I had always thought that my brains were the ticket, the legs, the whole hog of the operation, that they would take me wherever I needed/wanted to go with. There was nothing that I needed to do - they would do it all. I was just along for the ride.
I realized today that my brains lack rocket fuel. There is nothing in and of intelligence itself that will TAKE you anywhere. Brilliance is merely a key that opens doors - it is nothing without the feet that bring you to the door, nor will it walk you through the door.
Life's rocket fuel is passion, desire, vision, creativity.
Power on. :)
Feb 26, 2011
Dec 4, 2010
Geography
I often find myself at the top of some egotistical intellectual bluff, looking out upon the masses of humanity that (I imagine) inhabit the world. I often flatter myself that the position I have assumed is new, that I am a frontierswoman, as you could call it, enjoying for herself a new view, never seen before by the eyes of others. I want to call out what I see, describe it at length to the nearest passerby, a frenzy of exalted revelation.
It is in moments such as this that I find it helpful to think of it rather as a view that all have always known the existence of, that they were born with the view from this particular bluff in their eyes. They have then, no need to acknowledge, to triumph over, to exalt the existence of this view, of this bluff, because they have built their lives upon the expectation of its existence.
I'm just the fool who was born with shut eyes.
It is in moments such as this that I find it helpful to think of it rather as a view that all have always known the existence of, that they were born with the view from this particular bluff in their eyes. They have then, no need to acknowledge, to triumph over, to exalt the existence of this view, of this bluff, because they have built their lives upon the expectation of its existence.
I'm just the fool who was born with shut eyes.
Nov 29, 2010
Destiny
It was seven AM. Early by some standards, but late by others. Her alarm clock was going off - same as it had been in regular five minute intervals for the past hour and a half.
It was the first cold day of the fall season, late in September, early in the year for Texas. Destiny awoke with a gasp - the fresh air filling her lungs as her brain slowly latched onto consciousness. Papers spilled off her lap, Swedish fish wrappers, acquired freely from a walk to campus, twirled to the ground.
She reached over, smothering the squawks from her phone. Another five minutes of silence.
Something was different today. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, not yet. But certainly five more minutes of slumber would solve her unease.
...
Deep in slumber, Destiny suddenly, knew what was different. Destiny had thought, for as long as she could remember, that life was composed of all that you could hold onto. Like grasping at threads in a forest of ragged edged hems. Like attempting to hold onto all the water, at once, in the fountain at Littlefield. It was larger than your efforts, there was always more than could fit within her ten fingers (two thumbs, eight fingers, plus several square inchage of palm to be more precise). But if you wanted something, all Destiny would have to do is reach out and grasp it. Hold on for dear life, perhaps, but she had only to put her hands around it and it - life! - would be hers.
So many options can be daunting. Even so to someone with the name of Destiny - you would think that she would be more prepared for the eventual coming of life. Or at least have bigger, stronger hands.
But Destiny realized that life was not, in fact, all that you could grasp in your hands. It was, in fact, just (no more no less) that that would fit within her hands. In other words, life is not all the rocks that fall within your grasp, but only those that fit, snugly, in your palm.
...
Destiny awoke to the sound of alarms. Groggily, she came to slowly. Students were fleeing to the elevators, chaos reigned near the stairs. It was all happening slowly, behind her, above her, some different plane entirely. Her plane was separate - the corner of the library, where she usually sat so she could watch the sun come up over the capital. Austin was never as beautiful as when orange sunlight broke over the golden dome. As it did every fall morning. Do we call them miracles if they happen on a schedule?
By the time Destiny had come out of her sleepy reprieve, the sixth floor of the PCL was empty. Deserted, but noisy. There were sirens blaring out non-sense. Something about armed gunmen and lock downs. Just another piece of life to be grasped onto - it slipped away.
A man appeared in front of her. Or rather, a boy dressed as a man appeared in front of her. Ski mask in one hand, AK-47 in the other.
His eyes were fearsome, angry, loathing, scared. At first glance. At second glance, he locked eyes with her. With Destiny. And something in his face changed. It went from scared and angry, to calm, peaceful. It was like watching a hand grasping at a ledge, suddenly lose its grip and grasp nothing but air.
He knew, in that moment, what his destiny was.
