The Ecchoing Green

Funny things my students write/say/do

2011-12-12T22:00:00.000-07:00

In response to a homework question:

"I don't know and I'm pretty tired. I'm gonna go take a shower."

"I learned from this lab that you should probably not let 9th graders bake anything." (As it happens, I learned that as well.)

"We already know that pound are bigger than kilograms, so the answer is obliviously going to be bigger."

In October I gave them a cookie recipe with strange units and assigned them to convert the units back to regular english units (tsp, tbsp, pounds, etc.). The cookie recipe was for 24 cookies. I took some of the better ones and actually baked them. Here are some of my favorites:

Some of my other favorites included baking the cookies at 62 F (colder than room temperature) for 0.2 milliseconds, baking them for 2 hours at 530 F, and putting 1500 cups of flour into the batch (which comes out to about 4 gallons of flour per cookie).

When asked to write a reflection of the cookie lab, one student responded, "What I learned from this activity is that you always need to know you conversions, esspecially since it has to do with fire. ... I also think that to stop making mistakes you need to have memories." This last sentence is, I think, an especially good point.

Another student asks, "if you are converting into teaspoons and you get an answer of 42 tsp [you are wrong] because in real life would a recipe ever call for 42 teaspoons?" And then, in case the implied answer to his question was lost on us, he adds, "No, it wouldn't."

"The Dream House Project was a fun project, with its fun times and non fun times."

A Man of No Small Reputation

2011-10-27T10:43:00.004-06:00

I just had the greatest experience of my (lengthy) teaching career to date. Mr. H (who teaches one section of physical science) is absent today and asked me to drop by his classroom on my free block to check on his class and see that they were getting the right numbers for a project they're doing. I walked into the class and announced the names of the people in one of the groups I needed to speak to.

"I need to see the group with [Johnson], [Michaels] and [Jones]!"

The class went silent as they all looked at me with a who-are-you-and-what-are-you-doing-here look. So I decided to explain.

"Sorry, Mr. H asked me to drop by and check on you to see if you had any questions."

More silence; more looks.

"... I'm Mr. [Name]."

The class exploded with energy. There was an almost collective, prolonged "oh" of realization: "Ooooohhhh, you're Mr. [Name]". They were whispering to each other; I could hear them calling me by the names some of my students have adopted for me. Many looked at me suspiciously, averting their gaze when I met it. Several students came up to me and said, "We've heard about you," telling me about their friends in some of my classes. No one was unaffected by my presence.

I teach something close to half of the freshman class at my school. I am famous. And I am feared.

Text Messages Between Siblings (part III)

2011-09-15T23:00:00.000-06:00

D: Privateer Penelope picks pineapples professionally, pilfering plenty (pirate-like), pushing past police porting pleated, plaid pants.

K: Quirky quintuplet Queen Quinton quietly quilted, quickly quizzing quantitative quadratics, quitting quaint quadrangles.

D: Rambunctious Ringo rocks'n'rolls, remembering rude reactions—Rocky Raccoon's roundly rejected romance requiring rough retribution.

K: Sassy Susan Stratton skillfully slides straight, successfully scoring six squirrels storing stray stuff.

D: Terrified Terra the troglodyte trickily traps twenty tarantulas, talking to them, transmitting timid thoughts toward Tim—trembling torpid truelove.

K: Urgently Umbridge unopens under-utilized umbrellas unofficially uniting uncles, unfortunately undergoing uromisitisis.

D: Vivacious Vicki valiantly vends vittles vocationally, victoriously vaulting valuables, visualizing voluptuous vacations.

K: Wonderful Wendy weeds willingly when warm, while wondering why witches wear warts wickedly.

D: Xanthophobic Xerxes xeroxes xeric xerographs—xenophobic xylopolist Xavier xylographing xanthogenic xylem.

K: Young Yolanda yelled, "Yesterday your yucky yellow yak yielded your yodeling yeti!"

D: Zen-like, zoophobe Zorro zig-zags z's zealously, zapping zany zipping zebras.

On Memorial Ceremonies

2011-09-11T21:10:00.006-06:00

I don't like commemorating a day during which innocent people died in a horrifying attack on this country. It's not that I don't mourn for those people and for their families or that I don't appreciate the efforts of the hundreds of men and women who died trying to help others. I do, on both counts. But I think that the best thing we can do for those people—and for ourselves—is to lay them and our memories of them to rest and to move on. And while some may argue that these memorials and celebrations are a way of doing just that, I still feel a bit like we're remembering too much for the sake of keeping the wound fresh, the scar visible. I, for one, would rather be the American who heals, whose identity includes those who fell innocently and bravely, but who is committed enough to the horrific memory of that day to not dwell upon it, however momentarily.

To Waste Art

2011-07-30T23:39:00.005-06:00

I go to art museums and see patrons flying past exquisite paintings stopping only long enough to snap a picture with some high-end digital camera that can reproduce the image as if you are actually standing there. It seems to somehow escape their notice that they are actually standing there.

I can only imagine what they do with these pictures. Are they stored neatly away in a computer, each file bearing the name of the painter and the title? Are they sorted by subject, time, theme, or method? In my head, I have imaginary conversations with their apparently skeptical friends ("Dude, there's no way you went to that museum." "Oh yeah? Then how did I get these?"). It seems likely to me that they are most commonly never seen again.

When I go to a museum, I find that it is much more rewarding to see a quarter of the museum and to spend significant time actually looking at the art. I like to talk about it, even if I'm not entirely sure if I know what I'm talking about. I like to look at it long enough for it to make an impression on me and then to express that impression to someone else.

When it comes right down to it, I think that artists (by and large) hope that their art incites some kind of discussion. If a painting has made me talk about the painting itself, or about war or about government or my personal style, culture, and preferences, or even the monumentally unimportant, trivial details of my life, then I think that painting did its job marvelously. If the painting exists primarily as a proof that one has been to a place, I would think that the artist would be disappointed.

The same goes with other forms of art. Take plays for example. No one just writes a play to show characters doing stuff. It's more than actors and lines. It was written because it means something or because it addresses a meaningful topic. To view a play and to not at least talk about it is to snap a picture of the night-ending bows and store it in a dusty filing cabinet next to a carefully preserved copy of the program. Scrupulous perhaps, but utterly useless and almost completely off point.

Reviewing everything I've written so far, I can see how it might sound snobbish or high-minded. I guess I want to make it clear that I'm not making any claim that I understand paintings better than anyone else, or that I always derive some deep, meaningful insights from every play I see. Rather, I'm trying to express my confusion because some of my favorite memories with some of my closest friends revolve around discussions sparked by some painting, exhibit, or movie whose deeper meanings we could have just as easily ignored. It's not that the art made us anything we couldn't have been. Rather, we used it to become something we wanted to be.

Big and/or Awesome Words: Part 9

2011-07-23T00:18:00.004-06:00

Mamihlapinatapai

Holding the official record for most succinct word, mamihlapinatapai refers to a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other will offer something that they both desire but are unwilling to initiate.

Text Messages Between Siblings (part II)

2011-07-13T10:00:00.000-06:00

D: How heavenly! Happily holding hydrangeas, homely hipster Hannah hopes horticulture helps homeless humans.

K: Impatient, incoherent iguanas illustrate illiterate inmates illegibly, imagining impeccably inaccurate impending implosion.

D: Jollily juggling junk, James jauntily jibes Jeanne—jointly jarring jalapeño jam—jilting jealous Jane.

K: Keen kangaroos keyed Karen's Khaki Kia, kidnapping kind kindergartener Kelly's Korean kittens.

D: Laughing lackadaisically, Linda Lowman lovingly lifts limping llamas, letting lame lemurs lie low.

K: Magnificent Matthew magically mastered math, managing mysterious methods meticulously, meanwhile memorizing many marvelous musical melodies.

D: Nancy, normally nibbling noisy nuts, newly novocain-numbed, now needs noodles nightly.

K: One orange octopus, Octavius, obviously only occupies oceans, ordering orthodontia online.

Character

2011-07-11T01:00:00.001-06:00

This post was written as a result of reflection on the movie Copenhagen.

What is the minimum length of time that an event must span before it becomes influential?

As I reflect on my life, I can quickly recall a decision which, if it had been made differently, would have so drastically affected the course of my life, that I cannot begin to imagine how different my life would be as a result. I can identify the various precursors which led me to the moment: a rainstorm, a discussion, a silence. And I can easily name the results of the choice: a school, a city, a career. Yet, as I reflect upon the moment, I cannot imagine the shortness in which the decision was made. The moment is infinitesimally small in time and unimaginably large in consequence.

Yet, the moment of the decision is only important because I made it then. Had I not, it would have passed like so many other moments in time, receding inescapably into the past behind us, likely to be forgotten. I wonder if I would have ended up making the same choice later if I had not made it then.

