I went to see a lawyer today regarding the immigration status of my partner. It was a fact that I knew more about my situation than the lawyer did, because I had spent many hours preparing and researching the available online sources, although she had not. She was surprised that my knowledge exceeded her own, but nevertheless charged $180 for a thirty-minute consultation and, upon learning that I was a computer programmer, asked me to help her fix her computer for free. I stared at her without saying anything, thinking, is my knowledge worthless, and yours worth $180 for less than an hour spent telling me less than what I already know?
The high status of lawyers in our society is a symptom of our society's decline. Lawyers do not create anything. The outcome of legal cases hinges not upon Truth but upon points of law, and bad laws are defended with just the same vigor as good ones. It is often the case that the client with the deepest pockets wins. These are some of the reasons I did not choose to become a lawyer. Several of my friends from school, the best and the brightest, became lawyers instead of scientists, inventors, or engineers. Who can blame them? Their decision was in their obvious self-interest. Is it proper to advise a young person to consider a creative or productive occupation when they can become lawyers instead and never have to worry about updating their skills or learning new ones?
For my part, I have had to learn a new computer technology every two to three years, at a minimum, and even so, many jobs are not available to me. I have experience in technologies that have fallen out of favor. It was a mistake entering the field of computer technology in the first place, when law and medicine pay huge salaries. Despite what some claim, law does not change very much year to year, and neither does our knowledge concerning the human body, but computer languages rise and fall like the tide. I've learned a dozen different languages in my career, many of them worthless now.
Ill-considered laws are a burden upon the people. I feel that there are too many laws, and many of them are intrusive and unnecessary and not founded upon good reasoning. I cannot afford much in the way of lawyers. Over three hundred years ago, my ancestors came to America as immigrants in search of freedom, but America has changed and is no longer hospitable to immigrants for a variety of reasons, chief among them the high rate of unemployment combined with the influx of undocumented workers from countries south of our border. I foresee myself having to leave America in search of the freedom to live with my partner without persecution from the government. I hope to postpone the severance as long as can be, but I see few other options available to me.
I was glad that I did not offer any help to the lawyer with her technical problem. It is contrary to my nature not to offer to help, but I would have regretted it for however long it took me to forget the ill-considered generosity. One thing I have learned in this life is that helping good people is good, but helping bloodsucking parasites is evil, because they will take what is offered and think one a fool for having offered a service without compensation, which they never do.
Showing posts with label stories of my life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories of my life. Show all posts
Friday, June 17, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
I Cheated in Trade Wars
I've been a big-time cheater all my life, at least in the wonderful world of games. I've never cheated on my taxes or on my partner, and the closest I've come to cheating my employer has been taking the odd pen home. Well, I'm not so sure my employers would actually have been opposed to taking a disposable pen home on occasion. They weren't skinflints, although the quality of the coffee in the office kitchen left a lot to be desired. I don't know why working people settle for rotgut when it comes to coffee. Good beans don't cost that much more than bad. I can get a pound of Sumatran for something like $7. Does that break the bank? I don't think so.
But I digress. I want to describe a specific episode of my cheating. It was brought to mind when I was winning an online chess game. I defeated my opponent in fourteen moves--checkmate, boom-yow! He never saw it coming. The words that came to my mind were, "Good night, sweet prince!" Those were the exact words used when finishing me off in Trade Wars about twenty years ago.
I don't know how many people remember Trade Wars. It was a text-based role-playing game of the BBS era set in a space-faring intergalactic civilization where one played as a merchant and was allotted a number of turns. The player visited planets buying ore or other goods and selling at a profit. Other traders would attack if encountered, because the goods of the vanquished were forfeited to the victor. One player in particular was a rampaging terror, wasting other traders, including me. He had a vast empire and was too powerful to eliminate, even if one were to find his hideaway.
My hacker nature got the better of me when I stumbled upon a system error that dropped me directly into DOS. I knew enough commands to load the Trade Wars Editor and give myself an enormous number of credits. Armed thus, I raised a vast army of ships so as to dominate the game. I tracked down the main player who had been lording it over every one else, killed him and took all his credits and other possessions. He would have to start over! I chuckled about that and called it quits for the day.
The next day when I logged on, I noticed that I was no longer able to load the Trade Wars Editor. When I logged into the game, I discovered I had been killed by the player I had killed the day before. He sent me a message that said, "GOOD NIGHT SWEET PRINCE!!!!!" It turns out that the System Operator had at least suspected my intrusion and had awarded my enemy even more credits than I had given myself. So, he was now invulnerable. Curse those tattle-tale system logs! I had to quit that Trade Wars Universe.
The moral of the story? There is no moral. I just like that line, "Good night, sweet prince!" It comes from Shakespeare and was spoken during a murder. Perhaps Macbeth?
But I digress. I want to describe a specific episode of my cheating. It was brought to mind when I was winning an online chess game. I defeated my opponent in fourteen moves--checkmate, boom-yow! He never saw it coming. The words that came to my mind were, "Good night, sweet prince!" Those were the exact words used when finishing me off in Trade Wars about twenty years ago.
I don't know how many people remember Trade Wars. It was a text-based role-playing game of the BBS era set in a space-faring intergalactic civilization where one played as a merchant and was allotted a number of turns. The player visited planets buying ore or other goods and selling at a profit. Other traders would attack if encountered, because the goods of the vanquished were forfeited to the victor. One player in particular was a rampaging terror, wasting other traders, including me. He had a vast empire and was too powerful to eliminate, even if one were to find his hideaway.
My hacker nature got the better of me when I stumbled upon a system error that dropped me directly into DOS. I knew enough commands to load the Trade Wars Editor and give myself an enormous number of credits. Armed thus, I raised a vast army of ships so as to dominate the game. I tracked down the main player who had been lording it over every one else, killed him and took all his credits and other possessions. He would have to start over! I chuckled about that and called it quits for the day.
The next day when I logged on, I noticed that I was no longer able to load the Trade Wars Editor. When I logged into the game, I discovered I had been killed by the player I had killed the day before. He sent me a message that said, "GOOD NIGHT SWEET PRINCE!!!!!" It turns out that the System Operator had at least suspected my intrusion and had awarded my enemy even more credits than I had given myself. So, he was now invulnerable. Curse those tattle-tale system logs! I had to quit that Trade Wars Universe.
The moral of the story? There is no moral. I just like that line, "Good night, sweet prince!" It comes from Shakespeare and was spoken during a murder. Perhaps Macbeth?
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
I Love Teachers
Am I surprised Republicans and their propaganda organ, Fox News, declared war on teachers? No. It's just another one of the lame, counter-productive wars the Republicans wage, in this case against their own countrymen.
I love teachers. I think education and educators are the nation's top resource.
And teachers tend to like me, as well. Here's what one wrote regarding one of my presentations: "Excellent research, preparation and delivery! Nicely dressed & groomed. Nice use of scientific terms. Beautiful pamphlets. You have a talent for teaching and speaking. Get your Ph.D. & come back and teach for the university!"
I liked that so much, I posted it on the bulletin board in my study. My teacher did not have to write all of that. She could have just given me a 100 and been done with it. I think it's indicative that she cared. It's a pity that so many bankers did not care. They spent all their time devising ways to cheat their customers, clients, taxpayers, and shareholders. The current economic situation, the one that Republicans want the workers to suffer for, is the result.
I don't think teachers are overpaid. I think they are overworked. I think bankers are overpaid. Bankers have not been doing a good job. If anyone is lazy, it's the bankers.
Don't mess with the teachers, Republicans. On the other hand--do. I think that issue is going to come back to bite 'em in the next election. At least I hope it does. Seems like the Republicans get away with every type of nonsense under the sun. Voters keep signing up for more abuse.
I think the question of which party to support is simple. Democrats are on the side of the workers, that is, the 99% of the country that performs useful work. Republicans are on the side of those that want to profit at the expense of everybody else. There is overlap. There are exceptions. There are Democrats that vote like Republicans. I don't know whether there are any Republicans that vote like Democrats. The Republican Party tends to run a tight ship. But the general rule applies. That's why I vote straight-ticket Democrat. It's the only thing straight about me. In rare cases where the Democratic ticket is too similar to the Republican ticket on the issues, to the point that both appear identical, I vote Libertarian.
I love teachers. I think education and educators are the nation's top resource.
And teachers tend to like me, as well. Here's what one wrote regarding one of my presentations: "Excellent research, preparation and delivery! Nicely dressed & groomed. Nice use of scientific terms. Beautiful pamphlets. You have a talent for teaching and speaking. Get your Ph.D. & come back and teach for the university!"
I liked that so much, I posted it on the bulletin board in my study. My teacher did not have to write all of that. She could have just given me a 100 and been done with it. I think it's indicative that she cared. It's a pity that so many bankers did not care. They spent all their time devising ways to cheat their customers, clients, taxpayers, and shareholders. The current economic situation, the one that Republicans want the workers to suffer for, is the result.
I don't think teachers are overpaid. I think they are overworked. I think bankers are overpaid. Bankers have not been doing a good job. If anyone is lazy, it's the bankers.
Don't mess with the teachers, Republicans. On the other hand--do. I think that issue is going to come back to bite 'em in the next election. At least I hope it does. Seems like the Republicans get away with every type of nonsense under the sun. Voters keep signing up for more abuse.
I think the question of which party to support is simple. Democrats are on the side of the workers, that is, the 99% of the country that performs useful work. Republicans are on the side of those that want to profit at the expense of everybody else. There is overlap. There are exceptions. There are Democrats that vote like Republicans. I don't know whether there are any Republicans that vote like Democrats. The Republican Party tends to run a tight ship. But the general rule applies. That's why I vote straight-ticket Democrat. It's the only thing straight about me. In rare cases where the Democratic ticket is too similar to the Republican ticket on the issues, to the point that both appear identical, I vote Libertarian.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Infections
I was hit by two nasty, sneaky, time-consuming infections this week. Computer virus and cold virus. One I've licked, the other I haven't kicked. Guess which. Achoo!
There may be hailstones. I have a sturdy umbrella. In adversity, I swim along like a fish upstream. And when I reach the shallows, there will be others. Nature is a superb engineer that has built redundancy into all her systems.
There may be hailstones. I have a sturdy umbrella. In adversity, I swim along like a fish upstream. And when I reach the shallows, there will be others. Nature is a superb engineer that has built redundancy into all her systems.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Time Travelling
If I could travel in time for a single day, I'd go back in time rather than forward in time. The future seems unreal to me. I like analyzing, interpreting and drawing conclusions, and that is easier with the past, when facts are known, than in the uncertain and ever-changing future, when I might not be. I'd like to go back thirty years to share what I know now with the individual that I was then. It would be a dicey affair, visiting myself. How would my past Self interpret such a visitation? I suppose there are ways that I could prove to my past Self that I was who I said I was, but such an intrusion would be unsettling.
I remember having had certain thoughts and feelings which seemed borrowed from a much later period of life, possibly premonitions. There was nothing specific that I could really sink my teeth into, only whisperings of the future and of certain paths that could be taken in the most ambiguous and general terms. I did not know the source, whether intuitive, spirit or telepath, and it seemed unwise to encourage such trespasses, so I shutdown the avenue of communication and listened no more. Perhaps it would have been better to listen more.
Of course, if I could go back in time, I'd carry as much gold with me as possible in order to liquidate and purchase stock in Microsoft, Wal-Mart, Toyota, and Honda. Even a $10,000 investment would have made me a rich man, I think, thirty years later. I don't know how I would have managed all the necessary business transactions in a single day. Another thing on the "must-do" list would be to attempt contact with the President of the United States via a written letter, easy enough to do. I would write down things that will occur in the next couple months or years in order to validate my authenticity, and then things that will occur later, to help the President craft public policy.
