Travelling

The act of travelling is
a constant
unending
goodbye.
A farewell to new familiars,
an entrance to a different present,
foreign,
uncomfortable.
No place is ever the same as it once was,
one year ago,
one day,
one hour.
As long as you are there,
You can see the change
The evolution
Of the world around you.
To travel is to say farewell before
The road ends.
To travel is a constant,
unending
goodbye.

Blog Idea

You know what would make a great blog? Posting all the mass emails I get at Walla Walla every day. Some of them are actually pretty funny.

Technocracy

Technocracy: 1. A world government run entirely by artificial intelligence, so as to be truly fair and just for all humans. 2. Any government that uses its technological advantages to exercise domination and policing over the rest of the world. 3. Any government in which each successive bill passed makes the country a little more complex and a little more prone to breaking down.

Awakening

I stared icily at the floor by my feet.

"You call this art? There's no form, no expression, no artistry... it's just a piece of stone!"

My teacher.

O Providence--grant me one day of pure joy. --Ludwig van Beethoven

"You can't have originality and creativity without restraint! The difference between art and objects is the form. Creativity exists only within the form!"

All art is quite useless. --Oscar Wilde

I wasn't hearing words so much as emotions. Apparently this time I went too far. I wasn't completely sure what it was that was so upsetting. I made a statue of a man standing on a flamingo. Never had I worked so hard on a single work of art before! I tried to incorporate everything I had been taught--

You held out your hand for an egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation; close your fingers firmly upon the gift; let it sting through your palm. In time, after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered long with torture, the squeezed scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson how to endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the test--some, it is said, die under it--you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive. --Charlotte Bronte

Certainly, a man standing on a flamingo was original! I imagined being the flamingo, struggling to bear the weight of this man, wincing in pain. I tried being the man while looking in the mirror: nonchalant, as if completely unaware of the flamingo. I even tried to give the work a unified theme: "Some people just don't get the world around them."

Give until it hurts, until you can feel the pain. --Mother Teresa

And now, this. Perhaps hard work isn't the way to go? Why is this my fault anyways! I did what he asked!!! He wants form? I'll give him form. What was that work he did for the new park last year, the noble lion? I'll do a statue of a goat. A scapegoat. I'll go to a farm and take a picture of one, then reproduce it to a flea. Heh heh. F-l-ea. [snicker] Not once ounce of feeling goes into this work. Better yet, I'm going to do the goat in the exact style that he did his lion, and see if he can find any fault with it. That will teach him!

Violence, whether spiritual or physical, is a quest for identity and the meaningful. The less identity, the more violence. --Marshall McLuhan

I did exactly what I said I would. I took a hammer and chisel and began making The Noble Scapegoat. He had goat scruff sticking out almost as if he had a mane. I even put his legs in the exact position the lion had his legs in.

In great art chance and fancy are gone; what is there is there of necessity. --Goethe

"Marvellous! Extraordinary! I always knew you had talent somewhere in that head of yours."

So far, so good. Revenge is sweet.

No bird has ever uttered note
That was not in some first bird's throat.
--Thomas Bailey Aldrich

"May I take this to an art show and get bids for it?"

Whaaat? Bids? For my own art?

The mind knows only what lies near the heart. --Norse Proverb

He indeed got bids. Plenty of bids. The goat sold for $5000, and I got commissions from two others for more artwork. The instructor spoke of me glowingly as "his most promising student."

Woe unto you, when all men shall speak well of you! For so did their fathers to the false prophets. --Jesus of Nazareth

That was ten years ago. I've been big time ever since. The city of New York even commissioned me to do a statue of its founder. It amazes me to think that I was once so childish. The heart does not have an IQ. My heart had to die before I could become an adult. I will always be grateful to my art teacher--my model, in my art and my life. It was by imitating him that I became the man I am today.

Questions on Faith

"For by grace are ye saved through faith..." (Ephesians 2:8)

Is there anything more empowering in the world than knowing that someone believes in you?

It gives an almost unnatural energy, enabling us to do things we wouldn't have dreamed of doing alone.

Without faith in God, we cannot be saved. Faith, so immaterial and yet so real, empowers God to save us from the evils of this Earth; nothing else will do. God is powerless without it.

Imagine a true, real community of faith: not just in God, but in each other.

We need people. All of us. Two is so much stronger than one. Ascetic hermitism just doesn't cut it.

What power would humanity have if people stopped competing with each other, and started believing in one another?


"Faith... is the gift of God."

Sugar is Life

Having concern over my cafe bill, my dairy express bill, and my health, I decided at the beginning of the week that I would not purchase any sweets.

It had been getting pretty bad the week before, as I had gone to the DX at least three times for candy, not to mention the snack machines; and I had been purchasing the cafe dessert daily, if not multiple times per day. All of which resulted in me being over the cafe minimum pace, something I viewed as a serious problem.

So I made a commitment to not purchase any sweets for all of the next week.

It began simple enough. I caught myself purchasing a sheet cake at the cafe Monday morning, before I realized--as counter-intuitive as it may seem--that a cafeteria cake probably counted as a sweet: and thus, I promised not to purchase any more cafeteria sweets for the rest of the week.

I stayed up until 1am that night, due to a combination of practicing and homework. The next day, I had classes and work from 8am to 6:15pm, without break. It wore on me considerably, especially as I had to be late to two classes: once, so that I could get food; second, so that I could walk to Kretschmar and turn in my Calculus assignment an hour before it was due.

I then went to the Symphony to enjoy a concert, which took me to 10pm, at the conclusion of which I was considerably hungry. By that point the SAC was closed, as was the DX grill, leaving me with the options of whatever junk food I could rummage at the gas station. Chips were out of the question, because I had an oboe lesson the next day (and high-salt foods absolutely kill an oboist's endurance). Sweets were out of the question, because of my commitment. And that left...

"Well, you went all-out, didn't you?" my roommate remarked as I brought back a can of Pringles, a bag of popcorn (which is even worse than chips), and a chocolate bar, which I then proceeded to consume. After all, I had a test to study for. I eventually turned in a little past 1, after passing the point of diminished returns.

The next day, it's four o'clock, and I'm staring at my Calculus assignment which is due in an hour, and promptly decide "I'm not doing it." So I didn't. After the deadline had passed with me having spent the hour reading web columns and playing online poker, I came to the following conclusion: Sugar is an important part of my diet. What cure do I have for motivational distress syndrome without it?

Thus, in the interests of my mental and educational health, I have since proceeded to purchase a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream, and consume it plus a dinner of a serving of pasta, a serving of corn, and a slice of pizza in one sitting. I'd never had Chunky Monkey before. It was... interesting. They could have done without the walnuts. Definitely no walnuts.


"Sugar is LIFE!!!" (Mr. Bayer, my high school biology/chemistry teacher)

Ignoring the Cookie Cutter

My mind just won't shut up. It pipes in at the most inopportune times with messages intended to annoy me. It constantly wishes to be served with brain candy, refusing to take in the wholesome homework and long-term desires I ask of it. It reflects on life, and reflects it poorly at that.

And, having had enough, I've decided to shut it up. I'm staying awake as long as is necessary to drug my own mind into subconsciousness tomorrow. Then, maybe my brain capacity will be lowered enough that I don't have to worry about ADHD or whatever it happens to be called now.

Sadly, sleep-depriving the brain into sanity is only a temporary stopgap. Sooner or later, the chants will rise like a ghost from the grave, back to haunt me one more time, forcing my consciousness to deal with my worst fear: the possibility that I'm merely normal.

Not overly smart. Not overly talented. Not funnier than the next person. Not even crazy. Just average. And by average, I mean just like the next person, and therefore easily replaceable.

Isn't that everyone's worst fear? That your boss will find someone else to do your job? That your spouse will find someone else to confide and trust in? That your friends will move on after college, and maybe if you're lucky, they'll remember you at Christmas?

Society today praises the savant--everyone wants to be an expert at their own special little chore in life, be it making the best blueberry pancakes on this side of the Mississippi, or being the best among your friends at chugging beer. We need that sense of being unique, being special.

There's no room for balanced people. To be balanced is to be an expert at nothing. And to have no specialties is to be bland, average--replaceable.

To be average is to go unnoticed in life. A life unnoticed is a life without significance, and therefore without meaning. A life without meaning is a life that is not worth living. "A man who has not found something to die for is not fit to live." (Martin Luther King Jr.)

What if I'm just another cookie out of the mold? Normal? Heavens, no! Someone, please, kill me now! Anything to avoid a life without distinction...

I would rather be crazy.

Why the Earth needs to be saved

So this is apparently "Blog Action Day" and we're supposed to write about the environment.

Want me to write about the environment? Fine.

The reason the Earth needs saving and why people can't change is because it's just too hard.

You see, people aren't too concerned about the difference between driving a car to work and taking public transit. It's all the same to them, even if the reason public transit takes longer is because no one takes it, therefore the funding for it doesn't exist. But it's habitual to drive a car. And old habits die hard. The car is just right there in the driveway--it's easier.