The question quickly becomes an argument between and the effect of a single decision versus the overarching effect of one's character on what he becomes. Was that single choice made between a rainstorm and a career really the thing that made every subsequent event happen? Perhaps. But if it had not happened, I believe that my character, my fundamental moral composition, would have eventually caused a series of new decisions that would have produced roughly the same results.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about a handful of moments in my life which have been "life changing". But, now that I think about it, I doubt that they mattered in the slightest. Instead of being supremely important, infinitesimally small moments of time on which hangs the fate of so many other moments, those choices are really more an expression of my character which, if they hadn't manifested themselves in those decisions, would have eventually found another outlet.

All this really means is that regret is a particularly useless feeling to entertain. As so many people have said so many times before, you can't change your past. However, there's a more dangerous sentiment buried in regret: the feeling that some past event (which you can't change) will determine the outcome of some part of your life. If you take the perspective that those moments are not important except as an indication of your character, they become instructive because your character—your disposition to react to certain circumstances in a particular way— is something you can change.

Text Messages Between Siblings (part I)

2011-07-03T22:13:00.004-06:00

D: Aquatic animals amiably amble about Athens attempting arduous ascents and acquiring any available apples.

K: Barking beastly beagles badger boring birds, but bewilder brave bats between baths.

D: Crazy Cathy carefully crafts clever culottes, creasing cloth, counting creases, courageously coaxing corpulent customers.

D: Dastardly daring dingoes drive drunken doves during dinner, distracting Dave--dimpled Dutch dancer.

K: Evan eats eggs excellently, eventually exciting earthly events, entering expeditions enumerating eleven.

D: Five fiery flamingos foraging for fruit furtively filch finely flavored figs from forty-four fantastic fig farmers.

K: Ghostly, great galloping goats gorgingly graze green, grainy grass giving girly Greg grody, galactic gaseous grievances.

A Dream

2011-06-28T17:40:00.003-06:00

In a bizarre twist of fate, I dreamed last night that I was lying awake in bed unable to sleep. In my dream, I was lying in my very own room on my bed surrounded by my things. But I was just lying there not able to sleep and thinking to myself over and over again, "But I have to teach tomorrow morning! I need my sleep!" I dreamed that I rolled over, flipped my pillow to the cool side (does anyone else do that?), and adjusted my covers. But nothing worked.

And then I woke up. In those few minutes after a dream when you think that everything in the dream actually happened, I sat up, frustrated at my lack of sleep. Then, realizing that I had just woken up, I calmed down and went back to sleep only to dream the same thing again.

This time was a little different though. One by one, old friends of mine from high school stopped in saying things like, "Since you can't sleep, I thought I'd drop by to visit," and we would have little discussions (about what, I do not remember), they standing next to my bed and me lying there looking up at them. As one would leave, another entered, keeping me company until my alarm woke me up (a welcome sound, for once, as waking up made things significantly less confusing).

Dating Theory: The Ladder Metaphor

2011-06-20T12:36:00.006-06:00

One of the primary differences between men and women can be illustrated by using a ladder metaphor. A person's friends ascend a ladder on which height represents the degree of closeness.

In general, women appear to have two ladders: one for platonic friendship and another for dating. Somewhere near the beginning of their relationship, a woman will decide to which ladder a guy belongs and on which he is then destined to stay. Statements such as "I don't want to date him because I don't want to ruin our friendship" or "we're great friends, but I could never date him" are often uttered by perhaps well-meaning women. While they are often made altruistically, the statements really reflect ladder placement and are made with relative finality.

Guys, on the other hand, have only one ladder. Pretty much anyone is viewed as a potential datee which status is determined by a certain height on the ladder. Crossing that minimum limit translates into interest and subsequent pursuit of the woman in question (admittedly, the transition from interest to pursuit can vary in efficacy depending on the courage of the guy).

This fundamental difference is a cause of great frustration. Guys may ascend to unprecedented heights on a woman's friend-ladder without ever being considered as dateable material and neither understands the other's position. The guy can't figure out why they are such good friends without being considered a romantic interest. The "we're great friends but..." argument is completely incomprehensible to him; it is totally unreasonable that good friends shouldn't date. And girls can't figure out why the guy is interested; they often consider it absurd to date a guy with whom they are already close friends. The reason behind the confusion is simply the existence of fundamentally opposing viewpoints on the process of friendship.

Ladder jumping, the obvious solution to the problem, is unfortunately impossible (and no one really knows why). Any attempt at making the jump is met with almost instant failure and often the subsequent loss of height on the ladder.

The Beach

2011-06-19T00:23:00.003-06:00

When I go to the beach, I always walk parallel to the coastline and let the surf wash around my feet. I observe the way the water twists and writhes, bending around rocks and folding under itself. I am pensive and frequently find myself lost in thought.

It's the physics of it all. The beach is an observably dynamic, naturally occurring physical system; it is in constant flux. I think about how the rocks got to where they are, how the sand got its shape, how the waves break in lazily collapsing, uneven crests, how the tides shape the beach, undertows, and riptides. And it's all contained in a deceptively simple, almost paradoxically serene milieu.

I think about all the millions of processes from fragmentation to tidal flows to migrating waves which got a single rock to end up on the beach in the place that I find it. I watch the water washing sand around it, trying to bury it deep. With relative ease, I pick it up and heave it into the ocean, giving gravity the edge it has been looking for for years.

Even while one part of me insists that I am simply one of those million processes, the other part smiles a satisfied smirk at the somehow profoundly powerful feeling that comes from the deliberate exercise of will against physics—against the appropriately slow, earthy method of moving rocks.

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 7)

2011-05-17T13:33:00.002-06:00

We periodically use the classroom set of laptops to do research in class for projects or papers. On a semi-related note, our wireless network name has changed from Watertown-PS1 to Watertown_Public. However, the laptops still default to the PS1 network, so I instructed my students to switch to the new network name and wrote it for them on the board. However, in so doing, I neglected to add the L to public, thus advertising the Watertown Pubic network, which is an entirely different thing altogether (and, hopefully, a non-existent thing). It wasn't until 20 minutes into class that one of my students pointed it out to me, after which I proceeded to be very, very embarrassed for several minutes.

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 7)

2011-05-10T13:24:00.005-06:00

To be honest, I've softened on bathroom passes. Provided that a student comes back in a timely manner, I'm fine with it. Otherwise, at least in a class where this particular privilege is not regulated, I would be forced to argue with the student about the (not-so) seriousness of their need to go. Then there's all the overacting, the melodrama, the distraction. I'd rather just let them go.

Yesterday, a student asked to leave, and got up to head for the door. Instead, she took a detour, stopping to talk (during our discussion no less) to one of her friends on the way out the door. I stopped talking and gave her my what-do-you-think-you're-doing look followed up by my do-what-you're-supposed-to look. Most of the time, this is enough. This time, however, the student decided to challenge.

"What?"

"[Sarah], you have two choices. You can either leave for the bathroom immediately and stop disrupting the class, or you can sit back down and stop disrupting the class."

She stared for about 5 seconds with a defiant look before shrugging and walking toward the door. As she did, however, she called me a name which is seven letters long and has to do with the physical anatomy of the human posterior. Then she left.

I was shocked. It's one thing to be overheard saying that to a friend, but it's a completely different thing to say it to your teacher's face. I turned my back on the class and stood for perhaps ten seconds, fuming. After several deep breaths, I continued teaching and waited for her to come back. The rest went by with unfortunately normal circumstances. I sent her out of the room to the disciplinary office and informed her to wait until I got there so that we could talk. She didn't. I found her next class and waited for her to arrive. She ditched.

It was then that I knew where to find her. I waited for her at the one place during the one activity that I knew she'd never skip: lunch. We had our talk and hashed out our differences and started all over again the next day.

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 6)

2011-04-28T20:28:00.004-06:00

I electrocuted myself. The switch is normally backlit by a light emitting diode which lights up when the switch is on. But the LED was broken. After plugging the power source into the table, I tried to connect a spectrum light tube to the positive and negative electrodes. But when I did, my hands touched the (live) electrodes and the voltage difference between my right and left hands caused a painful amount of current to flow across my chest. I simultaneously swore (in French) rather loudly, dropped the tube (which shattered), and fell over. After ten minutes or so, I was back on my feet and no worse for wear, but it was quite the jolt. I've come to two conclusions as I reflect on the event.

1) In retrospect, I'm a little unhappy that this didn't happen in front of my students, because I think there's a rule somewhere that you have to respect people who get electrocuted right in front of you and live to tell the tale.

2) This will almost undoubtedly happen again. I have told several physics teachers about the experience. Without fail, they nod understandingly and say something like, "the first time hurts, doesn't it?" Quite the career I've chosen for myself...

The Best Fortune Ever

2011-04-25T23:19:00.003-06:00

In a perfect combination of optimism and mediocrity, my fortune cookie both inspired and discouraged me:

Go for the gold today! You'll be the champion of whatever.

Trains

2011-04-21T00:29:00.003-06:00

There's this place I used to go

And watch the trains go by,

Car by car by car.

This one time, I walked up

And touched one,

Just to do it.

This other time, I put

A sticker on one

To see where it would go.

I don't know,

But I like to think

It's been everywhere.