I remember having had certain thoughts and feelings which seemed borrowed from a much later period of life, possibly premonitions. There was nothing specific that I could really sink my teeth into, only whisperings of the future and of certain paths that could be taken in the most ambiguous and general terms. I did not know the source, whether intuitive, spirit or telepath, and it seemed unwise to encourage such trespasses, so I shutdown the avenue of communication and listened no more. Perhaps it would have been better to listen more.
Of course, if I could go back in time, I'd carry as much gold with me as possible in order to liquidate and purchase stock in Microsoft, Wal-Mart, Toyota, and Honda. Even a $10,000 investment would have made me a rich man, I think, thirty years later. I don't know how I would have managed all the necessary business transactions in a single day. Another thing on the "must-do" list would be to attempt contact with the President of the United States via a written letter, easy enough to do. I would write down things that will occur in the next couple months or years in order to validate my authenticity, and then things that will occur later, to help the President craft public policy.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Wasted Time?
Like many Americans, judging from what I read on the Web, I'm overeducated but underemployed. It seems like there is no advantage to knowledge or brains unless one has attained specific experience in precise technical fields. The obstacles to entering a new profession or even remaining in a profession appear steep.
A case in point is registered nursing, a growth field that interested me because of its humanitarian and scientific aspect. I fulfilled all the prerequisites with flying colors, scoring in the highest percentiles in classes and on the nurses' exam. A five-minute interview apparently nixed my application, although I am permitted to reapply in six months' time--how nice, but time is running out for me, as I'm not getting any younger.
The thought of having spent a year on training, only to be told "No" after a strangely abbreviated interview, is dispiriting to say the least. One wonders whether the five-minute chat could have been given prior to the year's worth of classes in order to save time and expense, both for me and the State that financed my tuition. But then, a "Yes" would not necessarily be good either, as it would have set the stage for an additional two years' training at 50+ hours per week and a $10K tuition cost out-of-pocket, quite a significant barrier. I am not sure whether I should mourn rejection or embrace it as a sign that nursing was just not meant to be my path in life. At the beginning of my journey, I thought that my capabilities might be put to use to help those in real need or lessen someone's pain. There was an incipient Crusader impulse to help others, to do good, but that impulse has been nipped in the bud, as my services are apparently not needed in the medical field.
Another dream has died an agonizing death, but good riddance to it. I am not sure what hidden factors might have been at play during that interview, but a part of me finds it curious that I scored at the highest level in all the classes that I took and yet was rejected. There is a temptation to analyze and speculate about the causes for rejection, but I'm reluctant to do so in the absence of any evidence. I've learned from experience that one can seldom know for certain the motivations of others. There may be a hidden hand at play or there may not, but even if I were smart enough to deduce the facts, the outcome would remain unchanged.
The past year, it seems, I've been spinning my wheels on an education treadmill, accomplishing nothing at the end of my journey beyond assisting the college in its siphoning of funds from the State treasury and my own bank account.
I did enjoy my classes, and I think there were students and even professors that were pleased to see me and grateful for my presence on occasion. Perhaps that is enough. Life is about the journey, not necessarily the destination. The ultimate destination is death, anyway, for all journeyers. At least if I die tomorrow, I will not have any regrets, but feel like I performed to the best of my capabilities and conducted myself in an ethical manner. That is more than some can say. Some people become crazy rich in a short amount of time without working hard. No doubt they vote Republican, if they vote at all.
A case in point is registered nursing, a growth field that interested me because of its humanitarian and scientific aspect. I fulfilled all the prerequisites with flying colors, scoring in the highest percentiles in classes and on the nurses' exam. A five-minute interview apparently nixed my application, although I am permitted to reapply in six months' time--how nice, but time is running out for me, as I'm not getting any younger.
The thought of having spent a year on training, only to be told "No" after a strangely abbreviated interview, is dispiriting to say the least. One wonders whether the five-minute chat could have been given prior to the year's worth of classes in order to save time and expense, both for me and the State that financed my tuition. But then, a "Yes" would not necessarily be good either, as it would have set the stage for an additional two years' training at 50+ hours per week and a $10K tuition cost out-of-pocket, quite a significant barrier. I am not sure whether I should mourn rejection or embrace it as a sign that nursing was just not meant to be my path in life. At the beginning of my journey, I thought that my capabilities might be put to use to help those in real need or lessen someone's pain. There was an incipient Crusader impulse to help others, to do good, but that impulse has been nipped in the bud, as my services are apparently not needed in the medical field.
Another dream has died an agonizing death, but good riddance to it. I am not sure what hidden factors might have been at play during that interview, but a part of me finds it curious that I scored at the highest level in all the classes that I took and yet was rejected. There is a temptation to analyze and speculate about the causes for rejection, but I'm reluctant to do so in the absence of any evidence. I've learned from experience that one can seldom know for certain the motivations of others. There may be a hidden hand at play or there may not, but even if I were smart enough to deduce the facts, the outcome would remain unchanged.
The past year, it seems, I've been spinning my wheels on an education treadmill, accomplishing nothing at the end of my journey beyond assisting the college in its siphoning of funds from the State treasury and my own bank account.
I did enjoy my classes, and I think there were students and even professors that were pleased to see me and grateful for my presence on occasion. Perhaps that is enough. Life is about the journey, not necessarily the destination. The ultimate destination is death, anyway, for all journeyers. At least if I die tomorrow, I will not have any regrets, but feel like I performed to the best of my capabilities and conducted myself in an ethical manner. That is more than some can say. Some people become crazy rich in a short amount of time without working hard. No doubt they vote Republican, if they vote at all.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Interviewing After College
One of my first interviews after graduating was in the big city. It seemed promising, because I was qualified according to the advertisement. I secured two other interviews in the same city and signed up for a job fair, which almost justified driving a couple hundred miles and checking into a hotel.
I interviewed for a job with a state agency. Despite my having a degree in IT, they made me take a test, which was unusual, regarding my knowledge of computer skills, as though my degree had no meaning. I thought I did pretty well on their little test. It took about an hour to complete, and then I proceeded with the interview.
The interviewer had a smirk on his face and took a decidedly negative tone. He had a co-worker as his partner during the interview, a woman who said little but laughed at his stale jokes which were directed at me--I was the butt of his jokes for some reason. He looked at my resume for the first time and criticized me for having graduated summa cum laude. He didn't like the fact I did well at university, because he said he didn't. His eyebrows were pointed down toward his nose, and it seemed to me like he had made up his mind to dislike anyone interviewing for the position. Or maybe the problem was that I was male, and he had not known I was male prior to the interview, and he wanted a female that he could have fun with, maybe a fresh young thing straight out of college. At any rate I lost all interest in the job after spending twenty minutes with what would have been my future boss.
It is rare to find a good job advertised anywhere. I'm not sure it is at all possible to secure a good job through classified ads. Most jobs that are available are available because people already at the company don't want them and would not touch them with a ten-foot pole. I suspect the reason the state agency was hiring was that his previous co-worker had left, not wishing to spend another day with creep-o.
I interviewed for a job with a state agency. Despite my having a degree in IT, they made me take a test, which was unusual, regarding my knowledge of computer skills, as though my degree had no meaning. I thought I did pretty well on their little test. It took about an hour to complete, and then I proceeded with the interview.
The interviewer had a smirk on his face and took a decidedly negative tone. He had a co-worker as his partner during the interview, a woman who said little but laughed at his stale jokes which were directed at me--I was the butt of his jokes for some reason. He looked at my resume for the first time and criticized me for having graduated summa cum laude. He didn't like the fact I did well at university, because he said he didn't. His eyebrows were pointed down toward his nose, and it seemed to me like he had made up his mind to dislike anyone interviewing for the position. Or maybe the problem was that I was male, and he had not known I was male prior to the interview, and he wanted a female that he could have fun with, maybe a fresh young thing straight out of college. At any rate I lost all interest in the job after spending twenty minutes with what would have been my future boss.
It is rare to find a good job advertised anywhere. I'm not sure it is at all possible to secure a good job through classified ads. Most jobs that are available are available because people already at the company don't want them and would not touch them with a ten-foot pole. I suspect the reason the state agency was hiring was that his previous co-worker had left, not wishing to spend another day with creep-o.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Just Not Good Enough, Eh?
As I was doing my taxes, I came across old documentation from school that reminded me of my aborted mission to become a registered nurse. I am reminded of the substantial costs in money, time, energy and effort that amounted to nothing. It was a gamble, nothing more--a losing wager.
According to the local nursing school, I'm not good enough to be allowed into their program. After all, I only scored a 100 out of 100 on the entrance exam--not a 110, as an extraterrestrial by the name of Zwee!-Blapt!-Flitzuh! scored, adding quantum points from an alternative reality.
Also, my five "critical grades" in prerequisite courses were A, A, A, C, and B, which were far from perfect. The A's were all science courses. The "C" was in English Composition (101), a course I took in the 1980's. (Ignored was my Bachelor in Arts with a major in English and a 3.9 GPA.)
I scored 18 out of a possible 25 points on the interview itself, which lasted about five minutes. Mainly the interviewers wished to know whether I had prior nursing experience, which is interesting, because if I had, it is likely I would not have been enrolling in nursing school. But apparently many nursing students are already in the medical profession and seeking to move up the career ladder.
In retrospect, I think taking prerequisites for nursing school was a waste of time, although I did enjoy several of my classes, because I like learning. Though I have lost, I think that society too has lost, because it was the State that financed much of my education and whose employees determined, at the end, for whatever secret motives, that I wasn't good enough to be admitted into nursing school. Since my education was a mutual investment, we are losers together. That gives me a small measure of satisfaction, much better than if I had paid for all the tuition myself.
I understand that there is a shortage of nurses these days. Too bad.
According to the local nursing school, I'm not good enough to be allowed into their program. After all, I only scored a 100 out of 100 on the entrance exam--not a 110, as an extraterrestrial by the name of Zwee!-Blapt!-Flitzuh! scored, adding quantum points from an alternative reality.
Also, my five "critical grades" in prerequisite courses were A, A, A, C, and B, which were far from perfect. The A's were all science courses. The "C" was in English Composition (101), a course I took in the 1980's. (Ignored was my Bachelor in Arts with a major in English and a 3.9 GPA.)
I scored 18 out of a possible 25 points on the interview itself, which lasted about five minutes. Mainly the interviewers wished to know whether I had prior nursing experience, which is interesting, because if I had, it is likely I would not have been enrolling in nursing school. But apparently many nursing students are already in the medical profession and seeking to move up the career ladder.
In retrospect, I think taking prerequisites for nursing school was a waste of time, although I did enjoy several of my classes, because I like learning. Though I have lost, I think that society too has lost, because it was the State that financed much of my education and whose employees determined, at the end, for whatever secret motives, that I wasn't good enough to be admitted into nursing school. Since my education was a mutual investment, we are losers together. That gives me a small measure of satisfaction, much better than if I had paid for all the tuition myself.
I understand that there is a shortage of nurses these days. Too bad.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Writing an Autobiography
I have the rough draft of an autobiography written ten years ago, but the older it gets, the less I value it. When fresh from my hand, I took measures to safeguard its data, including numerous backups on CD amid fretful worries that an I/O error might erase all my labor. I imagined it would be useful, supplying grist for a novel that might gain for me material things. Writing has always seemed a viable path for a poor person to gain wealth and influence, even though those already prestigious, like Donald Trump, have an advantage, because people will read them in the hope that some of their magic might rub off.
