Life plays dirty. Life doesn't play by the rules. Life lets you do what you please, and doesn't tell you the consequences until you're smack dab in the middle of them. Life lets itself happen to you without letting you realize it.
I've been playing with life for the past little while, and I thought I was being quite clever about it. I thought I had the upper hand. I thought I knew how to play the game better than life itself. I forgot that life has been playing the game for a considerably longer time than I.
The above paragraphs are my attempts as a writer to say in the most clever and metaphorical way possible that I have been learning a very hard lesson of late. Following those paragraphs one would traditionally have some sort of follow up explanation, carrying the original thought with exquisite grace and ease, letting it float from the page to the reader's mind, and--if the writer is really good--into the depths of the reader's very soul. I would love to do that, but the honest truth is that I am far out of practice of late.
My last genuinely entertaining, thoughtful, inspiring piece was written almost two years ago(in my own not-so-humble opinion). Since that time, I have written when it is convenient or when it fits into my ever-busying schedule. I have written more poetry than my heart can handle, and I have found that satisfying to an extent. I have told myself that I am simply growing, and that the writer in me was only a phase. A moment in time. An insignificant enjoyable experience.
The past several months(and my incredibly heart-stoppingly beautiful and inspiring girlfriend) have taught me otherwise.
I write. It is something that I do. I enjoy it more than almost any other activity I have ever done in my life. It brings me joy. It brings me peace. It nourishes my soul. It is when I feel God's pleasure. It makes me feel alive. And I'm damn well good at it.
And if I am damn well good at something, then any sensible person would say that I should damn well do that something. And I say that that person is damn well right.
So it has come to pass that I have made a pact with myself--which I will no doubt regret on many occasions--that I am going to write. Often. At least once a week to be precise. Even if my hand feels like a block of wood and my brain like a blob of baloney. If my mind feels empty and my soul drained--still I will write.
I will not set out to recapture or relive the glorious moments and feelings of writing in the past--though they were grand moments indeed--for that would be to spin in circles. I will not write to make myself feel good--though the reader may think that contradicts previous statements--for that would be to serve none but my selfish desires. I will not write to make others feel good--though I sincerely hope that at least one will enjoy the scribblings of my thoughts--for that would be to allow others to dictate my art. I will write because I need to write.
And so, dear reader, it is my sincerest hope that you will join me on this new journey, and that the process may somehow inspire you to set out upon an adventure of your own. For if there is one thing that life has taught me since I put down the pen, it is this: Our minds were created to travel.
Life plays dirty, but I've got a bar of soap.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Sunday, August 5, 2012
The Hunt
Space is a most peculiar place. Mostly because a lot of it is just that—space: A whole lot of not-a-lot. Granted, it is far more than just nothing, for any fool could glance up on a clear night and tell that there's quite a bit going on up there. But the problem with it being, “up there” is that we can't really get to it just yet, despite the fact that we'd really, really like to.
We'd like to learn a lot about how little of not-a-lot of activity is actually happening in the eerily quiet universe, but so far everywhere we've gone it appears we've been the only ones who've gone there! This proves one of two things: either we really ARE the only ones looking out into space thinking, “So where're the others?” (which unfortunately may prove us to be absolute lunatics) or that if there are other chaps out there, they really don't seem too concerned with meeting their neighbours.
Regardless of whether or not there is a lot going on in the not-a-lot around us, there is certainly a lot going on in the tiny little dot we've got called, 'earth'. At first glance one might say it's a whole lot of nothing, and at second glance—if one is rather intuitive—one might say the exact same thing. Yet on a third glance—if one is a rare form of intuitive—one might say it appears as though we are doing an awful lot of searching.
Like a tumultuous yet well-oiled machine hurtling through the galaxy on a relatively small rock at disconcerting speeds, the human race is seemingly trapped in a perpetual scramble to find something. The only problem is that we're not really sure what exactly it is we're looking for. That's not to say we're completely clueless; this thing does have a name, and a select few of us have had glimpses of it from time to time. It is not so much the question of, 'what' this thing is as it is the elusive content which makes up the very nature of this thing. We haven't got much of a clue as to how to find or create it, and yet the moment we come across it, we recognize it. We know it. It feels oddly familiar and perfect, and somehow we know in the deepest recesses of our search-weary souls that it is exactly what we need. Even if it lasts no more than a few seconds, that recognition and experience is enough.