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 5)

2011-04-15T13:41:00.005-06:00

I wasn't ever quite sure how I would react when I caught one of my students cheating. I got my chance today. While taking his test, one of my students copied several answers (including answers requiring a paragraph response) from the person he was sitting next to. Based on the personalities, grades, and behavior of the two students, I was 99.9% positive that it was he who had copied from her and not the other way around. But there was no concrete way to prove it. I couldn't punish only him and not her if I didn't know the circumstances, and I felt sure that neither would cop to it if I confronted them together.

My opportunity came in the hallway as I was walking to the library to finish grading their tests. He approached me and let me know that he'd be missing my class because of an early dismissal. I took the initiative and invited him to step into a private spot where I showed him the tests.

"I swear I didn't cheat, Mr. Jibson, I don't know what to tell you."

"[Steve], this paragraph is identical to [Lisa]'s. Look." I showed him and he agreed that they were word-for-word identical responses.

"Mr. Jibson, we were learning the same stuff. So we wrote down a lot of the same things."

"[Steve], the odds of two people writing down the same paragraph, even if it is about the same topic, are essentially zero. There is only one way that these paragraphs ended up this way, and I won't leave until I get an explanation."

"Well, I may have looked at her test, but I didn't copy anything down, I promise."

"Are you telling me that you looked at her test and then 'accidentally' wrote down the same exact paragraph that she did?"

"Yeah."

"Then how do you explain how this matching section has all the same responses. In fact, what's weird about this is that only you and [Lisa] made this particular mistake. No one else got these two questions wrong, and you both happen to have made precisely the same uncommon mistake."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Are you responsible for this?" I showed him the two tests.

"Yeah."

Cracked like an egg.

An Explanation: Addendum

2011-04-13T15:51:00.002-06:00

The picture at the top of my blog is actually a part of the poem and an original work from William Blake. The Ecchoing Green is part of his compendium Songs of Innocence. In this collection of poems as well as in Songs of Experience, Blake not only wrote the poems, but he also painted copper plates and etched the poems into the paintings. A facsimile of the plates for The Ecchoing Green (from which the picture on this blog was taken) can be seen here. You'll notice that though the transcription of the poem has been modernized to read "echoing", the plates bear the archaic spelling with the double c.

An Explanation

2011-04-12T20:34:00.010-06:00

I feel like it's time to explain where this blog got its name. It comes from a poem written by William Blake which I'll quote here in its entirety.

The Ecchoing Green

The Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring,
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.

Old John with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
Such such were the joys,
When we all girls & boys,
In our youth-time were seen
On the Ecchoing Green.

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest:
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.

I love this poem for the way it deals with the sometimes difficult task of growing up. Throughout the poem, Blake uses a first person possessive pronoun, "our", which indicates that the voice of the poem is one of the children on the Green.

They have some special spot, an Ecchoing Green, where they meet together and play from sunrise to sunset during their long childhood days. And the older people, their parents perhaps, sit under a tree and reminisce of the days when they were so carefree.

The beauty of the poem comes in the last stanza when the sun begins to set, but the child speaking exhibits no reluctance for the end of the day. The stanza reads softly, methodically, and with a certain gratitude for the time well spent.

Over time, it has become clear to me that Blake was talking about children growing up to become the older people who can only look back on childhood with a kind of nostalgia—not the kind that hurts, but the kind that makes you sort of happy and sad at the same time. And yet, on the way to adulthood, there is no refusal or reluctance. Instead, we are grateful for the opportunity to become the ones sitting under the oak. And as we grow into new responsibilities, Blake gives us some lasting hope.

Throughout the poem, Blake capitalizes Ecchoing Green; but in the last line he refers to the darkening Green. By not calling it the Darkening Green, he is reminding us that though "our sports have an end . . . [and are] no more seen", the Green will always be there even if we aren't anymore. The darkness does not define it; instead it is simply a natural part of life. Every time I read that last couplet about the darkening Green, I get a picture in my head of an ash-covered ember: gray and lifeless on the outside, but hot and live within.

This Ecchoing Green has always been meant as a place not to merely recount my daily activities, but to record the feelings, thoughts, and ideas associated my experiences so that when I'm old and gray, I can look back with fondness and say, "such such were the joys."

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 4)

2011-04-07T20:40:00.003-06:00

Because Watertown High School owns a few decent-sized telescopes, the astronomy teachers schedule an observation night for all of their students so that they can get some real, live observation experience. Historically, this has been one of my favorite activities. Most people, it turns out, have never really used a telescope to look up at the sky. I love the look on their faces when they look through the telescope for the first time and see all of those things that they've heard about in class but never really seen.

The sky was as perfect as it could be for a small town ten miles out of Boston; not a cloud obscured the stars. Tonight we looked at the Orion Nebula and saw brand new stars being born in a visible cloud of hydrogen gas. We observed Mizar and Alcor, a visual binary system in Ursa Major. We saw the extreme detail in the lunar landscape that telescopes offer. And we resolved Saturn, its ring system, and Titan, one of its moons.

But the observations were only part of it. This kind of active participation in astronomy for maybe the first time in their lives turned my normally yawning students into active and willing participants. Long after the time had passed for which they were required to stay, and long after we had seen everything that our small telescopes in the middle of a light-polluted park allowed us to see, they crowded around us asking questions about astronomy and the universe. We, my co-teachers and I, told stories about observation runs in college, and the research we did with our professors. The discussion moved from astronomy to college and our students' future plans.

As we were packing up, a student came up and thanked me, not just for the extra credit he got by coming (which he dearly needs), but "just for the experience of being here." After they all left and the two other teachers who came with me were the only ones left, we stood for a moment looking up into the sky, talking. It was perhaps the best feeling I've had about teaching since actually becoming a teacher of real, live students in a real, live high school. Tonight I really felt like I had reached some of my students and that they had gotten a real taste of the reason why I ended up studying astronomy in the first place. For the first time since I became a teacher of real, live students, the worst part of tonight's class was packing up and going home.

DQI

2011-04-06T14:52:00.003-06:00

I'm a scientist (in case you've missed the last 10 years of my life). As such, it is always extremely important to me to be able to measure the magnitude of events in my life. I develop metrics for everything. The most recent of these is the day quality index (DQI). I firmly believe that a person could watch me come home from school and could tell me how my day was in the first fifteen minutes based solely on how (not if) I eat ice cream.

On days with a high DQI, I come in from the parking lot out back, grab a bowl from the cupboard, scoop a little ice cream into the bowl, and walk upstairs to watch an episode or two of House (or Castle) before addressing my evening workload.

On low DQI days, a person will find me—tie loose, top button open, backpack on the floor—standing in front of an open freezer (a little steam spilling out) with a spoon, cradling a carton of cookies & cream drizzled with chocolate sauce. It's not a pretty sight, but it gets the job done.

On a Simple Day of No Consequence

2011-03-25T21:53:00.005-06:00

Note: to be read while listening to "In the Lovely Month of May" by Schumann; read slowly enough that the poem ends at the same time as the piece.

On a simple day of no consequence

We wander aimlessly to our favorite place

And lazily recline with the grass tickling at our ears

And guess haphazardly at the shapes of the clouds.

We whisper, even though there is no crowd,

So close that the words are felt rather than heard,

Our cheeks brushed almost imperceptibly

By lips divulging wispy, weightless secrets.

The spring breeze rustles my hair, but not yours

And I'm the only one drinking the wine;

Sipping casually and pensively swirling it

From time to time.

The prolonged moments pass too quickly

And while gathering up our belongings

A nagging, irksome feeling—like a pesky fly—

Reminds me subtly with buzzing hints:

I only brought one glass.

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 3)

2011-03-22T19:00:00.004-06:00

Every day that we do a lab in class, I demonstrate the setup to my students just to cut down on redundant questions and to maximize useful lab time. As a result, a tradition has been started. The first group to call "dibs" on the lab setup that I use as the example gets to use it, thus circumventing the task of setting it up themselves. I know it seems like a really small thing, but the oddest things get high school students excited. The calling of dibs is a highly competitive event in my class, and it's taken very seriously.

But it all changed today during my customary lab setup and explanation. As usual, one of my students called dibs. This time, however, with a perfect combination of calm and confidence, another student stood up and said, "Well, I call Jibs." It became instantly obvious to everyone in the classroom that Jibs supersede dibs in basically every case. The other students grudgingly acknowledged their classmate's superior choice and got to work setting up their labs.

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 2)

2011-03-16T22:01:00.004-06:00

I have been a little bit disappointed with my first few weeks as a student teacher. Specifically, I had always imagined a (very ideal and) rewarding experience where students would laugh at my jokes (big, big misconception there: I'm about as funny as a bag of carrots to these kids), ask me questions just because their curiosity begged them to ask, and go home to tell their parents how great their new student teacher was.

As an aside, I just read a paper on some research done on student teachers which reported that the vast majority of student teachers share that ideal view of teaching and most student teachers predict that they will be better than their peers at teaching...

In any case, I was not prepared for the pain I feel, the apathy I see, or the struggle I make to galvanize even the slightest bit of interest from my students. Let's face it, I'm still a student and there are still classes that I take, taught by dynamic, interesting professors about which I do not care in the slightest. I do my work to finish the class. How can I expect that all of my students will suddenly become passionately interested in my class just because I love physics like the girl next door?