After some experimentation with online publishing, I downgraded my own evaluation. There are many writers that must be better, because they earn a living by writing, whereas I've never been paid for the slightest article or web page, even though I have designed an entire web site from the ground up and written many articles. Also, while I've received some encouragement via fan mail, it hasn't been often. In ratings competition with other writers, I rank in the middle. Editors of publications have rejected submissions and queries. One draws the natural conclusion from the accumulation of such experiences. I think if I had showed promise, surely somewhere along the line, a proper place for me would have been found somewhere, if only as a writer for alternative newspapers or magazines.
Now I think of the autobiography as false in many parts or misguided or a collection of events only half-perceived in their totality. There is a focus, for instance, upon individuals, eight or ten in number, that I no longer care anything for and vice versa, youthful infatuations that seem like overripe onions to me now, and no one is interested in those biased histories besides the author anyway. I read the stories and think, what foolishness, and want to bury the knowledge. All the ones I used to place above the Moon and Stars, I now see as unimportant particles of dust. They are better forgotten, and I am only too glad they are strangers to me now. There's no possibility for good as far as I can see.
To dream about the past is an odd and solitary occupation, because most think about the present and the future, always looking to acquire more possessions in the belief they 'win' if they have more stuff in the end. Where is the accountant, and who pays his salary, and why should he concern himself with the trifles of the deceased?
I like writing on a blog as I do now, without any expectations, as a message in a bottle to an alien visitor from another planet. Sometimes, I find posts that I dislike, especially if they expressed anger, and these I delete. My regrets all had their origin in anger. Anger is a relic of our animal origins that I think cannot have much currency in the future. It is a throwback. It had a purpose, even an advantage back in the days of tooth and claw, but not within the context of modern society, I think. Often, anger seems misplaced in retrospect, overwrought, or the result of disordered thoughts.
It is commonplace to see anger expressed in the media. I remember reading the Reader's Digest in the 1970's and 1980's. The Reader's Digest was like Fox News today. Just about every article was calculated to enrage an ordinary person and persuade them that liberals caused every problem under the Sun. I was at one time an avid reader of the Reader's Digest. All my relatives subscribed to it and their opinions were formed by it. And all of it was nothing but lies, a steady stream of half-truths, exaggerations and distortions calculated to turn working people into voters for Ronald Reagan and, later, the Bushes. And it worked. Humans are quite easy to deceive and mislead and can be operated like puppets. This is well-known. No one is immune, no matter how smart. I have crafted my predictions of the future with this in mind.
On the other hand, every once in a while, I read an earlier post and think to myself, "that is not half-bad," and it gives me satisfaction as a kind of validation. If I like my stuff, then that matters more to me than if others do. However, my evaluations change. I sometimes look back on a story that I used to like and find that time and distance have changed my perception. I'm sure other writers must feel the same way. For instance, even the great Mary Renault's early romance novels left a lot to be desired. I couldn't finish any but The Charioteer. The others just seemed boring.
After some experimentation with online publishing, I downgraded my own evaluation. There are many writers that must be better, because they earn a living by writing, whereas I've never been paid for the slightest article or web page, even though I have designed an entire web site from the ground up and written many articles. Also, while I've received some encouragement via fan mail, it hasn't been often. In ratings competition with other writers, I rank in the middle. Editors of publications have rejected submissions and queries. One draws the natural conclusion from the accumulation of such experiences. I think if I had showed promise, surely somewhere along the line, a proper place for me would have been found somewhere, if only as a writer for alternative newspapers or magazines.
Now I think of the autobiography as false in many parts or misguided or a collection of events only half-perceived in their totality. There is a focus, for instance, upon individuals, eight or ten in number, that I no longer care anything for and vice versa, youthful infatuations that seem like overripe onions to me now, and no one is interested in those biased histories besides the author anyway. I read the stories and think, what foolishness, and want to bury the knowledge. All the ones I used to place above the Moon and Stars, I now see as unimportant particles of dust. They are better forgotten, and I am only too glad they are strangers to me now. There's no possibility for good as far as I can see.
To dream about the past is an odd and solitary occupation, because most think about the present and the future, always looking to acquire more possessions in the belief they 'win' if they have more stuff in the end. Where is the accountant, and who pays his salary, and why should he concern himself with the trifles of the deceased?
I like writing on a blog as I do now, without any expectations, as a message in a bottle to an alien visitor from another planet. Sometimes, I find posts that I dislike, especially if they expressed anger, and these I delete. My regrets all had their origin in anger. Anger is a relic of our animal origins that I think cannot have much currency in the future. It is a throwback. It had a purpose, even an advantage back in the days of tooth and claw, but not within the context of modern society, I think. Often, anger seems misplaced in retrospect, overwrought, or the result of disordered thoughts.
It is commonplace to see anger expressed in the media. I remember reading the Reader's Digest in the 1970's and 1980's. The Reader's Digest was like Fox News today. Just about every article was calculated to enrage an ordinary person and persuade them that liberals caused every problem under the Sun. I was at one time an avid reader of the Reader's Digest. All my relatives subscribed to it and their opinions were formed by it. And all of it was nothing but lies, a steady stream of half-truths, exaggerations and distortions calculated to turn working people into voters for Ronald Reagan and, later, the Bushes. And it worked. Humans are quite easy to deceive and mislead and can be operated like puppets. This is well-known. No one is immune, no matter how smart. I have crafted my predictions of the future with this in mind.
On the other hand, every once in a while, I read an earlier post and think to myself, "that is not half-bad," and it gives me satisfaction as a kind of validation. If I like my stuff, then that matters more to me than if others do. However, my evaluations change. I sometimes look back on a story that I used to like and find that time and distance have changed my perception. I'm sure other writers must feel the same way. For instance, even the great Mary Renault's early romance novels left a lot to be desired. I couldn't finish any but The Charioteer. The others just seemed boring.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The $1.99 Soft Drink
At a mega-grocery store, the deli has a pernicious rule. They don't allow customers to buy drinks from the rest of the grocery store; only from the deli. Why, I don't know. It seems like a strange rule. Maybe they want customers to buy the sugary sodas that have a higher profit margin. I don't like sugary sodas. I like the juice of carrots, grapefruit, lemons, or oranges, which are sold in the grocery store. Due to this rule, which the cashier rigidly enforced, I ate my meal without drinking. However, the thousands of dollars I spent at that grocery store over the years won't be repeated. There are other grocery stores, after all. The dozen-odd people I recommended the grocery store to over the years won't be repeated. Now I have a different story to tell instead of gushing over the food selection, which again, are duplicated by other grocery stores. They ain't the only game in town, not by a long shot. It does seem odd to me that the one-time possible sale of a $1.99 soft drink is preferred over goodwill. The urge to control customers can be taken too far. Greed is short-sighted, snatching for pennies while losing dollars.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Win, Lose, Draw
In chess, I find that drawing leaves me almost as content as winning. I draw about one out of five games or so. If each side plays without making a mistake, then a draw is the natural outcome of chess.
Losing does not bother me if the other side plays exceptionally well. Losing is annoying only if it is the result of a blunder, a particularly egregious mistake. True, chess is a game of mistakes, and neither side would win without there being at least one mistake. If I make a mistake, then perhaps I will learn from it. Not so with a blunder. A blunder is a failure to see something on the board that should be immediately obvious, such as imminent checkmate or the capture of a piece or pawn. A blunder reprimands carelessness.
We all make mistakes and, it should be admitted, blunders. It is the nature of the game. Perhaps supercomputers do not make blunders, but humans do. I composed a little ditty to describe my blundering.
Ultimately, what determines one's success in chess is raw calculating speed. I know that I'm slow, compared to the best players. Not only that, I don't always see everything. I can see up to four or five moves ahead, although usually I just look two or three moves ahead. The better players can look further into the game and faster. I am astounded by players that only require fifteen minutes or even less for an entire game when playing against me. If they can win consistently under that time constraint, to me it seems like they are superhuman.
Losing does not bother me if the other side plays exceptionally well. Losing is annoying only if it is the result of a blunder, a particularly egregious mistake. True, chess is a game of mistakes, and neither side would win without there being at least one mistake. If I make a mistake, then perhaps I will learn from it. Not so with a blunder. A blunder is a failure to see something on the board that should be immediately obvious, such as imminent checkmate or the capture of a piece or pawn. A blunder reprimands carelessness.
We all make mistakes and, it should be admitted, blunders. It is the nature of the game. Perhaps supercomputers do not make blunders, but humans do. I composed a little ditty to describe my blundering.
My brain ain't the best brain.The beauty of online chessplaying is that one can find players of the same approximate skill level. This is not always possible in a local club.
It's an old brain,
Prone to mistakes.
But it's better than no brain
or a half-brain
or a birdbrain,
and I'm happy just the same.
Ultimately, what determines one's success in chess is raw calculating speed. I know that I'm slow, compared to the best players. Not only that, I don't always see everything. I can see up to four or five moves ahead, although usually I just look two or three moves ahead. The better players can look further into the game and faster. I am astounded by players that only require fifteen minutes or even less for an entire game when playing against me. If they can win consistently under that time constraint, to me it seems like they are superhuman.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Thanks for Banning Me
In retrospect, I am delighted to be banned from FICS.
There are numerous alternatives for playing chess online. By forcing me out of FICS, the admin did me a favor. I found a better community, easier to use, with many more players and a better designed interface.
I would probably never have left FICS had I not been banned, because I'm a creature of habit and had even become an enthusiast, which is one of my faults, reducing my level of objectivity. I had evaluated FICS as being much better than it is. I liked it so much that I was mentioning it to all my chessplaying friends. I had even added a link to FICS, just a few days before being banned. What irony--and foolishness on my part. All of that is over now, a mistake in the past, now corrected.
I can't think of a better Christmas present than to be banned from FICS, which requires the use of software that has not been updated since 2007. Yet the worst shortcoming is an obtuse admin, incapable or unwilling to communicate with others. I say let the trolls play with the trolls. Perhaps they will find solutions for one another. Players that deport themselves like gentlemen can find a better community with just a little searching. I confess I'm reluctant to offer a link to my new chess community. It seems bad luck. Once bitten, twice shy.
There are numerous alternatives for playing chess online. By forcing me out of FICS, the admin did me a favor. I found a better community, easier to use, with many more players and a better designed interface.
I would probably never have left FICS had I not been banned, because I'm a creature of habit and had even become an enthusiast, which is one of my faults, reducing my level of objectivity. I had evaluated FICS as being much better than it is. I liked it so much that I was mentioning it to all my chessplaying friends. I had even added a link to FICS, just a few days before being banned. What irony--and foolishness on my part. All of that is over now, a mistake in the past, now corrected.
I can't think of a better Christmas present than to be banned from FICS, which requires the use of software that has not been updated since 2007. Yet the worst shortcoming is an obtuse admin, incapable or unwilling to communicate with others. I say let the trolls play with the trolls. Perhaps they will find solutions for one another. Players that deport themselves like gentlemen can find a better community with just a little searching. I confess I'm reluctant to offer a link to my new chess community. It seems bad luck. Once bitten, twice shy.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Sisyphus
I am reminded of the myth of Sisyphus. Sometimes when I work on something intensely, after hundreds or thousands of hours, someone thwarts my efforts, so that my efforts backfire. This is seldom accomplished through intellectual means.
I'm a good chess player. I don't know what my USCF ranking would be, but I realize that masters are much better at the game. I'm best at slow games, around twenty to thirty minutes, considered slow these days. When I was a boy, games were not timed and could last for one or two hours. My brother or I might spend ten, fifteen, twenty minutes studying a single move. I fare poorly at blitz chess, because I become fascinated by positions and want to analyze every detail, and then I run out of time. I resent having to rush through things. I like to ponder until I find the perfect solution. But blitz does have the advantage of brevity. Perhaps it serves to quicken one's calculating speed. I'm not sure. I don't think I've gotten any faster, but more likely slower as I've aged.
