On Language and Words

I have long been fascinated by language.  It's complexity is mind-shattering, and yet it's simplicity is something most babies learn early on.  Language is not confined to any one medium, and I'm of the opinion that anything that translates communication from one sender to a receiver makes use of language.

I suppose my love of language is in large part why I love to write (and read).  Words are powerful.  I mean, God created the cosmos with His Words.  Man has created kings and queens from their fealty.  Revolutions have sparked from concealed messages.  There's no doubt that words are powerful.  As a writer (I say that like I'm some sort of professional), I feel like I have a vast tapestry of words before me, waiting to be taken and abused.  Often we use these words in traditional formats, obeying common grammatical rules and syntax.  But personally, I prefer pushing the boundaries of what's deemed normal and play with the words I use.  It's a you have to know the rules before you can break them mentality.

The English language is extremely interesting.  A part of me loathes it with such a deep passion that at times I wish it did not exist.  This is rare, but it happens.  The majority of my thinking, though, is that I'm glad English is my native language, even if it is the American dialect.  So many of our idioms make no sense when you put a second's thought in them.  And the plethora of words that have multiple meanings is simply astounding.  Off the cuff I'm sure I could come up with a score of 'em.

But the more and more I think about the language, the more I wish I had taken some sort of linguistics class in college.  Studying etymology* and learning the down-and-dirty history of words would be of great benefit to the way my brain thinks.  (For that matter, I wish that I had taken some sort of creative writing class, or a class on European folklore or something.  Alas, the engineering school gave me no time for such trivialities.)  The way language has refined itself over the course of history just sounds interesting to me.

And then there's the slew of problems with language.  It's ultimately a flawed system, because humans are too complex, too intricate, for words to precisely portray our thoughts.  To understand what I'm thinking, consider the example of simply defining words**.

faith: Complete trust or confidence in someone or something
confidence: The feeling or belief that one can rely on someone or something; firm trust
belief:  An acceptance that a statement is true or that something exists
true: In accordance with fact or reality
fact: A thing that is indisputably the case
indisputable: Unable to be challenged or denied

I see these words and I think, okay, there are so many holes in the language here that we're really going out on a limb to even try and understand one another.  Someone may be talking about faith, which generally we define as mentioned above.  Biblically, faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (Heb 11:1)  However, as someone remarked on a blog*** I was reading yesterday, "Faith comes from the Greek word pistis which means “trusting in something for which you have seen the evidence.”  Now if I read it like that, I essentially read something like

"Faith is trusting in something that I have seen the evidence...[and] the conviction of things not seen."

So, if I'm reading that correctly, faith is mutually exclusive.  It's both somehow based on fact and visible evidence, and yet it's not.  (Dichotomy, in particular, is something I find immensely frustrating and fascinating.)  This is just one example of why language ultimately is untrustworthy.

Of course, there is no alternative.  Until we can communicate via telepathy--and then our telepathy must be able to convey emotion and color and imagery and words and songs and an infinite number of other things--we will always have misunderstandings.  It's the way of the world, I suppose.

I could go on and on here.  In fact, I had a 3 page outline for a few different essays I had on language, but I'm not sure if I'll ever get to those.  So I guess I'll just leave it here.  Any thoughts?
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*I go to etymology sources often to get character names and/or creations when I write.  FYI.
**Taken from the Google define search tool.
***As I said, I've no education in language, so I'm taking this guy at his word.  Read that post if you want to read something to think about.

Scraps: A philosophical rambling, a poem, and questions without answers

Often, when a product is finished, there are a lot of leftovers.  The director leaves unneeded scenes lying on the floor.  A painter has too much red on his palette.  A writer has revisions upon revisions upon revisions.  Most of the time, this is done for the greater good of the product.  A movie is shortened and made tighter, saving the viewer from pointless scenes.  Any more red and the painting could have a completely different meaning.  Omitted useless words and phrases save readers from tedious pacing and plotting.

In short, the scraps are made obsolete.  Some would say pointless, but I'd disagree.  Without the scraps, a finished product would likely have a completely different look.  For example, a scene may be removed from a book because it's not working well, but having that scene in at first was crucial to the writer to get to the next point.  It served as a stepping stone that guided imagination and direction.

Ultimately, our life is one product.  When we die, the production stops and we're finished.  No more editing.  No more revising.  It's just us, shipped out to Quality Inspection.  And this train of thought has me thinking about the scraps in our lives.  What kind of stuff is left on our drawing boards?  How many unfinished stories have I written, now sitting idly in a Google Docs warehouse.  How many plans were made and discarded?  And how in the world is this relevant?

What has put me in this mindset?  I found a poem I scribbled down a while ago, just eight lines.  An unfinished thing if there e'er was one.  The first stanza I was insanely proud of.  Clever, methought.  Double meanings and all that stuff.  The second...

in love she fell with a rogue

whose blood was far below hers,

dashed across the jagged rocks

his bowels burst asunder.

ocean's song, an elegy,

the waves a gentle death tune.

she died from an angry blade

wielded by her father.

And there it sat.  There's editing needed.  There's always editing needed.  In life.  In stories.  In paintings.  In blog posts.  We're so concerned about perfection and passing the Quality Control test that we cheat ourselves of so much.  It doesn't help that Society screams for independence and self-reliance.  We must be strong citizens.  We must be productive.

And yet, I posit that most of us aren't able to cut it at being independent.  Not truly.  Still, we desire independence and selfness.  The dichotomy is fascinating.  On one hand, our base instincts are for self-preservation and self-happiness.  We want our opinions to be valued, likely above all others.  We want to be noticed.  We want to be special.  On the other hand, we can't handle the stress of being the sole responsibility of our opinions, and we want others to share that burden.  How selfish is that?  How crazy?

I think of God saying in Genesis 2:18 that it's not good for man to be alone.  Obviously loneliness is a problem if the Creator thinks it is.  But why?  Why is it not good?  (And again, why are my thoughts turned this way?)  Is Man, when left alone, ultimately going to turn to evil? 

[insert clever paragraph that relates scraps and these musings above in a nice, succinct way.  this is a strong first sentence here that uses a nice, simple transition and lays the ground for the next sentence.  this is a complex sentence, with six subjects that all agree with their predicates.  this is a question where i try to understand the previous sentence.  this is a parenthetical, cause why not?  this is the most important sentence i've ever written in my life and what everything really boils down to.  this is an emoticon.]

In the end, this is too much for me to comprehend.  My life is infinitely more complex than I can fathom, with countless causes and effects, affecting both me and you, directly or indirectly.  I'm just thankful that I've been blessed with a loving wife and daughter, a wonderful family, and a great set of friends.  Most of all I'm thankful that Jesus loves me and understands all this stuff I don't.  I'm thankful for the brain He's given me, even though sometimes I wonder about myself. 

When I die and reach the end of production, I want my life to be one that glorifies God.  I want all the scraps to resonate with that glory, that I can look back and see how much He's changed me.  I look back now and see some already, and I look ahead with wonder at what He's gonna do next.

On Subtlety, or A Secret is Revealed

There's an art to subtlety.  See, when saying things, you've got options.  You can throw open the door and scream at the top of your lungs, "My toes are turning purple," but that's not subtle.  Plus, that would get a lot of awkward stares and generate interesting responses.  "Really, my good man?  Pray tell why." 

There's also the general announcement:

Dear Sirs,

I am loathe to inform you of my ailment, but the doctors heavily suggest that I do so, if only for your own good.  It appears that some time ago I concocted a pox that, oddly, has turned my toes the color of ripened Concord grapes.  Not all of them--God forbid!--but enough so that it's given me cause for concern.  Please consider this memorandum your fair warning.

At first, this may seem the most obvious way to let the world know something.  The Memorandum Announcement Act of 1996 practically made this way the standard operating procedure for the last fifteen years, but SOP is anything but subtle.  (And subtlety is what we're after, after all.)  This type of information conveyance comes in many forms, from blog posts to hand-written notes penned in invisible ink and delivered by the Pony Express.  Oh, and email and text messages, too, though they're generally less verbose.

Similar to a memo is the Facebook status update.  This time-honored tradition (if you're an infant and have no idea what the words time-honored or tradition mean) is akin to a thought going off in your head.  A friend makes a status update,

XXXXX:  Uh, my toes are all purpley.
2 minutes ago - Like[] - Comment[]
     AAAA:  GROSS!
     BBBB:  lol

and 'ere long the world knows that his toes have gone all purpley.   The same is apparently true with Twitter, yet another social media webservice, though it somehow uses birds to deliver messages across the globe.