We are hooked. Mesmerized. Breathless. Addicted.
Our entire being screams at us that, “That” was what we've been looking for, and that it's all we need, and we need to spend the rest of our lives dedicated to finding that.
And so we do. We stretch and strain and scramble and scream and shoot and shout and sip and slop and slap and scribble and serenade and sniffle and sing our hearts to shreds as we desperately seek out the fleeting feeling so many have come to know as, “love”.
We are destitute. We are distraught. We are banking our entire existence on finding that which we know little to nothing about. We have paradoxically fallen in love with the pursuit of love. Some of us kill for it. Some steal for it. Some give all they own for it. Others think to have found it, and proclaim so to the rest of us in hopes that some will agree and validate their ridiculous theories. Some find it in others. Some find it in money. Some find it in themselves.
Four letters, and an unfathomable cavalcade of implications. We see others experiencing it. We remember the times we've felt it. We long for times to feel it again. We believe in it. We wish it was alive and searching for us as hard as we are. He is.
We'd like to learn a lot about how little of not-a-lot of activity is actually happening in the eerily quiet universe, but so far everywhere we've gone it appears we've been the only ones who've gone there! This proves one of two things: either we really ARE the only ones looking out into space thinking, “So where're the others?” (which unfortunately may prove us to be absolute lunatics) or that if there are other chaps out there, they really don't seem too concerned with meeting their neighbours.
Regardless of whether or not there is a lot going on in the not-a-lot around us, there is certainly a lot going on in the tiny little dot we've got called, 'earth'. At first glance one might say it's a whole lot of nothing, and at second glance—if one is rather intuitive—one might say the exact same thing. Yet on a third glance—if one is a rare form of intuitive—one might say it appears as though we are doing an awful lot of searching.
Like a tumultuous yet well-oiled machine hurtling through the galaxy on a relatively small rock at disconcerting speeds, the human race is seemingly trapped in a perpetual scramble to find something. The only problem is that we're not really sure what exactly it is we're looking for. That's not to say we're completely clueless; this thing does have a name, and a select few of us have had glimpses of it from time to time. It is not so much the question of, 'what' this thing is as it is the elusive content which makes up the very nature of this thing. We haven't got much of a clue as to how to find or create it, and yet the moment we come across it, we recognize it. We know it. It feels oddly familiar and perfect, and somehow we know in the deepest recesses of our search-weary souls that it is exactly what we need. Even if it lasts no more than a few seconds, that recognition and experience is enough.
We are hooked. Mesmerized. Breathless. Addicted.
Our entire being screams at us that, “That” was what we've been looking for, and that it's all we need, and we need to spend the rest of our lives dedicated to finding that.
And so we do. We stretch and strain and scramble and scream and shoot and shout and sip and slop and slap and scribble and serenade and sniffle and sing our hearts to shreds as we desperately seek out the fleeting feeling so many have come to know as, “love”.
We are destitute. We are distraught. We are banking our entire existence on finding that which we know little to nothing about. We have paradoxically fallen in love with the pursuit of love. Some of us kill for it. Some steal for it. Some give all they own for it. Others think to have found it, and proclaim so to the rest of us in hopes that some will agree and validate their ridiculous theories. Some find it in others. Some find it in money. Some find it in themselves.
Four letters, and an unfathomable cavalcade of implications. We see others experiencing it. We remember the times we've felt it. We long for times to feel it again. We believe in it. We wish it was alive and searching for us as hard as we are. He is.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Love Stoops
This is a book report I had to write for class here at YWAM. Enjoy!
******
Love stoops. Yet even out of the deepest pits of love in my heart I can't bring myself to write an analytical report on this book. I will not for a second deny that Ian Morgan Cron more than captivated me with his sacred and beautifully emotional life story—but that's the problem.
When I began reading, “Jesus, My Father, the CIA, And Me” I took notes like my life depended on it. I read the first few chapters like I was back in grade ten and eleven reading, “Life of Pi” and, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, analyzing and criticizing every single sentence structure until I had exhausted the very nature of the words themselves. I dug for metaphors, clawed at simile's, and nearly cried out in frustration as I tried to find some sort of literary divination hidden in the cleverly written words and phrases of this book.