I spent hundreds of hours mastering an unusual chess opening, learning just about every facet of it, only to be banned from the internet chess server for what seems to me a spurious rationale pulled out of thin air. My brother had visited for Christmas, and I was so enthusiastic about the chess server that I showed him how it worked, even registering him and letting him play from my Internet connection. Such enthusiasm I had. He was the one who had taught me chess at the age of four, so I thought to repay him by teaching him about the internet chess server that I had recently discovered. I spent an hour teaching him how it worked. This was supposedly (I mean I do not believe it) interpreted by an admin as violating a rule of one person having two accounts, because it was from the same IP address. But there were two people, not one. I was interrupted in the middle of a game in which I was winning, disconnected and banned without any warning.
I had been polite to all the players and even in those cases where the players were not polite to me, I just quit playing them. I had spent months learning and perfecting an unusual opening that had given me great success. I think that my unusual opening, judged unsound by many but refuted by none, was the ultimate reason I was banned. I have noticed that some chessplayers are contemptuous of any opening that is not being currently played by one or preferably all the grandmasters. The chess world is hierarchical, the lower ranks being deferential to the best players. Some players believe we should only do what the grandmasters say to do. They read articles written by grandmasters and copy their ideas. Their play consists of rote memorization of the products of other minds. When I break them out of book, they go to pieces. Some players immediately abort the game on the very first move when they observe my opening, because they have no adequate response and can't be troubled to find one.
A few days before my ban, I defeated the wrong person, a connected person, who was angry that I had played my opening. He said it was unsound, and grandmasters didn't play it, and he didn't want to play it either, and he even told me to "go f--- myself," twice, in case I didn't process it the first time. He was either the admin himself or friends with the admin, I think, because he demonstrated a mastery of the network's technical side. It is too much of a coincidence that I am banned so soon after this nasty unprovoked altercation from a player whose very arrogance suggests he was indeed the admin. So I am banned because I play an unusual opening. This fits in with the other expectations I have developed of society.
I suppose it doesn't matter. Chess is a just a game of limited value and minority appeal. I do not have a friend who plays as well as I do. That is one of the problems with chess. Getting good at it is a double-edged sword. I am reminded of my old friend from school. At first he beat me two out of three games. A few weeks later, I beat him half the time, and that was the perfect scenario, but I kept improving. Next I was beating him almost every game, and then he stopped playing me forever, because he hated losing, but did not want to invest the time required to get better at chess, which in retrospect was a prudent choice on his part that I wish I had followed.
If I had my life to live over, I would have learned a musical instrument instead of a nerdy game that appeals to soldierly types, often men of narrow interests and deep prejudices. Music opens up a world of beauty. It allows one to connect with other beings in a way that is not possible through chess. Chess is a blood sport, of limited appeal except to warriors. But one is what one is. I suppose I would have made a good lieutenant. It is good I have not been in war in this lifetime--good for me and merciful to the foes I otherwise would have encountered.
I'm a good chess player. I don't know what my USCF ranking would be, but I realize that masters are much better at the game. I'm best at slow games, around twenty to thirty minutes, considered slow these days. When I was a boy, games were not timed and could last for one or two hours. My brother or I might spend ten, fifteen, twenty minutes studying a single move. I fare poorly at blitz chess, because I become fascinated by positions and want to analyze every detail, and then I run out of time. I resent having to rush through things. I like to ponder until I find the perfect solution. But blitz does have the advantage of brevity. Perhaps it serves to quicken one's calculating speed. I'm not sure. I don't think I've gotten any faster, but more likely slower as I've aged.
I spent hundreds of hours mastering an unusual chess opening, learning just about every facet of it, only to be banned from the internet chess server for what seems to me a spurious rationale pulled out of thin air. My brother had visited for Christmas, and I was so enthusiastic about the chess server that I showed him how it worked, even registering him and letting him play from my Internet connection. Such enthusiasm I had. He was the one who had taught me chess at the age of four, so I thought to repay him by teaching him about the internet chess server that I had recently discovered. I spent an hour teaching him how it worked. This was supposedly (I mean I do not believe it) interpreted by an admin as violating a rule of one person having two accounts, because it was from the same IP address. But there were two people, not one. I was interrupted in the middle of a game in which I was winning, disconnected and banned without any warning.
I had been polite to all the players and even in those cases where the players were not polite to me, I just quit playing them. I had spent months learning and perfecting an unusual opening that had given me great success. I think that my unusual opening, judged unsound by many but refuted by none, was the ultimate reason I was banned. I have noticed that some chessplayers are contemptuous of any opening that is not being currently played by one or preferably all the grandmasters. The chess world is hierarchical, the lower ranks being deferential to the best players. Some players believe we should only do what the grandmasters say to do. They read articles written by grandmasters and copy their ideas. Their play consists of rote memorization of the products of other minds. When I break them out of book, they go to pieces. Some players immediately abort the game on the very first move when they observe my opening, because they have no adequate response and can't be troubled to find one.
A few days before my ban, I defeated the wrong person, a connected person, who was angry that I had played my opening. He said it was unsound, and grandmasters didn't play it, and he didn't want to play it either, and he even told me to "go f--- myself," twice, in case I didn't process it the first time. He was either the admin himself or friends with the admin, I think, because he demonstrated a mastery of the network's technical side. It is too much of a coincidence that I am banned so soon after this nasty unprovoked altercation from a player whose very arrogance suggests he was indeed the admin. So I am banned because I play an unusual opening. This fits in with the other expectations I have developed of society.
I suppose it doesn't matter. Chess is a just a game of limited value and minority appeal. I do not have a friend who plays as well as I do. That is one of the problems with chess. Getting good at it is a double-edged sword. I am reminded of my old friend from school. At first he beat me two out of three games. A few weeks later, I beat him half the time, and that was the perfect scenario, but I kept improving. Next I was beating him almost every game, and then he stopped playing me forever, because he hated losing, but did not want to invest the time required to get better at chess, which in retrospect was a prudent choice on his part that I wish I had followed.
If I had my life to live over, I would have learned a musical instrument instead of a nerdy game that appeals to soldierly types, often men of narrow interests and deep prejudices. Music opens up a world of beauty. It allows one to connect with other beings in a way that is not possible through chess. Chess is a blood sport, of limited appeal except to warriors. But one is what one is. I suppose I would have made a good lieutenant. It is good I have not been in war in this lifetime--good for me and merciful to the foes I otherwise would have encountered.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Immersion
One of my problems, or virtues, depending upon how one looks at it, is my tendency to become completely immersed in intellectual work, whether it be writing, programming, or web design. Tunnel-vision results. I examine things so closely and intently that not much escapes me in the end. I see all, or close to all at least, although there are certain limitations relating to my skills and preferences.
I would say I'm a hard worker, because I'd rather work on what I consider to be meaningful projects than play games, read books, or watch television. I prefer active over passive entertainment much of the time. If I am not writing or coding, then I feel as though I am wasting time.
And I hate wasting time. What I fear most of all is not death. I fear the void: the emptiness, guilt and dread that comes from accomplishing nothing at all. The thought that I have wasted this existence. To exit this world without leaving any trace at all is my fear. If there is something in me, however trivial, that I think can be applied for the cause of good, then I want to apply it to its maximum potential.
I feel an urge to be productive, to excel, to do well, to make a good impression on others. Sometimes, I succeed in doing so. Occasionally I do fail. Sometimes results are mixed, and I am uncertain as to my evaluation. But I always try. And I keep at my work in isolation, even unpaid, without any encouragement, or with the thinnest token of appreciation. Maybe that means I'm a fool, a worker bee, a hack, a grind, and an overachiever, as others have called me. Who can be other than what they are? And what is the alternative? To do nothing? To idle away the hours in front of a video game or television set? What sort of existence is that? I prefer to create things, even if the creations are humble. I could not procreate, so I create in other ways to justify this existence. Otherwise, where is the meaning in life? To eat and sleep only? That is not meaningful.
I find myself falling into the same old traps, though. Sometimes I become too focused upon projects that no one else seems to care about. I am made to feel like Don Quixote by those who attach little or no importance to the projects. There are web sites I have worked on night and day. Sometimes I wonder if the effort is misspent or if it matters at all to anyone else besides myself. Perhaps it doesn't. I could be mistaken, a victim of tunnel-vision, failing to see the big picture because I am focused upon a thousand small details.
All may be vanity, but if so, there are many souls in the world engaged in similar occupations. I am not the only victim of make-work. Is it realistic to expect any appreciation or recognition at all in any of one's endeavors? How often does that happen? The billions of people in the world are all creating something, all working toward some end, and most labor without any feedback, or even in the face of blistering criticism, because it is their destiny. Because there is no "because." Life happens because it must. The universe happens because it must. How are human activities different from the interactions between oxygen and hydrogen? I think that everything is predictable, if one knows enough.
We are all slaves to one thing or another. Every one of us. I do not know anyone who is not a slave to something. Even those who number among my enemies, they too are slaves. It is because of the mortal existence. Life desires. What life desires varies, but it craves food and water, and at a higher level, power and prestige. Only the dead know perfect freedom, because they desire nothing. Life trades the freedom of nonexistence for slavery to the desires, which permit survival and thriving. We the living become slaves because we must in order to survive and thrive.
I sometimes find it difficult to disengage myself from a project, because work becomes a passion for me, an addiction. The government should ban work. There should be a Work Enforcement Agency to stamp out everything that leads to work, because it is more addictive than any drug. I suppose the government is doing its best in that regard. The unemployment rate is, after all, much higher now than when I graduated college.
I would like to have been a part of a team, at some point in my life, of people with a similar ideological and philosophical cast, who were trustworthy, honest and forthright. Instead, I found myself in various teams where cutthroat was the name of the game. No one trusted anyone else. I was amused by the paranoia I observed in others, until I felt it residing in myself. It is difficult to resist a prevailing meme for a long period of time. Complacency was rewarded, curiosity and innovation stifled. We engaged upon tasks that benefited no one save the shareholders, and only in the short-term, even in that narrow perspective. This is a common fate.
I think only in the distant future, if that, will it be possible for human beings to come together as teams where cooperation and cohesion is possible, rather than just hypothetical. Whether there will be a distant future for H. Sapiens is another question, and I haven't been optimistic about the answer. Although the Pax Americana has been surprising and encouraging, I don't know how much longer it can endure, with our economy and manufacturing sector in decline. American workers have footed the bill for worldwide security for decades, but such a high rate of expenditure cannot continue indefinitely.
I do resolve to improve in the art of disengagement. For me, all that is required is finding another project, preferably a better one. One must look for greener pastures. I don't kid myself that I can be without a project of any kind. I need something to ply my skills upon. My task involves finding a better project more suitable for me.
I would say I'm a hard worker, because I'd rather work on what I consider to be meaningful projects than play games, read books, or watch television. I prefer active over passive entertainment much of the time. If I am not writing or coding, then I feel as though I am wasting time.
And I hate wasting time. What I fear most of all is not death. I fear the void: the emptiness, guilt and dread that comes from accomplishing nothing at all. The thought that I have wasted this existence. To exit this world without leaving any trace at all is my fear. If there is something in me, however trivial, that I think can be applied for the cause of good, then I want to apply it to its maximum potential.
I feel an urge to be productive, to excel, to do well, to make a good impression on others. Sometimes, I succeed in doing so. Occasionally I do fail. Sometimes results are mixed, and I am uncertain as to my evaluation. But I always try. And I keep at my work in isolation, even unpaid, without any encouragement, or with the thinnest token of appreciation. Maybe that means I'm a fool, a worker bee, a hack, a grind, and an overachiever, as others have called me. Who can be other than what they are? And what is the alternative? To do nothing? To idle away the hours in front of a video game or television set? What sort of existence is that? I prefer to create things, even if the creations are humble. I could not procreate, so I create in other ways to justify this existence. Otherwise, where is the meaning in life? To eat and sleep only? That is not meaningful.
