. Believing in the Bible and being a Christian is not crazy if believing in the goodness and rightness of our system of reason isn't crazy. I don't think we should rely on facts to show it.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Joy
The best trumpet solos rise from the gathering dark
with the welling crescendo of certainty that brims,
overflows
and grows into bursting awe
in the reverence of after sunset.
From the quiet, they sing the Maker
And all the distant suns burn fierce
and unextinguished.
with the welling crescendo of certainty that brims,
overflows
and grows into bursting awe
in the reverence of after sunset.
From the quiet, they sing the Maker
And all the distant suns burn fierce
and unextinguished.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Romanticism in Real Life
I was chugging slowly uphill through a school zone on the way to class today and I took a moment to look to the right. The unfortunate building responsible for the whole slow chugging situation sat primly behind a chain link fence and looked disapprovingly back at me. Fine, I thought, and looked to the left instead.
The view on the left was tremendous. In a tiny, tiny field of exuberant grass on top of the hill were four llamas: three adults and one baby. Framed by the blue mountains that scrape the sky, they cast long shadows to the west; they struck gloriously pastoral poses in the morning sun. The light was warm and friendly on their wild fur. Five minutes later, I said to myself, "Behold! Llamas," and was immensely pleased.
The view on the left was tremendous. In a tiny, tiny field of exuberant grass on top of the hill were four llamas: three adults and one baby. Framed by the blue mountains that scrape the sky, they cast long shadows to the west; they struck gloriously pastoral poses in the morning sun. The light was warm and friendly on their wild fur. Five minutes later, I said to myself, "Behold! Llamas," and was immensely pleased.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Inarticulate
I like words. They have a bumbling earnesty - a serious and well intentioned commitment to sharing meaning, to dividing it into chunks and sorting and delivering it, but they fail us when it comes to feeling. And they frown and mutter and group and regroup when we rail at them to do work that was never meant for them to do alone.
Still, they try, though we demand nothing less than alchemy, and they come up with good hearted inadequacies like "I'm sorry" or "I love you."
"Incompetents!" we grumble with flaming cheeks, and we marshall more of them: bigger, stronger, longer, older and wiser words, and we assign them ranks and roles and arrange them in squadrons. But when they march out (and so often stumble), don't we always look at the listener - at the Eyes, who have been laughing all along? In one glance: telepathy.
Still, they try, though we demand nothing less than alchemy, and they come up with good hearted inadequacies like "I'm sorry" or "I love you."
"Incompetents!" we grumble with flaming cheeks, and we marshall more of them: bigger, stronger, longer, older and wiser words, and we assign them ranks and roles and arrange them in squadrons. But when they march out (and so often stumble), don't we always look at the listener - at the Eyes, who have been laughing all along? In one glance: telepathy.
Monday, March 28, 2011
A Toast to Litotes
There is a neat little rhetorical device known as litotes. (It is pronounced "lie-TOTE-eez.") In a pinch, you could call it hypobole. Remember my favorite moment in Mort D'arthur? If, for example, Sir Lancelot had succeeded in splattering himself on the ground below the lofty castle window, and if, in the awkward silence immediately following, Sir Gawain had ventured to look down and say something like: "Goodness. That wasn't the wisest decision," or "Oh dear. He wasn't the cleverest person, was he?" or even "My stars. A flesh-wound." that would be litotes. File this information for later, if you will.
So. We come to toast. You might remember an earlier post on toast. It was a bit negative, due to the evanescent properties of perfect toast, and the traitorous traits of toasters. Today, I found myself reflecting on this theme again. I put two breads* in the toaster. I moved the dial to 5. I pushed the knobthing down. Then I remembered that my sister owed me money. This was The First Mistake.
Murphy's law was in effect, of course, and I didn't have the right change for a twenty. I was scrounging around for toonies when I remembered my toast. I bellowed (with some degree of fear) and charged up the stairs to the toaster. Sure enough, the toasts were burnt. My sister demanded what the big deal was. I tried to explain that toasters are betrayers - they get you where it hurts most: right in the toast - and thus I made The Second Mistake.
