28 January 2005

I gotta say, I dislike sickness. And this week has been full of it: I’ve been dragging my near-corpse to class, assigning busy-work, lecturing minimally, and driving home -- to fall asleep near immediately.

Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat.

And the week finally ends. I thought I’d improved. Turns out, no. In fact, the sickness has evolved into a new, more powerful form!

I gotta say, I dislike sickness.

( C: 0 )

26 January 2005

Locked inside
The only place
Where you feel sheltered,
Where you feel safe.
You lost yourself
In your search to find
Something else to hide behind.

** Lifehouse, “Simon”

( C: 0 )

25 January 2005

I’ve posted little of value recently. I long ago swore that this blog would not be one of obligation, that I’d not post because I must in order to satisfy some sort of personal conceit. Because of this, I’ve not pushed myself into posting: my mind is focused on other things. In all likelihood, it is focused on other conceits, such as my own insufficiency in whatever task happens to be at hand. It’s interesting that such a reaction tends to build itself to greater heights, until the world becomes sufficiently overwhelming, and I have little desire to even give the smallest bit of effort -- for the risk of even a tiny failure would be judgment upon my head by my own head. “A pox on your house!,” my mind says, focusing on the moment to the detriment of both history and history-to-be.

Of course, this struggle is only compounded through incessant self-analysis. As I write this post, I wonder to myself what purpose it serves, and why I wrote this prose in such a way. Isn’t language at its best when it is sharp, when it cuts like forged steel? I wonder if I forge my language from iron, and allow time to paint it with rust -- leaving only a flaky confusion, a weak thing that seems impressive to some for its pure size, but foolish to those who understand the true strength of the word. Do I write in metaphor to confuse or clarify? Is this all vanity? How else would I write?

Incessant self-reflection is incapable of solving riddles. The phrase indicates as much. Reflection is not a proactive movement, it does not change things. It is not equipped to do so. It is the distant observer, cold-heartedly gazing upon the battlefield, methodically noting the deaths on a notebook. Reflection can change a man no more than a mirror can change its own image. Reflection can only tear down the things that are, by causing it to be the center of one’s being, stopping movement entirely. It conquers through entrapment, destroys by being all consuming. It cannot not create solutions to things that are not.

Ah, whatever. I’ve said this in the past, and it is no less true: this, too, shall pass.

( C: 2 )

23 January 2005

City bled into the stratosphere, its rust light flowing on pristine white. The light of the city shone upon itself, marked the city as the place to be, shrieked its significance to the hundreds of small farms and houses in the countryside where families slept in profound oblivion.

The light droned through the night, constant as the sun it replaced. And below the sky light, a dark hand stretched over the city, a secret and vigilant shade. It watched, silently, between earth and sky: of the city, it protected the city, and was evanescent but for the incandescent heavens. Night would soon wane, and the shadows, fade. The glowing skies would surrender their borrowed light, willingly, to the god of the heavens.

But the wraith would cloak itself in light, hide itself in beautiful azure, and none would know of its presence, until its master bled once again.

... and driving, he took note of this, and turned his mind to other things. And he wondered aloud: “Isn’t it interesting how a mirror can never reflect itself...”

( C: 1 )

21 January 2005

I can breath a bit: the time for finals has passed, and I have a three day weekend. I’m pleased, since that means I can catch up on some reading. I’ve bought a several new books, and am reading several more. It’ll be nice to get away -- for a bit -- from the hard sciences.

A student skipped one of my finals, which was unexpected. The school apparently has no policy re: skipped finals, so -- after talking to the dean -- we decided to give him a zero on it. The act felt surprisingly good. There’s a certain level of pleasure to be derived from dispensing justice. I don’t mean this in a malicious way. But there’s a certain purity to justice, a cleansing thing, a holy thing. So often, we -- I -- find justice to be a lesser thing than grace. I deny that utterly! For grace to have great value, there must be an equal value applied to justice. Why would grace be so significant, if justice were a lesser thing? Is God more gracious than he is just? Then I’d not serve him, for he would not do what is right, and give out the “cheap grace” which has no power. There’d be no grace, since justice would be but empty threats. A parent who threatens and does nothing does not give grace, since there is no good punishment to escape from. A good God would do no similar thing.

I think (and I am inferring this from my experience) that the statement “God is gracious” is empty without the statement, “God is just”.

Biting into:
Socratic Logic by Peter Kreeft
Philosophy 101 by Socrates: an Introduction to Philosophy via Plato’s Apology by Peter Kreeft

Still Chewing:
Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak.
How Our Brains Become Who We Are by Joseph Ledoux.

( C: 0 )

19 January 2005

1992-2005

( C: 5 )

Being that I have neither the inclination nor the energy to write a worthwhile post (again, finals), I decided that several minutes of mindless repetition would help. Thus, I’ve scanned several sketches and am posting them here. I have no doubt that these are a dull for anyone who reads this, since I generally post nothing more than variations on a theme: generally, hands. If you are bored, ignore this post.

First, a cartoon-y guy. Not sure why I drew him, or why I drew him like that.