I find myself falling into the same old traps, though. Sometimes I become too focused upon projects that no one else seems to care about. I am made to feel like Don Quixote by those who attach little or no importance to the projects. There are web sites I have worked on night and day. Sometimes I wonder if the effort is misspent or if it matters at all to anyone else besides myself. Perhaps it doesn't. I could be mistaken, a victim of tunnel-vision, failing to see the big picture because I am focused upon a thousand small details.
All may be vanity, but if so, there are many souls in the world engaged in similar occupations. I am not the only victim of make-work. Is it realistic to expect any appreciation or recognition at all in any of one's endeavors? How often does that happen? The billions of people in the world are all creating something, all working toward some end, and most labor without any feedback, or even in the face of blistering criticism, because it is their destiny. Because there is no "because." Life happens because it must. The universe happens because it must. How are human activities different from the interactions between oxygen and hydrogen? I think that everything is predictable, if one knows enough.
We are all slaves to one thing or another. Every one of us. I do not know anyone who is not a slave to something. Even those who number among my enemies, they too are slaves. It is because of the mortal existence. Life desires. What life desires varies, but it craves food and water, and at a higher level, power and prestige. Only the dead know perfect freedom, because they desire nothing. Life trades the freedom of nonexistence for slavery to the desires, which permit survival and thriving. We the living become slaves because we must in order to survive and thrive.
I sometimes find it difficult to disengage myself from a project, because work becomes a passion for me, an addiction. The government should ban work. There should be a Work Enforcement Agency to stamp out everything that leads to work, because it is more addictive than any drug. I suppose the government is doing its best in that regard. The unemployment rate is, after all, much higher now than when I graduated college.
I would like to have been a part of a team, at some point in my life, of people with a similar ideological and philosophical cast, who were trustworthy, honest and forthright. Instead, I found myself in various teams where cutthroat was the name of the game. No one trusted anyone else. I was amused by the paranoia I observed in others, until I felt it residing in myself. It is difficult to resist a prevailing meme for a long period of time. Complacency was rewarded, curiosity and innovation stifled. We engaged upon tasks that benefited no one save the shareholders, and only in the short-term, even in that narrow perspective. This is a common fate.
I think only in the distant future, if that, will it be possible for human beings to come together as teams where cooperation and cohesion is possible, rather than just hypothetical. Whether there will be a distant future for H. Sapiens is another question, and I haven't been optimistic about the answer. Although the Pax Americana has been surprising and encouraging, I don't know how much longer it can endure, with our economy and manufacturing sector in decline. American workers have footed the bill for worldwide security for decades, but such a high rate of expenditure cannot continue indefinitely.
I do resolve to improve in the art of disengagement. For me, all that is required is finding another project, preferably a better one. One must look for greener pastures. I don't kid myself that I can be without a project of any kind. I need something to ply my skills upon. My task involves finding a better project more suitable for me.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The Tiger's Eye Ring
There are certain stones I prefer over others. One is the Tiger's Eye. A long time ago, a friend asked me to pick out a ring for her, and I chose the one with the Tiger's Eye.
#
In sixth grade, our homeroom teacher was a hip young lady, liberal enough to favor such things as field trips, unlike the old relics who never left their classrooms. She allowed us kids to go exploring by ourselves in the Epcot Center. Ever independent, Alice ventured off by herself. I was with my friends, David and Carol. They helped kill time and boredom. Together we acted like The Three Stooges. I played along with them for an hour, until I realized that I would much rather be alone with Alice than with my friends. However, she was nowhere to be seen. The building had several floors and was not exactly small. I looked within my heart. As sure as following a map, I walked up two flights of stairs, turned left, then right into another room, and found her.
She was alone, as expected and desired. When she saw me, she greeted me neutrally. She discussed the exhibits and the science behind them, which fascinated her. I recall nothing of what she said. She was simply thinking aloud. I liked watching her, being in her presence. Her mind was active and alive, never idle, and her store of knowledge was more than can be imagined for a girl of that age. She was full of contagious energy, eager to learn and discover. If there was anything she could not do, I was unaware of it. I was euphoric, feeding off of her energy.
She said, “Do you think we should go and find the others? The teachers may be wondering where we are. We shouldn’t make them worry.”
I shook my head. No! This was the last thing on earth I wanted to do! Rejoining the others would mean the end of our conversation. She would prefer the company of her friends, other girls. We went searching for the others, but I directed us to places where I felt the others would not be, until she gave up. My legs grew tired with the walking, but hers did not, and so we continued examining the exhibits. Eventually we came upon a gift shop, and Alice found it irresistible.
“Oh, do you want to go in?” she said.
“Not really. I have no money!”
“I do. My father gave me thirty dollars and told me to buy myself something nice.”
“Well, I’ll just wait outside.”
She was gone for about ten minutes. I remember wishing I had money and wondering whether it even mattered. She came out and asked if I would give her advice. I said yes, of course. She wanted to buy herself a ring, but couldn't decide which one to buy. She wanted my opinion. I had no clue about girls’ rings and said as much, but she insisted. I entered the store with her, took a careful look at all the rings, and chose the one with a tiger’s eye. She said she preferred another stone, a green one. I told her it was all right, and she should get the ring that she wants, not the one that I picked. I left the store and waited outside.
She emerged with a new ring on her finger. It was the tiger’s eye. She smiled, admiring her ring, and I smiled, very pleased.
Soon after that, we found the other students and the teachers. As expected, Alice deserted me to talk with her girlfriends. I rejoined my friends with regret. We walked around for an hour or so until it was time to head back to the bus.
All of us were waiting in line to go to our next destination, the airport. The bus was being refueled. Alice was in the middle of the line. My buddies and I were in the back. We were bored, standing around doing nothing, just waiting for the bus to arrive. David asked where I had been, because he had not seen much of me at the museum. I confided that Alice and I had gone off alone together, not realizing the implication. David’s eyes lit up in amusement. “You like Alice, don’t you?” I was startled into silence, and then denied it, too late. A grin spread across David's face. “Hey, Carol, guess what! He’s in love!”
They reacted as boys do at that age to the spectacle of love, giggling and doing their utmost to embarrass me. David began singing a silly rhyme:
Alice and Igor, sittin’ in a tree!
K – I – S – S – I – N – G !
First comes love, then comes marriage!
Then come Carol in a baby carriage!
This was a common schoolyard rhyme. The person in the baby carriage could be anybody at all, but using Carol was funnier than others, because he was a runt. A chorus developed. I did not participate. I was mortified. I told them to shut-up, but my threats were ineffectual, as I wasn’t any bigger than anybody else, except Carol, though Carol was strong and stocky and capable of defending himself against me. They started making comments about her breasts—far too small, in David’s opinion. So why did I like her? You can just imagine how Alice felt. She heard every word that was spoken. Noticing her deep scarlet blush, they laughed all the harder. I hated my so-called friends just then.
How to salvage the situation? I sensed that it was my duty to protect her. I approached her with arms outstretched and my palms raised, as if to say it’s not my fault. In retrospect, this was a stupid gesture, but I was young, and did not know what to do. I said, “Hey, Alice, I didn’t... I hope you don’t think that..."
Suspicion was written all over her face. Her face was livid, her eyes burning into mine like hot coals. She thought me the ringleader.
I said, “I’m sorry that they are acting this way, and...” I stopped. My words were not having any effect. She hated me for standing there, for drawing attention to us, because that was making things rather more embarrassing for her, not less.
Her anger I perceived as dark waves flowing from her body. I was startled by the thought of her as an enemy. She hissed, “Why don’t you just leave me alone! Go away!”
Our teacher seized me by the shoulder and snapped, “Get back in line, right this minute!” I was pushed back to my place in line, where I stood defeated. Alice smiled, saying, “Good!” Then she turned around and never looked at me again.
David said, “Look at him! He’s head over heels in love!” Carol made smooching noises. But seeing that I was in no mood for jest, and with the teacher now exercising new vigilance, the joke died away, though the damage was already done.
I foresaw that she would give the tiger’s eye ring away to one of her friends. She never wanted to see it again. In the days that followed, she was implacable. She avoided me. If I ever spoke to her, she ignored me.
After a few weeks, I conveyed a message seeking reconciliation through a mutual acquaintance, a girl named Shannon who had volunteered her services to me. This proved to be another indiscretion and resulted in a different girl’s feelings being hurt, though that was not my intention. I had failed to detect Shannon’s feelings for me, being focused upon Alice. If I had known that Shannon was interested in me, I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to her being our intermediary.
Alice responded with a written note dictating terms. I was to agree that we would only ever be friends, and I was never to mention the incident on the field trip again. I tried to see if there was any wiggle room, but her position was take it or leave it. I reasoned that friendship was better than nothing. I liked her company and hoped that she might come to appreciate me better in time.
A sad little sideshow then developed in the melodrama between Alice and me. Shannon sent another written message through David to me, but it was not from Alice, it was from her. She confessed that she liked me and gave me her phone number, asking me to please call. I was quite surprised, since I had not suspected this at all. I am sorry to say that I felt completely indifferent to Shannon. She was pleasant and polite, but unfairly treated by other boys owing to her proportions. Upon consideration, I borrowed Alice’s line (“friends only”). Unlike some boys, I have never been one to pretend just for the presumed prestige of having a girlfriend.
When I shared my opinions with David and asked what he thought, he agreed, and cruelly, without my permission, revealed my thoughts to Shannon, casting them in the crudest and most hurtful light. Weeping, she came to me and asked if it were true. I grit my teeth and lied as much as I could bear. I at first denied all that my insensitive friend David had said just to heal the hurt, but she became encouraged and pursued her cause, asking me whether I actually liked her. Alarmed, I felt compelled to concede that some parts of what David said had a small basis in truth. Shannon ended up by blaming David for his cruelty.
If I had been attracted to Shannon, we might have been happy together, because she was a decent person. Human beings are far too fussy about the physical appearance of their mates. I always have been, and the same can be said for Alice. Most people are judged unattractive due to weight, age, or facial bone structure. In truth, Alice’s rejection more likely finds its basis in my physical characteristics rather than any faux pas. Her boyfriends were not more refined than me. Brutes are forgiven a thousand slights, have they a handsome face. The best strategy for most people is to indulge the powerful passions of romantic love through movies and stories, rather than seeking it in reality. Experience the strong passions vicariously, if at all! This is my best advice.
A few weeks later, I spoke to Alice during recess, and she could not bring herself to snub me, since we had signed a peace treaty. Of necessity, I obeyed the ground rules she set down for our platonic friendship. I never spoke of the incident at the airport again, because it was forbidden to do so. She was firm and of an iron discipline, but hungry for conversation, so I endeavored not to bore her. She found in me a good listener, ready to absorb new ideas. Despite herself, she found my company agreeable.
She warmed up to me sufficiently to teach me the Basic version of Dungeons and Dragons during recess. She played the Dungeon Master, and I played a rather clueless fighter stumbling about her dungeon, slaying goblins only because Alice fudged dice rolls out of kindness to me. I was fascinated by the colorful, gem-like, nontraditional dice that she used: a four-sided, eight-sided, ten-sided, and even a twenty-sided die! It was because of Alice, and out of boredom with an easy academic curriculum, that all of my friends and me soon went deep into the world of role-playing games.
We were to all play D&D for the next three years, cycling through the Basic edition to the Expert edition and finally ending with the Advanced version, a complicated system at which I became the master, absorbing every one of the many rules.
[The End.]