To be honest, it has been hard to find satisfaction in this new, real view of teaching real students in a real classroom. It has been painful. I have on several occasions jokingly and once very seriously considered the merits of becoming a trash man. But I haven't been able to bring myself to quit, and here's why:

I love teaching. But not the way that I used to when it was just an idea, when my class was deep inside my head. Then, I loved it because of the feel-good, Stand and Deliver moments that I was sure to be having inside the first week of my student teaching. Now I'm finding that I love teaching not because it always feels good or because my students are all suddenly on their way to top-notch colleges. I don't love it because it's always fun or because my lessons turn the half-asleep into the starry-eyed. I am an infinite well of passion for physics and for education, but I am also commonly boring, often unskilled, and an infrequently enrapturing teacher. At the end of a class, I am exhausted and occasionally disappointed. I do my work, plan my lessons and head home. But in the quiet moments between the new ideas and the graded papers, after the pessimistic overreactions but before my alarm clock wakes me up at an hour which is altogether too early for any human to be awake, I can sit for a moment and admit to myself that it's still worth it.

Several Sorta Embarrassing or Kinda Strange Admissions

2011-03-02T18:07:00.000-07:00

1) The following are words I almost always misspell:

License (lisence)
Receive (recieve)
Independent (independant)
Plenty (pleanty)
Massachusetts (Massachus(s)ett(e)s)
Conscientious (honestly, this one's different every time. Usually I just try to put the word "science" in there which, while not being correct, makes me feel better about not spelling it correctly.)

2) Despite my fervor for attaining and maintaining a certain degree of manliness, I really like the song Love Story by Taylor Swift.

3) I hate the actual act of clipping my nails so much that I deliberately stagger nail growth on my hands. A while ago I decided to clip the nails of only one hand and then wait for a week to clip the others (the standard time between nail clips is about two weeks) so that now I only ever have to clip five nails at a time.

4) When I drive, I listen to the radio by just pushing the Scan button and letting it take me from station to station. I have found it infinitely more interesting to listen to every radio station in five second increments than to listen to just one for twenty minutes. Try it. Seriously.

5) I recently found myself at the grocery store in the freezer aisle using the following logic: "...but if I lose weight, my clothes might not fit and I'd have to buy new ones. I can't afford new clothes, so..." [buys two cartons of ice cream (on sale!)]

The Assorted Mishaps of a Teacher in Training (Part 1)

2011-02-28T18:27:00.003-07:00

My first class on my first day was going so well. They started out quiet, timid, and unresponsive. Most of them just stared at their desks and made no move to get involved. By the end of our in-class discussion (due probably to the excitement associated with knowing that their teacher placed himself in mortal danger just to teach them physics) they were arguing their viewpoints, asking questions, and offering their opinions. I was elated.

After class, I was talking with my cooperating teacher, Mr. C. He asked me how it went.

"Fine," I said. "They seemed really excited after they got to know me a bit."

"Did [Lucy] give you any trouble?"

"Lucy?" I ruminated. "No, I don't think so. Remind me which one she is again?"

He gestured to her regular seat. And suddenly, in a series of pictures like a flashback in a movie, I realized for the first time what had happened. —Flash— Twenty minutes into class, she asked for a bathroom pass, which I gave her. —Flash— Midway, I gave a page of guided notes to take and her seat was empty. —Flash— At the end of class, I passed out the night's homework assignment; her seat was empty. And then the realization: she never came back. I was so busy trying to teach that it completely slipped my mind that she had left. Thus, I failed to notice that she had never returned.

Dear Lucy,

It seems to have escaped your notice that you will be coming into class tomorrow (and that I'll still be there). We'll talk then.

Mr. Jibson

A Dream

2011-02-22T13:19:00.003-07:00

There we were at prom. I was surrounded by a bunch of students (from my actual classes at the high school) and we were discussing who would be voted as queen this year. I told them that it would probably be one of the three Haitian girls (who do not actually exist in real life) who were standing in the corner screaming.

It was then that their shrieking struck me as abnormal behavior. One of them noticed me noticing and ran up to me, gesturing wildly. It occurred to me that she didn't speak English.

So I asked, "Vous parlez français?"

She nodded furiously and beckoned to me to follow her, running off towards her friend. All of a sudden I realized that I had addressed her formally and how awkward it must have made her feel. This became the most important single detail of our conversation (not the screaming or the frantic cries for help). I stopped her from running by putting my hand on her shoulder and asked her very calmly, "Tu parle français?"

Now that I felt better, we both ran to her friend who was bleeding from a snake bite. The snake was barely bigger than a pencil, so I reached down to grab it. It leaped up and bit my arm. As it did, its jaws deformed and enlarged so that it wrapped its entire mouth around my forearm where it hung. I stood up and yelled, "Poison!" which made one of my students (in real life) come running toward me with a concerned look. I showed him my arm and he took immediate action. Grabbing the snake by the jaws, he pulled back and the snake evaporated into smoke.

The Physics Avenger

2011-02-07T19:57:00.005-07:00

By now it should be no secret that I enjoy physics more than the average person. What most people don't know, however, is just how deep the nerdiness goes. Well I'm sick of keeping it a secret; it's time everyone knows how bad it is.

I frequently hear people talking about physical phenomena about which they apparently harbor deep misconceptions. They throw jargon around as if everything were synonymous with everything else. It pains me, dear reader, to hear them malign these beautiful, simple principles with so much ease. I forgive them only because I know that they don't know any better. But it still cuts deep. It doesn't feel right to elbow my way into the conversation and say, "Excuse me, but people are weightless in space because they are in free fall, not because there is no gravity." My passion for physics notwithstanding, I have still retained some semblance of people skills (which, by the way, preempts me from ever becoming a college physics professor).

Instead, I imagine myself to be the Physics Avenger. He's a superhero who can sense the incorrect citation of physical laws in conversation and responds to them the way any superhero would. For example, today in the locker room, I overheard two guys talking:

Guy 1: Wow, I gained 4 pounds last month. Must be all the alcohol I drank over break.

Guy 2: Yeah, water weight is way heavier than food weight.

WHOOSH

Guys: Woah, who are you!

PA: I'm the Physics Avenger! Actually, a pound of air weighs the same as a pound of water weighs the same as a pound of food. The big difference is in the volume a certain object occupies at a given weight (this is also known as density). A pound of air is huge compared to a pound of water at regular temperatures and pressures.

Guys: Wow! Thanks, Physics Avenger!

PA: Just doing my duty.

WHOOSH

And then I come walking around the corner. They look at me and ask if I saw what just happened. I shrug and give the excuse that I was showering until just a few moments ago.

I know it's bad. But encounters like this really happen in my head about once a day when I'm on the bus or walking down the street or sitting in class and I hear someone say something that's just not quite right. On a side note, if anyone cares to draw the Physics Avenger for me, I would consider it an extraordinary act of kindness.

Daniel

I Hate Politics

2011-01-25T23:10:00.005-07:00

It's not that I don't vote. I vote. I have been known to pay money just to do it. Before each election, I take a few hours and read up on each of the bills, platforms, candidates, etc., and attempt to make as informed a choice as I can based on my personal beliefs.

And it isn't that I don't care about the issues. Sure, there are things about which I don't care so much (at the moment, the direction of taxes—seeing as how I have yet to earn enough money to actually have to pay them), but there are issues about which I will fight to the proverbial death. Don't even get me started on education or energy because I will talk your ear off. And I'm prepared to do what is politically necessary to support those issues.

But—and I say this with absolutely no reservation—I hate politics. I don't like talking about politics. I don't like it when other people talk about politics. I don't like watching those talking-head shows during which the political leader on the other end of the spectrum seems to be held responsible for every wrong and every downfall that befalls us. I don't like the extremes—how people who are anti-abortion apparently hate moral agency and pro-abortion people apparently enjoy killing babies. The circular arguments, the loud talking, the accusations, the deliberate conflation of previously banal words. I hate the way that politics sneaks into conversations—how suddenly, without my realizing it, an innocent discussion about useful websites for teachers turns into a subversive attack on some political leader, past or present. I just don't like it.

The problem is, of course, that we as citizens have some duty to be politically active, to uphold the morals which we see as definitive of who we are and what our country stands for. And so I have a choice. I can either choose to remain aloof from all of it and to make flash judgments five days before an election, or I can choose to slog through the swamp of jibes and accusations, gleaning the important bits and discarding the rest as I go.

To tell you the truth, I do more of the former than of the latter. I prefer to avoid political confrontation at almost any cost rather than to stain myself with slung mud. And it has its costs. I could not tell you honestly any single fact about the so-called Tea Party. I don't know where they started, who or what they support, or even on what side of the political spectrum they fall. But, frankly, I'm just not convinced that knowing all that stuff would be all that useful to me in the end. I'm still going to choose the person or idea which most accurately represents my beliefs.