Second, a fist. I rather like this fist.

Finally, a bonus sketch. Judging from the content surrounding this sketch (ie, Garfield and Calvin and Hobbes sketches), I probably drew this when I was in the middle school age range. I can recall this sketch, actually, and giving up because I couldn’t get it right... which is why it is nothing more than an outline of a scene I was sketching from a photo.

( C: 0 )

18 January 2005

I’m quite busy writing finals; until I have time, I’ll reposting some of my favorite old posts. Lord knows, there’s enough that no one has ever read. They might as well get some play. This particular bit was based on a man I heard talking in the coffeeshop one day; it is my impression of who he was. I have no doubt that this was also a commentary on my own nature.

Ever met a man who was wise? I have � and what a sight it is.

Can you hear him? His voice deepens when he speaks; the pauses in his conversation are transparently intentional, adding impact upon impact, as every sentence flows poetically from his lips. He looks into other�s eyes, holding their attention with the force of his will, as he dispassionately expounds on what is asked of him.

He can afford to be dispassionate, since all of his passion is rightly directed upon himself, since he is the measure of all things. What room is there for passion for truth, when the wise man is enflamed with his own wisdom? The wise man marvels, in his own way, at himself � �Look at me!� he mutters to himself, for he is impressed with his own knowledge, his own ability to see what is given.

He removes a pen from his pocket and smiles in a smug matter: �It is black!� he proclaims and adds, �Black is a combination of all colors!� The wise man places the pen back in his pocket and would comment on the nature of the non-color white, except that he is whisked away in the glowing self-satisfaction of seeing with one�s eyes the obvious. Ah! To have such happy knowledge! To have such pleasure!

But � oh � there is pain; from time to time, the pen the wise man removes from his pocket is blue. Imagine the confusion that he deals with, and the heroic manner in which it is confronted. Such a pain, unexpected things are! The wise man withdraws, at this point, knowing that little can be done. Chaos has burst forth! A black pen which is blue! How can he understand this!? What could be done?

The wise man knows that nothing can be done; and he becomes angrily dispassionate about the situation. After all, he reminds himself, he is dispassionate; by definition a dispassionate man is not angry. And so he dispassionately flings the pen across the room, and steps on it in an unangry, violent manner � while pointing out that the pen, by not being black, was in error. Ipso facto, he adds, pleased with his knowledge of Latin. It is Ipso facto in error. Having objectively concluded the episode, he rationally concludes that he is the center of the universe and proceeds to wander into traffic.

( C: 0 )

17 January 2005

I forgot about Boring Picture Sunday, but here are some photos from my road trip this summer. Crater Lake may be the most pristine, beautiful place on the planet.

( C: 2 )

Popular Science publishes the “Worst Jobs in Science”, including such illustrious jobs as “Tampon Squeezer”, “Tick Dragger”, “Anal-Wart Researcher”, and “Public-School Science Teacher”.

( C: 3 )

16 January 2005

From a bit ago:

The sky is bleak. On days such as this, it as if the sun has surrendered its power to a lesser, fallen lord. There is no source of light, no thing to look toward, no point of hope. Instead, there is merely a universal dullness. Light, of a kind. But an empty light, devoid of its greatest characteristic, the thing that identifies the sun as lord: its shining, blinding brilliance.

Tired, so tired. To repeat much more would be useless repetition. I need not note this for intellectual reasons, but I do so to recall that I yet live. Such is the weariness, that I forget, numb to all pain, ignorant of person hood. The process of writing recalls a faint sense of life: memory that I do indeed function as a man.

I can accept weariness -- it is the empty, non-material feeling which I cannot stand... or, would, if I were less phantom and more material.

What do wraiths feel? Nothing, I’d suggest: nothing, but the vague anguish of their own gossamer: their bodies a memory, anguish dull and muted, phantom pain lingering as what consciousness they still possess seeks to recall the things they have lost.

( C: 0 )

In case you’re wondering, here’s the introduction to my AP Chemistry’s finals study sheet:

The continual process of eliminating the good from the bad, the chaff from the wheat, only succeeds in creating a situation in which neither the chaff nor the wheat are vetted by the proper authorities; be it as it may, such is the circumstances, and neither complaint by the bourgeois nor the aristocracy shall stop us from accomplishing our assigned tasks. Needless circumspection would only hinder us from the continual goal of attainment in reference to the AP Chemistry Final. Of curiosity, of course, is the nature and character of the trial�s questions. Indeed, our curiosity demands a fascination with this topic. What are these questions? From whence do they stem? Do they spring up, as the flowers of May appear to our beauty-starved eyes, or are they a product of some mechanical system, cold and heartless, the ever constant beating of a dead, mechanical heart? While the genesis of the test�s questions cannot be answered, their character can be resolved through careful study and record.

( C: 0 )

14 January 2005

School has been sucking up my time; I’ve barely had time to write for myself, much less for the blog. Hopefully, there’ll be a couple posts this weekend. Of course, then comes finals week -- which means I must write five comprehensive tests this weekend. So, perhaps there will not be much posting this weekend.

( C: 0 )