Quite Content

I get this feeling sometimes.  I'm not really sure what to call it, and yet I know several words which perfectly describe it.  It's a feeling that makes me feel as though I can't control it, but all of my being is perfectly alright with that.

It's a feeling that only comes once in a while, and even when I don't feel like feeling this feeling at all, just the memory of it locks my heart in place.  It doesn't overwhelm, but it certainly overtakes.  It doesn't force it's way in, but it is definitely undeniable.  It isn't grand, but it is undoubtedly not in the least bit minute. 

It's warm, bright--but not overbearing--pleasant, calm, content, joyful, beautiful, and above all; deep.  Oh, how very deep.  This feeling wells up like a soft and warm spring flowing from the very basic cores of my soul.  It comes from somewhere greater.  Somewhere beyond my own heart and yet so intimately intertwined with it.  This feeling beams--but not too brightly.  This feeling is made of stuff that poets and psalmists have longed after for years, and yet has been captured in the simplest and sweetest of lullabies.

Whenever I have set out to describe this feeling, I have become overwhelmed with what can only be compared to a sense of unworthiness, as though I am encountering and digging into something much greater and complex than I or any other human being shall ever be able to fathom.  All I can muster is to associate it with words such as, "right" and, "beautiful".

Many will think I am looking to describe the feeling of love, but I, in my poetic state, feel as though the word never quite does justice to the feelings I get when I look into the eyes of Jessica Liggins.  The word, "love" does not quite describe the feelings felt when I am privileged to hear the pure and unadulterated laugh of Jessica Liggins.  Nothing quite does it when I use, "love" to encapsulate how I feel when she reaches out to hold my hand or places her delicate head on my shoulder.

Perhaps the word, "falling" flits across my mind, but even still to say, "falling in love" seems too weak of a phrase.  It is possible that I will never find a perfect word to describe these feelings, but that is perfectly alright. 

For now, I know I feel them sometimes, and if that is all I ever know, I shall be quite content.

'tis the Passion.

It's the holidays.  More specifically, it's the Christmas season.  As a christian, I suppose the typical thing for me to do would be to go on an obnoxious rant about the way people respectfully--the proper word is probably closer to fearfully--say happy holidays instead of Merry Christmas because they don't want to offend anyone.  Even as I write about the prospect of it, my mind begins to buzz with all kinds of pointers and, "hard-hitters".  Ultimately, however, to spend the Christmas season arguing about trivial matters like what we choose to call this holiday is to completely contradict anything the Christmas season stands for.  So take heart, dear reader; you will not be bombarded with religious ramblings today--at least not by myself.

To be completely honest, I had not planned to write anything for the next several weeks.  It is, after all, the holidays, is it not?  Surprisingly enough, it is that very thought which motivated me to write. 

Nay, not motivated, for that seems too weak of a word.  Perhaps a word like, "drove" or, "demanded" would describe the feeling better.  The thought that, " 'tis the season" and that such a fact should count as valid reasoning to not write, demanded of me that I write.  The breathtakingly beautiful and unbelievably wise Jessica Liggins would insist that this demand stems from my unrelenting desire to defy the laws of social norm and what-not, and in actuality she would probably be exactly right.  My total distaste for social formalities, norms, and, "traditions" would not allow for a break in writing during the holidays simply because taking a break is what one does around this time of year.

I would like to suggest, however, that though this may be the reason on the surface, it is not at all good reason to write.  For if my purpose to write is simply to, "Stick it to the man" then a poor adolescent-minded soul I would be.  I also probably wouldn't have much more to say than what has already been said repeated several billion times over in not-so-clever various ways.

No, dear reader, something much deeper is at play here, and I believe that something is passion.  Passion does not reside within the boundaries of social norm.  Passion does not follow rules.  Passion does not take holidays. 

It is my understanding that if one has a passion, then one will stop at nothing to pursue said passion.  It is also my understanding that when people take holidays and go on vacation they are attempting to get away from whatever is they have been doing up until that point, presumably because it bores them or drains them. 

The reader will understand then, that in my line of thought for me to take a break from writing because it is holidays, is a very appalling thought indeed.  Every part of my being screams at me that this is a betrayal of my passions, for writing is one of the select few things on this earth which make me feel alive.  That I even considered taking a break demanded of me that I do just the opposite. 

'tis the season to be jolly, and a jolly fellow indeed I am when given the grace to write something--anything--which might be enjoyed by at least one person somewhere--regardless the time of year.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Theoretical Commitment

Commitment.  What a funny thing it is.  A very beautiful thing as well.  Some might even venture so far as to call it a pleasant thought, and for those who have chosen to take it on the words, "worth it" can often be heard bouncing off their lips.

Worth it.

Let us take a moment to dissect the implications of a statement such as, "worth it."

The dictionary defines worth as, "excellence, usefulness, or value", which must mean that those who take up commitment place some sort of value upon the endeavor(it will be assumed that the word, 'it' is indeed talking about the commitment in question).  It must also be noted that those who use the phrase, "worth it" attached to words such as commitment, have more often than not just finished recounting stories of hardship which challenged the commitment in question.