Same with every other environmental thing. Why wash bottles and carry them all the way to the recycling can when you could just toss it under the sink?

My family had no problem switching to a composter when the county provided a free, minature compost container for the kitchen, and a larger one that could be taken to the curb once a week for pickup. As long as environmentalism is easy, habitual, and inexpensive, all people are environmentalists.

But that first moment it becomes difficult, and BAM--everyone stops. The green people should take notice. They need better marketers. And philosophers, for that matter.


"Hope springs eternal... as does laziness."

An Examination of Republican and Democratic treatments of unwanted wars

The War of 1812:

Ancestors of the Republicans: [declares war]

New England: This war is stupid. We're losing tons of money because of it. If you don't stop, we'll declare independence.

Ancestors of the Republicans: Sure you will. Do whatever you want. We are fighting a war.

New England: Fine, we'll stay. But we still hate your guts.


The American Civil War:

New England (and the rest of the north): You need to give up your property for the benefit of mankind.

The South: You even try to do that and we'll declare independence.

New England: Sure you will.

The South: [declares independence]

New England: In the name of all that is just, good, and holy, we must fight.

[Millions of people die.]

The South: Fine, we'll give up our property. But we hate your guts.


The Second Iraq War:

Republicans: [declares war]

New England (and the rest of democratic America): This war is stupid. We're losing tons of money. If you don't stop, we're moving to Canada.

Republicans: Sure you will. Do whatever you want. We are fighting a war. Besides, you aren't going to Canada--it's too cold.

Democrats: I hate you.

A Gentle Reminder

I was walking through the music building a few minutes ago, when I ran into the janitor. Usually, passing whoever happens to be the janitor that night (it frequently changes) is a wordless encounter, but as I passed, I thought it would be Christian of me to wish a "good evening" to someone who is used to being treated as one social class lower than the students.

Before I could speak, he initiated the conversation with a "Where are you from?"

I replied, "Canada."

In semi-decent english--I'd say the last step before fluent, but definitely not mistaken for fluent--he replied "I'm from Lao." [I'm not even going to try to replicate his accent/grammar mistakes, so all his quotes have been corrected to perfect english. My memory isn't that good.]

My mind got thinking. Lao? Where's that? Does he mean "Laos?" Hmmm... so you don't pronounce the 's'. Good to know. "Lao? Is that between Thailand and Vietnam?"

He seems a little surprised that I know where it is, but only a little. You know where it is because you're from Canada. An American wouldn't have known where it was. [Probably true. Then again, most Canadians wouldn't have known where it was either.]

There's a lot of Lao in... what is it called? Ontario? [Side note: hearing someone who's never been to southern ontario pronounce oh-ZHA-wah always cracks me up. But the height of comedy is hearing someone who lives in Toronto say it that way. oh-ZHA-kah is a major city in Japan. OSH-uh-wah is a city near Toronto.]

Yes, that is the province I'm from. I'm from Toronto, actually. Are you from the capital city, or the countryside?

He tells me he's from a small village in the centre of the country. Then he tells his story.

He used to serve in the Lao army. Then, the communists took over the country. (Having China and Vietnam as your country's two biggest neighbours tends to do that.) He didn't like the communists, so he built a raft out of three banana trees, and put himself and his wife on it. Then, at night, he sailed across the Mekong river into Thailand, where he hoped to get refugee status.

The Lao communists were shooting anyone trying to leave the country for obvious reasons. (In case the reasons aren't so obvious, communism is about power to the proletariat. If the proletariat leaves, the country has no power. Hence, each "prole" is a valuable state asset.) The Thai were shooting many people trying to get across the river, because the communists were trying to infiltrate their country with the refugees. The river was six to seven miles wide. That was why they crossed it at night.

While they crossed, they saw many other people beside them fail to make it. A mother carrying an infant. Children. Bodies just floating in the river, some with holes in them. They made it to a refugee camp after being questioned by a Thai border patrol. There they had their first child. A second child was born in a Filipino refugee camp where they spent six months, before finally getting permission to enter the US, where they moved to Walla Walla, and had two more children.

His son is now a welder in Seattle making $27 an hour. His wife cannot work, because she was hit by some agent orange that got blown downwind from Vietnam. He works in Walla Walla as a janitor.

His children don't listen to him, he says. In Lao, that would never have happened. But here, the culture is different.

Your children don't know what they are missing.

Yes, they don't. Back home they would be starving, poor, and have no future.

But at least they would listen to you. Either way, what are you supposed to do?

My grandparents escaped from China before the communists took over. They fled to the Philippines, where one of them still lives, and the other lies buried. My mother moved to Canada in 1972.

China? There are many Chinese in Lao. They aren't really Chinese any more because they left their country. They are Lao-Chinese. China and Lao are very friendly because they are both communist. Many things from China now in Lao. I bought a motorcycle for my brother from China for $500. If I had bought from Japan, same motorcycle would be $1500. But they say China is very cheap. Japan products last longer.

Even if my country now has TVs, microwaves... I still don't like the communists.

I remember there was a Canadian in Lao. There were Lao working for him.

I cringe, fearing my countrymen have stained their honour by supporting a regime responsible for the deaths of thousands of their own people. I am ashamed. But then, I remember the bigger picture.

I am blessed. Your children are blessed.

Yes, they are. Nice talk.

Good evening.

Attendance Sheet Dilemma

I was in class two days ago, and the attendance sheet reaches me. I sign it, and as I look it over, I notice that a certain student in the front row has been missed because of where he was sitting. Part of me feels responsible (guilty?) to get this person a chance to be “present,” so I debate for a moment about whether or not to send the sheet down its original path, or to risk a few stares and send the attendance sheet on a detour. I hand the paper to the girl in front of me, and whisper (I wouldn’t want to disturb class, would I?) to her to pass the paper to the person in front, and then return it so that it can continue its journey around the classroom. She takes the sheet, looks it over, then slides it under her binder and ignores it. I quickly assume that she failed to hear me, assumed the attendance sheet made it all the way around, and was holding it to the end of the period before returning it to you. Suddenly, I felt responsible for the missing initials of everyone beyond me. I wanted to repeat my whisper to her again, but thought that to be excessively confrontational, especially on the off-chance that she had heard me the first time. I began to feel the “frown” of the rows behind me, as I was responsible for causing their absence. It became an all-encompassing thought, so much so that I was unable to concentrate on the class, and could only think about that sheet, stopped where it was. I became filled with worry and fear.

Eventually, with five minutes left in class, she suddenly looks startled, takes the paper, and hands it back to me. I hand it back to her, and repeat what I had originally whispered the first time a bit louder. She replies that she cannot reach him. So, I send the paper down the row, and I don’t remember if it made it all the way through by the end of class.

Now, I’m not telling you this story to suggest there’s something wrong with the attendance system, or to cure my conscience in the event that someone was indeed missed yesterday (well, maybe some of the latter). Mainly, I’m wondering what this story says about the kind of person I am.

Am I a person controlled by their guilt? Am I a person who has an inferiority complex? Or do I have a proud, controlling complex, and whenever I fail to get my way, assume that the other party musn’t have known my intentions, because everyone loves to do what I want them to do? Do I assume/judge too much? Do I stress over nothing? What kind of person goes through a story like this?

Stream on Human Rights and Government

Are human rights good for humans?

When a government fails its citizens, the citizens are responsible to revolt and replace the government. That idea is straight out of Rousseau and Locke, who started the human rights era. But since then, we've seen the pendulum swing too far the opposite way.

When an election is held where the voters are uneducated, the election becomes an immature popularity contest, of elementary school form.

As someone once said, "you need money to make money." With governments that last a maximum of four years around these parts, campaigns have become all about short-term promises, with people voting for whoever will give them what they want right now. And politicians, realizing the nature of the game, borrow against the long-term in order to get into office. Because of how short-sighted modern day democracy is, we are crippling our future.

Furthermore, most politicians we elect are old. They can say, just as Louis XIV of France once did, "Just keep the economy going long enough for me to die." Why would you expect any politician to worry about an environmental problem that won't emerge until long after they are dead?

Countries were often managed better during the monarchial era, because kings often ruled for 50 or 60 years. They were concerned about the future. And if a particularly stupid king took the throne, the people would revolt and a better equipped person would take control. The long-term view mattered back then; especially when their children's throne was at stake.

Poorly managed countries lead to poor futures. And when we speak of modern democracies, poor politics today means poor education policies, and therefore less intelligent voters in the future.

People have become so bombarded with information and data from "experts" that they no longer know how to think for themselves, but simply cite the most agreeable expert. A society that cannot think for itself is a society that is going nowhere. A democracy that cannot think for itself is a nation that cannot elect a proper government, and is doomed to failure.

Is the very concept of a short-term democratic government a parasite of the present feeding off the future? Can democracy by its very nature come with an expiry date?

Thoughts on Trash

I think that the concept of "full" in reference to trash cans is a social construct invented by overzealous anal-expulsive people who need to move beyond their fixation and learn to be patient.

Justice

There is no such thing as justice.

Yes, I did just type that.