Maybe this all makes me a bad person, or at least a bad citizen. If I am, I would love to hear from some politically active person who finds real value in knowing the ins and outs of Earl Grey and the rest of them. But if not, if you don't mind, I'm going to go stick my head in the sand somewhere.

Daniel

__________

I support the left, though I'm leanin' to the right,

But I'm just not there when it's comin' to a fight.

-Clapton, Bruce, and Baker

Courage

2011-01-08T00:33:00.007-07:00

A quote from Amelia Earhart provokes some serious thought:

Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace.

If it's valid, the argument that peace only comes after we have demonstrated courage is daunting at least, if not terrifying. But there's a problem in her statement. Any idiot can run toward fear in spite of his apprehension. There is no end to cowardly soldiers, firemen, sky divers, parents, or what have you. Just doing something scary doesn't make you brave. So there has to be something about the way we do it that makes us courageous.

Discussing this in a recent conversation with a friend, my friend shared her thoughts on the matter. She said:

It always takes me time and slow, mini-attempts to work up to a big act, like false starts when jumping off a big rock into the water. I definitely know when I'm finally going to jump, but I always think that I might get the courage in the moment of the other starts.

This is such a strong image for me; I can completely relate to half-jumps and stutter-starts before doing something scary. When I think back on times like that in my own life, however, I find a certain disingenuous quality to the first few failed attempts. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that I wouldn't do it. I can never fool myself into knowing that this time is the time even though I hope it will be. When I finally do jump, I find that I always knew that I was going to on that particular attempt. The funny thing is, upon further reflection, I recognize that I need those failed attempts—as if success could never be achieved without them.

So what is courage? Is it displayed only when we actually jump? Is all that half-starting an exercise in cowardice? To be perfectly honest, I haven't the slightest idea. On the one hand, positioning myself and running to the jumping spot seems just as cowardly as not trying if I know that I'll back out before I get there. On the other hand, three tries later, when I've actually done it, who can say that the first three attempts weren't the process by which I've screwed my courage to the sticking place?

The real issue, of course, is that we're not really talking about jumping off big rocks into water (which, I might add, I have never done). We face serious issues like marriage (either future or on-going), belief, the defense of moral values in an increasingly degenerate society, debt, career paths, physical and mental illness, and on and on. And while it's easy to talk about how understandable and potentially courageous a false start is before making a dangerous jump, it becomes significantly more difficult to acknowledge the courage underlying a penetrating apprehension toward an upcoming job or laced in the apparently infinite number of false starts you make before you really feel like you've got a handle on life.

I think we all feel like this guy some of the time. There's a lot of expectation to be excellent and sometimes it feels like we're standing there looking up at something we could never be. Where's the courage in all that fear and disappointment?

In the end, I have to believe that my mistakes are a part of my success, that courage is measured not by our lack of fear nor by the cautious minimization of false starts before big leaps, but by the degree to which we know that one day—eventually—everything will be alright.

Fame

2011-01-07T10:56:00.003-07:00

Today's post can be found on another blog.

Jamie has been a friend of mine since high school and is probably the only person with whom I have any meaningful contact therefrom. She is an excellent writer. In fact, our friendship began largely because of a mutual interest in each other's artistic endeavors. She would come to me with ideas for novels, characters, names, places, or stories and I would listen and read. Soon after, she helped me find my voice in some (bad) attempts at writing.

She has been a constant friend, an unfaltering support, and a wonderful example of a real believer in and follower of God. Her blog, Jamie Words, is a thoughtful, provoking glimpse into her life, feelings, beliefs, and experiences.

Daniel

Dating Theory: Mobile Doorstep Scene

2010-12-02T09:56:00.004-07:00

For traditional dates, I assume it is common knowledge that a dude is expected to pick his date up at her door. At the end of a date, it is a well-known fact that a dude should walk his date to her door. This, of course, leads to what is easily the most awkward moment of any date: the doorstep scene. For first dates an embrace is a perfectly appropriate, not-necessarily-indicative-of-future-intentions way of expressing appreciation for her time and presence.

Being in a large city in which many of its occupants use public transportation largely changes this well-established order. For example, it is perfectly acceptable for a dude to arrange to meet a girl downtown. Since it would be so utterly inconvenient, no dude is expected to travel an hour across town to pick up his date, only to turn around and go back down town (another hour of travel). It's just not convenient.

The question is: what do you do at the end of the date? It seems appropriate for a dude to offer to ride home with his date, especially if it is after dark. It seems most likely to me that some significant portion of women on dates would refuse such a courtesy. In that case, goodbyes and embraces are exchanged at the T station that requires them to separate.

The complication in all of this arises when the parties in question live in the same direction. They take the same train home, but one exits before the other: the dreaded mobile doorstep scene. There's no long pause, no chance for any this-was-funs or we-should-do-this-again-sometimes, the doors of the train are only open for 15 seconds, all this to say nothing of the fact that you're on a train with 150 people watching you. If you go too early, you risk the all too awkward train-lurch-hug in which one party is forcibly thrown into the other's arms (perhaps giving the impression of being clingy). Too late, and you end up with a half- or non-hug and a too-quick goodbye. Timing is everything: proceed with caution.

Thanks

2010-11-01T13:29:00.003-06:00

Dear Route #66 Bus Driver,

Hi. You might remember me as the guy who forgot that today was November. When I tried to board the bus, I realized that my monthly pass had expired. I may or may not have sworn mildly under my breath at this point. I was resigned and simply accepted that I would be late for my astronomy test. I got back off the bus and made for the ATM at the bank adjacent to the bus stop.

I just want to say that I noticed that you waited for me, parking at the stop, waiting for me to get my money, get back on the bus and pay the fare. Thanks for being so courteous. I also want you to know that I forgive you for driving away when it became apparent that the woman in front of me at the ATM took forever to withdraw her money. I still had to walk to school today, but I appreciate your efforts. Oh, and I made it to my test on time.

Sincerely,

Daniel

Adventures in Grading

2010-10-31T12:00:00.004-06:00

I've spent the weekend grading tests for the undergraduate class for which I'm a TA. Several of the essays have been very categorical, stating vague facts without much reference to the specifics ("Lavoisier made hypotheses based on his observations of empirical data"). I have dubbed these "Napoleon Essays". Why?

...

Because they're a little general.

I'm sure that getting a C- has never been so much fun.

Daniel

The Important Things

2010-10-13T08:03:00.003-06:00

Dr. [BU Professor],

Yesterday you claimed that a part of a teacher's responsibility is to put his students in touch with nature, to help them appreciate the earth, and to provide an arena for understanding oneself in the context of his natural habitat. In the reading you assigned us, the author made an argument for the importance of providing children with "unstructured" free time in which they could gain these appreciations. I was taught yesterday that having children spend some time in nature, letting them sit for five or ten minutes, and then asking them to write about their thoughts and feelings was an appropriate use of a science teacher's time with his students because it accomplished these goals.

Let's get one thing straight first. I agree with some of the major aspects of your argument. Kids have way too much structure in their lives. From sunup to sundown they have school, practice, homework, activities, and assignments, but they don't have a lot of time to be kids. Every kid (every person) needs some time to reflect and meditate. Further, I completely agree that we, as a species are attempting to abstract nature. In a world with so many distractions and so much readily accessible information, a person could potentially spent his entire life reading about the world outside his window without ever opening the blinds. People need to be in nature, to appreciate it, to understand what it is and what it gives us, and to know our place within it (a debatable topic on its own). I can think of few more worthy activities than for a child to be able to go play in the woods, sit and think, and then to write down his thoughts and feelings or discuss them with someone else. Who could argue that a child wouldn't benefit from something like that?

But everything has its place, time, and season. Even good things can be bad when they are done in the wrong place at the wrong time by the wrong person. In other words, there are more important things than curricular education. That's a strong statement coming from a person who is in the process of dedicating his life to teaching physics, so let me just affirm that I mean exactly what I say. The life of a child does not rest solely in teachers' hands; we are only a part of the collectivity responsible for children's upbringing. For instance, no matter how much a teacher is convinced of a certain moral code, he cannot presume to instruct his students on the issues of right and wrong. No teacher has the right to teach as fact, regardless of what he personally believes, that God exists and that he has instructed his people to incorporate the actions of Jesus Christ into their lives. Maybe it's true, but the classroom is simply not the place for a teacher to make that statement. It may be more important to that teacher, in a global perspective, that his students understand that particular truth, but even that does not give him the right to teach it to his students.

Nature comprehension and appreciation, and the furnishing of unstructured free time to children fit into that category. Maybe they are vitally important, and maybe children are not being taught these things outside of school, but that doesn't give teachers the right to subvert their primary objective just to accomplish something that may seem more important. The primary responsibility of teachers is to instruct children in a particular subject matter (such as physics) and to teach them the associated skills (such as critical thinking, rational analysis, problem solving, collaboration, and the scientific method). We may hope that our students come away as better citizens, better people with moral compasses, or people who are conscientious of their environment, but throwing away our primary objective in an effort to emphasize these ancillary effects is to throw away the medium by which those effects were taught in the first place.