And yet none of these are subtle.  Subtleness is an art.  It's concealing hidden messages on old records that can only be heard while tripping on quaaludes and playing the record backwards for some reason.  It's Sauron giving out nineteen rings as Christmas presents while crafting a secret ring to control those nineteen ring-wearers.  It's subliminal messages that are only made apparent after the fact.  This, friends, is subtlety.  And subtlety is where it's at.

When I'm reading a book and the author subtly drops hints that you pick up on during the conclusion, I smile at the author's cleverness, especially when I can look back and see the obvious buried nuggets.  Being subtle is a thought-shaping art that, when done correctly, can create a legion of followers that all get the wool pulled over their eyes.  We're not a people that enjoys being fooled, but we are a people that enjoys being played with, relishing intelligent television shows or movies. 

Of course, one can be too subtle, and this is worse than being forthright and blunt.  Being too subtle obfuscates meaning and leaves an audience aggravated and confused.  This, I feel, is a problem I wrestle with in my writing.  When one is being clever, the balance between revelation and subtlety is manageable; when one is being cleverer, the balance is a tilted see-saw and ain't nobody gettin' what you trying to say.

If I were clever, I would have hidden the name of my daughter in this post somewhere, but I'm not, and I didn't.  Instead, I made a Facebook announcement Saturday night, officially making her name public knowledge.  And that, as it were, is the point of this post.  So, with a slight build up of dramatic tension, I would like to announce that when our daughter is born come June-30th-ish, we will be calling her

Avonlea Brynn Stewart.

(There's no period after her name, but, you know, for the sake of grammatical correctness.)  Avonlea comes from L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables series, which my wife loves, and I thought the name beautiful.  Brynn is a mixture of Keisha's middle name (Lynn) and something that sounds Celtic.  Stewart comes from a long line of nobles that live somewhere across the pond.

Thank you.  That is all.

Meta Logic in an Existential Debriefing with Rambling Verbosity (Obvious Redundancy)

The closer you get to writing in true stream of consciousness, the closer you get to understanding your own inner workings.  You see the Deeps where words form, a borrowed metaphor here, a cultural lambaste there, a song lyric weaving its way between and around the words, sometimes spilling over into the prose.  And when you try to nail down just what exactly you're thinking about, you realize that you're mind's hand is no longer holding a hammer and the nail is now an ibis wading in the shallows, now an image of Isis on top of Big Ben.

It makes me wonder if there's any sort of logic to it, and I long to say no.  The inner workings are too random, too influenced to have any real logic.  Sure, we can certainly concentrate on our thinking, but is the act of concentrating contrary to stream on consciousness?  I see the Stream as an ever-flowing source, unstoppable.  We may put up a dam and steal some of the thoughts, but we cannot hope to catch them all, let alone understand it. 

Observe:

bottle of mixed juices setting on a desk inside a tiny man's hand with only one sugar cube available.  nimble fingers.  keystrokes.  mere ideas, and thinking, always thinking, three steps ahead and two sentences behind, never on the current.  what to do when one errs?  your you're their there they're editing breaks the Stream.  what to do when one becomes Aware?  Awareness threatens the purity of the Stream.  thoughts scramble.  piano songs...  12:49pm...  lack of output, standard and HD both.  is there a reckoning?

Can you imagine having a perfect memory, able to recall every thought you've ever wondered, each permutation an idea takes from a ONE to a TWO?  Horrifying, methinks.  What kind of filters are set up within us?  Are there some people without these filters?  A ripe and open mind, uninhibited? 

I posit that it may be impossible to write in true stream of consciousness.  The human mind is too wild to truly capture and replicate with 100% accuracy.  Perception can be grasped at, but even that is subjective.  Understanding can be rendered, but not wholly.  What a magnificent machine of thought we have!

I think the point is something about stream of consciousness and how fine a line one must walk in order to write effectively in the style.  On one end, you can go too deep, and the story--arguably the most important element to any work of "fiction"--suffers, drowned by the extraneous.  Or you can simply wade into the Stream, and the tone suffers loss.  It's a delicate task at best, writing in the Stream, but oh it's a fun one.

On Beards & Dualism

When we think of manliness, we often think of a rugged face decorated with a sweet beard.  It may be the Jeremiah Johnson, the type of thick, woolen shag that could double over as a scarf if need be.  There's no doubt that this is man becoming one with the wilderness.  If the J Johnson is left to its own devices, (and let's face it, what control do we have over such things?) it continues to grow until it reaches the Robert E. Lee.  This beard emits civility and calmness for everyone around, and the wearer is turned into a distinguished sort of fellow.  And if this beard is snowy in color, one very likely may be a long-dead President.  Yet the R.E.L. is not the end of beardom.  There are many other types and styles, ranging from the close-knitted facial scruff to the survivalist beards of the post apocalypse.  Infinite possibilities with the facial hair.

Yes, a beard, a thick mess of hair on the face, this is manliness.  But somehow there exists a dualistic problem that presents a dilemma that needs a resolution from the conflict it produced to start a problem that presented the dilemma that needed the resolution which I'm seeking.  (What?)

I'm talking about the straight razor.  Lethal and aged, shaving with a straight razor also exhibits manliness.  Shunning modern machines and toys, the straight razor is all manner of seriousness when it comes to grooming.  It requires love and maintenance and a little more time, but its results are either an incredibly smooth face or an accidentally cut jugular.  There's no denying that taking such a dangerous tool and scraping it across your face isn't manly, and really, shaving with anything less is just a cop out.

Hence, the dilemma.  How can it be manly to have both a sweet beard but to also shave with a straight razor?  The dualism blows my mind's eye's mind.  It just doesn't make sense to me.

Of course, there are many more aspects to manliness than facial hair or the lack thereof, but this quandary must be worked out.  Any solutions?

Note:  My face has been bearded since September or October of 2010.  On a whim I decided to shave it all off last night.  I'm no longer sure who I'm looking at in the mirror, but his large chin seems much more noticeable. 

Post Note:  Happy Friday.  I was going to put up a new flash fic serial, but it has a few kinks that need working out.  Maybe next week.

What Makes a Story?

Ever since my rebuttal post of "The Problem With Trilogies," back in September, mind you, I've been turning over the idea in my head at what makes a story.  The top two Google definitions of story are:

• narrative: a message that tells the particulars of an act or occurrence or course of events; presented in writing or drama or cinema or as a radio or television program; "his narrative was interesting"; "Disney's stories entertain adults as well as children"
• a piece of fiction that narrates a chain of related events; "he writes stories for the magazines" 

At first glance, this seems like a straightforward answer, but the more you look, the more confusing it gets.  For example, the "particulars" of a story will very likely be different between two different people.  That's why you may get a book with a lot of extraneous stuff, like Justin Cronin's The Passage or Jordan's Eye of the World.  There's plenty of things that didn't contribute much to the plot, but instead to an overall feel or tone of the book, yet these things are subjective to the reader. 

Of course, the other extreme is people who approach a story with a minimalistic eye.  Cormac McCarthy's writing is so bare that his stories omit most punctuation and offer only needed adjectives.  Needed, again, is subjective, but you get the point.

It's odd that both of these approaches can tell a story, and the only reason for one over the other is author's preference.  Still, my mind can't help but wonder how far a writer can go in one extreme and still tell a story.  Because really, what are adjectives and adverbs but extra words?  And how many prepositional phrases does a story really need?

So, since I enjoy flash fiction, I decided to take some of my ideas and put them to the test.  What particulars are really needed to tell a story?  How much can a writer omit and a reader still understand?  Essentially, how much interpretation does a writer want his reader to have, and how much does a reader want?

The first flash fic piece I wrote that played with the idea of story-telling was "Through the Rain: Or, Through a Season."  It's one of my favorite flash pieces I've written, and I feel like it succeeded in its purpose.  The next piece that played with the ideas of stories will appear tomorrow.  The goal: tell a story using only dialogue/monologue.

Now I realize that stripping down stories to their core may make for boring reading, but so would maximizing a story.  In fact, I'd argue that too much is more detrimental to a story than too little.  In an extreme case, you could tell a story like the supposed Hemingway story,

For sale.  Baby Shoes.  Never Worn. 

It's not really a good story, but it is a story.   Yet, in its simplicity, it tells so much.  It begs so many questions, but it's all we have.  On the other hand, spending extra words and tangential thoughts in a story does not block the narrative, as the story is still told, but it does leave the reader with similar questions.  Chiefly, why was all this extra stuff included?

There's really no definitive answer.  Everything is so opinionated and subjective that getting a definitive answer is impossible.  Instead, we have what's considered normal and fits the general audience of readers.  As long as they're comfortable, there's no reason to upset the system.  I guess I agree with this, but at the same time, I'm equally curious about all the other ways to tell a story, too.