...
Destiny tried to close her eyes, but the image of blood splattering against the books, catching the first rays of the fall sun, would stay with her forever. As she turned, lifting her hand to protect her face from the splash, a few flecks of blood landed, calmly, without fanfare, in her palm.
It was the first cold day of the fall season, late in September, early in the year for Texas. Destiny awoke with a gasp - the fresh air filling her lungs as her brain slowly latched onto consciousness. Papers spilled off her lap, Swedish fish wrappers, acquired freely from a walk to campus, twirled to the ground.
She reached over, smothering the squawks from her phone. Another five minutes of silence.
Something was different today. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, not yet. But certainly five more minutes of slumber would solve her unease.
...
Deep in slumber, Destiny suddenly, knew what was different. Destiny had thought, for as long as she could remember, that life was composed of all that you could hold onto. Like grasping at threads in a forest of ragged edged hems. Like attempting to hold onto all the water, at once, in the fountain at Littlefield. It was larger than your efforts, there was always more than could fit within her ten fingers (two thumbs, eight fingers, plus several square inchage of palm to be more precise). But if you wanted something, all Destiny would have to do is reach out and grasp it. Hold on for dear life, perhaps, but she had only to put her hands around it and it - life! - would be hers.
So many options can be daunting. Even so to someone with the name of Destiny - you would think that she would be more prepared for the eventual coming of life. Or at least have bigger, stronger hands.
But Destiny realized that life was not, in fact, all that you could grasp in your hands. It was, in fact, just (no more no less) that that would fit within her hands. In other words, life is not all the rocks that fall within your grasp, but only those that fit, snugly, in your palm.
...
Destiny awoke to the sound of alarms. Groggily, she came to slowly. Students were fleeing to the elevators, chaos reigned near the stairs. It was all happening slowly, behind her, above her, some different plane entirely. Her plane was separate - the corner of the library, where she usually sat so she could watch the sun come up over the capital. Austin was never as beautiful as when orange sunlight broke over the golden dome. As it did every fall morning. Do we call them miracles if they happen on a schedule?
By the time Destiny had come out of her sleepy reprieve, the sixth floor of the PCL was empty. Deserted, but noisy. There were sirens blaring out non-sense. Something about armed gunmen and lock downs. Just another piece of life to be grasped onto - it slipped away.
A man appeared in front of her. Or rather, a boy dressed as a man appeared in front of her. Ski mask in one hand, AK-47 in the other.
His eyes were fearsome, angry, loathing, scared. At first glance. At second glance, he locked eyes with her. With Destiny. And something in his face changed. It went from scared and angry, to calm, peaceful. It was like watching a hand grasping at a ledge, suddenly lose its grip and grasp nothing but air.
He knew, in that moment, what his destiny was.
...
Destiny tried to close her eyes, but the image of blood splattering against the books, catching the first rays of the fall sun, would stay with her forever. As she turned, lifting her hand to protect her face from the splash, a few flecks of blood landed, calmly, without fanfare, in her palm.
Sep 6, 2010
fraudulent
we spend, you and i, so much time trying to define who we could be if we were x, y, z. what if we spoke with that accent, you know, the real southern belle one that you wear when you're really trying to say that you're ready for anything. or that accent you picked up during those few months that you were in boston, the one that you use when you want to get away with being a real jerk without anyone questioning your authority on the subject of assholery. and let's not forget your falsetto british play-mate deep throaty ACT-scent that you put on when you're really just trying to say that you're angry that i haven't paid attention to a word that you said.
you know, the american education system really is in need of reform. i heard you start the subject, but goodness gracious have you seen my schedule for tuesday? sheer idiocy.
you know that i'm just as transparent as you. you wear your accents (the brits really know how to breathe words, that's for certain) the same way that i try on costumes down on south congress. sometimes i wear skinny jeans and baggy plaid and wander in and out of record stores just to see how long i can keep up the façade.
the world's got a secret, you know. no, i can't tell you about it. it'd ruin you. you put so much stock into those tirades of yours, so much importance in your ability to drop your vocal register into your chest at will, to become 'charming' in an exhale.