In our world today, the justice system is preoccupied with catching criminals and making them pay for their crimes. Murder gets 25 years in prison; armed robbery around 10. The convicted do their time, and at the end are released. The world would have us believe that this is justice.

I can understand that a family shattered by an untimely death suffers loss. But suppose that the murderer is caught, convicted, and is then forced to spend the remainder of his life in prison: does the family gain any direct benefit from this action? As the saying goes, two wrongs do not make a right.

The family may get feelings of joy and peace to see someone pay for their crimes. But the family isn’t the one on the receiving end—the criminal does not pay years of his life to the family. If anything, the whole justice system experience teaches the family how to extract happiness from someone else’s suffering, a trait that is hardly positive.

True “justice” would mean for the murder victim to be restored to the family. Anything else is not justice but a twisted, evil idea that has somehow wormed its way into human thought for the last few thousand years as a positive trait.

Vengeance is not justice. Forcing someone who has wronged you into the dust at your feet is a manifestation of every evil that has plagued the Earth for the duration of human existence—pride, anger, materialism. Justice makes us lesser people.

You may argue that without the justice system, there would be no deterrent for breaking the law, and therefore no one would keep it: and this is a point that I will not contest. But don’t call it justice—once a wrong has been done, it cannot be made right short of undoing it.

Shoving someone into the dirt only lowers the mean height of all humanity.

"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind." (Mahatma Gandhi)

Childhood

I'm sorting through boxes of my things that I have stored away from my pre-college years right now. It feels like I'm invading on the privacy of a different person.

I hold in my hands the most precious possessions of a younger version of myself. Stickers, stamps, subway transfers--things that are completely meaningless to me now. I fear that my adult-self is polluting the innocence of my childhood.

There's something sacred about childhood--and I can't quite put my finger on it. The dreams are brighter, the goals higher, the motives simpler. Perhaps it is that innocence that I want to protect from a world of darkness.

Human Equilibria?

On returning to old habits, I'm wondering whether human psychology is an equilibrium.

Basically, imagine that chart of the Earth's temperature steadily rising. One year could be really up and the next could be really down. But overall, the 30-year average line is going to remain steady as a rock, and if that fails, the Earth gets put under a lot of pressure.

Here's the application: suppose that someone wanted to change themself. Maybe they've been a poor student for a few years, for instance. So one day, they wake up and for that entire day, they are the model of the perfect student, taking notes, studying, and finishing homework by 6pm. The equilibrium theory allows this because it is just one day--anything can happen during one day.

The next day, our imaginary student continues, and he pulls it off again, and the next day as well. But as the trend continues, the running average line begins trending upwards, and our student begins to feel a strong pull downwards back to their norm. The further the average leaves the norm, the stronger the discomfort and pressure.

That's why it is easiest for young people to change. At 12 years of life, there isn't that much of a history to pull someone back to, so it is easy for young people to change. But the older you get, the more pull each person's history has, meaning the harder it is to change. All of which means that the time to change is now, and not some set upon future point, because each day we live adds to the strength of the equilibrium.

Is it possible to change? Certainly I've seen it done, as have you. The movement of the running average line is not what hurts a person--it's the fact that it is different from the past, aka unfamiliar.

Change is hard. And if anyone has any tricks that can help with making change permanent, I would love to hear them.


"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations." (Anais Nin)

Fighting For Yourself

Yesterday morning, I was watching a video at my grandparents place while waiting for breakfast. Mom came down and asked if I wanted to eat downstairs. I've probably lived a few months of my life at that "farm," and never once ate downstairs. After all, we're only ever down there for a few days at a time; being there is all about seeing my grandparents; and eating a meal together is one of the best ways of socially interacting with them.

So, I replied that I wanted to eat upstairs. Mom then said that there was only food for six people, and there were already six people at the table, so I would eat later. My video was just finishing, so I came upstairs to see how breakfast was coming for myself. It wasn't so much that I didn't believe Mom, but more that I needed to see it to understand it. Indeed, there were six people at the table, Mom being one of them. She seemed to offer to get up and give up her spot for me, something I wasn't going to do, so I returned to the basement and put on another half-hour video.

Coming upstairs a half-hour later, the table was vacated, my siblings were still asleep, so I had breakfast all to myself. Grandma offered to zap my food, suggesting it was cold, and I got confused. Didn't Mom say there wasn't enough food?

I went to her in the kitchen and complained, loudly enough for Grandma to overhear parts of it, and Mom got such a pained look on her face, like I was accusing her of starving me. Grandma stepped in, and to save Mom further trouble, I explained away the complaint as "microwaves are bad for your health." (Don't ask how that worked, it just did.)

I later found out that Mom had said there were places at the table for six, which was why she offered to have me eat downstairs in the first place. And this whole incident got me thinking.

I hate hurting other people. Having been somewhat accident prone as a child, it was something I did a lot, smashing plates, cups, test tubes, lamps, and occasionally some people too. I just can't bear the look on their faces when I've failed them once again. This was one of the biggest reasons I wanted to disappear a few years ago--at least then I would stop hurting all the people I love.

The only thing I could conclude from this incident was that if I hadn't been so interested in my self-preservation, nothing would have happened. Why did I complain to Mom? Because I didn't want to look like I was late to a meal. That I was slow. That I looked like I didn't care about spending time with the family. That I experienced a perceived slight at missing family time. And so I acted to shift the blame for this incident to someone else, as well as to inform the "guilty" party that I was slighted.

Maybe I was being heroic for taking things directly to the person involved, as opposed to announcing the wrong for all to hear; or gossiping to other people. But I don't view it that way. If I hadn't been so concerned about getting what is mine, no one would have been hurt.

Life does not owe me anything. I can believe that all I want, and yet when push comes to shove, I still act like certain things belong to me, such as a good reputation, warm meals, and people that care about me. When they suddenly disappear, I feel an injustice and fight back; and in so doing, I become exactly the type of person I despise: someone who toots their own horn.

I've always believed that if someone deserves honour, that someone else will accord it. If no one stands up for me, then I obviously have a higher opinion of what I've done than it deserves, and I should just be quiet. It's funny that way--I've always believed it, but never acted it. It's as if my spinal cord has been severed at the neck, and a complete disconnect exists between my mind and my body.

Still, I can dream. One day, perhaps... I will believe that nothing is mine, nor will be mine. Take quietly what is given, and murmur a thanks for every gesture, great or small. Accept what happens without fighting it, and remember that I am not judge, jury, or executioner, even for the things that happen to me. The five senses are too often deceived. And violence in any form--physical, verbal, or intellectual--will be abhorred at any cost to myself.


"Nonviolence is the greatest force at the disposal of mankind." (Mohandas Gandhi)

A Purple Car

So, I'm moving, and for some reason I'm moving from the beaches area of Toronto. I'm with my brother, taking a load of stuff, and as we drive through the maze of one-way streets, he wants to race me. So I pull over, he gets out and runs, and once I catch up to him I go a short ways then pull over for him.

He wants to race me again, so I pull over, and this time drive 2 kilometres, then turn around and go back for him. As I'm going through the same stretch of road again, my car stalls, so I pull in behind this light purple car, when I suddenly lose my brakes, and slowly roll into him 3 or 4 times.

I examine his rear bumper, and note two dings that go nearly through the plastic cover. For a moment, I'm tempted to drive off. The owner comes out, looks at it, and says, "I don't have insurance." Then he goes on, saying "It's only a small ding. I'll just plaster over it or something." I feel a little guilty, because I know from my summer of sorting traffic accident reports that any damage to the bumper that is more than just paint damage is between $400 and $1000 to repair. I consider whether to inform him, and decide against it.

I mumble a word of thanks, especially because now my parents won't find out about it, and drive to the new place. When I get there, I discover they already know, but they don't seem too upset.

Then, I woke up.

Thoughts on Being Insane

Wouldn't life be so much easier if we were insane?

Think about it. You would have all the basic necessities provided free of charge, without the guilt of having to commit a crime to get them. (Plus, prisoners don't get to leave whenever they want on good behaviour. Well, maybe...)

You could scream whenever you want, and wouldn't have to worry about what other people think of you. After all, the only reason we don't do such things now is a fear that other people will think us crazy, and if we actually want to look crazy, then what is holding us back?

You could run away from all your problems. Instead of worrying about which of your relatives needs to be pleased or which of your friends don't talk to you anymore, you would leave that entire life, with all its useless, torturous social structure behind. Who needs social rank anyways?

Is the world too painful? Create a fantasy world in your head to live in, where everything can be exactly as you would like it to be. It generally takes a little while, but eventually, you won't be able to tell the difference between reality and fantasy. And from that point on, everything will finally be right in the world. No miscarriages of justice, no surprises: just perfection.

As they say, there is a fine line between genius and insanity. There aren't many lines finer. If you can't get that 4.0, get the next best thing: a straight jacket. All that time locked up with nothing to do is bound to get that brain some exercise.

I must admit, it's very tempting. It would be even more tempting if society still gave respect to the insane for being honoured of the gods. Can't have everything. On the other hand, being insane would mean not caring what society thinks, because in your mind, society wouldn't exist. Hmmm.....