High school trained me well. By the time I arrived at chapter three I was so exhausted with reading the book that I literally dreaded picking it up for fear of causing myself a brain aneurysm. I did what God is patiently teaching me to do every single time I reach a situation like this; I prayed about it. I had hardly even begun praying when God reminded me what books were created for.
Reading.
I sat down with, “Jesus, My Father, the CIA, and Me”, and I read it. Suddenly, I had finished a chapter. So I read some more. Twenty minutes later, I had finished three chapters of the book, and I had to force myself to put it down so I could make some sort of notes on what I had just devoured.
By the end of the book I realized that Ian put absolutely no effort into making this book a best-selling, multi-layered novel. He simply poured out his life's story with an exceptionally trained writing hand, and I'd be lying if I said God didn't speak to me through Ian.
My mother grew up with an alcoholic father, and so I have heard the horror stories of that childhood multiple times. I haven't been indulged in them until now. The first way God spoke to me through Ian was a way that He has been speaking to me for several months now. God reminded me how blessed I am.
As a teenager, I don't think even the greatest of memories can recall how many times I hated my parents. My parents were the manifestations of the devil himself, and their sole purpose in life was to make mine miserable. They made rules, they set curfews, and they—in retrospect—gave me their car a lot more than I deserved. I remember nights when my mother and I would argue over the finest details and specifics of why I wasn't allowed to go to my friend's house on Friday night, and by the time we were done it was Saturday morning anyway.
But my parents loved me—and still do, thankfully—and if I could see that teenage version of myself with the eyes God has given me now, I'm pretty sure I would create a rupture in the space-time continuum by beating myself to death to try and knock some sense into what I sometimes call, 'the idiotic Isaac'. Thankfully one of the virtues of love is patience and self-control, and my father is blessed with both.
I can tell millions of stories about my parents when I was growing up, and all of them bring a smile to my face and warm my heart! I was—and am—supremely blessed with parents who love me so passionately that I won't understand it until I have children of my own! Reading about Ian's roller-coaster of a childhood only added to the understanding which God is creating in me; I am blessed beyond belief without absolutely amazing parents whom I love and cherish.
Which brings us to the second way God spoke to me through Ian; love stoops. When I read the chapter about Ian's first encounter with Jesus Christ, I was in tears.
Every kid who has grown up in church knows the crucifixion story backwards and forwards and inside and out. Sometimes I wonder if this is a good thing due to the numbing effect it has on our comprehension of how incredible the crucifixion actually is, but then God reminds me He's God and He'll worry about that. And God made it evident to me that He does handle that through Ian's encounter with Jesus.
Jesus stooped to the lowest of the low to die on the cross, and I know that in my head, but my heart has been so desensitized to sacrifice and love by hollywood, that it took Ian's testimony for me to get perspective on what Jesus experienced.
Jesus Christ apologized to Ian Morgan Cron. WHAT?! God doesn't need to apologize to anyone for anything! We don't deserve that at all! God has absolutely nothing to apologize for! He is perfect and unblemished! He has done no wrong! You can't apologize for being perfect! But from the same unfathomable love and compassion that drove Jesus to the cross, came a personal apology from Jesus Christ to Ian for all the hurt and pain that Ian had to suffer in his life. Wow. When I read that, something clicked in my head, and I had to put my book down and spend several moments in prayer to God praising Him and thanking Him for this crazy love!
If love stoops, and we are to love our brothers because Christ first loved us, I've got some stooping to do.
God spoke to me in many, many other ways through Ian's story, but the one that sticks out the most and will not leave my head, is the sacredness of Ian's story. Out of that, I understand the sacredness of everyone's story.
I was completely and honestly prepared to sit down and analyze Ian's book like it was as fictional as the green unicorns that interrupt my train of thought every now and then, but God slapped me across the face—lovingly of course. Ian's story is not just a story. That book contains a very honest recounting of his life! It's sacred! “Jesus, My Father, The CIA, And Me” is not written for our entertainment and enjoyment! I can only imagine the numerous times Ian may have stained the pages with tears as he penned the first manuscript. Sure, some of those memories are pleasant and lovely, but some of them are horrid and awful! But they are Ian's, and because Ian is a real-live human being, that makes them sacred.
I'm not going to give a brief summary of Ian's book, because that's identical to trying to make a brief summary of Ian's life. In my eyes, that is disrespectful. How would you feel if someone told you they could summarize your life-story—and only the important moments at that—on a three page book report?