well alright. it's just that, in all the record stores i've been in, no one's once questioned my presence. nope, not once. sometimes i even let the costume slip a bit, try and give them a hint as to what's really going on underneath. i wear the wrong kind of shoes, you know those big fugly skater shoes whose tongues are actually quite useful for staying on your board (or so i've been reassured). use the glasses i normally save for the bookstore routine.
you put too much faith in other people's curiosity. there. now you know. alright so perhaps my costumes aren't as obvious as your "accents". or perhaps you're just better at feigning interesting. still, admit it, the reaction you get never meets your expectations. excessive expectations - we're both guilty, as expected.
no, i don't think you're a fool. no, really, your accents are quite good when you're not self conscious about them. when you're not aware of the role that you're playing, when you just are. when it's not really just a façade, but when you too believe that you're a latin american salsa dancer who's come to the states in search of her long lost brother in law that shot your sister and ran away with the maid.
(i hate you too)
frauds? who said anything about defrauding someone else? an act of fraud requires injury of another, you have to gain an advantage through your deception for it to qualify. classification, actual dictionary definition, is important. i'm surprised i have to tell you this.
how else would we know what anyone is for certain?
you know, the american education system really is in need of reform. i heard you start the subject, but goodness gracious have you seen my schedule for tuesday? sheer idiocy.
you know that i'm just as transparent as you. you wear your accents (the brits really know how to breathe words, that's for certain) the same way that i try on costumes down on south congress. sometimes i wear skinny jeans and baggy plaid and wander in and out of record stores just to see how long i can keep up the façade.
the world's got a secret, you know. no, i can't tell you about it. it'd ruin you. you put so much stock into those tirades of yours, so much importance in your ability to drop your vocal register into your chest at will, to become 'charming' in an exhale.
well alright. it's just that, in all the record stores i've been in, no one's once questioned my presence. nope, not once. sometimes i even let the costume slip a bit, try and give them a hint as to what's really going on underneath. i wear the wrong kind of shoes, you know those big fugly skater shoes whose tongues are actually quite useful for staying on your board (or so i've been reassured). use the glasses i normally save for the bookstore routine.
you put too much faith in other people's curiosity. there. now you know. alright so perhaps my costumes aren't as obvious as your "accents". or perhaps you're just better at feigning interesting. still, admit it, the reaction you get never meets your expectations. excessive expectations - we're both guilty, as expected.
no, i don't think you're a fool. no, really, your accents are quite good when you're not self conscious about them. when you're not aware of the role that you're playing, when you just are. when it's not really just a façade, but when you too believe that you're a latin american salsa dancer who's come to the states in search of her long lost brother in law that shot your sister and ran away with the maid.
(i hate you too)
frauds? who said anything about defrauding someone else? an act of fraud requires injury of another, you have to gain an advantage through your deception for it to qualify. classification, actual dictionary definition, is important. i'm surprised i have to tell you this.
how else would we know what anyone is for certain?
Sep 5, 2010
myths, circa 2010
A lot of scientific epistemology or historiography focus on the methodology of discovery, the paradigm shifts of humans and the viability and/or rationality for accepting such shifts - and the varying conclusions as the whether or not we were correct to accept these (and what proof we should demand in the future for the acceptance of scientific 'theories').
All of this can be reduced back to the impact of "myth" on our understanding of the world - the majority of the populace believes what they're told.
If we're told that apples fall because God commanded it; if we're told that it's because of some 'force'(gravitational) - none of this materially changes what we've experienced or what our experiences have conditioned us to expect - apples fall to the ground. All that scientific discourse has done, at least in the mundane sense, is rob us of our ability to appreciate experiences as unique and 'mystical'and given them, instead, the cold skepticism of Rationality.
Thus we are all skeptics. But to what end?
All of this can be reduced back to the impact of "myth" on our understanding of the world - the majority of the populace believes what they're told.
If we're told that apples fall because God commanded it; if we're told that it's because of some 'force'(gravitational) - none of this materially changes what we've experienced or what our experiences have conditioned us to expect - apples fall to the ground. All that scientific discourse has done, at least in the mundane sense, is rob us of our ability to appreciate experiences as unique and 'mystical'and given them, instead, the cold skepticism of Rationality.