"[garbled nonsensical yelling]" (Homer Simpson)

Spot

Here is Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run!

Here is man. See man growl. Growl, man, growl!

Spot runs to man. Man hits Spot. Spot is angry.

Spot bites man. See man yell. Yell, man, yell!

See man run. Spot chases man. Chase, Spot, chase!

Spot jumps on man. Spot bites man. Bite, Spot, bite!

Man is hurt. Man is bleeding. Bleed, man, bleed!

Man stops moving. Man is dead. Yay for Spot!

I Need Some Milk

Caroline awoke early Sunday morning with a splitting headache and a dull sensation that something was wrong. Getting up, she went to the kitchen and, while scrounging for breakfast, she happened upon the box of pancake mix, and immediately got cravings.

She poured it into the mixing bowl, followed by two eggs; but when she went to get some milk, she found an empty pitcher. "Oh, scrunchkins. I'll have to get some more." Caroline quickly dressed and drove off to the corner store.

The store was moderately busy when she entered--two other customers were in, plus the cashier. The man behind the desk she knew well: an immigrant from Russia, he had run this store for the past 6 years. They were on a first name basis, and Caroline thought he was a little hot.

The two others in the store were unknown to her. A black man with short, graying hair, and a walking cane was fishing through the magazines. A grizzled man in a plaid shirt, with a notable amount of stubble on his chin and unkempt hair was searching for the beef jerky. Caroline noticed some knives hanging ominously in the corner. She quickly got exactly what she needed, and left.

As she drove off, she noticed the man in the plaid shirt following her out. He was driving a dark green SUV. After driving a little ways further, she noticed the man was still behind her--and he was staring right at her! She began to panic and drive faster, but he began to swerve and drive faster in reply.

She cut into her street without signalling, and with tires squealing the man in the plaid shirt made the turn. She drove straight into her driveway before hitting the brakes, and then spun around to face him, readying her pepper spray. He parked right in front of her driveway, blocking off any escape routes.

He jumped out of his vehicle, and yelled "You hit my car!"

"Did not!" she retorted.

The man pointed at several deep gashes blemishing his otherwise perfect paint job. "What do you call those?"

"I did not hit you! When could I have hit you?"

"In the parking lot, as you were backing out. If you go get your insurance now, I won't report this as a hit and run."

The paint left on his passenger side door was the same colour as her own car. It was plausible, at any rate. She went inside to get her insurance and registration.

As she was at her desk, she heard the door open and shut. Then the latch locked into place. Fearing for her life, she grabbed an envelope opener along with her vehicle information. As she turned around, the man was right behind her, towering over her. She handed him the documents and he handed her his.

They copied the information in silence. Afterwards, he left, just as wordlessly. She heard the door shut behind him. She went back to her pancake batter to finish breakfast.

She returned to the kitchen, only to hear the floorboards creak at the other end of the home. She checked the driveway, observing that the SUV was no longer there. Going to the door, she found it closed, but unlocked.

Caroline darted back to the kitchen to grab a knife. Every sense of her body except her eyes was telling her that she was not alone.

She began to ransack her home, checking every possible hiding place. She looked under the couch. She looked in the closet. She checked the bathroom. And though she was unable to see anyone, she thought she could hear someone breathing, behind her, tickling the hairs on the back of her neck...

She completed her check, and having been satisfied that there was no one to be seen, she returned to the kitchen, blaming her fears for her suspicions. Despite what the evidence would suggest, she enjoyed some of the finest pancakes she had ever made.

That night, she couldn't sleep. After turning out the lights, her vision of the world around her darkened, and her other senses took over, creating all sorts of fanciful creatures in her home. She heard footsteps coming down the hall, inching towards her with each passing second.

She couldn't take it any more. Gathering her robe, she turned on the lights, and methodically checked every nook and cranny of her home just as she had done that morning. And after her visual sweep revealed no other life-forms inhabiting her home, she returned to bed, in vain trying to quiet her fears. Fitfully, she fell asleep.

And in the morning when she awoke, she was pregnant.

A Vision of Mexico

I was in Mexico. I don’t know how or why, but I was in Mexico. I found a small Mexican kid. For some reason, I decided that I had to help him get in to the United States. So we walked across the border. We saw a herd of buffalo, so we stopped and I placed him on one and slapped it on the back. The buffalo took off running, and the rest of the herd followed. I stayed back so as not to arouse suspicion to myself. The herd quickly passed a border patrol car, which we had both assumed was there. It tried to take off after the kid when it saw a lone buffalo running, but the rest of the herd soon squashed the idea.

I met up with the kid some time later to decide on a permanent hiding place. I thought Austin, San Antonio, or whichever of Dallas or Houston was closer would make a good spot. I assumed that was Houston, and that was where we went. Once there, we ran into the Walla Walla College church. We were quickly trailed by the secret service/army/whatever those guys were. They were wearing a colourful uniform. Dr. Scott [Walla Walla organ professor] was playing the organ. The kid seemed amazed and awed by it, and obviously wanted to play like that one day. I think it was his first experience with classical music. I took the kid to hide in a children’s room to the right of the platform and told him not to move for anything. Then I went out and showed myself to them, in hopes that would distract them from searching the area too closely.

They took me and everyone else they found in the church to the balcony, where we were “arrested” and they had guards posted. They interrogated us for information, but got none. There were about 15-20 people there, mostly people I knew. Now there was a woman we didn’t know playing the organ, and there was two consoles. Pressing the key on one made the same key on the other go down. The keyboards were set up differently on the other—they were really wide keys, one set was coloured dark green, and the others I don’t know. Two were beside each other, colour-coded being the only way to tell them apart; a third was on top, above the second keyboard but not the first. We watched the keys go down and were awed by her playing.

The captain began to press us for information, when a professor among us informed him the Mexican army was standing outside the church to ensure they didn’t harm the boy; that his 10 troops weren’t going to stand a fighting chance; and that he would be best to take the two French guys as hostages to barter for their safety with said army. The captain crawled out of the balcony window to look for himself, and saw them approach in the distance—but also saw a larger American army standing at the entrance to the church. Two higher-ups with 20 troops each were coming to take over. You could tell which soldiers were whose by the pattern of the uniform. They didn’t notice the captain. The captain slipped on the roof and was holding on to a ledge by his fingers.

We went down in to the lobby, where we were asked about the whereabouts of the captain. We informed the troop commander about the captain clinging for his life, and the commander ordered us all in to the sanctuary, where he had guards posted at every entrance, and searching down every aisle and room of the church. We thought that we needed to inform someone official at the campus to save us or else we would all be dead, because we didn’t trust the soldiers to give us due process or justice.

We went in, when a strange thought occurred to me: I wonder if they knew about the back entrance. I was walking towards it, and was about 15 metres from it, when suddenly the people ahead of me began running for the entrance, and the guards noticed, so I ran after them—I was the last one out. An unnamed friend shoved me right before the door because she thought there was only room for one of us. We ran across the lawn to Canaday [Technology Centre, the building behind the church]. There were five of us, all of whom are people I know at Walla Walla, and won't be named. The same friend who shoved me previously shoved me away from the door again and ran through, again because she thought there was only room for one, and we were all desperate for our lives at this point.

I still made it and we began running up the stairs. We hit the second floor and ran down the hall to the north, where it ended in a balcony to a billiards room. Not being what we wanted, we ran back to the stairs and continued running up. We heard soldiers chanting “the ants go marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah.” The leader of our group commented “that isn’t music we want to hear.” We ran up to the third floor, and found a dead end, so we quickly ran back down to the second floor, fearing the soldiers would get there first.

I thought I was following them, but when I was partway down to the first floor, I realized they had stayed on the second floor. I continued running down the first floor, and I ran into the building. Some soldiers at the far end of the hall saw me as I ran across past the black box theatre. I burst out the doors [behind the building] and ran towards Sittner Hall [the men's dorm, beside the church with a parking lot in between], trying to find a building I was familiar enough with that I might stand a chance at finding a good enough hiding spot to wait for them to pass, at which point I might get help. I ran through the parking lot, and some soldiers were not more than 20 or 30 yards behind me. I didn’t think I could make it through the dorm to where I really wanted to be, which was the library or music building, so I crawled under a truck and got up onto the axle, where I propped myself up so that I couldn’t be seen from the sides of the truck.

And there the dream ends….

A Quandary

I've got a quandary here for you, and I'd like to know how you would solve it, so please comment below.


Imagine that you are a doctor who has gone on a backpacking trip. You are at least an 8 hour hike from the nearest point of civilization. As you are hiking, you come across a man, laying on the ground unconscious and bleeding to death.

Luckily, you happen to have a first aid kit with you, as well as some basic medical supplies, so you patch him up. Unfortunately, as you finish you notice that he is showing signs of shock--he has lost too much blood. Your medical education tells you he has ten minutes to live.

After performing a quick analysis, you notice that he has the same blood type as you. You do happen to have blood transfusion equipment with you, and this action would save his life, but there's one complicating factor: you have AIDS.

So, do you do the transfusion, and save his life, while simultaneously infecting him with an incurable disease? Or do you let him die?