It's like looking at a painting.  Fransisco Goya and Michelangelo painted amazing works of art, but so did Salvador Dalí or René Magritte.  There's no reason to compare the two styles, though many do.  Likewise, there's no reason to compare one story to another, though we inevitably do.  Who knows?  I'm curious to see how the story progresses over time, though.

Bits & Pieces

• WIRED magazine has a great article on Six Word Masterpieces from plenty of famous authors.  I particularly love Joss Whedon's "Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so."  You can read all the others here.
• There's so much more to say on this subject, but it's all ultimately moot.  I have my opinions, you have yours.
• My Sunday School's Nativity Project is this Saturday.  Keisha and I will be spending all day tomorrow setting up, and then all morning Saturday at the Project.  Hopefully it's bigger & better than last years, which was awesome.
• Should have The Desert Spear finished tonight.
• My paycheck is now officially one week late, and likely won't be here until next Monday or Tuesday.  This sucks.

On Stars and Beauty

Call me lame, but I enjoy looking at beautiful things.  A green Kentucky field of ripe crops with a clear blue sky above, maybe a few wisps of cirrus clouds.  A mountainous roadway, winding up and down the valleys through orange and brown colored trees, splashed with the autumnal glow of harvest time.  Or a pure white blanket of snow, untouched and undisturbed, lying in its natural state apart from man.  Or, truly, looking into the infinitely deep blacks and browns of my wife's eyes.  These things, and many more, are all beautiful sights to see.

But there's one sight that always sucks me in, and that's when my gaze falls upon the night sky.  Ever since I was a young lad, back in elementary school when we were allowed to look at a solar eclipse using a paper plate or something, I've been fascinated with the heavens.  Couple the awesomeness of constellations with my young love of Greek mythology and I was a kid who spent time looking at stars.

I'm still that kid who spends time looking at stars.  I'll take the dogs out at night and inevitably my face is turned towards the heavens.  Orion shines down on me, his sword and shield drawn up in a fighting stance.  And there's the Big Dipper, the Great Ladle in the Sky.  These same stars were seen thousands of years ago, and there's something about that that I find amazing.  And then I look to the dim glimmers of stars, the ones that disappear completely when I focus on them but reemerge when I flick my eyes away.  How far away are they?  How old is the light that I'm looking at now?

At times I contemplate the emptiness of space.  While we often focus on the heavenly bodies- the stars, planets, nebulae, comets, asteroids, and all other things- most of space is void and empty.  Some may find this daunting.  Depressing.  But I see it as a thing of beauty.  It's a contrast that's needed to distinguish the awesomeness of the stars that I so love.  Without the void there would be no reason to notice the stars.

Now that winter is looming, the cold night air provides an often clear sky that almost always captivates me whenever I'm out at night.  I find myself staring at the moon, wishing beyond wish that I could be there and see what Earth looks like from afar.  See how much larger Mars or what the Sun looks like from the Moon.  Different perspectives give different insights.  It's not from visions of grandeur or ego but a true desire to see the planet we call home.  See how small and insubstantial it is in the big picture, as well as how small and insubstantial we are, too.

And yet, despite being a tiny speck in the eyes of the universe, we are nevertheless significant.  The ability to think and reason, to love and hate, to discover joy and endure suffering.  We are all unique creations, made in the image of the One who made the beauty of the heavens, and if there is beauty in all of God's creatures, then we, too, are beautiful.  We have purpose.  Meaning.  Why else would we have been made?

It's hard to fathom why God chose to make us.  I mean, I know we were created to glorify and worship Him, but why us?  Isn't the pure glow of stars a more glorious song to God than a prayer from a fallen and dirty man?  Is what makes us beautiful the fact that we were made by God and in His image or the fact that we're individuals with unique properties?  Or is it the beating heart within us and the longing spirit we have that seeks to find some sort of meaning in this life?

Earth is so screwed up.  We have people starving to death because they can't find food to eat.  Freezing for lack of somewhere to shelter.  Dying because of someone's rage and anger.  It's death that taints the beauty of our world, and we only have death because of the first sin.  And because of that, we're all marred by the ugly stain of sin, and I feel that that makes us ugly to God, so much so that He can't stand to even look at us.

The stars, they're not plagued with this problem.  The celestial bodies all floating around in the universe are not rendered ugly by man's sin.  Maybe this is why I find them so beautiful, why I'm inexplicably drawn to looking at them and seeing their beauty anew each and every night.  Pure and untainted, the views in the heavens are nearly the most beautiful thing in the universe.

The only thing they fall short of is the beauty of a person who's come under the blood of Christ.  Because even though the stars and planets are unblemished, a person saved by the grace of God has been re-made in the likeness of His Son, Jesus, who is part of God Himself.  It's this act, the act of salvation, of being justified in God's eyes, that puts us above the beauty of the stars.  And this love is even more unfathomable than the question earlier.  Why would God choose to save us?  His love is beyond reason, but I'm thankful nonetheless.

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Surely I'm not the only one captivated by stars and astronomical beauty.  Heck, I know I'm not.  David Crowder Band has a great song, aptly titled "Stars," that I've embedded below.  I'd recommend watching it and looking at the wonderful imagery put together and listening to the words Crowder sings.

On Language and "Ode to an Apostrophe"

Oh Apostrophe,
Apostrophe,
Thou art full of glory and splendour.

How grand you shine,
(thinly veiled rhyme)
as you substitute V for e'er.

For what would don't be
omitting just thee,
but a do and a not? 'Tis true.

And could've, would've,
should've, might've, must've,
all exist because of you.

Thou art not limited,
to language inhibited,
and it's this I'll love all my days.

Possibilities boundless,
in you letters soundless,
like nor'easter takes a T and an H.

For what can I do
but cave in and misuse
our infinite array of words?

How much can be said,
with a nod of the head,
or a ' and a ' and a '?

Most noblest of symbols,
how other ones tremble
in your presence they quake and they cower.

You hang in the air,
'twixt letters, how dare
anyone think they have power

O'er you?  For you are alone,
ensconced on your throne,
until eternity unravels.

And then when it does,
with a bang and a buzz,
to you all dead letters travel.

And as they begin
to chop, twist, and blend
together after catastrophe,

You'll create something new,
what else would you do
my forever, lovely Apostrophe?


So I was thinking about words and how I string them together to make sentences.  Then I was thinking about letters and how I string them together to make words.  Then I was thinking about the apostrophe and how it sometimes replaces letters and I was wondering what it's limits were.  I mean, in shorthand, there are no practical limitations, right?  I abbreviate government as gov't to this day.  There I'm eliminating six letters.  How horrible, I think.

And then there's 'ere and e'er.  I love these two words.  They're beautiful sounding and perfect in function.  And the My Morning Jacket song lyric everything'd be great/ everything'd be good/ if everybody gave/ as everybody should.  How awesome of a word is everything'd? 

Plus, when we speak, we throw around apostrophes like nothing.  I suppose this could be a regional phenomenon, varying with location, but still, I'd argue that each brogue has its own clipped words.  And I daresay none would disagree with me.

But this has got me wondering, can an apostrophe substitute more than just letters?  What about entire words?  Could a writer remove all the supplementary text and just leave the meat and potatoes?  And who the heck would wanna read it if they did?  I, for one, love the constant changing English language.  Its rules are baffling and abused, but I'm of the opinion that if a writer can successfully do so, then they have the power to do it, so long as it makes sense.  For what are words but things that have power because we collectively give them power?  What would the apostrophe be if folks stopped using it?

Just for fun, I tried speaking without contracted words the other day.  I didn't last very long.  It's too ingrained in my vernacular, I suppose.  Just thinking out loud.

Note:   I'm not saying I'm for the cutting down of words and letters to get an abbreviated society.  This, I fear, would be a dreadful mistake.  Personally, I loathe internet language.  Things like LOL and BRB drive me crazy.  When I get a text message written in complete disregard to the rules, I scratch my head and try to understand.  I believe that George Orwell's predicted newspeak from Nineteen Eighty-Four is the very textual way we communicate now.  I strive my best to refrain from this, and to respond to these types of messages with complete sentences.  Of course, from time to time, I succumb and need to save myself 1.3 seconds of typing by using an abbreviation.  Still, for the most part, this sort of thing drives me up the metaphorical wall.