#
Epilogue:
I submitted an earlier version of this story to an online writer's group for critique. One writer praised it with many reservations due to stylistic errors, which I felt was the most honest and helpful response. I have great difficulty with style issues, such as logical errors, redundancies, telling instead of showing, and stating the obvious. One writer praised it too much, and I felt she was just being kind, in hopes others would treat her stories with a similar kindness. One panned it, and made a snippy comment about writers like me jumping on the "Harry Potter" bandwagon, which was strange, because I've never read HP, and the first draft of this story was written before HP existed.
One writer had a violent reaction against my story, and I do not know why, other than it had stylistic errors, as he pointed out, which I already realized at the time. Maybe he found my story too sentimental. Perhaps it is or was at the time in its earlier incarnation. Maybe he was competing with the other reviewers in cutthroat fashion, trying to sound witty and original. He told me, in public, to shove a broken glass bottle up my ass. I was not interested in anything else anyone in that group had to say after reading that. I envenomed a dagger that would do the maximum damage possible to his public reputation, which I perceived he valued, as it was the only possible motive for his insult. I posted my sharp reply without any concern for what the moderators might say, as they had said nothing to the troll. How deeply my poison dagger penetrated his black heart, I cannot know, because I left soon after the stab. For a week later, in my email box, I received thirty replies from various writers, as well as the moderators, and they ranged the gamut, sympathetic, neutral, and skeptical, all of which I ignored, because I had concluded the writer's group was not for me. The troll, however, did not dare to write back, although I had planned to ignore him as well.
Many people have difficulty coping with online trolls. Here is my advice. Don't read their words. You are in control of your own internet browser. Not anyone else. You can control what and who you read. If you are curious and want to monitor what is said, but fear getting caught up in a flame war, wait a month, six months, or a year, then read. In this way, it is a simple matter to avoid involvement. But once you have identified an online personage as being a troll, is there any point in reading anything that they say? Would you pay the slightest attention to such a person in real life? In all probability, no. You would ignore such a twit in real life. It is ridiculous to give more attention to online twits than to real-world twits and even rather unfair to the real-world twits. Also, just because a message is in one's email box does not mean one must read it. Consider the source. As one would not read spam, one should not read scum. Kill filters are a perfect solution, deleting such emails based upon the sending address.
I don't know who my writing is for or what the purpose is. Publishers have never been the slightest bit interested in any of my material. I enjoy capturing certain experiences and imbuing them with a permanence beyond my own memory. Whether they are later ignored or lost is not in my power to foresee. Most writing is lost. All writing prior to a certain point in ancient history has been lost. Better writers than me have been silenced forever.
Some people say, "Why bother writing?" But if that is the attitude one takes, one could take it further: why do anything at all? One does what one knows, likes, or thinks is important. Money is not the sole motivation for doing things, or it shouldn't be.
#
In sixth grade, our homeroom teacher was a hip young lady, liberal enough to favor such things as field trips, unlike the old relics who never left their classrooms. She allowed us kids to go exploring by ourselves in the Epcot Center. Ever independent, Alice ventured off by herself. I was with my friends, David and Carol. They helped kill time and boredom. Together we acted like The Three Stooges. I played along with them for an hour, until I realized that I would much rather be alone with Alice than with my friends. However, she was nowhere to be seen. The building had several floors and was not exactly small. I looked within my heart. As sure as following a map, I walked up two flights of stairs, turned left, then right into another room, and found her.
She was alone, as expected and desired. When she saw me, she greeted me neutrally. She discussed the exhibits and the science behind them, which fascinated her. I recall nothing of what she said. She was simply thinking aloud. I liked watching her, being in her presence. Her mind was active and alive, never idle, and her store of knowledge was more than can be imagined for a girl of that age. She was full of contagious energy, eager to learn and discover. If there was anything she could not do, I was unaware of it. I was euphoric, feeding off of her energy.
She said, “Do you think we should go and find the others? The teachers may be wondering where we are. We shouldn’t make them worry.”
I shook my head. No! This was the last thing on earth I wanted to do! Rejoining the others would mean the end of our conversation. She would prefer the company of her friends, other girls. We went searching for the others, but I directed us to places where I felt the others would not be, until she gave up. My legs grew tired with the walking, but hers did not, and so we continued examining the exhibits. Eventually we came upon a gift shop, and Alice found it irresistible.
“Oh, do you want to go in?” she said.
“Not really. I have no money!”
“I do. My father gave me thirty dollars and told me to buy myself something nice.”
“Well, I’ll just wait outside.”
She was gone for about ten minutes. I remember wishing I had money and wondering whether it even mattered. She came out and asked if I would give her advice. I said yes, of course. She wanted to buy herself a ring, but couldn't decide which one to buy. She wanted my opinion. I had no clue about girls’ rings and said as much, but she insisted. I entered the store with her, took a careful look at all the rings, and chose the one with a tiger’s eye. She said she preferred another stone, a green one. I told her it was all right, and she should get the ring that she wants, not the one that I picked. I left the store and waited outside.
She emerged with a new ring on her finger. It was the tiger’s eye. She smiled, admiring her ring, and I smiled, very pleased.
Soon after that, we found the other students and the teachers. As expected, Alice deserted me to talk with her girlfriends. I rejoined my friends with regret. We walked around for an hour or so until it was time to head back to the bus.
All of us were waiting in line to go to our next destination, the airport. The bus was being refueled. Alice was in the middle of the line. My buddies and I were in the back. We were bored, standing around doing nothing, just waiting for the bus to arrive. David asked where I had been, because he had not seen much of me at the museum. I confided that Alice and I had gone off alone together, not realizing the implication. David’s eyes lit up in amusement. “You like Alice, don’t you?” I was startled into silence, and then denied it, too late. A grin spread across David's face. “Hey, Carol, guess what! He’s in love!”
They reacted as boys do at that age to the spectacle of love, giggling and doing their utmost to embarrass me. David began singing a silly rhyme:
Alice and Igor, sittin’ in a tree!
K – I – S – S – I – N – G !
First comes love, then comes marriage!
Then come Carol in a baby carriage!
This was a common schoolyard rhyme. The person in the baby carriage could be anybody at all, but using Carol was funnier than others, because he was a runt. A chorus developed. I did not participate. I was mortified. I told them to shut-up, but my threats were ineffectual, as I wasn’t any bigger than anybody else, except Carol, though Carol was strong and stocky and capable of defending himself against me. They started making comments about her breasts—far too small, in David’s opinion. So why did I like her? You can just imagine how Alice felt. She heard every word that was spoken. Noticing her deep scarlet blush, they laughed all the harder. I hated my so-called friends just then.
How to salvage the situation? I sensed that it was my duty to protect her. I approached her with arms outstretched and my palms raised, as if to say it’s not my fault. In retrospect, this was a stupid gesture, but I was young, and did not know what to do. I said, “Hey, Alice, I didn’t... I hope you don’t think that..."
Suspicion was written all over her face. Her face was livid, her eyes burning into mine like hot coals. She thought me the ringleader.
I said, “I’m sorry that they are acting this way, and...” I stopped. My words were not having any effect. She hated me for standing there, for drawing attention to us, because that was making things rather more embarrassing for her, not less.
Her anger I perceived as dark waves flowing from her body. I was startled by the thought of her as an enemy. She hissed, “Why don’t you just leave me alone! Go away!”
Our teacher seized me by the shoulder and snapped, “Get back in line, right this minute!” I was pushed back to my place in line, where I stood defeated. Alice smiled, saying, “Good!” Then she turned around and never looked at me again.
David said, “Look at him! He’s head over heels in love!” Carol made smooching noises. But seeing that I was in no mood for jest, and with the teacher now exercising new vigilance, the joke died away, though the damage was already done.
I foresaw that she would give the tiger’s eye ring away to one of her friends. She never wanted to see it again. In the days that followed, she was implacable. She avoided me. If I ever spoke to her, she ignored me.
After a few weeks, I conveyed a message seeking reconciliation through a mutual acquaintance, a girl named Shannon who had volunteered her services to me. This proved to be another indiscretion and resulted in a different girl’s feelings being hurt, though that was not my intention. I had failed to detect Shannon’s feelings for me, being focused upon Alice. If I had known that Shannon was interested in me, I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to her being our intermediary.
Alice responded with a written note dictating terms. I was to agree that we would only ever be friends, and I was never to mention the incident on the field trip again. I tried to see if there was any wiggle room, but her position was take it or leave it. I reasoned that friendship was better than nothing. I liked her company and hoped that she might come to appreciate me better in time.
A sad little sideshow then developed in the melodrama between Alice and me. Shannon sent another written message through David to me, but it was not from Alice, it was from her. She confessed that she liked me and gave me her phone number, asking me to please call. I was quite surprised, since I had not suspected this at all. I am sorry to say that I felt completely indifferent to Shannon. She was pleasant and polite, but unfairly treated by other boys owing to her proportions. Upon consideration, I borrowed Alice’s line (“friends only”). Unlike some boys, I have never been one to pretend just for the presumed prestige of having a girlfriend.
When I shared my opinions with David and asked what he thought, he agreed, and cruelly, without my permission, revealed my thoughts to Shannon, casting them in the crudest and most hurtful light. Weeping, she came to me and asked if it were true. I grit my teeth and lied as much as I could bear. I at first denied all that my insensitive friend David had said just to heal the hurt, but she became encouraged and pursued her cause, asking me whether I actually liked her. Alarmed, I felt compelled to concede that some parts of what David said had a small basis in truth. Shannon ended up by blaming David for his cruelty.
If I had been attracted to Shannon, we might have been happy together, because she was a decent person. Human beings are far too fussy about the physical appearance of their mates. I always have been, and the same can be said for Alice. Most people are judged unattractive due to weight, age, or facial bone structure. In truth, Alice’s rejection more likely finds its basis in my physical characteristics rather than any faux pas. Her boyfriends were not more refined than me. Brutes are forgiven a thousand slights, have they a handsome face. The best strategy for most people is to indulge the powerful passions of romantic love through movies and stories, rather than seeking it in reality. Experience the strong passions vicariously, if at all! This is my best advice.
A few weeks later, I spoke to Alice during recess, and she could not bring herself to snub me, since we had signed a peace treaty. Of necessity, I obeyed the ground rules she set down for our platonic friendship. I never spoke of the incident at the airport again, because it was forbidden to do so. She was firm and of an iron discipline, but hungry for conversation, so I endeavored not to bore her. She found in me a good listener, ready to absorb new ideas. Despite herself, she found my company agreeable.
She warmed up to me sufficiently to teach me the Basic version of Dungeons and Dragons during recess. She played the Dungeon Master, and I played a rather clueless fighter stumbling about her dungeon, slaying goblins only because Alice fudged dice rolls out of kindness to me. I was fascinated by the colorful, gem-like, nontraditional dice that she used: a four-sided, eight-sided, ten-sided, and even a twenty-sided die! It was because of Alice, and out of boredom with an easy academic curriculum, that all of my friends and me soon went deep into the world of role-playing games.
We were to all play D&D for the next three years, cycling through the Basic edition to the Expert edition and finally ending with the Advanced version, a complicated system at which I became the master, absorbing every one of the many rules.
[The End.]
#
Epilogue:
I submitted an earlier version of this story to an online writer's group for critique. One writer praised it with many reservations due to stylistic errors, which I felt was the most honest and helpful response. I have great difficulty with style issues, such as logical errors, redundancies, telling instead of showing, and stating the obvious. One writer praised it too much, and I felt she was just being kind, in hopes others would treat her stories with a similar kindness. One panned it, and made a snippy comment about writers like me jumping on the "Harry Potter" bandwagon, which was strange, because I've never read HP, and the first draft of this story was written before HP existed.