Sunday Morning

So I woke up Sunday morning to discover my Dad ruffling through papers and books, asking me if I'd read the morning's paper. As I had just woke up, obviously I hadn't. I reach for the Toronto Star, and discover a headline, something that I don't remember, but it basically meant the time of trouble was starting now, and we needed to be gone by Monday (tomorrow).

Dad said he was going to make a court case regarding his writings. I wondered what they could possibly charge him on his writings about, then realized that any conservative Adventist could easily be charged with hate literature against Catholics. Basically, instead of running, he was purposely going to get himself martyred.

For whatever reason, I was completely disturbed by this whole thing. What about my future? What about doing something great for God? What about my career? Was I even ready?

I woke up for an hour or so, then returned to sleep. I then found myself at the computer in the records office at academy. I was looking up on the internet about this developing story. When I was finished, I asked the records office workers what they made of the story, and they said "Oh, it happened in Iran. This is nothing; we still have time." I replied that I read this morning that it happened in Canada, to which they answered "where?" I said "the Star," and they answered "they're usually a good paper. How could they make a mistake like that?"

I left the office and walked down the hall. Outside I saw a car drive by a giant Twix bar on the ground; and another chocolate bar was on top of it, both on their sides and still wrapped.

I met the band director, who asked me about the Oboe he had lent me, asking when I intended to bring it back. I replied there are two options. One was for me to hold on to it until he finds someone who needed it. He interjected "I can tell you already it will be number one." I said the second option was for me to get it right now and bring it back.

He asked if the alcohol pump was still in the case. I said I didn't remember any alcohol pump, but that I had taken it for repairs, and the repair guy said there was an alcohol crack in the instrument (implying that air/water couldn't get through, just alcohol), and that he had repaired it. The director seemed pleased.

Then I woke up. Sadly, this dream doesn't seem to have the same realism or logic as the last dream; but it seemed so much more real--especially because I was going to wake up on Sunday morning, and the dream had me waking up Sunday morning.


"In that day, he which shall be upon the housetop, and his stuff in the house, let him not come down to take it away: and he that is in the field, let him likewise not return back." (Jesus)

Neck Tone

I'd like to sell you all on a new device I've created.

What it involves is getting something heavy, then taping it very tightly to the front of your face. Wearing a plastic bag over your hair is acceptable as long as it doesn't move; but seeing as that is highly unlikely, it's much better to tape it to the neck below your hairline.

Then, lie on your back. While breathing out, raise your head; while breathing in, lower it, but don't allow the neck muscles to completely relax: they need to stay tense. Do this for about 20 reps, or for as long as you can. It is important to continue raising your head for as many as possible, even when pain strikes your neck.

Then, lie on your stomach and do the same. You may also feel free to do the same on each side.

Should you be able to do 40-50 reps without getting the least bit tired, consider adding more weight. The idea is to build up the muscles in your neck while improving the tone. Good neck tone is sexy.

Plus, you never know when you'll get an irresistible urge to stand up on a roller coaster. This way, when your head hits a metal post, your neck muscles will be strong enough to avoid your neck being snapped in two and your being decapitated. (I'd worry about your back, though. Or your skull.)

Should you be unable to sufficiently attach a weight to your face, consider applying for a job as a crash test dummy instead. I hear whiplash also causes your neck muscles to be sore.


"No pain, no gain."

Inaction and Ennui

Why do we get bored?

Is there any other human instinct which causes us more trouble than the feeling of wanting to do something?

Just think about the things we do just because we're bored: lying down on the yellow line of the road, krazy-gluing doorstops in front of rooms, shopping at Wal-mart, bungee jumping off of bridges, travelling...

Granted, the average American does prove that without this drive to do something, we might just vegetate to death watching TV on our couches. This same piece of evidence sort of disproves that we have this drive at all.

Whatever. I have it. Right now. And it sucks. I'm about this close to doing something stupid just to make this uneasy, uncomfortable, unpeaceful feeling go away and restore my mind.

Perhaps I've misidentified it, and it's actually the feeling that something just isn't right in my life; something is missing. If something is missing, then I hope to find it soon, because I like my peace and quiet--and I want it back.


"When everyone cries 'peace and safety,' then the end shall be." (Jesus)

A Cynic's view of Plato

I'm going to assume you're familiar with Plato's theories, his cave story, and all that it implied. If not, then the rest of this blog probably isn't going to make any sense.

What if I accept Plato's view of the world? It's been around so long, and been popular so long, that it probably has some merit, right? After all, it's the idea of something that we remember, not the thing itself.

Which brings us to the problem: name one horse out there in the entire world that looks exactly like the ideal "idea" horse. It isn't out there. Our idea of a horse, granted, depends on what horses we've seen. For the sake of illustration, I'm bringing up a solid brown horse with four legs, and tail hair slightly darker than it's body hair.

Others may have grey horses in their minds as the "idea horse," but the point still stands--the true idea horse does not exist anywhere on the planet. Every being is unique, so every being must have a "defect" that differentiates it from the idea horse.

Now, this idea horse is simply one level up on the plane of knowledge, the lowest level being shadows, if you will; the next being the horse itself; followed by the idea of the horse, and so on. If the idea of the horse is the highest level of knowledge, and it can never be reached by viewing horses, then what is the point in exploring the world and accumulating knowledge?

Exploring the world with our senses fills our mind with second-rate knowledge. Why bother? Everything you need to know is up there already. Just study the books, and let your mind fill out the picture.


"What slender youth courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave?" (Quintus Horatius Flaccus)

The Girl in the Jungle

Once upon a time, there was a little short girl who lived in the jungle. No one knew how she got there, or why she was out there--she was just there. She wore a cute white dress that still had a little sparkle left; and a green ribbon on her wrist.

It was a long green ribbon. It was a very long green ribbon. It was so long, that it stretched as far as the eye could see--which in the jungle wasn't very far. It constantly trailed behind her, marking her path--but she wasn't much for travelling in those days.

Now, you might ask why she didn't follow the ribbon all the way home. "Easy" she would reply. The ribbon just beyond her wrist went through the dangerous Predator field. She could see the field from where she sat. It was sandy, with short grass, and filled with all sorts of wild animals--snakes, crabs, and alligators--that were constantly eating each other. She points out a crab to you, and right before your eyes, it gets slashed down the middle. Now its two halves begin glowing and flashing; and now they're gone, a part of some other larger creature just out of sight.

One day, a park ranger was strolling through the jungle when she saw three green balloons stuck in a tree. "How odd!" she thought, "that there would be balloons all the way out here in the jungle." As she looked closer, she saw that attached to the balloons was a green ribbon. A very long green ribbon. The park ranger got curious and began to follow the green ribbon. She went around trees, through glens, and over streams, until she found... the little girl in the white dress!

"You must be Amy, that little girl who went missing a few years ago" the Ranger stated. "You must come with me."
"But wait! What about my friends?"

And as Amy interjected, six other boys and girls suddenly materialized. "What have I taught you?" Amy asked.
The first boy began counting aloud. After he got to ten, the next boy began reciting the alphabet. And each child had something to say, up to the last one, who proudly recited "un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,..."

A passing Frenchman dressed for the Parisian nightlife exclaimed "He's counting in French!"

When the show was over, the park ranger carried Amy past the predator field, over creeks, through glens, and around trees, all the way back to her home in a village just outside the jungle. And her parents were very glad to see her.

Amy was glad to be home too. But sometimes, at night, she would go into her front yard, by the gate, and look at the jungle...

The Failure of DDT

Mosquitos are a pets, aren't they? Oops, I meant pest.

DDT was such a good idea. That is, if it hadn't threatened every other creature above it in the food chain.

Humans have long killed off creatures that were a threat, or were just plain stupid. Dodo birds, passenger pigeons, buffaloes, pumas, lions, tigers, T-Rexes... you get the picture.

Well, I think it is about time we took out the mosquito--except this time, we won't do it by threatening their water supply. We'll take out their food supply. Us.

I mean, if farmers have long preserved their crops by genetically altering them to contain poisons that will kill off their pests, why can't we inject pesticides fatal to mosquitos into our own bloodstreams and knock off those little buggers. They'd all be dead within a couple of years, for sure.

We are what we eat, aren't we? If we can genetically mess with our food, poisoning it and chemicaling it and whatever else we do to it, and we're still alive, even taller than ever, surely we can mess with our bloodstreams. Our blood isn't us. It's just the thing inside of us that moves stuff around. The circula-whatever system.

Are we really the body? If you took our brains out, and safely connected all the nerve thingies to another body, we would live inside that body, would we not? So injecting ourselves with pesticides really wouldn't harm us--it would just harm our host.

And even if this great idea fails and we all die--at least we can take the mosquito down with us. Because revenge is all that matters. (Stupid mosquito bite on my knee.)


"Politics, n: Poly 'many' + tics 'blood-sucking parasites.'" (Larry Hardiman)

Creation Theory

A friend a few weeks ago asked me to send them evidence that evolution wasn't real, and that creation is. After delving into the subject on wikipedia (I know, not the most accurate source), I've noticed that virtually everyone has a different theory. That's probably what makes it so hard for them evolutionists.