Articulating raw emotions and making lunch are activities that require intense concentration, and never the twain shall meet. Flustered, I put chocolate spread instead of butter on my burnt raisin toast. Think boiled raisins, scorched spelt and sticky brown mess. I bit into it and thought, "This tastes bad." And I invented 'litoastes' on the spot. This was Deus Ex Machina, and it pretty much redeemed a terrible situation.
Hence, I present: Litoastes n. A rhetorically magnificent subcategory of litotes that deals exclusively with toast, toasting and bad toast-related puns.
*Slices. Since we're talking rhetorical devices, we might as well use synecdoche.
So. We come to toast. You might remember an earlier post on toast. It was a bit negative, due to the evanescent properties of perfect toast, and the traitorous traits of toasters. Today, I found myself reflecting on this theme again. I put two breads* in the toaster. I moved the dial to 5. I pushed the knobthing down. Then I remembered that my sister owed me money. This was The First Mistake.
Murphy's law was in effect, of course, and I didn't have the right change for a twenty. I was scrounging around for toonies when I remembered my toast. I bellowed (with some degree of fear) and charged up the stairs to the toaster. Sure enough, the toasts were burnt. My sister demanded what the big deal was. I tried to explain that toasters are betrayers - they get you where it hurts most: right in the toast - and thus I made The Second Mistake.
Articulating raw emotions and making lunch are activities that require intense concentration, and never the twain shall meet. Flustered, I put chocolate spread instead of butter on my burnt raisin toast. Think boiled raisins, scorched spelt and sticky brown mess. I bit into it and thought, "This tastes bad." And I invented 'litoastes' on the spot. This was Deus Ex Machina, and it pretty much redeemed a terrible situation.
Hence, I present: Litoastes n. A rhetorically magnificent subcategory of litotes that deals exclusively with toast, toasting and bad toast-related puns.
*Slices. Since we're talking rhetorical devices, we might as well use synecdoche.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Finity Problem
Yesterday, I was thinking about infinity - specifically, how God always has been and always will be. The 'always has been' part boggles my mind. After death, we'll have eternal life, which is infinite in the sense that it never ends. But it has a beginning. I just couldn't imagine not having a beginning. It's more than infinity, if that makes sense. If beginning at year 1 and counting upwards forever is infinity, then to have always been counting upwards must encompass more time... I think...
Then I started thinking spatially - what about the universe? If it is infinite, we are frighteningly small. In fact, if you think about a version of Google Maps that just keeps on zooming out and zooming out, we would vanish completely, except not really - we would just keep dwindling in size forever. Imagine looking for Earth on this cosmic map with the Hubble telescope and not being able to find even the Milky Way. And that's understatement when it comes to infinity. Again, it's mind boggling.
But then I thought: how can it not be infinite? In a hypothetical situation where people could instantly travel as far as they wanted to, can you imagine coming up against some kind of blank "edge of the map"? (like in RTS games.) Mind = blown. I can't imagine it. I just can't picture a limited universe - I mean, automatically, I would think "what is outside the boundaries of the universe?"
But a universe can't have spatial boundaries, can it? Can the laws of physics just stop at some point?
Maybe they could if there were other universes with different laws of physics crowded in around us - but then we would have to quibble about the definition of the word, and at the end of the day, whatever word we chose to mean "everything that exists" would replace our definition of universe, and we would still have the boundaries problem.
Bah. Infinity, you are vindicated. Finity, you are in a league of your own. People who are still reading, you almost rate a league of your own too, but if I said that, then we'd have another problem...
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
It's not only Monty Python that's funny
You know how you can love old writing and dislike it at the same time? I'm talking about that contrast between "Ooh, it's good because it's a classic" and "Why would you ever write a sentence like that?"