One writer had a violent reaction against my story, and I do not know why, other than it had stylistic errors, as he pointed out, which I already realized at the time. Maybe he found my story too sentimental. Perhaps it is or was at the time in its earlier incarnation. Maybe he was competing with the other reviewers in cutthroat fashion, trying to sound witty and original. He told me, in public, to shove a broken glass bottle up my ass. I was not interested in anything else anyone in that group had to say after reading that. I envenomed a dagger that would do the maximum damage possible to his public reputation, which I perceived he valued, as it was the only possible motive for his insult. I posted my sharp reply without any concern for what the moderators might say, as they had said nothing to the troll. How deeply my poison dagger penetrated his black heart, I cannot know, because I left soon after the stab. For a week later, in my email box, I received thirty replies from various writers, as well as the moderators, and they ranged the gamut, sympathetic, neutral, and skeptical, all of which I ignored, because I had concluded the writer's group was not for me. The troll, however, did not dare to write back, although I had planned to ignore him as well.
Many people have difficulty coping with online trolls. Here is my advice. Don't read their words. You are in control of your own internet browser. Not anyone else. You can control what and who you read. If you are curious and want to monitor what is said, but fear getting caught up in a flame war, wait a month, six months, or a year, then read. In this way, it is a simple matter to avoid involvement. But once you have identified an online personage as being a troll, is there any point in reading anything that they say? Would you pay the slightest attention to such a person in real life? In all probability, no. You would ignore such a twit in real life. It is ridiculous to give more attention to online twits than to real-world twits and even rather unfair to the real-world twits. Also, just because a message is in one's email box does not mean one must read it. Consider the source. As one would not read spam, one should not read scum. Kill filters are a perfect solution, deleting such emails based upon the sending address.
I don't know who my writing is for or what the purpose is. Publishers have never been the slightest bit interested in any of my material. I enjoy capturing certain experiences and imbuing them with a permanence beyond my own memory. Whether they are later ignored or lost is not in my power to foresee. Most writing is lost. All writing prior to a certain point in ancient history has been lost. Better writers than me have been silenced forever.
Some people say, "Why bother writing?" But if that is the attitude one takes, one could take it further: why do anything at all? One does what one knows, likes, or thinks is important. Money is not the sole motivation for doing things, or it shouldn't be.
Friday, November 19, 2010
No Eval
Early in the semester, I was planning to give my conservative professor a bad evaluation, due to her habit of preaching on religious and political subjects unrelated to the subject of the course. I changed my mind. I have decided not to fill out any eval. Hear no evil, see no evil, fill out no eval.
Why the change of heart? She's got her flaw--the preaching--but her qualities compensate for the flaw. On a personal level, she has really won me over with her politeness and fairness. When someone is polite, that carries much weight with me. So maybe I'm a pushover. I don't care. The bottom line is that she's better than most of the other professors I've had.
Why the change of heart? She's got her flaw--the preaching--but her qualities compensate for the flaw. On a personal level, she has really won me over with her politeness and fairness. When someone is polite, that carries much weight with me. So maybe I'm a pushover. I don't care. The bottom line is that she's better than most of the other professors I've had.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Evil is a Burden
Doing evil is a burden on the soul. Sometimes I hurt another unintentionally with careless words, spoken without thinking. My filter is not intact. Sometimes I blurt out what I am thinking, having calculated it is socially acceptable, without evaluating whether the words will hurt another person's feelings. Sometimes it is difficult to really know whether a remark will be taken in jest or taken ill. I think fatigue plays a role in this ethical lapse. My body may be taxed by a virus, and my mind exhausted by fatigue. I may have slept poorly the night before. I have many excuses, but nothing seems to ease the pain of knowing that one's words have done psychological harm to another, especially a person that one otherwise admires.
I am reminded of an ancient incident. Possibly no one remembers it now except for me. I learned certain lessons from the experience, but don't always practice what I know 100% of the time. To be sure, when I'm fully rested, my batteries fully charged, I usually conduct myself better.
#
In my tenth year, my friend Joe was out with a cold. For the first time that year, I sat alone in the school cafeteria at lunch. I was eating a dry and leathery soybean burger and washing it down with sips of chocolate milk, a nasty combination. I wasn’t in the best of spirits, and I felt it was just as well that Joe wasn’t at school today, because I might say the wrong thing and offend him.
The night before, I had played my mom and dad at Risk for three hours. The two of us eliminated Mom’s military forces in less than thirty minutes. The game changed into a battle between my father and me. The game was longer than most, spanning three hours, but in the end, I lost as my father invaded my stronghold in Australia and destroyed the last of my armies. I wept. My father shook his head in anger. He said, “Why are you crying? You’re taking all of the fun out of the game for me. Why are you taking it so seriously?”
I had cried because my dad wasn’t a great military genius. Losing to my dad meant that I wasn’t as clever as my idol, Napoleon. I was not born to dominate others, to conquer and to rule. My fate would be different. If I wasn’t borne to be a conqueror, then I must become one of the vanquished. This is why tears fell from my eyes. All I ever wished to do back then was be the last one standing in all the games I played.
#
From the corner of my eye, I saw Alice standing before me with her tray in her hands.
Alice said, “Is it okay if I sit here?”
My heart quickened with surprise. I looked away and waved my hand in the air. “I guess.”
She took a step toward me and then paused. “Sure you don’t mind?”
My voice softened. “Nah, make yourself at home.”
She laid her tray on the table and sat down. As she opened her chocolate milk carton, I said, “How come you’re not sitting with your friends?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re kind of boring sometimes.”
In a sarcastic tone, I said, “Well, I’ll try my best not to bore you, then.”
She laughed, as though I was just teasing her. Her eyes were gleaming with happiness. I couldn’t imagine the reason. She was insane. I took another bite of the bland soybean burger. She took my cue and started eating. After we had finished our food and were sitting idle, she said, “I was in gifted class all day yesterday. You might have missed me.”
The mention of this gifted class struck a bad chord in me, because I desperately wanted in. “Missed you?” I said coolly.
“Gifted class is so much fun!” She smiled.
I gripped the empty carton of chocolate milk until it crumpled in my fist.
"We did an experiment in gifted class yesterday. The teacher had us all bring old shoeboxes from home. We lined them with aluminum foil and placed them on windowsills where they caught the Sun. We did something else and then around lunchtime, we found that the hot dogs were cooked and ready to eat! It was a demonstration of solar power. Neat, huh?”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I don’t care about your stupid hot dogs. That’s what.”
She stared at me with surprise and hurt written upon her face. “I thought you were interested.”
“I’m tired of hearing you brag about the stuff you do in gifted class. So you go to gifted class! Big deal! I heard from other people that you’re stuck-up, and I have to agree. You’re just a big fat snob!”
Two or three kids turned around and looked at her, with smiles written on their faces, pleased by the unfolding drama. Alice‘s face assumed a bright red hue. Alice was on the verge of tears when she said, in a quite reasonable tone, “W-Why are you saying these things? What have I ever done to offend you?”
“Alice, we all know you think you’re smarter than everyone else! But you’re not as smart as you think you are! So just buzz off with your solar-powered hot dogs!”
She cried. Right there in the cafeteria, in front of everyone. Those who take pleasure in the suffering of others grinned at the spectacle. There was one exception. A black girl with kind-looking eyes, Charlotte, appraised the situation at a glance. She scolded me for making Alice cry.
I opened my mouth to make a witty retort, but changed my mind. In a flash I had full awareness of what I had said. I felt diminished, much diminished. In a low voice, I said, “I’m sorry, Alice.” She would not look at me. With more urgency I said, “Please forgive me.” I tried to touch her hand, but she flinched away. Through her tears, she said, “Stay away from me!”
I learned on this day that there are words that cannot be taken back. If we could live our lives over again, how perfect we would be! Each vulnerable moment would be rehearsed. Forewarned, we would avoid many temptations.
An apology only ever works in part, not in whole. The wound remains. Sometimes apologies are not accepted. People clutch the evil words that others have said to them, but dismiss praise as false or worthless, even when the praise carried more sincerity than the rash criticism spoken in haste. The analytical mind is implicated in this, because it is hungry for knowledge. There is more information contained in the exception than the norm. The analytical mind focuses upon exceptions--bad things--to satisfy its craving for answers, which may lead to a distorted perception of the overall reality. People think things are worse than they really are. In this way, they place limits upon their powers of perception. They see part, but the totality escapes them.
I am reminded of an ancient incident. Possibly no one remembers it now except for me. I learned certain lessons from the experience, but don't always practice what I know 100% of the time. To be sure, when I'm fully rested, my batteries fully charged, I usually conduct myself better.
#
In my tenth year, my friend Joe was out with a cold. For the first time that year, I sat alone in the school cafeteria at lunch. I was eating a dry and leathery soybean burger and washing it down with sips of chocolate milk, a nasty combination. I wasn’t in the best of spirits, and I felt it was just as well that Joe wasn’t at school today, because I might say the wrong thing and offend him.
The night before, I had played my mom and dad at Risk for three hours. The two of us eliminated Mom’s military forces in less than thirty minutes. The game changed into a battle between my father and me. The game was longer than most, spanning three hours, but in the end, I lost as my father invaded my stronghold in Australia and destroyed the last of my armies. I wept. My father shook his head in anger. He said, “Why are you crying? You’re taking all of the fun out of the game for me. Why are you taking it so seriously?”
I had cried because my dad wasn’t a great military genius. Losing to my dad meant that I wasn’t as clever as my idol, Napoleon. I was not born to dominate others, to conquer and to rule. My fate would be different. If I wasn’t borne to be a conqueror, then I must become one of the vanquished. This is why tears fell from my eyes. All I ever wished to do back then was be the last one standing in all the games I played.
#
From the corner of my eye, I saw Alice standing before me with her tray in her hands.
Alice said, “Is it okay if I sit here?”
My heart quickened with surprise. I looked away and waved my hand in the air. “I guess.”
She took a step toward me and then paused. “Sure you don’t mind?”
My voice softened. “Nah, make yourself at home.”
She laid her tray on the table and sat down. As she opened her chocolate milk carton, I said, “How come you’re not sitting with your friends?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re kind of boring sometimes.”
In a sarcastic tone, I said, “Well, I’ll try my best not to bore you, then.”
She laughed, as though I was just teasing her. Her eyes were gleaming with happiness. I couldn’t imagine the reason. She was insane. I took another bite of the bland soybean burger. She took my cue and started eating. After we had finished our food and were sitting idle, she said, “I was in gifted class all day yesterday. You might have missed me.”
The mention of this gifted class struck a bad chord in me, because I desperately wanted in. “Missed you?” I said coolly.
“Gifted class is so much fun!” She smiled.
I gripped the empty carton of chocolate milk until it crumpled in my fist.
"We did an experiment in gifted class yesterday. The teacher had us all bring old shoeboxes from home. We lined them with aluminum foil and placed them on windowsills where they caught the Sun. We did something else and then around lunchtime, we found that the hot dogs were cooked and ready to eat! It was a demonstration of solar power. Neat, huh?”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I don’t care about your stupid hot dogs. That’s what.”
She stared at me with surprise and hurt written upon her face. “I thought you were interested.”
“I’m tired of hearing you brag about the stuff you do in gifted class. So you go to gifted class! Big deal! I heard from other people that you’re stuck-up, and I have to agree. You’re just a big fat snob!”
Two or three kids turned around and looked at her, with smiles written on their faces, pleased by the unfolding drama. Alice‘s face assumed a bright red hue. Alice was on the verge of tears when she said, in a quite reasonable tone, “W-Why are you saying these things? What have I ever done to offend you?”
“Alice, we all know you think you’re smarter than everyone else! But you’re not as smart as you think you are! So just buzz off with your solar-powered hot dogs!”
She cried. Right there in the cafeteria, in front of everyone. Those who take pleasure in the suffering of others grinned at the spectacle. There was one exception. A black girl with kind-looking eyes, Charlotte, appraised the situation at a glance. She scolded me for making Alice cry.