So I'm tempted to write out what I believe here, and then maybe all you readers can tell me whether I'm totally out in left field, or whether it makes some decent sense; and also, what you believe. (Alright, maybe tempted is the wrong word, seeing as I'm actually doing it.)

I believe that God created the world in six days, then rested on the 7th. I also believe that the Earth existed before creation--without form, and void--for God had to kick the evil angels somewhere, did He not?

I am a subscriber to the "Omphalos Hypothesis:" that is, that God created trees with rings, people with belly buttons, and rocks with "age." I do not, however, believe that all my memories of anything before 10 days ago are part of God's creation of me (and therefore never really happened)--I know and remember experiencing both them and the time they occurred in.

I believe that all dogs descended from a common pair of dogs; all seagulls from a common gull; and so forth--in other words, in microevolution. But until someone can show me evidence of a drastic mutation/change resulting in a brand new species, I cannot accept macroevolution.

All this I believe because I believe there is a God. Too much has happened to me in my life for me to rationally believe otherwise.

Am I certain that this is the way things happened? No. God could certainly have done it another way--but He has chosen to hide His ways from us for now (save Genesis 1 & 2), and when a more powerful Being chooses to hide, no one with less power is going to find Him.


"It's not the results that change us--it's the effort."

Sizzle

It's hot outside. Really, really hot outside. And since there's no air conditioning in the house, it's also hot inside.

I'm almost tempted to go turn on the car, and sit in it with the air conditioner on. Key word is "almost."

Anyone else find it ironic that the way we counteract global warming in our everyday lives--air conditioning--also happens to be one of the most power-draining appliances in the home--and electrical generation is one of the biggest causes of global warming today?

My Dad picked me up from work yesterday. As he put it, it's too hot to take a bus home today. I'm sure that car ride will ensure that next summer is an average of 0.00000001 degrees hotter.

Reminds me of the time I was sitting in my dorm room with my roommate, with sweltering temperatures outside, and I was tempted to leave the refridgerator door open in order to cool the room. Hopefully, you all realize that a refridgerator works simply by taking the heat inside, and pumping it into the coils at the back. Well, isn't that how air conditioning works? We take heat inside the house, and pump it outside. Therefore, the rise of air conditioners is what's causing global warming--all the heat from inside our homes has been pumped out into the atmosphere, where we get baked on our way to work every day.

Such a fitting end for the one who became master of the jungle through learning the art of fire.


"And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given unto him to scorch men with fire." (Revelation 16:8)

Fit for Life

Yes, I'm now officially that sarcastic.

Democracy of the Mind

I was laying in bed pondering the recent Palestinian crisis and the state of my mind, among other things, when the following line struck me:

"My mind is a democracy of brain cells."

It's so wonderful, isn't it?

I have various factions in my mind that take control and cede power from time to time. They annoy me. At least, the ones I don't like. I prefer to think that I have a consistent president that remains in office as the rest of government shifts from day to day and hour to hour, a president that maintains veto as long as congress doesn't get a 67% majority. But I fear that even that is changable.

And just like real democracy, new administrations always try to undo the moves of the previous administration, thus getting the government as a whole absolutely nowhere over the long run.

There's never a consensus--always a party, a number in opposition, of varying size and strength. Sometimes it wavers near the 50-50 mark, so that it seems that I am a waffler, constantly changing my position. Really, it isn't me--it's the voices in my head. Which are technically a part of me. But I'm viewing my brain from the third person right now, so it isn't actually a part of me (apparently).

The really fun part about democracy is when a minority gets so enraged with the direction of the body as a whole that they declare civil war, just like in Palestine. Just pray you aren't doing anything important when times like that hit.

I suppose that, to look at this "democracy of the mind" idea from various political perspectives, Conservatives would believe in a strong central government that quashes or ignores minority dissenting opinions to that of the majority. Liberals would believe in a pluralistic democracy, where all viewpoints no matter how contradictory are worthy of being held. Communists would believe in a democracy where all political opinions are equally valuable as long as they pass the censorship office. And Fascists? All dissenting opinions from the currently in power faction are crushed, ignored, and censored, while the minority that is in power attempts to fool itself with its own propaganda.

When faced with such a diverse democracy as this, with such harsh consequences for stepping off the road, the only safe solution is to follow whatever path leads furthest away from civil war. That is, to appease each side according to its strength, so that each is pacified long enough to have peace. Ignorance is bliss.


"No, I'm not really schizo. Not anymore than you are, anyways."

P.S. To answer an earlier question from a previous blog post, no, you cannot believe a lie you intentionally created to fool yourself. To put it another way, you cannot outsmart yourself, because you will never have greater mental capacity than yourself in any single present tense.

Travelling Stories

Yes, yes, I know: I'm cursed as a traveller.

This time the trip home from school wasn't actually so bad. (Though it's the Christmas vacation stories that always take the cake.)

I got a ride from a friend from Walla Walla to Tacoma. I was only one hour late this time, as opposed to the times past, when I actually missed a greyhound bus. On the way there, the driver got lost for an hour. (Hence, why this friend remains unnamed.) After we got to their place, I stayed for two days (as the next day was Sabbath)--and I should add that they were so kind as to let me stay.

I went to the Greyhound station in Tacoma on Sunday morning. The one bag they weighed was 11 pounds overweight, which cost me $20 extra. They didn't weigh the other because they didn't believe it could be over. (I'm laughing at them, right now.)

Got on the bus, and then I misplaced my ticket from Seattle to Vancouver. I panicked, until I got to Seattle, and got off the bus, at which point it fell to the ground. After we departed Seattle, a lady in the back started talking in a loud, hoarse, scratchy voice on a cell phone, so loudly the rest of the bus fell silent. She said something to the effect of "I just came from Vegas (Vegas, baby!), I got so drunk, I love you, I was just at a bar, drank several Vodkas, some guy helped me carry my bags to this station, he was awesome, I'm so hammered right now, I can't wait to see you." Half the bus was waiting for the driver to kick her off, and the other half was trying really hard not to laugh.

Once in Vancouver, I realized I'd left my ticket confirmation number in Walla Walla. And the airline, departure time, etc. So I phoned home and got my brother and sister, to whom I had to give my email address and password so they could look it up for me. It took 35 minutes, but they finally got it to me--and the flight was departing in 2 and a half hours.

So I grabbed all five of my bags and took the SkyTrain (subway) and a city bus to the airport. The bus driver was really patient with me, I must add. No further comment, except that I broke a strap on one bag, and currently have bruises on my collarbones and neck from the exertion.

At the airport, I weighed the first bag, my blue "carry-on" roller, and it came out to 56 pounds. The ticket lady replied "That's impressive. How did you manage that?" The next bag, from which I'd removed a number of books because it cost me $20 on the Greyhound, came out to 61 pounds. She was nice and let it slide. I'm sure I owe her a lot. Especially as I got to the gate 15 minutes before boarding.

I slept 30 minutes on the night plane. Spent 50 minutes waiting at the airport for my Mom to arrive to pick me up, because of traffic to the airport. We stopped at a music store on the way home, and when we got out, the battery was dead, and the hood wouldn't open. An hour and a half of waiting later, the mechanic boosted us, and we were back on our way home, where I arrived at noon on Monday.

Overall, not a bad trip. A lot of things could have happened a lot worse. I know from experience.


"That's impressive. How did you manage that?"

I Despise Moving

I really do. I have to pack up everything I own; decide to part with a number of items that have emotional, if not physical value; and change my home, with all the upheaval that brings.

But most of all, I'm paranoid. Paranoid that I'll lose something that wasn't meant to be lost in the packing and sorting process. Paranoid that I won't be able to replace it once it's gone; that I'll be scarred forever by the loss.

It's a little irrational, really. I can always find something to fill all of my needs, even if it lacks the emotional value that the previous item carry. But all things grow old and worn out, and eventually need replacing.

Plus, the development of a comfort zone isn't supposed to be something I'm trying to do. When Jesus comes again, am I really going to be waiting with a wagonload of stuff that has too much emotional value to leave on Earth to burn?

Maybe it's just the anticipation of loss that bothers me. As they say, the anticipation of something is much greater than the event itself. Generally speaking, of course. But I think it applies here. If I was told now that my kindergarten paintings had been accidentally thrown out, it probably wouldn't bother me. But if I was told that they were about to be thrown out, I think I would protest greatly, and do what I could to intervene.

At any rate, I'm anticipating a few more hours of packing tonight--and I'm dreading that. My back is already in pain from the anticipated exertion.


"Young children seem to thrive better under a system which has at least a skeletal outline of rigidity, in which there is a schedule of a kind, some sort of routine, something that can be counted upon, not only for the present but far into the future." (Abraham Maslow)

Thoughts on ADD

I'm going to go ahead and theorize something that's probably controversial and against every Psychology textbook out there.

ADD isn't a disease. It is an addiction to stimulation.