Ian took roughly two-hundred and fifty pages to share some very sacred, significant, and delicate memories of his past, and I won't dishonour that by quickly brushing over them as if they hardly matter. They do.
Just as Ian's story is sacred, everyone's story is sacred. Almost every time I have heard someone's testimony, I have thought two things: “Cool” or, “Boring”. People's stories aren't boring. They may have boring moments, but they also have funny moments, sad moments, horrible moments, beautiful moments, scary moments, happy moments, goofy moments, loving moments, hateful moments, caring moments, and every other moment the human brain can comprehend. Through Ian's story, God has taught me the sacredness, and the honour that every single one of every single human being's stories deserves. My prayer is that He keeps that revelation ever-present in my life. The end.
******
Love stoops. Yet even out of the deepest pits of love in my heart I can't bring myself to write an analytical report on this book. I will not for a second deny that Ian Morgan Cron more than captivated me with his sacred and beautifully emotional life story—but that's the problem.
When I began reading, “Jesus, My Father, the CIA, And Me” I took notes like my life depended on it. I read the first few chapters like I was back in grade ten and eleven reading, “Life of Pi” and, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, analyzing and criticizing every single sentence structure until I had exhausted the very nature of the words themselves. I dug for metaphors, clawed at simile's, and nearly cried out in frustration as I tried to find some sort of literary divination hidden in the cleverly written words and phrases of this book.
High school trained me well. By the time I arrived at chapter three I was so exhausted with reading the book that I literally dreaded picking it up for fear of causing myself a brain aneurysm. I did what God is patiently teaching me to do every single time I reach a situation like this; I prayed about it. I had hardly even begun praying when God reminded me what books were created for.
Reading.
I sat down with, “Jesus, My Father, the CIA, and Me”, and I read it. Suddenly, I had finished a chapter. So I read some more. Twenty minutes later, I had finished three chapters of the book, and I had to force myself to put it down so I could make some sort of notes on what I had just devoured.
By the end of the book I realized that Ian put absolutely no effort into making this book a best-selling, multi-layered novel. He simply poured out his life's story with an exceptionally trained writing hand, and I'd be lying if I said God didn't speak to me through Ian.
My mother grew up with an alcoholic father, and so I have heard the horror stories of that childhood multiple times. I haven't been indulged in them until now. The first way God spoke to me through Ian was a way that He has been speaking to me for several months now. God reminded me how blessed I am.
As a teenager, I don't think even the greatest of memories can recall how many times I hated my parents. My parents were the manifestations of the devil himself, and their sole purpose in life was to make mine miserable. They made rules, they set curfews, and they—in retrospect—gave me their car a lot more than I deserved. I remember nights when my mother and I would argue over the finest details and specifics of why I wasn't allowed to go to my friend's house on Friday night, and by the time we were done it was Saturday morning anyway.
But my parents loved me—and still do, thankfully—and if I could see that teenage version of myself with the eyes God has given me now, I'm pretty sure I would create a rupture in the space-time continuum by beating myself to death to try and knock some sense into what I sometimes call, 'the idiotic Isaac'. Thankfully one of the virtues of love is patience and self-control, and my father is blessed with both.
I can tell millions of stories about my parents when I was growing up, and all of them bring a smile to my face and warm my heart! I was—and am—supremely blessed with parents who love me so passionately that I won't understand it until I have children of my own! Reading about Ian's roller-coaster of a childhood only added to the understanding which God is creating in me; I am blessed beyond belief without absolutely amazing parents whom I love and cherish.
Which brings us to the second way God spoke to me through Ian; love stoops. When I read the chapter about Ian's first encounter with Jesus Christ, I was in tears.
Every kid who has grown up in church knows the crucifixion story backwards and forwards and inside and out. Sometimes I wonder if this is a good thing due to the numbing effect it has on our comprehension of how incredible the crucifixion actually is, but then God reminds me He's God and He'll worry about that. And God made it evident to me that He does handle that through Ian's encounter with Jesus.
Jesus stooped to the lowest of the low to die on the cross, and I know that in my head, but my heart has been so desensitized to sacrifice and love by hollywood, that it took Ian's testimony for me to get perspective on what Jesus experienced.