A Poem, Some Musing, and Six Halloween Pictures

"dark goes the night, smooth goes the date"
by logankstewart

change my clothes
out i go
a date tonight have i

long it's been
since my last sin
so long.  adieu.  goodbye.

lick my teeth
feel the slime
a blade goes in and out

you gasp "oh"
at my crime
blood falls from your spout

eyes go wide
from the cold
of steel on flesh on bone

hands dam up
staunch the flow
but you're already gone

quick as sin
toss my knife
in someone else's truck

see me smile
in waning light
unfortunate, their luck

wipe my hands
in the dirt
and off to eat i go

a date to get
a meal to split
and no one in the know.

I don't know what it is inside me that enjoys this sort of stuff.  It's not that I have hidden desires or twisted ideas.  I think, perhaps, that maybe it's the only way I can come to terms with the craziness of the world.  I've always been fascinated by the darker (see "On the Darker Side of Songs," "On Morbid Curiosity") things in life, though, oddly, I can't movies like Saw and Hostel.  There's just something unnerving about violence, something so gritty and horrible that it makes me sick at my stomach.  The dichotomy of my music tastes is astounding; I'm either listening to folky, acoustic tunes, which are often peppered with Darkness, or I'm listening to Contemporary Christian music.  It makes no bloody sense!

So if this is the case, then why do I find the recesses of my mind adventuring in such realms?  I'm happy.  I love life.  I'm not a disturbed person, and I have no horrific past that is buried below my surface.  I'm calm, patient, compassionate, nothing like the unsavory sorts from many of the songs and stories I hear/read.

Is it the passing of Halloween and the imminent autumn-like weather that turns my mind towards dark and heavy thoughts?  Is it from playing Fallout or reading The Passage?  I don't know what it is.  I think, perhaps, I'll blame it on....... Nic Cage.  Why not?  He's a fantastic guy.  I mean, have you seen Raising Arizona?  Okay then.

In Halloween's wake, I have some pictures.  There’s a Dr. Horrible pumpkin, which anyone that loves Joss Whedon should know, and anyone who's ne'er seen the wonderfulness of it should watch immediately and then be in the know.  It took about two hours or more to carve, and I was ready to quit before I was finished.  There’s a BOO Ghost, carved masterfully by the beautiful, pregnant (obligatory) wife.  It's cute.  There’s a close-up of Stella.  (We somehow never managed to snap one of Sofie close-up.)  There’s a full shot of both dogs, one as a flying monkey, the other as the wicked witch.  Keisha made both outfits.  And there’s my world-famous mullet champion picture, which I love, since the mullet is my actual hair color and blends seamlessly in with my sideburns and beard.

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A Strange, Rare, and Horribly Wonderful Discovery With a Side of Self-Delusion: A Discourse on the Worth of Meaningless Prose and Forsaken Projects

A week or two ago I decided to clean out my garage.  I waded through totes of rubbish, discarding much.  A few boxes contained things from when I was young lad.  Three yo-yos, still strangely cool.  A tin of ARMY paint.  A plastic recorder.  One well-worn Rubik's cube (that I learned to solve as a freshman in college, though I no longer remember how).  Lots of drawings and super hero cards and drawings of super heroes.  A stack of old writings, from items in my high school portfolio to obscure poetry to absurd fiction.  And, among other things, a box of 3.5" floppy disks.  (FN1)

My computer at work is possibly one of the last one's remaining on the Earth that has a floppy drive still in it.  Back in high school, I thought floppies were super cool.  Cool enough that this box had several floppies in it, and I had no clue what I would find.  So I brought the disks to work and popped them in.  After some system groaning, things finally started working.

Half of them were blank.  One or two had files but would not let me open them.  And then two had some old writings of mine.  Old, as in, from when I was an early teenager old.  Back in eighth grade (I think, give or take a grade) I started writing my first novel.  I pecked out line after line of purely awesome and original fantasy.  The world was not ready for the brilliance of my work.  And so I wrote and wrote, drawing up maps and casting character after character.  My story had unexplainable but logical magic and a magic sword and a simple farmboy and a princess and a Dark Lord (who was actually called Dark Lord), and many other totally original things.  And then one day I ran out of time and forgot about the story.

This story was on the floppy.  It's over 80,000 words.  I called it The Legend of Eli.  I read a few paragraphs and cringed at nearly every word.  How could I, Master of Originality and Wielder of Words, create such trite garbage?  I want to print it out and read through it all, just to see what the heck kind of story I did.  I vaguely remember pieces of what it was about, but very little.  I know it's got plot holes galore, I remember having that problem. 

The sad thing is this story is just one more notch on my very long belt of unfinished tales.  I'm not sure why I struggle to finish stories.  It's not that I don't enjoy writing them.  Lord knows I love to write.  Apparently I always have, evidenced by the stacks of old writings I've found.  (FN2)  And if I didn't love to write, then I wouldn't do it.  It doesn't matter if I'm writing a song or a blog post, there's just something about the way putting words out there makes me feel.  Sure, my true love is fiction, but it's also my bane.

I like to blame it on too much creativity.  My mind is always thinking about the next world to create.  What kind of people will it have?  Or what will the environment look like for these folks?  Once I progress so far, it's like I've got to put to paper (FN3) the tale before I forget it, and then when I start jotting the ideas down, I instead jump ship and explore new waters more.  Am I simple minded?  ADHD?  I don't know, but I don't think I am.

Maybe I get lost in my story.  Perhaps I know where I'm at and where I want to go, but know that I want to explore more before I get there.  If this is the case, then I need to simply tighten up my focus and press on.  No one wants to read a sprawling epic that dawdles for too long before actually doing anything.

Looking back at most of my writings, it's rare to find an actual complete tale.  Do I struggle with the endgame?  Yes, but no.  I struggle to even make it to the end.  The biggest culprit is, of course, the lack of time, but that's used so often that it's a cliché that I can't put stock in.  If I love it, then I'll find time.  True.  But I don't.  For whatever reason, my stories peter out and sit alone on a shelf with the rest of forgotten lore.  They're not masterpieces, nor are they well written, but they're mine.  They're things I've invested time in, yet not enough.  What does it take to get me to finish one?

Somehow I still convince myself to keep writing.  This story will be different.  This one will end.  It will have closure.  I can hear my future self laughing back at my current self now.  (FN4)  Keep telling yourself that, Logan.  The writing machine keeps spinning yarns, but they always keep a-breakin'.  But maybe this time you just might do it.

It's enough to keep me trying.

--------

FN1:  Disk is such an odd word.  I almost always use disc, but with a floppy, it seems like it's disk, with a K.  I'm not sure if there's really a difference in the English language.
FN2:  I must have always been odd.  Most of my stories are completely absurd, posing ridiculous situations or juxtaposing things that ought not be juxtaposed.
FN3:  Okay, I don't literally write on paper.  Most of my writing is done via Google Documents.  Rarely do I use paper and pen for writing, though there are extenuating circumstances.
FN4:  Like FN3, I can't literally hear this, though if I did I would be perplexed.

Things I Think About

I think about what it would feel like to take some jagged piece of metal, perhaps the inner lip of a soda can, and rub it around on the bottoms of my top teeth, letting the spaces between bones and gums brush up against the destruction of the can.  Would bone powder scrape off? 

I think about how it would feel if the city bus hit me.  Would I go flying backwards or would I get squashed under it, perhaps being dragged a bit down the unforgiving asphalt until the bus driver stops.  Or mayhap I'd get stuck in the grill, mangled and twisted.

I think about about my personal limits, how far I'd go in order to do something or experience something.  How can I accurately describe something that I've not endured?  The best I can do is guess.  But how accurate is the guess?  How accurate does it need to be?

I think about blood.  It makes me sick, seeing the red liquid of life pouring from our fragile bodies.  Guts splayed open, purple and blue and white.  Flesh carved, slender grooves or wide scars.  I can't begin to imagine seeing it in real life, working as a surgeon or a serial killer or a hematologist.

I think about how bad it would hurt to cut off a finger with a pair of scissors, or cut that little piece of paper-thin flesh beneath my tongue.  Would the pain be numbing or would it result in extreme anguish?  Would I pass out?  It would only take a second to find out.

How can a writer write about something he's unfamiliar with?  If he describes a small rural town in central Nebraska that happens to exist but he's never seen it, invariably he's going to do it injustice.  Someone will be offended.  So if he describes a kidnapping or a murder or adultery, and he's never experienced these things, then he's going to miss the nuances in the emotions.  Inevitably, someone will be offended.

I think about pain, how feeling it brings out the life in us.  The sore on my hand that hurts when I press it, yet for some reason I press it over and over again.  Is something that hurts me different from something that hurts you?  Does a scratch here feel good to me, but on you causes a grimace?  And the people who feel no pain, physical or emotional, are they even human?