Should it be a wonder that no one had ever heard of ADD a hundred years ago, yet now it is so prevalent that as many as half of my friends claim to have it to some degree? And should it be a coincidence that this is happening in the most stimulating age in human history?

People need to take a break, so that they are capable of extracting meaning and pleasure from the simpler things in this world. They really do. It shouldn't be necessary for commercials to start off with a bang and a flash just to get your attention.

To test this theory, I'd like to see some Psychologist out there begin treating ADD children as if they were addicted to something, as opposed to them having a disease and needing to take Ritalin or another form of drug. I dare say this would be far more effective than what is already being tried.

Maybe I'm just some ignorant blogger who knows nothing about psychology or counselling, and doesn't care about all the poor little children. But you can't tell me this idea hasn't occurred to anyone.


"The people are the heroes now,
Behemoth pulls the peasant's plow."
(John Adams, from Nixon in China)

On Self-Deceit

Is it better to force yourself to believe a lie that you know to be untrue in order to regain your sanity, or is it better to retain the truth?

Thoughts on Music

Why do we listen to it?

Music is simply organized, structured vibrations. Do we gain pleasure from it? Or perhaps we are all too ADD that we need music to distract a portion of our mind so that we can concentrate on what little remains, and focus with it?

Why do we derive pleasure from listening to music? Why is it soothing at times, energizing at others, and inspiring at the best of times?

Perhaps it regulates electrical impulses in the mind that respond to the beat of the music? What then of pieces that throw the beat off? Maybe the irregularity, and the imbalance in such music causes us to twist and turn--to dance, in other words. Of course, throwing the beat isn't technically irregularity and imbalance; it's simply doubling the speed of the beat.

Of course, if it was all about beats, melody and harmony would be irrelevant, and we know that isn't the case. In some music, anyways.

What is the power in harmony? How the selection of certain notes causes overtones to be constructively strengthened in various patterns, causing us delight? Why do certain melodies have that addictive property in which we can't get them out of our heads?

I'd love to study the Physics of music.


"When you catch a glimpse of the goodness of God, you will have a tongue of wisdom. You will have words to speak in season to those that are weary. You may never have learned the different languages of this earth, but God will teach you the language of Heaven." (Ellen White)

Aggressive Pedestrianism

A friend today walked up to me and said, "I almost hit you yesterday."

And the first thing I thought was, "Why do people keep telling me that?"

My theory of aggressive pedestrianism goes like this: Step in front of the car, and the car will stop. I'm not being risky or foolish by doing this--I grew up in a city. If you wanted to cross a street, and there were no stoplights around, that's how you did it. Granted, it's probably unneccessary in College Place, but old habits die hard.

Speaking of crossing the street, I saw a "moderately-framed" person running across the street the other day--basically, the same way I always cross College Avenue--and it struck me just how dumb he looked. The truest way of gaining fashion sense is to be able to see yourself through someone else's eyes.

I'd like to present myself as proof that my theory works. I've been hit by motorized vehicles 4 or 5 times, depending on whether the fifth one counts--and I haven't been killed yet. Therefore, stepping in front of a car will get it to stop.


"Those who fail to learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them." (Anonymous)

Sands of Time

Ever notice what time does to certainty? That is, that how certain you are of something negatively correlates to how long ago you saw/learned it?

My question is, why should this be the case?

Take, for instance, a miracle that happened when I was little. I was doing stupid things (as usual), while waiting for my Mom to drive me to the public swimming pool. Specifically, I was taking the bag that contained my towel and a change of clothes, and was throwing it in the air and trying to catch it. On one throw, it didn't quite go perfectly vertical, and so it ended up on top of our neighbour's garage.

This was a disaster to me, because if Mom found out about it, she'd be ticked, and I'd have to go face the neighbour. So the first thing I did was get a lawn chair, and attempt to reach it. Being 12, that didn't come close to working. So I stuck another lawn chair on top, a pail on top of that, instructed my brother to hold it still, and then grabbed a broom and tried to swipe it. I was closer, but still couldn't get closer.

At this point, I realized that all I could do could not save me. So, I prayed. As soon as I finished praying, the wind picked up, and blew the bag into the gutter, where I was able to reach it with my hand. Furthermore, we were able to put back the chairs and broom before my Mom came outside.

Now, when it first happened to me, I was certain that this was an answer to prayer. How could it be otherwise? The answer came directly after I finished praying. But as time passed, my certainty of God faded. What if the wind had been gusting, and I just didn't notice? It got to the point where I couldn't be certain that God had anything to do with the story at all.

Why is that? If I am certain of something once, why shouldn't I be certain of what my senses had told me at a later point in time? Take my grandma's hair--it's white. Am I certain of this? It's been 5 months since I've last seen her... and of course I'm certain. Why? Because it makes sense.

Imagine a brick, floating in mid-air. You walk up to it, and examine it carefully, checking for strings, magnetic devices, and so forth, until you're completely certain that the brick actually is defying the laws of gravity. Just wait even 7 days, and see if you still think the brick was actually defying the laws of gravity. Do we not have a tendency of fitting what our senses perceive to what we believe is true, as opposed to vice versa? Find me one true scientist who goes completely by observation, experiment, conclusion.

Satan does an awful good job of confusing us, doesn't he?


"Seeing is believing." (Anonymous)

The Tootbird

The "Tootbird" (mammalia fabaceae) is fluffy-looking animal that floats along with the wind in its travels. It was recently discovered by the writer of this blog, who unfortunately didn't have a camera with him, so he provided this rough sketch instead.

The name "Tootbird" is actually a misnomer, as it is not a bird, but a mammal. It raises itself up by means of its balloon-like intestinal system, which is home to a unique species of bacterium. This bacterium produces methane at a rate 10x faster than that of the cow's intestinal bacteria. When the intestines are filled with methane, they give the tootbird a bloated look, and eventually the creature acts as a living balloon and floats away. The tootbird can control how its altitude by expelling varied amounts of gas, depending on how low it wants to go.

The tootbird feeds by descending onto a bean field, and settling under a plant. It then extends its mouth and tongue and eats all the beans within reach. When it has finished, it waits for the methane to build up, and then elevates a little ways before finding another untouched area of the field. Soybean farmers dislike the creature, and consider it a pest.

The female tootbird is attracted to loud noises produced by the male members of that species expelling gas. During mating season, males get together in groups and have competitions, in which the best female chooses the male capable of reaching the highest number of decibles. Then, in mid-air, they get together and mate by expelling gas in synch with each other.

It is theorized that the tootbird is able to control the direction in which it travels, due to it's multiple anuses on each side of its body. This has not yet been proven, but awaits further research.


"Scientific progress goes boink?" (Calvin & Hobbes)

The Sleepless Journal

From about two weeks ago:

4:00am: Jumped out of bed, completely randomly. (My roommate can attest to this.)
8:55am: Crawled out of bed.
9:05am: Was last person in to Music History, which had already started.
10:05am: Got breakfast, was 5 minutes late to work.
Noon: Got a shower after Theory II. Found out my Counterpoint homework was late, and thereby worth nothing, because it was due two hours before class, for some odd reason.
2:00pm: Got a free cake before Counterpoint. Showed up 4 minutes late. The professor noticed. She was ticked off for most of the class.
3:00pm: Cancelled oboe practice with my accompanist.
3:20pm: Tried to register for next year, but advisor hadn't cleared me yet. Started this journal.
3:25pm: Advisor wasn't there when phoned. Went to bank.
3:35pm: Had only $175 available to pay tuition, much less than hoped for.
3:45pm: Saw advisor. Cleared to register. 15 minutes before closure of office.
3:50pm: Ran to accounting office. Paid $175US, $200CDN towards tuition; basically nothing.
3:55pm: Ran to dorm room; registered for Autumn. Ran to the records office.
4:00pm: Found out office closes at 5-6, not 4pm. Got the letter from records I needed to apply for a job; the letter that required me to register for next year's classes first. (Hence, the running around like a cat/dog chasing its tail.)
4:10pm: Went back to room. Finished registering for next year. Saw that Halladay already gave up one run against Texas, in the first inning.
5:00pm: Went to work.
6:10pm: Got dinner, went to Bible study (40 minutes late).
6:30pm: Finished Bible study. Halladay pitches a CG, 1ER 5H 8K game. Excellent... Begin working on eating dinner.
7:00pm: Finished eating dinner. Alright, there's a lot left. I'll get to it when I return from the music building this evening. Whenever that is.
Shortly after 7pm: Started up laundry. Post office is closed, roommate says. Will mail job application tomorrow?
Sometime later: Tried to read some of the Educational Psychology textbook. Probably not very much--10 pages. Surfed web.
10:00pm: Folded laundry.
10:30pm: Went to the music library to study.
11:30pm: Music building empties. (That is, besides me.)
Midnight: Talk on MSN.
Somewhere between 4am and 5am: Finished the assigned Educational Psychology reading.
Somewhere between 6am and 6:45am: Listened to lots of music (studying for the music history test) while talking on MSN.
7:10am: Got breakfast. Back to room 10 minutes later, brushed teeth, ate it.
7:30am: Devotions. Or tried to, anyways. May have burned my hands/hair/face on the desk lamp while using it as a radiator. I really, really want to go to sleep.
8:30am: Showered. Took longer than usual. I looked weighty.
9:00am: Went to class. I think I did well on the Music History listening test.
10:15am: Went to oboe lesson 15 minutes late, straight from the exam. Worked on The Planets, which is for a concert a week from now, and then lesson cut short and I left. Excellent.
11:00am: Chapel. Was hilarious, from what I hear. I was there: I should know. I just don't. Voted yes on the referendum to change the student association's name. Dr. Scott played prelude.
1:30pm: Fell asleep for "a while" in Educational Psych.
2:30pm: Finally relented and bought a Snickers bar. I really didn't want to resort to needing caffeine to stay awake, but I suppose I can make a small concession.
2:45pm: I went to Music Theory 2. First one there. Played a random hymn out of the hymnal, and we ended up getting tested on it that very class period. Professor was annoyed that of the 695 hymns in the hymnal, I had randomly guessed the hymn.
4:00pm: Piano Performance class. Everyone is having an off day.
5:15pm: Band. I can barely get air down that reed. I should sleep.
6:40pm: Raptors win! Raptors win! Raptors win!
7:40pm: Went to sleep. Alarm set for 4am.
7:20am: I wake up. Since this is no longer a "sleepless" journal, I'm ending.