Thus we are all skeptics. But to what end?
clarice
Clarice Lispector, I am certain, did not write for an audience. Although she aimed at clarity, at expressing thoughts coherently (at times) the process of writing was for her a meditation, a journey to discovery of meaning, of language, of emotion. She wrote to dispel thoughts, cast them out like ugly demons so that the world could too understand them; or rather that through the world's lens she could see them more clearly. Her audience was the mystery of herself - that hidden piece that she did not understand, that came to her through the written word. Her stories, her characters - they're nothing more than second skins, other lives she might have led, her trying on different identities, different hats or Gods or constructions of herself - it's hard to live in the real world when you're constantly desiring some other life - more sordid, more lucid, more real than that which you already inhibit. She longed for the mystery that life and existence held out as possible - the animalistic, the unconscious - but that which a mundane life forced her to wear. So she wrote, she escaped, she hid on self-journeys in her loneliness and solitude and safety of the journey that was all her own.
why i suck at writing papers
my govt 312L professor and i have been at odds over my ability to write a thesis statement. admittedly, i'm not the best writer to ever poise pen over paper, but i feel as though my alleged 'inability' to sum up what all i'm going to be saying in one sentence should not be a determining factor in my success or failure to convey a point or answer a question.
who started this thesis statement bs anyways? sure, writing a thesis statement gives a defined structure to your paper, illustrates that you've carefully thought out where you're going and assures, to an extent, that the professor can tell whether or not you've reread your essay. but is a thesis statement necessary to ensure the conveyance of your thoughts?
i like to think of my style as more editorial. i'm a story teller, and what good bard gives away the outline of his story at the beginning. they do call the first paragraph the 'introduction' after all - shouldn't this section be saved for the 'once upon a time' - setting, characters, and background? or maybe it's a flashback paper, where you start in the middle of the action and then flashback midway to some discussion that predates your own, only to continue onward in a swashbuckling fashion to the riotous conclusion where AIDS can be cured! and cancer stopped in its tracks! and peace for the world is around the corner!
let's be honest, a conclusion that is little more than a rehashed version of your thesis is hardly worthy of the title. 'conclusion'- you've got to save your good, solid points for that baby. it's the bang at the end of the long courtship, the holy revelation at the end of the pilgrimage. you, the reader, have wound through the twists of logic and the side discussions, to reach it, the grand finale - the final so WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN at the END of the paper. not the beginning.
so, dear GOV 312L professor, please understand that my style of writing is different. what i'm asking you to sacrifice in immediate clarity and understanding i promise to make up to you in excitement and suspense. that feeling of confusion and uncertainty - that's all just a part of the effect. it's the mark of a successful paper - not, in fact, a lack of scholarship or clarity. you've got to work for my meaning - but that just makes it all the more exciting, if you, get what i mean.
who started this thesis statement bs anyways? sure, writing a thesis statement gives a defined structure to your paper, illustrates that you've carefully thought out where you're going and assures, to an extent, that the professor can tell whether or not you've reread your essay. but is a thesis statement necessary to ensure the conveyance of your thoughts?
i like to think of my style as more editorial. i'm a story teller, and what good bard gives away the outline of his story at the beginning. they do call the first paragraph the 'introduction' after all - shouldn't this section be saved for the 'once upon a time' - setting, characters, and background? or maybe it's a flashback paper, where you start in the middle of the action and then flashback midway to some discussion that predates your own, only to continue onward in a swashbuckling fashion to the riotous conclusion where AIDS can be cured! and cancer stopped in its tracks! and peace for the world is around the corner!
let's be honest, a conclusion that is little more than a rehashed version of your thesis is hardly worthy of the title. 'conclusion'- you've got to save your good, solid points for that baby. it's the bang at the end of the long courtship, the holy revelation at the end of the pilgrimage. you, the reader, have wound through the twists of logic and the side discussions, to reach it, the grand finale - the final so WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN at the END of the paper. not the beginning.
so, dear GOV 312L professor, please understand that my style of writing is different. what i'm asking you to sacrifice in immediate clarity and understanding i promise to make up to you in excitement and suspense. that feeling of confusion and uncertainty - that's all just a part of the effect. it's the mark of a successful paper - not, in fact, a lack of scholarship or clarity. you've got to work for my meaning - but that just makes it all the more exciting, if you, get what i mean.
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