I think about love, how something so simple can even exist in our world.  It's desired by all, but many are so hesitant to give and share it that the world is full of people searching for an unfound treasure.  I found it.  I cling to it every day of my life.  But I share it, too.  With anyone that'll have it.

I think about the flotsam and jetsam and lagan and derelicts in life.  How many people have been abandoned, cast away and left floating in the mire of the world?  How many promises have been broken?  Lies told?  Hopes dashed and stomped to the ground?  Who gets stuck with all these broken people?  What do they become?

Imagination is the key, I suppose.  An writer mayn't have lived through things he writes about, but that does not stop him from trying to capture it.  An artist mayn't know what love is, but can paint a picture that captures its essence to someone else.  Perception is a strong thing.  Truly, without the experiences, it's all guesswork; some may be spot-on, and others could be completely wrong.  We are, after all, a rather unpredictable lot.

On Bandwagons/Facebook

I’ve never been one of those people who jump on bandwagons.  That’s not to say that I haven’t (or that I don’t), but I think it’s a rarity.  I’ve walked my own path in life, even if (and when) it makes me a bit (or a lot) weird.  I try to be original, and I attribute this to my artistic nature.  I don’t want to emulate (though I can’t help but emulate some singers’ voices) artists; I want to be my own.

Let us consider the clothes that are in my closet.  I have a large collection of Hawaiian shirts.  I’m not sure if these shirts have ever been in style, but for some reason, I’ve always liked them.  Looking further at my closet you’ll find plenty of STAR WARS shirts.  Again, not sure about they style they offer, but I like them.  In fact, unless the situation really calls for it, I don’t care whether or not I match (gasp!) when I dress myself.  I almost never brush or comb my hair, or what’s left of it.  Again, I walk my own path in life.

I go out of my way to not listen to current, popular music, unless I myself think it sounds good.  I don’t get in to all those reality television shows, or half of the other crap on the tube, either.  Books I’m not so picky on, just as long as the plot is entertaining.  I’m proud to say that I don’t have a Twitter account, and frankly, I have no real idea what it is.  I don’t have an iPhone.  I don’t text message.  I don’t do LSD and sniff cocaine off a coffee table.  What I do have, though, is a Facebook account.

Yes, that is a bandwagon I hopped on.  Back during my freshman year of college a little program came out called thefacebook.com.  It was solely for college students, where they could keep up with one another, message each other, make some friends, and write on their walls.  That’s about it, I think.  I thought it would be a good way for me to stay in contact with some high school friends (hahahahaha…) and some college friends.  The world was fine.

Then evolution happened.  Facebook opened doors to high school students, then to corporations and companies, and then to anybody that wanted to get on there, just as long as they said they were over the age of 13.  A cornucopia full of applications suddenly appeared.  Ads exploded on the sidebars.  The GUI went through several changes, and each one brought complaints.  The few million college users turned into a 350 million active worldwide users, and things will never be the same.

I’ve wanted to get off Facebook for a while now.  Probably something like a year or two.  I strongly dislike the applications and quizzes, and whenever anybody sends me one, I immediately block it.  I don’t care, nor do I want to know, what Suzy Q’s doing right now.  I don’t play games on Facebook, nor do I want to.  The only things I like about it is looking at pictures and mirroring my blog as a note.  While I said it would be great to keep in touch with my college and high school friends via Facebook, there are really only a handful of folks that I keep in touch with, and I have their emails.

But it’s hard to let it go now.  The world has changed so much, and many of my interests are now on Facebook.  Businesses, churches, etc. incorporate Facebook into their lifestyle now.  Fan pages exist, making it seem like you’re a “friend” of somebody/something special.  Ugh.  The whole market-system of it all sickens me.

Have I mentioned I hate applications?  Yes, I believe I did, but I think it deserves another mention.  I hate applications.  I won’t answer strange questions to poorly correlate me to see which character I’m most like from Mork & Mindy or Three’s Company.  I refuse to accept your cute puppy thing you’ve sent me.  I consider myself your friend, but I won’t take your Top Friend’s quiz thing.

I’ve sufficiently exhausted myself and rekindled my burning desire to extinguish my Facebook account.  It’s been active for five years.  I’ve enjoyed some of my time on Facebook, but I’ve been frustrated by it, too.  (Drama should not exist online.)  Who knows.  Maybe I’ll finally manage to pull a Facebook suicide and rid myself of this plague on humanity.  Or maybe I’ll start playing FarmVille and the world will explode.

Random Bits & Pieces

• I accidentally stabbed myself with a kitchen knife over the weekend.
• I watched the entire second half of the Super Bowl and I enjoyed it.
• I’ve never watched football before.
• I ate from a delicious chocolate fondue last night.
• DeVotchKa is a pretty sweet band.
• I laughed and laughed and laughed at this video, “The World’s Most Generic News Report.”  [WARNING: It’s got a few worty dirds in it.  But only a few.  And it’s very, very funny.]

Things That Get Under My Skin: A Portrait of Personality

1.  People not using their turn signals.
2.  People pulling out in front of other people.
3.  Very liberal people.
4.  Very conservative people.
4.5.  Inconsiderate people.
5.  People who think they are always right.
6.  People who insist that their thinking and opinions are always better.
7.  Communication breakdowns and failures.
8.  The Sound of Music.
9.  Whining and complaining.
10.  Haters.
11.  Inconsiderate people.
12.  People bothering me when Lost is on.
13.  Needles.  (Well, this one’s obvious, given the title of this post.)
14.  Bad instructions.
15.  Talkers at the movies.
15.7  Inconsiderate people.
16.  Spilling water all over the place when I’m doing dishes.
17.  Stuff breaking that ain’t s’posed to break.
18.  Facebook.
19.  Mega-man, in all its glory and fun, being too dang hard at times.
20.  Anti-military sentiments.
20.3  Inconsiderate people.
20.3.b.  Rude people towards cashiers, waiters, etc.
20.3.c.  Rude cashiers, waiters, etc.
21.  Mammy’s voice in Gone with the Wind.
22.  Sending an email to a professor (or co-worker) that’s long and detailed and getting a one-word response.

“The most important single ingredient in the formula of success is knowing how to get along with people.”—Theodore Roosevelt

Looking back at this list, it’s obvious to me what really sticks out.  When people don’t take the time to think before they speak, when they speak just to speak, to hear the sound of their own voice, or when they speak hurtful things, it rankles me.  There are people in this world that think before they speak, and there are people that say whatever’s on the tip of their tongue.  There are people who challenge everything and everyone, and there are people who are easy to please.  There are people who are never satisfied and there are people who always are.

I’ve said for many years that communication issues are why there are so many problems.  Some people can’t articulate their thoughts well and they say one thing but mean another.  For better or worse, what’s said is said, and that’s what’s acted on.  Some people speak well and clearly, precise and to the point, and this may irk somebody else.

We’re all human and we must learn to work with people.  That’s part of life.  I’m fine with working with people, or I’m okay to work alone, too.  I feel like I’m easy to work with.  I don’t care to do my part, and I don’t care to do other people’s parts every once in a while, either.  I always try to be tactful in my communication, and I’m always considerate and respectful.

A company I worked for a few years ago had all of their employees do a personality test called the Strength Development Inventory.  We answered many questions and What if situations, and a few weeks later we all had a seminar.  The results divided up people into one of seven categories: Red, Red-Green, Green, Green-Blue, Blue, Blue-Red, and Hub.  Our primary category was where we were most of the time in our life, when things are going normal.  Our secondary category was where we go when there is conflict.  The results pegged me dead on.

Blue people are “people pleasers.”  They’re eager to get things done by doing whatever it takes.  They’re often said to have big hearts that are easily bruised and offended.  Green people are “analyzers.”  They spend time thinking through their work, making sure that what is done is done efficiently and correct.  Red people are very “ambitious and motivated.”  Red people are typically supervisors or bosses and they often are guided by their own sense of self-motivation.  They are the risk takers.  (The mixed colors take elements of both, and the Hub is a combo of all three.)

In conflict, Blue people turn belly up and do whatever it takes to be out of conflict.  They dislike conflict with a passion.  Green people tend to stick to their analysis, believing that their work is correct and well thought out.  Red people tend to enjoy a little conflict, believing that it gets things done; however, Red people tend to blow up during conflict, too, and their tempers are notorious.

There’s no singular good or bad color group.  All have plusses and minuses.  The point of the SDI test is to get teams and people to learn how to work together.  A group of people that have an understanding of each other is going to be more productive than a group of people that don’t.