"To die, to sleep--no more; and by a sleep we say end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks the flesh is heir to--'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." (Hamlet, from Shakespeare's Hamlet)

A Tale from the Garden of Eden

First off, to the person who inspired this story, and therefore deserves credit, I'm sorry, but this story was just so good that I had to share it (though you may disagree).

* * *

Adam was pruning a vine in the Garden of Eden one day when Eve ran up to him with an armful of apples.

"Look at this wonderful new fruit I've found! It's so delicious!"

"But Eve..." Adam replied hesitantly. "Don't you know what fruit that is?"

"Of course not. You're the one who named them all. What is this?"

Adam looked conflicted as a battle raged in his mind. Finally, he reached out and grabbed an apple, and just as he was about to take a bite, Eve interjected:

"Just kidding! April Fools!"

Adam dropped the apple in pure astonishment.

Eve didn't know how to respond to the silence, so she rambled on. "Of course I know which tree is the tree of good and evil. I'm not that stupid."

"Eve..." Adam groaned. "I think we need to have a talk."

"Whatever for? Is it your heart again?"

"I've told you so many times Eve, I don't like to be scared like that. You keep giving me heart attacks."

"So? You don't like it when your heart stops beating? It's not like it can kill you or anything."

"But that's not the point. It's something that I despise. And you... you... just live to watch me squirm."

"Oh, my poor Adam."

"No! I wouldn't need to be pitied if you weren't around!"

Eve gasped.

"That's right. I just don't think you're the woman for me. I want a divorce."

Adam stormed off, and Eve collapsed in a flurry of sobs.

"Oh, what have I done? My love is lost to me... forever! What is there left to me... but..." Eve picked up an apple, and ate it. "May this prove me to be your faithful lover for all eternity." Then she died.

Meanwhile, Adam regretted having exploded at Eve earlier, and returned to apologize... only to find a dead wife and an apple core. "Oh, Eve!" Stricken with the conflicting emotions of guilt, love, and desperation, Adam picked up one of the apples, and ate it... and so collapsed with grief over her body. As he breathed his last, he went to sleep with pleasant thoughts of Eve.


"Excessive pain, like excessive joy, is a violent thing which is of short duration." (Victor Hugo)

Observations of My Classroom

2:00pm, May 3, 2007


2 students are on MySpace.

1 student is on a laptop, probably doing the above, but I can't see her screen.

1 student is looking on her screen, laughing.

2 girls are checking their cell phones.

1 guy is browsing an unknown web site (screen too far away).

1 girl has her hand on her head, completely ignoring her surroundings.

2 girls are actually taking notes.

1 girl is having a conversation with the teacher, who is in the middle of his lecture.

I am writing down these observations.


This is all occurring in an education class; specifically, where we are applying the principles of psychology to help us become effective teachers. Oh, the irony. It's amazing what you can learn by simply watching.


"By beholding, we become changed."

P.S. For those who read the last post, the brownie is sitting wrapped in a tissue on the desk in front of me; and the girl who gave it to me is the one conversing with the instructor.

Earning Brownie Points

In class last Thursday, a friend of mind offered me a brownie. I had just eaten, so I wrapped up the brownie in some tissue and then saved it for later. On the way out of class, I overheard her mention "blue pee" to another classmate, with the words "methylene blue" added somewhere in there, and I knew something was up.

Had I eaten the brownie immediately, I'd have probably fallen for one of the most well-known Chemistry practical jokes. It wasn't that I was naive--rather, I wasn't expecting her to be able to get her hands on the stuff.

So I was confronted with a dilemma: what to do with the brownie? I offered it to some friends, though I told them upfront what would happen so that they would still be my friends later. Oddly enough, all of them declined the brownie. So I brought it to my room, and left it on the counter to stare at for a while.

It was the strangest thing trying to force myself to eat it. I knew that methylene blue was harmless, but... it wasn't meant to be ingested either. It took a day and a half before I finally managed the guts to eat it.

That whole thing was probably related to the reflex manoeuver of not being able to consciously harm yourself. Try sticking your hand in a hot fire. You won't be able to do it. It's not as if your body feels the heat, so the self-protection reflex must reside completely in the brain. The brain recognizes a danger, and then freezes the body. Which is good, really.

I probably should have listened to the reflex, in retrospect. The brownie tasted like detergent. It's not that she was a bad cook; but the reason that it's hidden in brownies is to mask the taste, which really isn't all that good. Brushing my teeth couldn't get rid of the taste. Then, two days later, I fell ill; though it would be difficult to blame that on the brownie. I'm just noticing this downward spiral ever since I've eaten that brownie. I wonder what else she put in there...

A Lesson In Politics

A few years ago, Pope John Paul II said the following:

"God could have used evolution to create the Earth."

At first, it appears that the pope has just gone ahead and condoned evolution, an incredible admission from a church that does not believe in forms of birth control beyond abstinence and rhythm, that does not condone abortion, that does not allow priests to marry, and basically represents tradition in all its glory. Any knowledgeable person would expect the Catholic church to maintain its anti-evolution stance. Instead, the Pope throws out this bone to all the evolutionists, reconciling itself with science after the 150-year split.

But look at the sentence again. "God could have used evolution to create the Earth." That sentence, as it stands, is something even I can agree with. God certainly could have used evolution to create the planet. He also could have created life by causing a massive solar flare to solidify. He could have had two asteroids collide in space, and the heat from the explosion could have warmed the first Adam to life.

Such it is with politics: the art of appearing to support every side of every argument at the same time. I commend the pope for showing us all how this is done.


"A thing either is what it appears to be; or it is not, but yet appears to be; or it is, but does not appear to be; or it is not, and does not appear to be." (Epictetus)

Lens Theory

Ever take a picture while lying down on some grass? If you have, then you'll know one thing: a camera can only focus on one depth at a time.

A camera consists of two lenses, which, depending on how far apart they are, focus on a certain depth in the field of perception. Certain lenses are good for seeing distant objects; others are good for close-ups.

The same principle works for glasses. Some glasses enable near-sighted people to see distant objects. Others allow far-sighted people to see nearby objects. Each lens is unique and allows various objects to become clear.

I think that people are like lenses. Each of us has been equipped by our experiences to see certain things more clearly than others. But at the same time, no one lens is capable of focusing on everything.

Imagine two people sitting in a field. One is badly near-sighted, the other badly far-sighted, but neither knows this--all that is known to each is that they have less-than-perfect vision. Now they spot a red object in the field, at mid-range. One thinks they can make out the shape of a Cardinal; the other sees the outline of a Rose. Who is correct?

In a world where we are only capable of seeing at the one depth our experience has equipped us to see, the only way we can put together a truly accurate vision of our surroundings is to ask other people what they see; and then assimilate the information and try to figure it out.

Given all this, then we have to take what we can see for ourselves with a grain of salt. How can we know what in our field of vision is accurate? Granted, we usually have a pretty good idea what is in focus and what is not; but focus is a narrow little bugger--anything outside of the exact millimeter of focus will be slightly blurred. We can, in nearly all situations, find someone who can see more clearly.

At the same time, we have been blessed to see something in perfect focus--and it's our responsibility to share our insights with the world. By remaining silent about what we see, we may deprive someone the ability of seeing the world a little more clearly.

So the lens theory teaches us two things. Share what you see of the world, even when you're not sure it's correct; and listen and respect what other people see in the world on the same level as you respect your own insights.

Don't be judgmental of others--who is to say whether you are correct? And even if you are right, you may very well have made the same mistake if you were wearing that person's glasses.

Get out there, meet others, and always take time to stop and think. Could that rose really be a bird?


"He and we were a party of men walking together, seeing, hearing, feeling, understanding the same world; and in two minutes, with a sudden snap, one of us would be gone – one mind less, one world less." (George Orwell)