I started my morning by repairing the computers in our house.
My stepfather came upstairs a few minutes ago and heaves this big-ass melodramatic sigh.
Him: "Are you using BOTH of them?!" (Indignance!)
Me: "Yes, I'm defragging the hard drives. They're horribly corrupted."
Him: "But I neeeeeeed that one." (More indignance!)
Me: "Fine. It has less than 250 MB of free space. It's not going to work."
He whisks the computer away and closes out the defragging which I have been working on for 2.5. hours. He is now pissed that the computer is not working and is calling my mother to complain.
So that's my morning.
Also, I have a crapload of homework. And I don't want to do it. Quel supris. Tant pis.
On a positive note, I have a new job that I adore. I am (drumroll please!!!) a magician's assistant. My employer is David the Magician. His website: http://davidmagic.net/ I now have such skills as nonchalance, sparkly eyeliner-application, lifting heavy things, and disappearing. It is a very glamorous, albeit difficult, emploi. More positive news: my dearest boyfriend shall be returning home tomorrow. I await his arrival on the imaginary edge of my imaginary chair.
And that is all, my readers. Good day.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A Crisis
Although I have a great many more important, albeit more mundane, things to be doing right now, I feel a need to write, in order to sort out my thoughts.
I have identified as a utilitarianist since this summer, and I made utilitarian decisions prior to then, just not knowing how to label my system of ethics. Utilitarianism has not failed me; I find its mathematical approach very appealing and logical and its emphasis on happiness well placed.
However.
I do not support the death penalty in any circumstance.
I think developed societies have a responsibility to provided welfare and healthcare for their citizens.
I think some human rights are fundamental.
If you do not yet see the issue with this, I will spell it out. A utilitarianist believes that it is ethical to make the decision that helps the greatest number of people or harms the least, even if it compromises the rights of an individual or a group. I am lately coming to think certain human rights are uncompromisable, though there are very few rights that fit into this category.
So therein lies my dilemma. I still stand behind utilitarianist ethics in most situations, but I am for the first time seeing a gaping hole in my own argument. I do not yet know how to reconcile the idea of certain inalienable rights with a system that consistently compromises them in the interest of the greater good. I will keep you posted, dear readers, as I come to my conclusion.
I have identified as a utilitarianist since this summer, and I made utilitarian decisions prior to then, just not knowing how to label my system of ethics. Utilitarianism has not failed me; I find its mathematical approach very appealing and logical and its emphasis on happiness well placed.
However.
I do not support the death penalty in any circumstance.
I think developed societies have a responsibility to provided welfare and healthcare for their citizens.
I think some human rights are fundamental.
If you do not yet see the issue with this, I will spell it out. A utilitarianist believes that it is ethical to make the decision that helps the greatest number of people or harms the least, even if it compromises the rights of an individual or a group. I am lately coming to think certain human rights are uncompromisable, though there are very few rights that fit into this category.
So therein lies my dilemma. I still stand behind utilitarianist ethics in most situations, but I am for the first time seeing a gaping hole in my own argument. I do not yet know how to reconcile the idea of certain inalienable rights with a system that consistently compromises them in the interest of the greater good. I will keep you posted, dear readers, as I come to my conclusion.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
A Poem Called Trees
The following poem was inspired by a couple of pages out of one of my favorite poetry anthologies, FEG (Ridiculous Poems for Intelligent Children) and from a conversation with my stepfather.
Have you ever had the chance to see
Three-hundred and sixty degrees of pine trees?
Can you describe it?
Alone in the forest
The boughs reaching all around
Above and below and
Right at you.
And in an instant
Those beautiful trees transform into something sinister
And you're expecting the appearance of the
Big
Bad
Wolf
You can't make an escape
Because you still have the sun's reflection off green needles in your eyes
And in that bleary miasma
You melt.
Have you ever had the chance to see
Three-hundred and sixty degrees of pine trees?
Can you describe it?
Alone in the forest
The boughs reaching all around
Above and below and
Right at you.
And in an instant
Those beautiful trees transform into something sinister
And you're expecting the appearance of the
Big
Bad
Wolf
You can't make an escape
Because you still have the sun's reflection off green needles in your eyes
And in that bleary miasma
You melt.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Lost Rings
I realized this morning that everyone has a Lost Ring story.