Jesus Christ apologized to Ian Morgan Cron. WHAT?! God doesn't need to apologize to anyone for anything! We don't deserve that at all! God has absolutely nothing to apologize for! He is perfect and unblemished! He has done no wrong! You can't apologize for being perfect! But from the same unfathomable love and compassion that drove Jesus to the cross, came a personal apology from Jesus Christ to Ian for all the hurt and pain that Ian had to suffer in his life. Wow. When I read that, something clicked in my head, and I had to put my book down and spend several moments in prayer to God praising Him and thanking Him for this crazy love!
If love stoops, and we are to love our brothers because Christ first loved us, I've got some stooping to do.
God spoke to me in many, many other ways through Ian's story, but the one that sticks out the most and will not leave my head, is the sacredness of Ian's story. Out of that, I understand the sacredness of everyone's story.
I was completely and honestly prepared to sit down and analyze Ian's book like it was as fictional as the green unicorns that interrupt my train of thought every now and then, but God slapped me across the face—lovingly of course. Ian's story is not just a story. That book contains a very honest recounting of his life! It's sacred! “Jesus, My Father, The CIA, And Me” is not written for our entertainment and enjoyment! I can only imagine the numerous times Ian may have stained the pages with tears as he penned the first manuscript. Sure, some of those memories are pleasant and lovely, but some of them are horrid and awful! But they are Ian's, and because Ian is a real-live human being, that makes them sacred.
I'm not going to give a brief summary of Ian's book, because that's identical to trying to make a brief summary of Ian's life. In my eyes, that is disrespectful. How would you feel if someone told you they could summarize your life-story—and only the important moments at that—on a three page book report?
Ian took roughly two-hundred and fifty pages to share some very sacred, significant, and delicate memories of his past, and I won't dishonour that by quickly brushing over them as if they hardly matter. They do.
Just as Ian's story is sacred, everyone's story is sacred. Almost every time I have heard someone's testimony, I have thought two things: “Cool” or, “Boring”. People's stories aren't boring. They may have boring moments, but they also have funny moments, sad moments, horrible moments, beautiful moments, scary moments, happy moments, goofy moments, loving moments, hateful moments, caring moments, and every other moment the human brain can comprehend. Through Ian's story, God has taught me the sacredness, and the honour that every single one of every single human being's stories deserves. My prayer is that He keeps that revelation ever-present in my life. The end.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Literal Poo
Public washrooms disgust me. And yes, I'm aware that there is nothing abnormal about my feelings toward shared lavatories, but my distaste for them stems from a much different train of though.
I myself am generally a disgusting person. I pick my nose, I chew constantly on EVERYTHING, I only brush my teeth in the morning, I wash my bed sheets once every couple of months, I don't clean under my fingernails, I barely wax my ears, and I rarely wash my hands after using the washroom. As you can guess, I'm very thankful for my amazingly functioning immune system, because without it I feel as though I may not be given the opportunity to be thankful for it.
As the above information suggests, the thought of plopping my bare bum on an oddly shaped piece of plastic which dozens--if not hundreds--of others have done the exact same thing--albeit some louder than others--bothers me not in the least. Neither does drying my hands with the bacteria infested hand dryers: I've used them a thousand thousand times and my heart's still beating happily away in the recesses of my perfectly jovial ribcage.
Nay, my lack of lust for public washrooms comes not from the common cons of relieving oneself in a place shared by many. It comes instead from a recent revelation I had whilst pooping next to a fellow pooper in the poop room. I myself was having a rather noisy time of it, whereas my neighbor seemed to be a tad bit shy or something. As I was belting out a soundtrack for a 600cc four wheeler I happened to glance down at the floor--and I saw his feet.
There it was, plain and simple: evidence of the fact that there was indeed a human being relieving them self a mere four or five feet away from me, and the only thing separating us was a thin, wooden wall. In fact, there was a decent row of us; all pooping within sight of each other save for a few inches of wood and plastic. None of us had pants on either. We were literally pooping side by side.
My use of public washrooms has not lessened in the least, but it is safe to say that my distaste for them has certainly increased.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to urinate or something.
I myself am generally a disgusting person. I pick my nose, I chew constantly on EVERYTHING, I only brush my teeth in the morning, I wash my bed sheets once every couple of months, I don't clean under my fingernails, I barely wax my ears, and I rarely wash my hands after using the washroom. As you can guess, I'm very thankful for my amazingly functioning immune system, because without it I feel as though I may not be given the opportunity to be thankful for it.