I opened my mouth to make a witty retort, but changed my mind. In a flash I had full awareness of what I had said. I felt diminished, much diminished. In a low voice, I said, “I’m sorry, Alice.” She would not look at me. With more urgency I said, “Please forgive me.” I tried to touch her hand, but she flinched away. Through her tears, she said, “Stay away from me!”
I learned on this day that there are words that cannot be taken back. If we could live our lives over again, how perfect we would be! Each vulnerable moment would be rehearsed. Forewarned, we would avoid many temptations.
An apology only ever works in part, not in whole. The wound remains. Sometimes apologies are not accepted. People clutch the evil words that others have said to them, but dismiss praise as false or worthless, even when the praise carried more sincerity than the rash criticism spoken in haste. The analytical mind is implicated in this, because it is hungry for knowledge. There is more information contained in the exception than the norm. The analytical mind focuses upon exceptions--bad things--to satisfy its craving for answers, which may lead to a distorted perception of the overall reality. People think things are worse than they really are. In this way, they place limits upon their powers of perception. They see part, but the totality escapes them.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
An Old Friend Doesn't Say Hello
An old friend of mine from the eighties friended me several months ago, and I accepted his request. I shot him a brief email asking him how he was doing. No reply. Two weeks later, I observed on his Facebook page that he had logged in a couple of times and presumably checked his emails already. I don't like being ignored, and it creeps me out that somebody friends me after thirty years but refuses to communicate, so I unfriended him. I've been wondering at his motives since. Why friend somebody if you don't want to communicate with them?
I have to leave the familiar settings of my own style of thinking and enter into the Repitilian mind, which is cold and motivated by fear and greed. It is easy to divine the motivations of the Reptilian mind. I think the motive has to do with cultivating an impression of popularity through a lengthy friends list and attracting a captive audience for Facebook postings. In other cases, "friends" from the past are interested in whether any of their former acquaintances have become successful, and if so, whether they could be useful. Networking.
I've considered more unlikely motivations, as well, that border on the territory of paranoia, such as "a mutual friend (or not such a friend) of ours asked him to friend me to check up on me and see how I was doing," but decided that I really don't care. If someone chooses to go the stealth route to obtain information about me that I would freely offer if simply asked, that reflects poorly upon them and amuses me. I say let them spin their wheels.
What amuses me further about this old friend of mine is the memory I have of our last contact, long ago when we were in middle school. He was fonder of me than I was of him, because I think that he had a crush on me. But he was too small, frail and not my type. I remember his mother used to call him "Peepee." He moved to Florida. As promised, he wrote to me--in those days, that would mean a handwritten letter--and I did not write back for several months or possibly even a year. That meant the score was 1-0 in my favor, because I had ignored one of his letters and he hadn't ignored any of mine.
Later I reconsidered, because I am always impressed by people that like me, whether I like them back or not. Sometimes I fear I must be mistaken about people, that they are better than I think they are, if they show any appreciation of me. I wrote him a letter, but perhaps I did not strike just the right note. To my surprise, he ignored my letter and never wrote back. That evened the score to 1-1, and I thought that was the end of the matter, and we could call a tie to the competition, until he friended me three decades later. Perhaps he friended me just to ignore another one of my letters, to make the score 2-1, meaning he wins and I lose. Oh well. I'm a good sport. I find it rather amusing. I wonder if he still holds a smoldering flame for me, after all these years. That would also explain why he could not manage to compose a simple email reply.
I have to leave the familiar settings of my own style of thinking and enter into the Repitilian mind, which is cold and motivated by fear and greed. It is easy to divine the motivations of the Reptilian mind. I think the motive has to do with cultivating an impression of popularity through a lengthy friends list and attracting a captive audience for Facebook postings. In other cases, "friends" from the past are interested in whether any of their former acquaintances have become successful, and if so, whether they could be useful. Networking.
I've considered more unlikely motivations, as well, that border on the territory of paranoia, such as "a mutual friend (or not such a friend) of ours asked him to friend me to check up on me and see how I was doing," but decided that I really don't care. If someone chooses to go the stealth route to obtain information about me that I would freely offer if simply asked, that reflects poorly upon them and amuses me. I say let them spin their wheels.
What amuses me further about this old friend of mine is the memory I have of our last contact, long ago when we were in middle school. He was fonder of me than I was of him, because I think that he had a crush on me. But he was too small, frail and not my type. I remember his mother used to call him "Peepee." He moved to Florida. As promised, he wrote to me--in those days, that would mean a handwritten letter--and I did not write back for several months or possibly even a year. That meant the score was 1-0 in my favor, because I had ignored one of his letters and he hadn't ignored any of mine.
Later I reconsidered, because I am always impressed by people that like me, whether I like them back or not. Sometimes I fear I must be mistaken about people, that they are better than I think they are, if they show any appreciation of me. I wrote him a letter, but perhaps I did not strike just the right note. To my surprise, he ignored my letter and never wrote back. That evened the score to 1-1, and I thought that was the end of the matter, and we could call a tie to the competition, until he friended me three decades later. Perhaps he friended me just to ignore another one of my letters, to make the score 2-1, meaning he wins and I lose. Oh well. I'm a good sport. I find it rather amusing. I wonder if he still holds a smoldering flame for me, after all these years. That would also explain why he could not manage to compose a simple email reply.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
More than Sour Grapes
I read Aesop's fable about the fox and the grapevine when I was a child. The fox found a grapevine hanging along a tree loaded with grapes. He jumped, but just couldn't reach the fruit, at which point he said, "they're probably sour, anyway!"
I'm reminded of that fable as I reflect on some of the characters I fell in love with in my younger years. There were quite a few--I'd say a dozen, at least. Maybe two dozen. At the time, I thought they were possessed of sterling qualities through and through, which made it all the more unpleasant when they passed on my offer.
It is only in retrospect, decades later, that I can look back and realize that their chief virtue was their face. What was in their heart was not fully considered. I think that most of them lacked virtue. All that they had to boast about was beauty. They were doing me a favor by passing me by, although I didn't know it at the time. I think this is more than sour grapes, but whether it is or not, I believe it to be true. To be with a beautiful, but shallow person may be satisfying for an evening--and I have had several such evenings--but over time, there can be only discord. I remember the flame of passion, but then I reflect on the person that I used to love, and I realize that he or she was just another selfish bastard, no better than anyone else.
Love is certainly a species of delusion, possibly among the most dangerous kinds. I'm lucky I didn't suffer any terrible consequences. An acquaintance of mine was recently fleeced by a good-looking con artist that he fell in love with. He lost tens of thousands to an obvious lie. Such an excess of trust! We lock our doors and windows against the burglar, who never shows, but leave our hearts wide open for theft by the liar! I never lost money, at least. That is a consolation. I only lost my sense of peace, and only for a few months at the most. I have grown more resistant to the immoderate passion as I've grown older. Where I used to seek love, now I am content to appreciate what I already have and augment it.
I could wish that I had been more discriminating as a young man and reserved my affections for people that were really virtuous. But what young man ever does that?
I'm at least fortunate that I found a beautiful and virtuous partner in my late twenties, with the bloom of youth still upon me. I would not swap my partner for any of the selfish bastards that I knew before.
I'm reminded of that fable as I reflect on some of the characters I fell in love with in my younger years. There were quite a few--I'd say a dozen, at least. Maybe two dozen. At the time, I thought they were possessed of sterling qualities through and through, which made it all the more unpleasant when they passed on my offer.
It is only in retrospect, decades later, that I can look back and realize that their chief virtue was their face. What was in their heart was not fully considered. I think that most of them lacked virtue. All that they had to boast about was beauty. They were doing me a favor by passing me by, although I didn't know it at the time. I think this is more than sour grapes, but whether it is or not, I believe it to be true. To be with a beautiful, but shallow person may be satisfying for an evening--and I have had several such evenings--but over time, there can be only discord. I remember the flame of passion, but then I reflect on the person that I used to love, and I realize that he or she was just another selfish bastard, no better than anyone else.
Love is certainly a species of delusion, possibly among the most dangerous kinds. I'm lucky I didn't suffer any terrible consequences. An acquaintance of mine was recently fleeced by a good-looking con artist that he fell in love with. He lost tens of thousands to an obvious lie. Such an excess of trust! We lock our doors and windows against the burglar, who never shows, but leave our hearts wide open for theft by the liar! I never lost money, at least. That is a consolation. I only lost my sense of peace, and only for a few months at the most. I have grown more resistant to the immoderate passion as I've grown older. Where I used to seek love, now I am content to appreciate what I already have and augment it.
I could wish that I had been more discriminating as a young man and reserved my affections for people that were really virtuous. But what young man ever does that?
I'm at least fortunate that I found a beautiful and virtuous partner in my late twenties, with the bloom of youth still upon me. I would not swap my partner for any of the selfish bastards that I knew before.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Reflections on Psychic Ability
This was the only experience in my life that led me to wonder whether there was something to the paranormal. I believe she was able to give me an accurate reading because I was open to her, very receptive indeed. I didn't believe in her power, but I did believe in it, at the same time. Disbelief coexists with belief in a way that reminds me of quantum physics. My energy flowed into her, not because she took it, but because I permitted it, assisted it, because I knew that she wanted to be successful in her art. If she did not see what was in my eyes, then she could not have been any good at reading fortunes. Her affections were elsewhere, for Billy Idol on MTV and blond boys at our school that looked and acted like him, but such relationships were not of long duration.
I still cannot believe there is anything to palm-reading or to reading minds. If I had thought of a number, such as 7803313, she would not have guessed it, even if I had given her a hundred guesses. I believe that very intelligent people, that is, those with a high degree of social intelligence, are able to make astonishing predictions and insights into other people based upon body language and other subtle cues that are difficult for ordinary people like me to identify and interpret. I believe that she possessed this type of genius in addition to a high aptitude for academic subjects. She had a high degree of sensitivity, which seemed a liability in some instances, because she would burst into tears when people were critical of her, such as parents or teachers. Any harsh word would be amplified to the Nth degree by her extraordinary ability. I think her attraction for Billy Idol was based upon the "opposites attract" principle. She wanted to be more like him, bold and brave, and less the shrinking violet. She succeeded in her ambition. What once seemed a liability proved to be an incredible asset, as indeed it is, because the subtle cues that others miss are helpful in divining truth from lies.
I remember a dream that I had about her when I was young. It was a familiar dream, repeated on more than one night with occasional variations. I get on a school bus, and she is the only one there, or the only one I notice, and I sit beside her, and she seems ambivalent to that, but we talk. I don't remember what we talk about, but it must have been interesting if I was dreaming about it. She would tell me things that made me happy, gave me cause to worry, or sometimes confused me. I didn't always understand her or agree with her remarks, and we argued, but I never thought she was lying or being mean. We were usually polite to one another. In one dream, we might have held hands, but I'm not sure. It seems unlike her, and at any rate, holding hands with a reader is a bad idea, because one never knows what they will say. Sometimes the bus stops and she gets off, and I go home alone. Other times, we just ride the bus for hours talking. It was early evening in these dreams, with little light outside, just enough to see. In one dream, and it may have the last one, she told me that anything that happened in the dream was only intended for the dream-world and would not be repeated in the real world. She had only been experimenting with her power. She also said that our paths were separating, and we would not see each other again, not in the real world or even in the dream-world. That was almost accurate.
We had a chance encounter in the hallway in our sophomore year of high school. I saw her just about to open a door to a classroom and called out her name. We hadn't seen each other in years. She was much changed for the better, seeming stronger, more confident. We had a polite chat for two minutes and that was that. She had much to boast about, but I did not and was glad when the chat was over.
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