And so one begins to wonder if the value placed on said commitment has been there from the very start--how could it not if one has endured such hardship to hold onto something?--or if the value has been achieved via the commitment itself.  Which, if thought about long enough, may come across as a slight paradox to the reader.  Any sensible person will agree that it is near impossible for people or things to gain instant value, and that if they do, the said value gradually decreases over time. 

Commitment seems to take a turn of its own, however, in that if it is carried out, the person or object being committed to only gains value over time, and seemingly more so if hardships are endured along the way.  One may point to the thousands of divorcing couples across our planet, but one would have to recognize that divorce is a termination of commitment, and therefore not a valid argument.

At this point, one is struck with the question of how it is that the value needed to commit is gained through the very act of committing.  Perhaps the only way to obtain an answer is to test the theory.

Mr. A.

When I was in grade eight I wrote a short story/book called, "The Man and His Glasses".  I dedicated it to my dad for his(at the time) incredible unwillingness to give up his ancient and outdated glasses.  At first, it was supposed to be about my dad and how I imagined he had come about his ancient glasses.  I even named the main character after my superhero of a father.  Very quickly, however, the story turned into a complete, unbridled-imagination-fueled fabrication.

Not a lie by any means.  It was a story.  A beautiful story that didn't at all fit the requirements of my assignment.  Or at least, it wouldn't, if the assignment had had any requirements.

Grade eight was an interesting year.  I was experiencing my first year of public school, and I was in an all boys class.  Before January, our class had gone through three teachers.  All of whom ended up in tears before quitting.  In short, our class was a teacher's nightmare.  The school was desperate to find a teacher who would teach our class and actually help us learn something.  When myself and my fellow classmates got on the bus to leave for Christmas break, we had no idea who our teacher would be when we returned.

And when we did return, we were greeted by a small man wearing skate clothes.  A small man Mr. A.  Until we learned that the, 'A' stood for, 'Atkins' most of us just assumed it meant, 'awesome'.

There are many, many reasons that Mr. A. was--and still is--the coolest teacher I and most of my classmates have ever had--the fact that he stays so memorable after a mere five months is testament enough--and I would love to share them all with you, dear reader, but my time is limited and so is yours.

Mr. A recognized that I had a talent/love for reading and writing.  He recognized that it wasn't something I did because it was a requirement for school, but because I enjoyed it.  When the school library didn't have any books that interested me, I was allowed to bring a book of my choice for reading time.  And when it came time for english assignments, Mr. A. handed me a blank, 80 page Hilroy notebook and told me to write about whatever I felt like writing about.  The first story was about a conspiracy behind the San Diego earthquakes and their true cause being due to the experiments of a crazy scientist.  And after that came, "The Man and His Glasses".  A story about a young german genius who bought a pair of glasses and turned them into a massively advanced multi-functioning technological device whose primary function was still to improve vision.

I'm not exactly sure how Mr. A's marking system worked, or how he went about grading an assignment that had no requirements, but I essentially aced grade eight english, and I learned a lot more about english and writing than just how to form a grammatically correct sentence(I still don't know how to do that).

Mr. A. did what teachers are supposed to do.  He recognized a spark, threw some fuel on it, and fanned it into a flame.  And he didn't just do that for me.  Everyone in our class had special assignments for certain subjects.  Mr. A let talents flourish by giving them the resources to do so.  When I received a, "marked" and completed copy of, "The Man and His Glasses", I found the following note scribbled in to the last few pages:

"Dear Isaac,

Every now and then a teacher comes across a student who decides that normal and ordinary are not good things to be!  Then the teacher panics and says, 'That's is--the GIG is up!  I'm going to be found out'.  So the teacher desperately tries to create a new task to keep that student from discovering the truth about teachers.  That truth, by the way, is that teachers--but that's another story.  Let me return to the task at hand.  Obfuscation!

The teacher, determined to continue the process of denying truth to the student, suggests to the student that he, "pursue that talent" "attempt that independent study" "create.." "design.." and pretty soon the student is sidetracked and forgets that he was on the brink of discovering the truth that the teacher--but that's classified information!  Should it slip out, then this book will, in five seconds, (give or take a century) self destruct. (run very quickly away!  Now!)

If you are still here and reading this, I obviously have work to do to scarify you!  By the way, scarify is a legitimate word--and a very convenient sidetrack to finish this page without telling you the real truth about teachers--they are all crazy!  (well, except me)"

"The Man and His Glasses" was, and still is, dedicated to my dad.  This blog, however, is dedicated to Mr. A, for his heroic efforts to recognize my passion, and grow it beyond anyone's control.  Not even my own.  Thank you.

Drug Addicts

Everyone is a drug addict.  Every single person who has ever laid foot on this plane is--and was--a drug addict.  The more knowledgeable and experienced reader may assume that I am about to embark on the well-worn path of brain chemicals related to enjoying ourselves.  I am not.