These same traits follow over into life outside of work, too.  Spouse.  Friends.  Family.  Neighbor.  Blogger.  Everybody has their own, unique personality, and if we’re going to succeed at humanity, then we’ve got to learn to work with people.  We don’t always have to get our way to be happy.  We don’t always have to ride shotgun.  We don’t always have to voice our opinions, even if we think they’re the better idea.  We don’t always have to be jerks, cause whether you realize it or not, you’re a jerk to someone.  You get on somebody’s nerves, and that makes you a jerk.  I’m a jerk.  You’re a jerk.  We’re all just a globe full of jerks, trying to get by as best we can.

That said, I am a Blue-Green person, and in conflict I go more Blue-Green.  I tend to analyze everything before I act, but my analysis is also rooted in my desire to work well and appease others.  My own self-desires often suffer or go unmentioned because I want everybody else to be happy.  Red people make me nervous at times, but usually only when they’re in conflict mode.  I do my best to get the job done, but I weigh the risks heavily, too.  An example seems applicable.

Me:  “I wanna play Mario Kart.”
Person A:  “Mario Kart’s lame and stupid.  I don’t like it.  I want to play WarioWare.”
Me:  “Uh…  okay.  I’m sorry.  We’ll play WarioWare.” 
Person B:  “Meh, I could go for either one.  Doesn’t matter to me.”
Person A:  “Yeah, well, if we play Mario Kart then I’m not playing.”
Me:  “We’ll play WarioWare.”

This conversation has never happened, but it easily identifies people for what color they are.  I end up feeling lame and stupid, like my opinion isn’t good enough for Person A.  Obviously if Mario Kart is lame and stupid, somebody that plays it is, too, right?  But the question is whether or not Person A meant that.  A Blue person would feel that way whether it was meant or not, sadly, and would never say anything about it.  Person A probably doesn’t mean that I am stupid and lame or he wouldn’t be hanging out with me in the first place, but he also doesn’t realize the way he’s speaking, either.

The principles of the SDI test have stuck with me for over two years now.  I think about it when I deal with people.  Above everything I want people to get along.  I want people to be considerate and respectful of other people.  Be humble instead of proud and opinionated.  Be nice instead of jumping down someone’s throat.  Think, people, before you act.  There’s nothing wrong with having an opinion and insisting you get your way, but when it’s that way all the time, then there’s a conflict.  Whether you realize it or not, you’re affecting somebody.

If you ever get a chance to take the SDI test, do so.  And please, remember the golden rule and think before you act.

Random Bits and Pieces

• Lost premiers the final season tonight!
• You can give blood every 56 days.  How long has it been for you?
• Two posts tomorrow: Writing Wednesdays and a Lost rehash.
• You can win an Apple iPad from the Stuff Christian’s Like blog, a satirical Christian blog on pop culture and the like.
• Eat Belgian waffles, not Belgians.

On the Bible and Bigotry

Of all the books ever made, the Bible is by far the most influential, best selling tome out there.  Whether you’re religious (I hate using that word) or not, it’s very likely that you know what a Bible is.  They’re ubiquitous nowadays, and to me that’s a good thing.  Personally, I know I own at least 7 Bibles: 1 Thompson Chain KJV, 1 Dake Annotated Reference KJV, 1 Daily KJV, 1 Compact HCSB, 1 Study HCSB, 1 Slim ESV, 1 NASB.  There’s just something special about the book that I love.

The book offers a wide array of authors, but stems from the inspiration of God.  Broken into 66 individual books, including history, poetry, proverbs, prophecy, the Bible is a book filled with wonder.  Some believe that the events in the Bible are fictitious or hyperbolized, but I do not.  The stories of the Old Testament are fascinating.  You get to see many great men and women of God profess their love and adoration to Him, but you see their weaknesses and failures, too.  Moses’ anger.  King David’s lust.  Jonah’s fear.

Nearly all of the events in the Old Testament deal with the people of Israel and their constant love-hate relationship with the Creator.  God’s hand in building up His people, from the birth of Isaac, through the splitting of the kingdom, and to the captivity of the nations, all lead up to the New Testament.

Where is our Savior?  I’m sure they wondered.  Where is the Messiah?

Everyone knows the Christmas story.  Jesus was humbly born in a manger.  This babe grew to become the Savior of Man.  He performed miracles, causing the lame to walk and the blind to see (among others), all in the name of God.  He offered a way of life that involved love and peace, understanding and compassion.  His greatest commandments were to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” and to “love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37,39)

It’s these words that are life-changing.  If we love our God with our everything and we love our neighbors as ourselves, then how can we not love everyone?  How can we be a people of hate and bigotry and then turn around and quote Jesus?  Christ did not say to the harlot “get away from me you vile and wretched whore.”  No.  Jesus loved her.  He welcomed her.  He gave her living water.  He forgave her.  He died for her.

The same is true for you and I.  Jesus, the Son of God, the only true holy person to have ever lived, lived a perfect and flawless life.  His message of love and peace was scoffed at.  His claims of being the Son of God were ridiculed.  He freely gave up his life to be crucified on a horrible, wooden cross.  His arms and feet were nailed into the wood and he was erected on a hill, above the gathered crowd.  He cried out to forgive the people and he died.

This terrible death did not end him, though.  Three days later he arose from the grave, glorified and holy.  He walked the grounds, once again preaching and healing.

I read the Bible.  How can I not?  It is the sole book on which I have based my life upon.  The words, while confusing (I’m looking at you Ezekiel and Daniel), are powerful and God-spoken.  But beyond the words is the message.  The message to love.  If Jesus commanded us to love, then why don’t we?  Why are there people that think it’s okay to be racist?  Prejudiced?  Homophobic?  This is wrong.  Christ did not tell us to love almost everyone as ourselves.  It’s an all or nothing thing.

This post is not about theology.  It’s about the fact that I love the Bible and I wish I read it more.  I love the stories of David and the Judges and the Prophets and the early church.   I love reading about my Savior and his life.  But I also love reading the truth in the Scripture, the convicting truth that we are to love our God with all our heart, body, mind, and soul, and I know I don’t put in all four often enough.  The truth that we are to love everybody, not just those that think like we do.

It’s a tough life and I’m not sure how I could make it without Jesus.  I find comfort and strength in his words.  I fail and fall short often, but I know he’s there for me when I rise again.  It’s my prayer that we’ll be a people that embraces his teaching—all of his teaching—and that our world will be a better place.

On the Darker Side of Songs

Still snowing here in the bleak and dying lands of Western Kentucky.  Another day of cold, frigid temperatures and harsh winds.  Roads covered with pure white and ugly, dirty brown.  The juxtaposition does not go unnoticed.  In something as clean and pristine as snow, the reality of life’s hard edge still exists.

If you’ve clicked on my profile then you know that I’m a fan of folk, bluegrass, and old-time music.  Some common motifs in many songs from these genres are murder, infidelity, death and dying, alcohol, drugs, theft, and any combination of these or other reprehensible things.  Not all of this kind of music is dark, but some of it is, and it’s these dark songs that often get wedged in my head.

Take Old Crow Medicine Show’s “Methamphetamine.”  The song has a hook that pulls you in and keeps your ears glued.  But I like the song because it’s real.  It’s raw.  It’s true.  It talks about how times are tough and surviving is hard.  But there’s a light for those in the song, and that light comes from selling/using meth.  The song doesn’t advocate using the deadly drug, but it points out the reality of our world.  And coming from a county often called “Methenberg Co.,” I know the devastating affects of this drug.

Or look at The Decemberists song “The Shankill Butchers.”  The dark mood of the song immediately struck a chord in me, forcing me to listen to what the singer was saying.  Then I found out that song was based on actual events, actual horrible murders, that took place in the 1970s in Belfast, Northern Ireland.  I knew about the conflicts between Ireland and Northern Ireland, but not like this.  This was eye opening.  This was how-can-people-be-so-cruel-gut-tearing.  This, again, was real. 

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that a lot of the songs I listen to come across as dark, terrible songs.  Like the white clean snow and the dirty, road-weary snow, this is how I see my life.  I’m not pure and holy, but I don’t necessarily think I’m a vile person, either.  So listening to these kinds of songs strike some as odd.

A large attraction to the dark songs is that their melody’s are often catchy and the music is pleasing.  But an even greater attraction is the Realism in the songs.  They have poignant, obvious life messages.  Don’t cheat on your spouse.  Don’t kill people just for the fun of it.  Don’t rob banks.  Be thankful and satisfied with your lot in this world.  In almost every outcome the guilt is unbearable and the aftermath is never worth it.  The heartache is never worth it.