Teachers can and should teach an appreciation of nature insofar as it corresponds to their curriculum. As a physics teacher, I understand that if I spend my time shoving kids' noses into books and force feeding sterile equations, that they won't understand a lick of physics when they leave my class. Physics is nature, and if a child can't explain a physical principle as it applies to nature (and hopefully with an applicable equation), then I will consider myself a failure. With that in mind, I will incorporate the natural world into my teaching either by imagination or by experience. But I will not throw out my curriculum in order for them to learn the importance of nature. Before the bathwater hits the pavement, you will realize that the baby has gone with it. My responsibility is their instruction in physics; I leave it to others to teach them the rest.

Saying that there are other, more appropriate people out there to teach these other virtues is not an act of shirking responsibility. Rather, it is an unselfish and appropriate acceptance and understanding of the roles of others in the raising of children. For example, it can never be my responsibility to provide unstructured free time for children. School is structure. It's a wonderful preparation for the rigors of life which includes the discipline to do something that isn't always fun and that is commonly rigid whether or not a person would rather do it. In the upbringing of a child, parents have the responsibility to oversee their child's schedule and use of time. They should be the ones encouraging unstructured playtime, family time, and other healthy activities. It is a sad truth that children get less and less of this as time goes on. They are forever encumbered by schedules, organized sports, school, daycare, piano lessons, homework, and chores. But for a teacher to presume the responsibility of providing this kind of free time and activity to children simply because they aren't getting it at home is to take the first step in undermining the power and importance of family.

This is the more important ideal. As soon as we start down the path of providing for children that which we ought not simply because they aren't getting it, we slip down a scary slope. Will we then decide that children aren't getting proper moral instruction at home? Will we teach explicitly that homosexuality or abortion is right or wrong? Will we teach that God does or does not exist and that He did or did not create the world? Going in another direction, will we continue to usurp the time that children spend with their families? Will we decide that since families cannot seem to teach their kids about nature and provide free time for them that children should spend more time in school? We could create after-school activities that allow for exactly the kind of instruction we think they need, thus taking them even further away from their proper place: their home and family.

I fully recognize that many of these are extreme examples—perhaps the last step in hundreds. But I completely believe that the first step is available to us and that we are in danger of taking it. So let me state here and now that I am on the side of the family. I regret that many families do not provide for their children the things they need, but I am not willing to pick up that slack because I so firmly believe in families that I won't undermine their choice not to do it. I believe that there is a right way to fix those problems that face our society but I am firmly unwilling to pretend that a school could even hope to try. Education is a drastically important facet of our society, but it is not the only facet, neither is it the most important. I know my place and I refuse to step beyond my bounds. I dedicate myself to doing the most that I can within that greater structure and only in the capacity to which I have been entrusted.

Yours sincerely,

Daniel

The sun also rises (on everyone else)

2010-10-12T22:34:00.006-06:00

On the easternmost point of the United States at Quoddy Head State Park in Maine is a red and white striped lighthouse. If you happen to stand at the fence that you see in the background, you will be further east than anyone in the continental United States. If it happens that you are there just before sunrise, you will see light begin to gather on the horizon. It will increase in brightness until, quite suddenly, a beam of light breaks through the pastel background. Soon it becomes a disc, rising quickly out of the water. Despite its brightness, it is not difficult to look directly at it. The event is commonplace enough. The sun rises everywhere. But something about this place makes it different. On October 11, 2010, when the sun rose, the first thing in the entire country that its light touched was me.

Hammer, Meet Nail

2010-10-08T19:34:00.005-06:00

A conversation with a guy in my class:

Guy: Daniel, would you describe your mood as "incensed"?

Me: What... you mean like right now?

Guy: Well, no. More like... generally.

Me: Oh. Uh, yeah.

Guy (nodding): Yeah.

My Fortune

2010-10-01T09:37:00.003-06:00

The most recent fortune cookie I opened gave me a choice—a sort of choose-your-own-adventure fortune:

You can see through people or, you can see people through

I interpret this as being a choice between having Superman-style x-ray vision and being able to help people solve their problems.

This is just another way of saying that unless your problem is a broken arm, don't ask me; I can't help.

Daniel

Above Traffic

2010-09-17T21:57:00.004-06:00

There's a place on the pedestrian bridge which crosses the Massachusetts Turnpike where someone has cut a hole in the chain link barrier which arches overhead. If you stop and turn west, facing that hole, your feet straddle the cement barrier that divides the east- and west-bound traffic. You can see the cars to your right recede into the distance and to your left bearing down on you. With one foot going west and the other going east, you start to get the feeling that you're spinning around, even though you're standing still.

For each car that leaves the city, there is another one that enters it. The two directions have their distinct personalities. West-bound traffic is in a rush, changing lanes, quick to brake and quick to accelerate. And though they feel eager to leave, there's a certain reticence to their departure; manifest destiny has brake lights.

The easterly traffic is business-like, calculating. Each car seems to take a deep breath before this last bridge before the city. They uniformly shush underneath you without so much as a lane change. They are coming home.

And above it all you float, watching them even though they would never notice you at this time of night in this kind of traffic. As long as you choose to stand there, they'll always be driving in both directions in equal proportions. It's kind of comforting to know that they'll always be there.

Daniel

A Contest

2010-08-28T18:40:00.005-06:00

It all began when I spent a day in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. I won't dwell here on all of the wonderful pieces of art that I saw there, but suffice it to say that I was extremely satisfied with the visit. Extremely satisfied, that is, until the biggest disappointment of the day. The second floor of the modern art wing was closed for some reason or another. This, of course, was the one place that I wanted to go before all others. My favorite painting ever from my favorite artist (Autumn Rhythm by Jackson Pollock) ever was displayed on that floor. And I missed it. I had to stand on the other side of a barrier made of sheets of opaque plastic, knowing that it was there on the other side.

To assuage my disappointment, a friend suggested that we have a Jackson Pollock pastiche contest. This is where you, my dear readers, come in. I have posted the six submitted pieces below and would ask you, if you are reading this, to take a few minutes, consider the pieces and vote for your top three (in order). So without further ado, I give you the finalists in the Pollock Pastiche Contest. Voting closes on Saturday 4 September at 11:59pm.

Too

Acrylic paint on paper

First Attempt

Acrylic paint on paper

Waxy Jacks

Candle wax on paper

Tied Down

Silk, cotton, polyester, wool on a bed sheet

No. 1

Acrylic paint on paper

Patriotic Pollock

Acrylic and tempura on the weird paper by the computer

A Dream

2010-08-27T13:38:00.003-06:00

I didn't like the situation, but I knew what had to be done. I didn't know who she was, but I knew that I had to protect the woman in the next room from Hitler at all costs. To make matters worse, he was going to be spending the night on the couch before his flight back to Europe early in the morning.

To show him I meant business, I put on my boy scout uniform, making sure that my eagle badge and tie were ready to be seen. I stood guard the entire night, mortally afraid because I knew that if he decided to act, there was really nothing I could do to stop him.

The next morning, before the flight, I got up to move his bags to the car and ended up having a rather pleasant conversation with him in French about the relative merits of our countries' navies. Then, he used a word I had never heard before: contreboeuf. He told me it meant "an idea of what is happening all around you" (which, I might add, is a filthy lie. I should have expected no less from Hitler). As he finished up packing, I contemplated all the ways I could tell him that his very presence terrified me and settled on a very simple French sentence (Vous m'effrayez).

We walked down to the car together and met the driver, Kelsey Grammer. As I put Hitler's bags in the back of the car, I turned to him and asked if there was anything else he'd like to say before I sent him on his way. In response he pulled a hat out of his pocket, walked up to me, and placed it on my head declaring that I was now an admiral in the United States Navy. At this, Kelsey Grammer threw a fit, telling Hitler that he had worked his whole life to become an admiral but had never been noticed for his efforts. I slyly looked him in the eye at the end of his protests and observed in a mocking tone that I had held none of the lesser ranks before achieving admiral (I emphasized this to him by making reference to a chart of naval ranks on the wall). I straightened my new admiral's hat, turned on my heel, and walked back into the house.

Daniel

Yes, the Pylons

2010-08-26T00:30:00.003-06:00

We were driving home late one night. I was sitting behind the driver talking to my friend who was in the back with me. Suddenly, over his shoulder, I saw a green haze that caught my eye. I recognized it immediately even though I'd never see it before: the Northern Lights. We changed course and drove to the nearest hilltop away from the city lights. We stood on the side of the two-lane, unlit road overlooking a field punctuated with a few pylons from which were hung power lines. Green and gold shimmering curtains fluttered without the slightest breeze as we stood silently admiring them for several minutes.

Eventually, a police car drove by. The driver slammed on the brakes after he passed us, threw the car into reverse, and backed up to our location.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?" he asked with a little menace in his voice.

"Sorry, are we doing something wrong? We've never seen these before and we just had to stop and watch."

"You've never seen them before?" He was incredulous.

"No, sir."

A skeptical pause. "Pylons?"

"No, sir, the Northern Lights."

"Oh! Yes, there they are. Well, be careful." And he drove away quite suddenly. As he did, if he had had a tail, it would have been between his legs.