As the above information suggests, the thought of plopping my bare bum on an oddly shaped piece of plastic which dozens--if not hundreds--of others have done the exact same thing--albeit some louder than others--bothers me not in the least. Neither does drying my hands with the bacteria infested hand dryers: I've used them a thousand thousand times and my heart's still beating happily away in the recesses of my perfectly jovial ribcage.
Nay, my lack of lust for public washrooms comes not from the common cons of relieving oneself in a place shared by many. It comes instead from a recent revelation I had whilst pooping next to a fellow pooper in the poop room. I myself was having a rather noisy time of it, whereas my neighbor seemed to be a tad bit shy or something. As I was belting out a soundtrack for a 600cc four wheeler I happened to glance down at the floor--and I saw his feet.
There it was, plain and simple: evidence of the fact that there was indeed a human being relieving them self a mere four or five feet away from me, and the only thing separating us was a thin, wooden wall. In fact, there was a decent row of us; all pooping within sight of each other save for a few inches of wood and plastic. None of us had pants on either. We were literally pooping side by side.
My use of public washrooms has not lessened in the least, but it is safe to say that my distaste for them has certainly increased.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to urinate or something.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Scholarly Gentlemen
"You are a Gentleman and a Scholar". This is perhaps one of the most insulting compliments I think anyone can ever receive in his or her respective life. It is beyond distasteful, and offers a certain sense of mockery to the receiver. This statement almost defines what it means to insult a fellow human being, and it does so quite bluntly. You, dear reader, no doubt find my thesis repulsive, but that is simply because I have yet to enlighten you.
It is a simple matter of breaking down the sentence and words, really. When one first lays eyes upon this sentence, they are presented with two nouns, a pronoun, and four conjunctions. Conjunctions add nothing to the heart and soul of the sentence so they're out. We are now left with, "You gentleman scholar". If said fast enough and with deep enough inflection, our sentence actually sounds like someone is being called an article of clothing by a caveman.
But that is completely irrelevant.
Let us turn our focus to the nouns. We are not eliminating the pronoun, but are rather repulsed by its presence for the time being. The nouns are, 'gentleman' and, 'scholar'. You may believe I am about to give the definition of these words, but I am not, because not only would that be pathetically predictable, but also because the definition of a word--especially these words--is not always in alignment with things people associate with said word.
But I digress.
When one thinks of a gentleman, one will generally either picture a primp and oldish gentleman sporting a tuxedo and sipping a glass of champagne, or a man of any age smiling politely and holding the door for a woman. The former of these is likely much more frowned upon than the latter, and so we will assume the latter for the sake of the argument.
There is, of course, nothing insulting about calling someone that sort of gentleman. On the contrary, it is almost delightful to receive such a compliment! Now imagine someone walking up to this perfectly nice man and telling him that they believe he is dumb enough to spend the better part of ten years attending countless classes and reading countless books at an abhorring high price, then spend the rest of his life looking for a satisfying job so as to pay off the schools which sucked his creative brain--and wallet--dry.
And that, dear reader, is why you should only ever call a man a gentleman, and nothing more.
It is a simple matter of breaking down the sentence and words, really. When one first lays eyes upon this sentence, they are presented with two nouns, a pronoun, and four conjunctions. Conjunctions add nothing to the heart and soul of the sentence so they're out. We are now left with, "You gentleman scholar". If said fast enough and with deep enough inflection, our sentence actually sounds like someone is being called an article of clothing by a caveman.
But that is completely irrelevant.
Let us turn our focus to the nouns. We are not eliminating the pronoun, but are rather repulsed by its presence for the time being. The nouns are, 'gentleman' and, 'scholar'. You may believe I am about to give the definition of these words, but I am not, because not only would that be pathetically predictable, but also because the definition of a word--especially these words--is not always in alignment with things people associate with said word.
But I digress.
When one thinks of a gentleman, one will generally either picture a primp and oldish gentleman sporting a tuxedo and sipping a glass of champagne, or a man of any age smiling politely and holding the door for a woman. The former of these is likely much more frowned upon than the latter, and so we will assume the latter for the sake of the argument.
There is, of course, nothing insulting about calling someone that sort of gentleman. On the contrary, it is almost delightful to receive such a compliment! Now imagine someone walking up to this perfectly nice man and telling him that they believe he is dumb enough to spend the better part of ten years attending countless classes and reading countless books at an abhorring high price, then spend the rest of his life looking for a satisfying job so as to pay off the schools which sucked his creative brain--and wallet--dry.