I think these kinds of songs can be used to teach people/society lessons.  If a song can pack enough weight in its words and music, then maybe, just maybe, someone will be affected by it.  Songs are emotional things, after all, and so are (most) people, whether they show it or not.

In the end, dark songs are not the only songs I listen to, but that’s rather obvious, again, if you’ve looked at my profile and know the kinds of music I like.  But I do like songs that are real and honest, and I take what I get.  Mama pajama rolled out of bed and she ran to the police station…

Random Bits and Pieces

• Firefly disc one, containing the first three episodes, was amazing
• Poker tourney tomorrow night
• I’m finally able to buy monthly editions of STAR WARS Legacy comics
• I’m thankful for Diet Mtn. Dew, Tea, and Coffee
• I’ve not had much free time to read lately
• Stella does NOT like the snow

On Christmas Music

There’s something special about Christmas music.  Kind of.  Really I should say that there’s something special about Christmas music for a little while and then it quickly gets old.  Some people start playing it the day after Thanksgiving and keep it going on into February.  Others may turn on the radio on Christmas Eve as they’re cooking, but no more.  Others may only hear it at church when they go to see a Christmas play or cantata.  And still more will eschew Christmas music like it’s the bubonic plague.

Myself, I love Christmas music, but conditionally.  I like it with variety.  If it all sounds crisp, clean, and bubbly, I’m ready to tear my ears off and plug the holes with caulk within a few short minutes.  I like the traditional Dean Martin or Nat King Cole song as much as the next guy, but not only them.  Different arrangements of the music makes all the difference in the world.  Or playing quirky, odd Christmas songs.  Something to break the monotony of familiar Christmas tunes.

As a musician, one thing I really appreciate and like about Christmas music is its complexity.  Christmas songs typically make use of odd chords that aren’t played as often, diminished and augmented things.  And many of them rely on a heavy minor sound, which I find absolutely delightful.  There’s just something moodier when I hear a minor chord, something a bit more mysterious and powerful.

Right along with the actual music is the lyrics behind many Christmas songs.  Many of them deal with the birth of Jesus, of course, and that is well and good.  His birth should be remembered and honored, and by singing carols of Him we are worshipping Him in a way.  But then there’s the secular Christmas songs, like “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” “Blue Christmas,” or “The Christmas Song.”  These songs are often fun to sing along with and the wide array of meaning behind them, from sadness of memories gone by to the joys of riding a sleigh through snowy hills.  I enjoy a good mix of meaning with my songs.

A final thing that I really like about Christmas music is that it crosses every genre, but it also is a genre of its own.  You can listen to one artist sing a favorite Christmas song, adding to it their own personal touch.  Or perhaps they leave it alone, stripping it down to its simple form and sing over the easy chords.  Whatever the case may be, each artist will add their own unique flavor to any song, and the variety in this is perfect for curing the normal Christmas music blues.

I’ve written this post chiefly for one reason: Christmas music does not have to be painful to listen to.  No, truly there is hope for the music.  I found it, and now I’ll share it with you.  A plethora of answers to life are available from NPR, and they have the fix for this dilemma, too.  Jingle Jams: A Holiday Mix from NPR Music offers 100 favorite holiday songs, from Bach to the Ramones to Louis Armstrong to Johnny Cash, and they’re all available for free listening here.  The streaming is on a loop, so you don’t get to pick where you start, but you can listen to a great variety of Christmas music.  There are very familiar songs and there are songs I’ve never heard before.  Overall, I’ve enjoyed it, and you can too.  Thank you NPR.  You always come through.

Random Bits and Pieces

• Writing Wednesdays tomorrow.  Don’t miss it.
• Amazon’s Deal of the Day is Assassin’s Creed II for $40.  That’s outrageous!
• Some funny Christmas ads from yesteryear.  I liked the first one best.
• I still haven’t picked out Keisha’s gift.
• I’m compiling my data from all the books I’ve read for 2009 and will be posting it the last week of the year.

3 Observations of a Dying Generation

1.  The generational gaps in our society are astounding if you think about it.  Look back forty to fifty years, where racism was commonplace.  Society was segregated by skin color, and those with the light skin color were superior to those with the darker.  White people could ride the bus and have a seat.  They could have a nice professional job.  They lorded over people like they were better, just because they had light colored skin.

Our generation?  Racism exists, but it’s much more convoluted and much less common.  Now, I think racism is only a very small problem in America and it’s fueled by every colored skin there is.  I can’t stand to hear people being racist, even if they’re joking, and it puts a stab in my gut when I hear it.  But I really hate reading the news and seeing things analyzed by race.  “Was this a racial crime?  Is this person the victim of prejudice?”  Those sorts of things kill me.  Really, what kills me even more, is why do we even have to consider the race card any longer?  Aren’t we all just people, trying to live our lives the best we can?  Who cares what color skin you have?

For the majority, I think the racism card is generationally dying off.  When President Obama was elected into office, sure, it was a big deal, being the first African-American president, but the significance of it was lost on me.  Racism is not a problem in my world.  Skin color means jack to me.  I didn’t grow up seeing race riots and KKK marches on TV; instead, I saw fictionalized women and African-American presidents on TV.  Thus, it wasn’t a stretch for me to accept a real dark skinned President for our troubled country.

2.  Fox News is another thing that hopefully will fade into oblivion with the passing generations.  Or, at least the way news is currently presented.  Sensationalism in general is nothing more than propaganda, skewed to influence your opinion in one light as to the other.  I don’t understand how people believe the things they see and hear from sensationalistic newscasts.  To me, it seems obvious when people are offering opinions instead of unbiased facts.

While I feel that yellow journalism is pretty much dead, I see things like Fox News in the same light.  It is my hope that the news will have a paradigm shift in presentation, reporting facts and little conjecture.  That’s why I like NPR.

3.  Another thing that is becoming obsolete is the personal telephone landline.  Our society is an on-the-go, wireless society.  My household does not have a landline and likely never will, as we use our cells for communication.  I can see no point in having a house phone.  Any faxing I should need to do can be done at work or the library, and internet service no longer requires it.  In fact, the only things I can see still having landlines are businesses.

There are many things going away, some good and some bittersweet and some downright tragic.  And even though my generation has its fair share of problems, I think we’ve got a lot to look forward to, as well.  Think back to the American Revolution and the fierce battles that were fought.  Picture it in your mind.  Now look at the picture below.

Is that how you pictured it?  An incomplete Death Star hanging in orbit?  An 18th century war fought with lightsabers?  If so, friend, then you truly know your history.

This post didn’t really convey the point I was trying to make.  What I was trying to get around to saying was that strawberry cream cheese on a nice bagel in the morning is something I’m thankful for, something I’m glad we have in our society and something I hope never goes away.  I believe in my generation, that we’ll stomp the racial card into near oblivion, that we’ll abolish Fox News, and that the death of landlines will make our cell phone bills cheaper.  We can do it, America.

On Minesweeper and Logic

I’m a fan of Minesweeper.  It’s really a pretty simple, logical game.  You get a grid of squares, you click on a square and a number, n, is revealed.  That number means there are n bombs touching that square.  For example, if you click and a 2 is revealed, then 2 of the surrounding 8 squares are bombs.  The act of logical deduction is thus used and eventually the minefield is cleared.  The Microsoft bundled Minesweeper comes with three difficulties: Beginner (which has 10 mines), Intermediate (which has 40), and Expert (which has 99).

I’ve played Minesweeper since I was in high school, and I’ve always enjoyed the mathematical rules the game must obey.  Using a logical approach, with deductive reasoning, practically any game can be solved after the initial guessing is made.  I used to believe this, especially in the Beginner and Intermediate games, but after playing Expert for a while I am forced to admit it is no longer valid.  The image to the right clearly ignores all logical reasoning and the final game is reduced to luck.  The odds that the top square will have the mine is 50%, while the odds that the bottom square is the mine is also 50%.  How can I pick one of these over the other?  Where is the logic that I so dearly love?

Sadly, it is absent.  The logic completely breaks down at this point in the game, sending my brain into overload and frustration.  And when logic fails, it’s often a strange situation we find ourselves in.

Because I’m a nerd/geek, and because I love math & science, it’s pretty obvious that my brain is structured to think logically.  If A makes B happen every time, and B is always causing a C to occur, and C sometimes results in D happening, then it’s easy to see that A will logically lead to C, but A won’t always result in D.  This thinking method is how my brain functions.  It’s my comfort zone, the way I attempt to understand life and the things therein.