Daniel

Sour Cream

2010-08-21T21:42:00.003-06:00

Dear Sour Cream Makers and Distributers,

I want my sour cream to have lots and lots of fat in it. But whenever I try to buy some at the store, I have to sift through several different stacks of "reduced fat", "fat free", "lite" and "ultra-lite" options. Often, it takes me a significant amount of time to find regular, good-ol'-fatty-fat-fat sour cream. And let's face it, that's the good stuff. Since I'm a conscientious person, I would never complain about a problem without supplying a probable solution. I suggest, in addition to all of your other labels (fat-free, lite, etc.) that regular sour cream be labeled as to be recognized. Now you have five categories: reduced-fat, fat-free, lite, ultra-lite, and good.

Additionally, would you please jump on the squeeze-bottle band wagon? We have squeeze ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, cream cheese and relish. I know that I, for one, would be inclined to buy a bottle of squeeze sour cream, if only for the positive effect it would have on the quality of my taco-eating experience. Finally, a way to enjoy just the right amount of sour cream on each bite of my taco without having to perfect fancy techniques for spooning it out (and you should see me, I'm good).

I appreciate your devotion to this, the most delectable of condiments, and have the utmost faith that you will do what is right by all of us in these regards.

Yours sincerely,

Daniel

Highlights of July

2010-08-01T19:30:00.007-06:00

Living with a 50-yr-old Taiwanese couple:

Food that is "good" does not taste good. "Good" means that the Taiwanese generally believe it to be good for you which means that its taste forces the development of tricky napkin techniques which allow one to involuntarily gag at the table without giving offense.

Recently, they returned home from a trip to Maine. That night, I went to get a drink from the fridge only to find six currently living lobsters guarding my juice. As I reached into the fridge, one of them raised a claw in defense of my half-carton of orange-strawberry-banana, but ultimately lost. I ate him and his friends (though not as completely as my hosts. The Taiwanese eat the tail, then the claws just like Americans, but they move on to the innards in the torso. It's kind of like eating a cow from nose to tail, and it's "good".).

Most nights we gather together at the dinner table and laugh at our frequent misunderstandings. We laugh either at one of the many times they've asked me to help out with dinner (each of which I've royally screwed up because all of their appliances have Chinese instructions and labels) or at the confused silence following one of their attempts at a new English phrase (I've almost started mowing the lawn three times now before I realized that Kevin had asked me to open the garage door).

School of Education at BU:

Each day I attend class is usually yet another three-hour, single-participant lecture that is often focused on the importance of engaging, student-centered lessons. Educational philosophers, it seems, have not yet developed a sense of irony.

Each morning for the past four weeks was spent at Brookline High School where I assisted physics and math teachers with their classes in any needed capacity. Among other things, I learned that skilled physics teachers are in high demand (while physics teachers seem to run a dime a dozen). None of the teachers I observed were certified to teach physics; one was a chemistry teacher with a cursory knowledge of physics at best and the other was an SAT prep tutor who needed a summer job. (In Brookline's defense, their academic year crew has some serious mental giants in physics.)

Among the distinguished graduates of Brookline High School: Mike Wallace, Michael Dukakis, and (valedictorian) Conan O'Brien.

Also, educational philosophy currently has first prize for Most Difficult Name To Pronounce Or Spell From Memory: Csikszentmihalyi.

Boston:

I live fewer than ten miles away from Walden Pond.

I can attend multiple performances from multiple professional orchestras for free.

I can attend most of the (extremely impressive) museums at deeply discounted rates (or, in the case of the fine arts museum, for free) on account of my being a student.

The T is a fantastic and puzzling window into the collective human soul.

I can frequently spit and hit numerous, famous historical landmarks. For instance, I live in Lexington. The Revolutionary War started out my window.

Odds are you have never seen a fireworks show in your life. You may think you have, but you haven't. Boston's Fourth of July show was unparalleled.

Touché

2010-07-30T12:17:00.002-06:00

I am living temporarily in the house of an older Taiwanese couple who will be renting me their apartment later next month. We have formed a solid friendship in the last month that is always filled with friendly teasing.

Yesterday, when Ginny informed me that they would be leaving town for the weekend, I told her that as soon as they left, I would throw a huge party. She laughed and said, "But that's impossible! You don't have any friends."

On the Esplanade

2010-07-28T23:26:00.002-06:00

Tonight, more people have gathered on the lawn in front of the stage to hear the Boston Landmarks Orchestra than have ever attended at one time before. But the crowd is unusual compared to the usual symphony audience. Here, business men have taken off their shoes to sit on blankets with their sweethearts sipping wine and talking casually. College students lay down to read, using their backpacks as pillows and girls in their summer dresses laugh together. Soup bowls, bikes, tents, lawn chairs, blankets, and magazines are strewn about the lawn as the sun turns orange and sinks into the Charles River. It's low enough that you can look right at it.

Then, slowly building from nothing, applause. The conductor has walked onto the stage built on one end of the Esplanade. He greets the audience briefly, raises his baton, and with a flick the music starts. A gentle breeze and the occasional ambulance siren play through selections from Tosca and then Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. To the not-so-astute observer, the sun appears to have set instantly. In reality, an hour and a half has passed for the people sitting between the towering skyscrapers of downtown Boston and the peaceful banks of the Charles.

If only

2010-07-20T16:52:00.004-06:00

There I was, 16 years old, just having gotten my license, and faced with a harrowing decision. In which pocket should I put my keys?

I have a distinct memory of my thought process. I had never had to carry keys before, and now that I was going to start carrying them every day, I needed to make sure it was orderly. I couldn't just throw my keys into any convenient pocket and just walk out the door. That's no way to go through life. No, I had to make a choice.

I was young, then, and foolish. Irrationally, without any thought as to the consequences, I chose the left. And this, dear readers, is the reason I suffer. Being right handed, I find that I commonly carry groceries with my left arm. I take them from my car with my more capable right hand and hang them on my left as if it were no more useful than a hook. Then, when I approach my front door I'm stuck, overloaded on my left with groceries, keys in my left pocket.

Today, as with numerous times in the past, I was forced into the cross-pocket-access maneuver with my right arm, forced to dance about, to twist and writhe, hand wrapped around my body as if possessed. My wrist angled unnaturally, my elbow digging into my stomach, I made yet another spectacle of myself in front of passers-by. This is no way to live.

Daniel

__________

PS: Influencing this choice may even trump what has been my first choice of action if I ever invent time travel.

A Limerick

2010-07-14T20:47:00.004-06:00

A man hailed from Galilei

Who dropped things from towers all day.

With the Church he'd combat

At the drop of a hat,

Just to show them he knew gravité.

Daniel

__________

Editor's Note:

I have absolutely no idea where this came from. I was in the middle of writing an essay for class when this popped into my head. Enjoy.

A Simple Misunderstanding

2010-07-07T20:53:00.004-06:00

One day, when I was in elementary school (although I'm having trouble remembering which grade), my teacher attempted to share a significant event in his life with us in the form of a (rather non-sequitur) announcement.

"So, my daughter hit a milestone yesterday."

I'm sure the reaction he received was not the one he anticipated. We were shocked, even horrified. Several people gasped. The girl next to me cried, "Oh no! Is she OK?" putting her hand to her mouth, holding back tears.

What followed was an awkward recovery as he realized that none of us knew what a milestone was. He mumbled an apology, stammered through a definition, and weakly announced that his daughter had spoken her first words that weekend. After the hype of tragedy, we were all relieved enough that no one was hurt to be even remotely impressed.

Could've happened to anyone, really...

Daniel

On Death

2010-07-02T16:30:00.005-06:00

There is no life save life's high meed,

A chilling peace, a quick reward

For stretching ropes that bite your wrists,

For beating back the creeping tide.

Rejoice! Your fate before you lies;

Tread straight the path, turn not away.

Of horror glaring through the bars,

Meet the gaze, fling wide the gates!

And cry with joy and crippling fear

Your adversary's breath to feel

Upon your face, O glorious stench!

No flinch nor whimper dare betray.

Now speak! Though words do fail your tongue.

And swing, though strength flees from your arms,

Your sword, a fearsome fury-brand.

Strike, strike and mortal wound inflict.

For death comes for the coward, too,

And plucks him gently from his bed,

To lay him neatly with the rest;

A solemn marker o'er the grave.

So fall, your blade 'gainst armor rung,

A mortal cry squeezed from your lips.

And leave on death, though conquered be,

A blackened bruise ne'er to forget.

Daniel

__________

Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed,

But Death intenser—Death is Life's high meed.

John Keats

A Whole Nother Blog

2010-06-26T21:07:00.003-06:00

New place, new blog. This one is fairly simple. Every day I take the T, I describe something I see during my trip. It could be a description of a scene (a sort of snapshot) or a quick story. If you like it in general, or like a specific entry, post a comment so I know that I'm getting to you.