And that, dear reader, is why you should only ever call a man a gentleman, and nothing more.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Metaphorical Commentaries
Sometimes I write. Too much. I'm not saying it's ever bad to jot down one's thoughts, but there is a certain art to holding back just a bit. This art only applies to publishing one's works, as holding back one's thoughts from oneself is impossible in every way, shape and form.
Take the first sentence of this piece, for example. It's crisp, clean, and more importantly, it can stand on its own. If a comedian were to get up on a stage, recite said line with a straight face, and walk off stage again, he would receive a much better laugh than if he were to recite this entire piece.
He would also probably feel quite silly when he got to this sentence. Especially if he was a girl.
Point in case, I should stop writing now for dramatic effect.
Except there is so much more I'd like to say on this subject and my will power is apparently running quite low.
As I was saying, my main is that when dealing with published ramblings, less quite often IS more, and this is without a doubt due to what is called dramatic effect. To write one sentence as opposed to one paragraph speaks volumes about the character of the writer, whether they be fictional or not. If I had written nothing more than that first sentence, your train of thought and assumptions about my person would have no doubt taken a different turn.
The sentence on its own says that sometimes I write, but not right now, and gives a cheeky air to my personality. Conjoined with the following sentences and paragraphs, however, the sentence becomes a confession. More importantly, it becomes an idea.
An idea which is expanded upon, criticized, and analyzed. Instead of a sentence it becomes a thesis statement; a small part of a large piece. It is discussed in several different paragraphs, and its meaning becomes less and less significant as more and more words are put into place to demoralize and de-structure this once beautiful sentence. It is tossed, turned, and rolled through a series of debates and opinions formed by separate words and sentences. Its meaning changes, beaten into place by the words which surround it.
Finally, after being dissected beyond recognition, the thesis-and possibly the entire piece-is thrown into a conclusion paragraph, where it is labelled as a metaphor.
A metaphor as well as a social commentary.
Sometimes I write. Too much.
Take the first sentence of this piece, for example. It's crisp, clean, and more importantly, it can stand on its own. If a comedian were to get up on a stage, recite said line with a straight face, and walk off stage again, he would receive a much better laugh than if he were to recite this entire piece.
He would also probably feel quite silly when he got to this sentence. Especially if he was a girl.
Point in case, I should stop writing now for dramatic effect.
Except there is so much more I'd like to say on this subject and my will power is apparently running quite low.
As I was saying, my main is that when dealing with published ramblings, less quite often IS more, and this is without a doubt due to what is called dramatic effect. To write one sentence as opposed to one paragraph speaks volumes about the character of the writer, whether they be fictional or not. If I had written nothing more than that first sentence, your train of thought and assumptions about my person would have no doubt taken a different turn.
The sentence on its own says that sometimes I write, but not right now, and gives a cheeky air to my personality. Conjoined with the following sentences and paragraphs, however, the sentence becomes a confession. More importantly, it becomes an idea.
An idea which is expanded upon, criticized, and analyzed. Instead of a sentence it becomes a thesis statement; a small part of a large piece. It is discussed in several different paragraphs, and its meaning becomes less and less significant as more and more words are put into place to demoralize and de-structure this once beautiful sentence. It is tossed, turned, and rolled through a series of debates and opinions formed by separate words and sentences. Its meaning changes, beaten into place by the words which surround it.
Finally, after being dissected beyond recognition, the thesis-and possibly the entire piece-is thrown into a conclusion paragraph, where it is labelled as a metaphor.
A metaphor as well as a social commentary.
Sometimes I write. Too much.
Awful Atrocities
I am completely taxed and derived of creativity. My mind is an endless wasteland filled with the same long, eerie, and terrifying noise. It is every writer's nightmare and their least favorite sound. It is a vibration of the vocal chords which was never meant to be discovered; an awful, humming, buzzing, and sizzling sort of sound. Not only does the modern day scribbler detest this fuzzing and guzzling, but so do radio DJ's, news anchors, actors keynote speakers, judges, lawyers, and even Presidents cannot stand this terribly awful noise. For all of its simplicity, this sound is an absolute atrocity.
"Uhhhmmmmmm...."
"Uhhhmmmmmm...."
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