Ie: Me
Gollum
My friend Jay
My current English teacher
Jay's grandfather
A story written by my ex-English teacher Mr. Orr
I find this to be interessant. Rings seem to hold such a deeply personal meaning to the wearer that losing them is a horrible atrocity, one that is remembered forever. My Lost Ring story is about my mother's engagement ring:
The setting- I'm in the third grade. My mother is about to marry, after 3 very long years of making him wait, the man who will become my stepfather. I'm dressed in a green silk dress as the maiden of honor; it's December 16th and the chapel is decorated with holiday-themed gold and silver. My soon-to-be stepfather is already tearing up. He cries at the drop of a hat. I say a little blessing to my parents and step behind my mother. Before the vows between her and my stepfather begin, she takes off her modest engagement ring. She hands it to him. He steps forward and says to the congregation that he knows he's not just marrying my mother but also me, in that he will be from this point onward tied to my life as well. He turns to me and hands me the engagement ring. The vows are said and my mother is given a beautiful new ring with three sparkiling diamonds. Everyone tells her how beautiful it is, and so do I, but I keep catching glances of the round diamond in my new ring, at the shining platinum of its band.
Fast-forward five years- It's my freshman year of high school. I'm being forced to take P.E., which I hate. Our teacher has told us that we must remove all jewelry before we endure our torture. I take my ring off as I do every day for the class and set it on my school clothes, folded up on a bench. When I return to the locker room, I don't notice my ring is missing.
Later, I realize my ring is gone, and I scour the locker room for it. My ring is not there. I put in a request to the school's lost and found, but to no avail. Eventually, I come to grips with the truth- my ring has been lost forever. I cry; big, heaving sobs for a silly object, a shiny material possesion. And yet it was so much more than that to me; I'm in tears because the ring's happy and rich new owner will either sell it for cash or wear it, never knowing how much it meant to someone else.
I've come to grips with the loss of my ring, but I continually miss it in its absence. Four years later, I still run my thumb around the base of my ring finger expecting it to be there and being just a little surprised when it isn't.
This morning, in English class, my friend Jay thought he had lost his Eagle Scout ring. His concern upset our teacher, who, it turns out, once lost a special tiger's-eye ring of his own. Jay mentions his grandfather, who lost his Annapolis class ring. My classmates start throwing out their own stories of lost rings. It seems there is no jewelry or bauble that could be more important to a person than their ring, and hardly anything is easier lost. Makes one think of the fleeting nature of life; how quickly we can lose what means the most to us...
Ie: Me
Gollum
My friend Jay
My current English teacher
Jay's grandfather
A story written by my ex-English teacher Mr. Orr
I find this to be interessant. Rings seem to hold such a deeply personal meaning to the wearer that losing them is a horrible atrocity, one that is remembered forever. My Lost Ring story is about my mother's engagement ring:
The setting- I'm in the third grade. My mother is about to marry, after 3 very long years of making him wait, the man who will become my stepfather. I'm dressed in a green silk dress as the maiden of honor; it's December 16th and the chapel is decorated with holiday-themed gold and silver. My soon-to-be stepfather is already tearing up. He cries at the drop of a hat. I say a little blessing to my parents and step behind my mother. Before the vows between her and my stepfather begin, she takes off her modest engagement ring. She hands it to him. He steps forward and says to the congregation that he knows he's not just marrying my mother but also me, in that he will be from this point onward tied to my life as well. He turns to me and hands me the engagement ring. The vows are said and my mother is given a beautiful new ring with three sparkiling diamonds. Everyone tells her how beautiful it is, and so do I, but I keep catching glances of the round diamond in my new ring, at the shining platinum of its band.
Fast-forward five years- It's my freshman year of high school. I'm being forced to take P.E., which I hate. Our teacher has told us that we must remove all jewelry before we endure our torture. I take my ring off as I do every day for the class and set it on my school clothes, folded up on a bench. When I return to the locker room, I don't notice my ring is missing.
Later, I realize my ring is gone, and I scour the locker room for it. My ring is not there. I put in a request to the school's lost and found, but to no avail. Eventually, I come to grips with the truth- my ring has been lost forever. I cry; big, heaving sobs for a silly object, a shiny material possesion. And yet it was so much more than that to me; I'm in tears because the ring's happy and rich new owner will either sell it for cash or wear it, never knowing how much it meant to someone else.
I've come to grips with the loss of my ring, but I continually miss it in its absence. Four years later, I still run my thumb around the base of my ring finger expecting it to be there and being just a little surprised when it isn't.
This morning, in English class, my friend Jay thought he had lost his Eagle Scout ring. His concern upset our teacher, who, it turns out, once lost a special tiger's-eye ring of his own. Jay mentions his grandfather, who lost his Annapolis class ring. My classmates start throwing out their own stories of lost rings. It seems there is no jewelry or bauble that could be more important to a person than their ring, and hardly anything is easier lost. Makes one think of the fleeting nature of life; how quickly we can lose what means the most to us...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Un Petit Morceau de Poesie
Directionally,
He's on the up and up...
Keep it on the down low
Lowly
Like the worms in the ground
Piling filth into mounds
For to be found by the birds
For the birds
Idiomatically
Thematically
There's a motif--
To rise from the ashes like a thief
Escaping the smoke in a field
Using her body as a shield
In too deep--
As deep as the shovel goes
To raise those worms from the musty throes
Of their dank mausoleum.