Arthurian legend in Thomas Malory is like that. 'And' sometimes means 'if', 'or' means 'before', and 'maugre' means 'notwithstanding'. 'Passing' is sometimes an adverb meaning 'very', oddly enough. The syntax takes some getting used to, even if you've been broken in to inversion by the Anglo-Genevan Psalter.
Chretien de Troyes is odd too, if you use the English translated version. Somehow the niceties of twelfth century medieval French poetry have failed to make it into English prose. Take this example from the Penguin Classics edition: "The fact that his lady had been consoled, and this was the news that the lady brought him, made him suddenly very happy. The king himself was happy about it; he had been very joyful before, but now his joy was even greater." The way it's put, I just can't help being skeptical about this supremely happy king's happiness.
On the other hand, the plots are fascinating once you start understanding the cultural context. Though they are sometimes hilariously implausible (In Malory for example, Sir Tristram, the famous french flower of chivalry and knightly pwnage, poses as Sir Tramtrist when he wants to hide his true identity. Obviously, he was a master of the subtle art of disguise.) they almost always provide interesting insights into human nature and the culture of the time.
There's a great scene in Chretien's Lancelot story where Lancelot and Gawain are at the window in a castle. The window has a nice view of the nearby meadow, and it so happens that Queen Guenevere passes right by. Lancelot is immediately infatuated at the sight of her. At this point, Gawain barely knows Lancelot, so he's completely unprepared for Lancelot's abrupt decision to defenestrate himself. The queen had kept right on passing till she was out of our hero's line of vision, you see, and this was very upsetting to him.
Nevertheless, Gawain's years of experience with saving those in distress serve him well. Lancelot is only half way out of the window before Gawain hauls him back inside. I think he then says something to the effect of, "Are you mad? Don't ever do that again." Probably an understandable reaction.
Anyway, the image of Gawain grabbing Lancelot (who would have been struggling mightily to dash himself to pieces) bodily around the waist and dragging him back inside is uproariously funny to me. The melodramatics are wonderful. Arthurian lit in general is just so good. Read it if you get the chance!
Arthurian legend in Thomas Malory is like that. 'And' sometimes means 'if', 'or' means 'before', and 'maugre' means 'notwithstanding'. 'Passing' is sometimes an adverb meaning 'very', oddly enough. The syntax takes some getting used to, even if you've been broken in to inversion by the Anglo-Genevan Psalter.
Chretien de Troyes is odd too, if you use the English translated version. Somehow the niceties of twelfth century medieval French poetry have failed to make it into English prose. Take this example from the Penguin Classics edition: "The fact that his lady had been consoled, and this was the news that the lady brought him, made him suddenly very happy. The king himself was happy about it; he had been very joyful before, but now his joy was even greater." The way it's put, I just can't help being skeptical about this supremely happy king's happiness.
On the other hand, the plots are fascinating once you start understanding the cultural context. Though they are sometimes hilariously implausible (In Malory for example, Sir Tristram, the famous french flower of chivalry and knightly pwnage, poses as Sir Tramtrist when he wants to hide his true identity. Obviously, he was a master of the subtle art of disguise.) they almost always provide interesting insights into human nature and the culture of the time.
There's a great scene in Chretien's Lancelot story where Lancelot and Gawain are at the window in a castle. The window has a nice view of the nearby meadow, and it so happens that Queen Guenevere passes right by. Lancelot is immediately infatuated at the sight of her. At this point, Gawain barely knows Lancelot, so he's completely unprepared for Lancelot's abrupt decision to defenestrate himself. The queen had kept right on passing till she was out of our hero's line of vision, you see, and this was very upsetting to him.
Nevertheless, Gawain's years of experience with saving those in distress serve him well. Lancelot is only half way out of the window before Gawain hauls him back inside. I think he then says something to the effect of, "Are you mad? Don't ever do that again." Probably an understandable reaction.
Anyway, the image of Gawain grabbing Lancelot (who would have been struggling mightily to dash himself to pieces) bodily around the waist and dragging him back inside is uproariously funny to me. The melodramatics are wonderful. Arthurian lit in general is just so good. Read it if you get the chance!
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