I am not about to dote over dopamine, get silly over seratonin, or turn nostalgic over norepinephrine.  The world has enough semi-poet's turning the thought of naturally created brain chemicals into romantic drug addictions. 

I will not deny that all humans--including myself--have a subconscious, uninterrupted, and determined desire to feel good.  Some of us fulfill that desire with foreign chemicals, while others simply do things they enjoy.  If thought about long enough, one begins to realize that the majority of human existence has been spent pursuing our addiction to those brain chemicals.  Everything we do--whether intentionally or not--revolves around our desire to feel good. 

At this point it may appear that I have killed my position of not writing about brain chemicals, and if I were the reader, I would assume the same.  But I am not the reader, and I am not done yet. 

If the story stopped here, it would be on a quite pleasant note, would it not?  Most modern brain chemical poetry does.  We romanticize the idea of being a, "drug addict".  And there we stop.  On the very edge.  For if we were to venture one step further we would find ourselves questioning the nature of drug addicts.  We would ponder the physical addiction: the body's need for that special substance--whatever it may be.  And if we had not yet bored ourselves with the biology of the matter, our mind would wander into its own realm. 

There would be a brief moment of confusion, as the mind is not one to fancy examining itself, and then our train of thought would continue.  Within the mind we may find ourselves stumbling across the attitude of drug addicts.  And after we pick ourselves up off the ground to look back at what it is we have stumbled upon, our first reaction may be one of disgust.

Whatever the thing is that our wanderings brought us across, it is certainly not attractive.  But as most know, things that visibly disgust us have a funny way of locking our gaze at least long enough until they have shamelessly burned themselves permanently into our memories.  So we will continue to stare at this object of revolt, and just as our mind has mustered the strength to look away, we may find our eyes withheld by the faintest hint of recognition.  Then, slowly--ever so slowly--the deformities of the object mold their way into a very familiar shape indeed. 

Some may be refilled with horror, some may flash a welcoming grin, and some--if there is any hope for the world--will run in the other direction.  Whatever our reaction, selfishness will continue to lie there in its own filth, patiently waiting out the next chance to strike.

More of Less

“Nothing ever happens to me.”

These are the morbidly honest and depressing words spoken by Dr. John Watson shortly before he has the incredible privilege of meeting—and doing everything with—Sherlock Holmes.

This particular Sherlock scenario falls under the modern version. It is during a counselling session, and through the course of the session it is revealed that Dr. Watson is supposed to be writing a blog about everything which happens to him. He replies with the formerly quoted statement.

Despite its minuteness and flippant delivery, this statement says a great deal about humanity and how our interactions work. I suppose the phrase, “Less is more” suits this situation perfectly, but I find myself hard pressed to use it as I am not one to do what most people would or would not do in certain situations. Nonetheless, it is an undeniable fact that in those five words, there is a great deal more waiting to be unpacked.

For example, there are a great deal of assumptions drawn here by our friend, Dr. Watson. Most of which I believe to be far more true than even he may have realized. When asked to write, Watson responded by saying that nothing ever happens to him. As a writer—and I am sure most authors would agree—this is the most valid reason in the world to refrain from writing. If nothing ever happens to you, what in the bloody hell have you got to write about?

If nothing has happened to you; meaning that you have neither participated in any action beyond surviving, nor have you been effected by the lives of others participating in actions beyond surviving, then any fool can clearly see that you have nothing to write about. Not even the musings of lovable characters on excellent tv shows.

Less is more.

Intelligent Observations of Intelligence.

I like to think of myself as an intelligent person.  Not exceptionally intelligent, for I think to call myself such would be to step into the realm of haughtiness and pride, and that is a realm completely void of any intelligence whatsoever.  Neither would I venture to say genius, for I consider geniuses to be the least likely to call themselves such.  If one is a true genius, would one not be intelligent enough to realize what true genius is, and therefore be far from the notion of their own status falling into such a category?

Nay, I am perfectly content to think of myself as intelligent.  For this infers that--according to the general population--I am level-headed, I am not stupid, and I observe and/or think before I act or speak.  The dictionary defines intelligent as, "someone or something that is bright, informed or shows sound judgment".  I like to think that most of these are qualities which I, as a human being, possess.

Not just myself, mind you.  I like to assume that the greater majority of human beings I interact with on a day to day basis are, more or less, intelligent.  And so for the reader who is assuming that I have set out to write an article which sets my intellect far above that of my peers or fellow man, please know that those are not at all my intentions.

On the contrary, I believe it to be a quality of an intelligent person to rarely--if ever--set out on such a mission, and certainly never intend to do so myself.  As an intelligent person, I like to think of myself as one of many, and abhor the thought of living a life where I constantly look down upon the majority of the people I interact with.

And so I reiterate, dear reader: I do not consider myself to be exceptionally intelligent, genius, or anything of the like.  Simply your average, every day, intelligent being.

So the reader will then understand why I find myself quite conflicted when I hear many of my, "intelligent" friends asking questions like, "Obama or Romney?" when it is a public fact that between the two of them, the candidates have spent an average of six billion dollars on nothing more than their election campaigns.