Unfortunately, as in Minesweeper, there are logical breakdowns in life.  These usually enter into play when uncontrolled emotions become involved.  As an artist, I believe artwork stems from passions, and these passions are connected to how we feel about things.  Our feelings shape who we are and how we’re perceived if we act on them.  If we don’t, then part of me thinks that we are denying our natural urges, but another part of me thinks that we should be able to restrain ourselves from acting.  We can’t be stoics…

Things done with moderation are a good thing; they exercise control and give us a bit of liberty.  However, too much and we’re soon a slave to our desires, the freedom replaced with bondage.  For example, a little television is fine and perfectly accepted, but when you’re spending every waking, possible hour in front of the tube, then there is a problem.  Anything that becomes an obsession is never a good thing, in my opinion, as I think we should be free from anything that holds us down.

All of these things seem to breakdown life’s logic.  It does not make logical sense to spend 10 hours a day watching TV if you need to be doing something else.  It’s unhealthy and perceived as lazy, and I’m rather inclined to agree.  Furthermore, it doesn’t make sense to spend every possible moment with your nose in a book, either, for similar reasons (though reading doesn’t typically have the “lazy” stigma attached to it.)  It does not make sense to take a drug that you know has a chance of killing you, of giving you a terrible addiction.  While we may get pleasure from doing these things, doing them in excess is a bit of a logical failure in my eyes.

I guess it all can boil back to me being an engineer.  Like most people, production is a positive thing in life, and we feel good about ourselves getting things done.  However, as an engineer, I strongly feel that efficiency is as important.  Does it make more sense to spend one hour focused on study, accomplishing a great deal, and possibly even finishing the assignment or to procrastinate, put off studying until your favorite show is over and then stay up into the night, letting your synapses burn dry and your thoughts shrivel up?  I just don’t understand life.

By no means am I above it, and I am plagued by procrastination as much as the next lad/lass.  Typically I try to accomplish things efficiently for a while, but eventually I grow tired and want to do something else (like, say, pick up my guitar or sit down at the piano).  Like Brandon said on his blog the other day, persistence is key (okay, he didn’t say it like that, but that was the meaning.)  If we press on, disciplining ourselves against our whims and desires, then we’ll find that we’re more efficient, more productive, and more logical.

Logically, persistence is how we get into our obsessions anyway.  We form our routines, doing the same thing over and over, day in, day out, and eventually we’re a ‘slave to our selves.’  Some look at the root of problems by taking that first step, that first smoke, that first look, that first whatever.  If they hadn’t did it the first time, then they wouldn’t be in the shape their in.  While I partially can agree to this opinion, the second (and third…) step is equally impactful.  Those are the ones that form the addiction.  (I know there are things in life where one time is enough to start the addiction, but these don’t work in my allegory.)

So, if persistence is how we get into our messes, it’s also the way we get out of them.  Our bodies are weak, and we can change them if we desire it enough.  If we want it more than anything, if we set our goals on truly being liberated from everything in life, then we can change.  Through persistence and repetition, never giving up even when we fail, we can rise above this world and its logical breakdowns.  We, my friends, can be free.

Afterword:  Wow, this post morphed from my original idea.  Initially I wanted to talk about how our emotions can take control of us and lead us to acting differently, lead us to being illogical, but instead I went off on other things.  I have no idea how I got on the topic of obsessions and addictions, and it seems like I have procrastination posts a lot…  Oh, and if you’re wondering how my game of Minesweeper ended, just look at the cool little smiley face man with the sun glasses at the top of the picture beneath this paragraph (woah, that’s a lot of prepositional phrases).  Yep, I got lucky.

On Morbid Curiosity

What is it inside of us that is attracted to the morbid side of life? Is it that we’re all destined to die one day, and so we like to look Death in the eyes while we live and tell him we’re not scared? Or is it there some sort of gene within us that wants to observe the grotesque and macabre?

For example, I’ve never been one of those people who like to watch those sick videos of people’s tragic death’s caught on tape. I don’t visit those websites to look at automobile accident victims, or gunshot wounds. I don’t really even like to look at blood. Heck, I’d get a little squeamish watching ER from time to time. Anyway, for reasons far beyond me, I watched a two minute video the other day that I wish I’d passed on. A Facebook friend shared it, with the title along the lines of “I Can’t Believe He’s Still Alive!” or something like that. Self-conflicted, I decided that if the person was still alive, then it would be safe enough to watch. I ignored the gory warning.

At one point I actually paused the video (after the first onset of a bleeding head) and debated whether or not I wanted to continue. It was almost over, so why not? That was a terrible mistake, and I can’t get the images out of my mind.

But there’s some sort of attraction for this stuff that I don’t understand. How can people be calloused enough to want to watch things like that? And then make stupid and obnoxious comments (“well, the dummy should’ve died!” or “Darwin scores again!”) that are filled with disrespect. Friends, the world baffles me.

Even though I don’t like the morbid stuff, I myself am not above this plague. Walking down the sidewalks at college, when a bus would drive by I’d find myself wondering what it would feel like to be hit by the monstrous vehicle. Would it immediately nock me unconscious or would I be dragged painfully for several yards? And when I make left-turns at an intersection I think about how it would feel to be T-Boned. It’s not that I want these things to happen, in fact it’s far from that, but it’s the experience I’m curious about.

How can a writer write about these sorts of things if they have no experience? It’s all speculation, I suppose. Everything but non-fiction is mostly an author’s speculation, I suppose. Speculation is directly linked to imagination, which is strongly correlated to reading enjoyment, and again I’m baffled.

Don’t worry, folks, I’m a happy, optimistic life-loving individual with an overactive mind. I’d wager, though, that you’ve probably had similar queries. How would a lighting bolt feel? Would a zombie bite through my leg be as painful as a Doberman’s? (There’ll be a review of Zombieland up tomorrow, by the way.)

I guess the day I stop being curious will be the day I die.

(This was posted using the Windows Live Writer, recommended by Shellie. Hopefully everything turns out, cause it looks like a promising tool.)

Oh The Times They Aren't A-Changin' (On Hate & Bigotry)

I'm a ponderer. I like it. Critical thinking and introspection are great tools to use, on self and society. For the most part, I think I'm immune to society's stupidity, but sometimes I see the world and it reminds me that I'm not inoculated.

I believe in respect. While I may not agree with certain choices and actions people take, I still believe that they are deserving of love and respect. When I see people displaying hate and bigotry it feels like a stab to the heart, especially if it's coming from a follower of Jesus Christ. Where is the love? Christ walked with the grime of Jerusalem and he loved them. He went on to command that "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself." (Matthew 22:37-40 ESV) Jesus' love was so great for us that he died a horrible death for everyone. Everyone is not an excluding term. It means that every person, regardless of their circumstances and sin, has a way to the Father, as long as they profess that "Jesus is Lord" (Romans 10:9 ESV).

If Christ is the model we emulate, then bigotry and hate do not fit into that model. There is no love in tearing down your fellow man. How was/is slavery tolerated? Why do drug addicts have a bad stigma? Why are we uncomfortable around homosexuals? Why do we walk past the homeless man standing outside of Walgreens instead of giving him some cash?

Our society is largely Christian, with almost 80% proclaiming that tag. (The article, found here, is actually pretty interesting to look at.) While the other 20% doesn't try to follow Christ, I'm sure they don't believe in hate and bigotry. In fact, I believe it's universally accepted as a good gesture to treat everyone equal. Sadly, this does not happen around the world. Inequality still exists, people are still beaten down, and love is nowhere to be found.

My mind got to turning and spinning on this topic a day or two ago. I was driving home from work and got behind a car with a rude bumper sticker. It read, simply, "AIDS cures FAGS." At first I was shocked. Then I was hollowed out. Then I felt a mixture of anger and sorrow. Why?! I wondered.

The problem was in the wording. To my knowledge, AIDS doesn't cure anything. It kills. And death is not a cure. And fags is just a horrible sounding word. It's just like using ethnic slurs on other people. It is demeaning. While I can appreciate some level of political incorrectness (as long as it's within the realm of respect), for the most part, it's better to be politically correct than stupid and rude. In addition, there are millions of AIDS stricken people who've done nothing wrong (see Africa) and are bearing the burdens of earlier generations. This disease is no joking matter.

The disease is twofold. AIDS is serious, and if progress could be made in curing those sick and dying children of Uganda, Tanzania, Kenya, etc., then I'm all for it. The bigger disease is Man's Uncaring Heart. Until we learn to love and respect one another, we'll always be inflicted with hate. And as long as people cling to their hate, we'll have bigotry. Just because someone is different than you, or doesn't meet your standards, does not mean that they're not a person and that they don't deserve as much respect as you. In my opinion, if you want to have respect, you have to give respect. Until then, our world will never change.