He's on the up and up...
Keep it on the down low
Lowly
Like the worms in the ground
Piling filth into mounds
For to be found by the birds
For the birds
Idiomatically
Thematically
There's a motif--
To rise from the ashes like a thief
Escaping the smoke in a field
Using her body as a shield
In too deep--
As deep as the shovel goes
To raise those worms from the musty throes
Of their dank mausoleum.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Favorites
I have a confession to make. I once thought, and perhaps still think Emily Dickinson's "If You Were Coming in the Fall" was my favorite love poem of all time. It's beautiful in its simplicity and the imagery is vivid. It also has a wonderfully musical meter that makes it incredibly pleasing to hear. But it is not the sort of poem that an intellectual should list as their favorite. It's somewhat juvenile stylistically and the symbolism therein is either very obvious or nonexistent. Understanding it didn't take a lot of effort. I don't sound more intelligent for being able to decipher what it means. Essentially, my love of this poem is as if I thought Taylor Swift's lyrics were better than Of Montreal's.
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/emilydickinson/10463
Now, I may have a new favorite love poem. It is T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Eliot is the more intelligent choice, and I do think his poetry has more depth than Dickinson's. It still has the beautiful flow, vivid imagery, and simplicity that I liked in "If You Were Coming in the Fall", but it's the grown-up version. I read or hear "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", and instead of the warm fuzzy feeling I get from Emily Dickinson's poetry, I get a feeling of a deep stillness, a wisdom that I seldom find in myself. This poem is a love story for adults, for realists, for those who have loved and those who have lost, and for those who are still searching. It's a poem that embodies longing, a motif I've touched on in previous posts. It sees beauty in the everyday sadness of the last glowing embers of a passion. It sees that love is ironic sometimes and that nothing, as unique as it feels to you, is ever really as new to the world as it is to you. In essence, this isn't a love poem at all, not in the traditional sense. Regardless, it's beautiful and perhaps you, dear reader, should take a look.
http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/emilydickinson/10463
Now, I may have a new favorite love poem. It is T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Eliot is the more intelligent choice, and I do think his poetry has more depth than Dickinson's. It still has the beautiful flow, vivid imagery, and simplicity that I liked in "If You Were Coming in the Fall", but it's the grown-up version. I read or hear "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", and instead of the warm fuzzy feeling I get from Emily Dickinson's poetry, I get a feeling of a deep stillness, a wisdom that I seldom find in myself. This poem is a love story for adults, for realists, for those who have loved and those who have lost, and for those who are still searching. It's a poem that embodies longing, a motif I've touched on in previous posts. It sees beauty in the everyday sadness of the last glowing embers of a passion. It sees that love is ironic sometimes and that nothing, as unique as it feels to you, is ever really as new to the world as it is to you. In essence, this isn't a love poem at all, not in the traditional sense. Regardless, it's beautiful and perhaps you, dear reader, should take a look.
http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Plans. AKA The Post With No Direction.
Plans.
Death Cab has them. Harvey Dent has them. Your Mom has them and your Dad has them and your grandparents had them.Your children will have them.
Death Cab has them. Harvey Dent has them. Your Mom has them and your Dad has them and your grandparents had them.Your children will have them.
I have a love-hate relationship with plans. I need them for stability; I make more lists than anyone else I know. It seems as if, as long as there's a plan, everything will turn out all right. If it's on the list, somehow it will get done, and even if it doesn't get done, at least it was on the list. At least I planned to do it. And as I listened to the haunting, soothing melody of What Sarah Said, I began to think about the Joker.
"It came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time."
Death Cab for Cutie
"Do I really look like a guy with a plan? You know what I am? I’m a dog chasing cars. I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it! You know, I just, do things. The mob has plans, the cops have plans, Gordon’s got plans...Nobody panics when things go according to plan. Even if the plan is horrifying."
The Joker (The Dark Knight)
So why do we need them? What makes plans so very important? Why can't we just go with the flow, just allowing things to come to pass? As I've said before...human beings are strange creatures. We feel a constant need to manipulate our environments, as if letting control leave our hands will collapse our universes. It's not as if our respective universes are always within our own control, even when we make plans. Planning for something doesn't miraculously make it come true...we can't plan things into existence.
There's a positive spin on this, though. We can't plan for the good things that will happen to us, a majority of the time. They will just occur, whether we expect them or not.
I'm not suggesting it would be better to float lightly on the surface of life, allowing things to happen to us, rather than seeking them out. I couldn't do that any more than I can say it, and honestly, I don't see the purpose in trying to suppress my desire to make plans. And I'm not suggesting fate exists, either. I'm simply saying that things will happen even when (especially when) we don't plan for them. I don't think God makes them happen. I don't think Fate makes them happen. I don't think they're meant to be. They just come to pass.
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