Colorado to Boston

2010-06-23T21:55:00.007-06:00

21 June 2010

Leaving CO, I drive almost immediately into a foggy bank of clouds which drizzle periodically but neither frequently nor intensely enough to make me use my windshield wipers. Music of choice: The Eagles (I've always felt like their music was appropriate for long cross-country drives). Before long, I'm in Kansas. The sign indicating the end of "Colorful Colorado" and the beginning of (apparently Black and White) Kansas is totally unnecessary; Kansas begins precisely at the end of both trees and topography. Years ago, a study was done indicating that Kansas is, in very fact, flatter than a pancake.

By driving along I-70, one learns two facts about Kansas. First, if not everyone in the state has been "saved", the farmers who live along the interstate definitely have been. "Are you prepared to die?" "Jesus Saves." "Come to Him." I was invited to partake of salvation approximately once every four miles.

The second fact is that the last significant cultural/historical event in Kansas history was the release of The Wizard of Oz. Every billboard employs some quote or pun as if to remind the traveler that even if Dorothy isn't, we are still in Kansas.

Another sign: [Some Restaurant]: The best steak in NE Kansas. My thought is that the more specific the location has to be, the worse the steak (it's the best thing to eat on this side of the street between the main street and 200 N among buildings in that range with an address ending in 7!).

The day ends as it begins -- without event (except for my arrival in Missouri, where I stayed the night).

22 June 2010

Today I crossed several states: Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and Michigan. Music of Choice: non. Though occasionally sampling Pink Floyd and the Beatles, my best stretches of road today were accompanied with silent reflection. Driving cross-country is patriotic. At each state line, I swell with undeserved pride. My American journey is punctuated with travels in Europe and South America: Paris, Columbia, Brazil, Versailles, Lima, Samaria.

Effingham, IL—an unfortunately named town in its own right—dubs itself the "Crossroads of Opportunity". No one seems to have noticed that a crossroads is where one arrives for the purpose of leaving. One such missed opportunity was that of not selecting the "Flaming Hearts" as a high school mascot. The Effingham Flaming Hearts.

The St. Louis Arch was built specifically to confuse travelers. It's places precisely at the intersection of about 5 major highways and interstates. Approaching it, one simultaneously contemplates the Arch's architectural beauty and misses his exit. I spent 30 minutes trying to find my way back from the end of town that protects its gas station attendants by a wall of glass. Cash is exchanged here, not stolen. I inform the lady who gave me directions that her city is confusing. She smiles tolerantly, but is not amused.

23 June 2010

Crossing Pennsylvania laterally is an eternal chore. The trees are so tall on either side of the interstate that one feels as though he just drove 400 miles through a forest with not the slightest hint of civilization. The road signs offer their advice. "Buckle Up: Next Million Miles." "End Left Lane Prohibition." This last one I thought was a particularly good idea. Designating a drunk-driving lane just might keep drunk drivers out of my lane. I'm still not entirely sure what it was actually saying.

I make it a general rule to travel at the average speed of traffic. The closer I got to Boston, the closer the average got to 20 mph greater than the posted limit. I lost my nerve at 15+

The day was not without significant success, however. At mile marker 93 in Pennsylvania, I pulled over to take a picture of my odometer and trip meter which listed in order the first seven powers of 2 (1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64). [Editor's Note: Due to a series of unfortunate events, this picture has been lost and is unrecoverable.] For this to happen, please notice that I had to reset my trip meter exactly 326 miles before, which means that I was planning for that moment for about 4 hours. I actually got goosebumps as the moment approached.

I successfully arrived in Boston averaging a little less than 12 hours per day of actual driving. Time for bed.

The Perfect Apartment

2010-05-26T20:43:00.004-06:00

Every person I had contacted about finding a place to live in Boston had failed me. They either lived too far away from my school, asked too much for rent, or were oddly unresponsive to my (embarrassingly eager) responses to their advertisements. And then I contacted James.

He is a professional piano and music theory teacher who lived in Boston until very recently when he got a big break in his musical career in London and had to move from his apartment. The job required him to move quickly which left an empty apartment in Boston (for which he was still paying). It's a beautiful, two-bedroom, fully furnished apartment that he's letting go for an absolute steal (~$500/month).

I just about fell out of my seat when I found it still available and when he responded excitedly to my email. He wanted me. We exchanged emails. He wanted to make sure that I would respect his place, and that I would be a quiet, responsible roommate. I responded with a letter written in the most formal tone I could adopt indicating that I could provide character references and landlordal references. "They aren't necessary," he said, "I believe you."

"But, if you live in London, how will I get your keys and contract papers?" I asked, ever practical. "Not to worry," he replied, "I'll mail them to you as soon as I get your down payment and first month's rent."

He sent an application and asked for a swift reply. I filled it out in record time and sent it back. It was approved within minutes. Wait . . . minutes? So he doesn't need character references, and he clearly didn't check with my old landlords to see that I had been a good tenant. And he wasn't at all concerned that I indicated having absolutely no income (and there wasn't a place to indicate that I was a full-time student). On top of it all, he seemed quite willing to simply mail the key to me a month before my move-in date.

This, the fact that my application acceptance email was sent (in contrast to our other emails) with a pink font color on Hello Kitty™ stationary, and the fact that his English suddenly changed from acceptable to strange led me to believe that perhaps his intentions were not all that wholesome. I will now quote to you the application acceptance email and the rest of our correspondence. I've put in bold face some of the funnier quotes.

James:

Thanks for taking your time to fill the application form. I have taken time to go over your application form and I am so impressed and can't stop having the feeling that my apartment will be well kept by you as promised. I really appreciate your willingness in renting my place and i promise you that you will never regret renting my apartment. I would like you to provide me with one or a couple of your picture [he apparently wants either one or multiple copies of the same picture, whichever I prefer] so as for me to have an idea who my new tenant is and how you look like (no offense) [none taken].

I'm willing to keep this [good, he won't just throw it out] as a means of recognition pending the time we'll meet as this will even make it easier for me to quickly identify you by the time i come for a visit in the nearest future [most complicated sentence ever]. Also in the attachment you'd find [would I indeed?] a recent picture of me [not flattering]. I wish you all the best and good fortunes [one good fortune for each copy of the same picture I send] as you move into my apartment.

The total cost for you to move into the apartment is $750. $500 for rent and $250 for damage deposit. I would be [again, would you?] sending the apartment key's and documents to you via DHL EXPRESS to the address you filled in the application form and the shipment tracking number will be emailed to you so that you can track it to know the exact time the package will be delivered to you the next day.. Below are the document [also, one for every picture] I will be shipping to you once i have received the payment from you.

Me (still clinging to the hope of such a wonderful apartment):

I have to admit that the upcoming transaction is making me a little nervous. Forgive me for saying so, but the fact that we have never met nor ever spoken, that we will never meet nor ever speak, and that you are apparently willing to mail me the keys to an apartment that I won't be moving into for another month make me a little suspicious. That's kind of the price we pay for living in a world where lots of transactions are done across the internet. I'm afraid that I will need to be able somehow to verify that this transaction will, in fact, lead me to rent the apartment listed. Can you think of a way to provide me with more concrete evidence? You'll forgive me for asking, but it's the world we live in...

James:

Thanks for your mail. I quite understand your plight. I want you to know that I am a Christian "BORN AGAIN" to be precise and to ripped someone off his/her money is a sin for me and i cannot do such a thing [there we go! That's the "concrete evidence" I was looking for]. I know how hard is it for someone to earn 1$ nowadays because the money doesn't come easily and that is why I make it fair in putting the apartment rent for $750 for someone to be able to afford every month and to make things much easier for anyone who wants to rent my apartment and i must tell you that i am a straight forward man and wont to anything of any such [of all the suches out there, he won't do anything of any one of them]..It is very late here and will be going to bed now so i will want you to go ahead now and make the payment so that you can get back to me with the payment confirmation so that i can get the keys shipped to you first thing tomorrow morning on my way to work...

Me:

Dear James,

We're through.

Daniel

And I haven't heard from him since. So goodbye perfect apartment. You were beautiful but fictitious. Oh, and to James: I think there's a Nigerian business man out there somewhere who can give you 5 million dollars if you are willing just to send him a few thousand.

Daniel

Editor's Note:

Daniel's mother would like it to be known that she was suspect of fishy behavior long before any of the other family members. Daniel is deeply appreciative of her perceptive suspicions, as they led him to the conclusion that James and his apartment were, in fact, a sham.

Idiot

2010-05-21T12:32:00.004-06:00

I spent an hour or two this morning planting in our garden. For the following several hours, I repeatedly noticed how good my hands smelled. I kept thinking to myself, "we have the best smelling dirt on the planet." I couldn't quite pinpoint what it smelled like until a few minutes ago—a sort of herbal lemony smell. "How could our dirt smell like lemon?"

It was then that I remembered that upon entering the house, I had washed my hands with lemon-scented soap. I spent a significant amount of time feeling like an idiot. I mean, instantaneous confusion, maybe. But hours spent pondering the miraculous lemon-scented dirt? This is cause for concern.

Daniel

The G-Man

2010-05-06T19:30:00.003-06:00

clink

clink

clink

I've spent the last four days going through training to become an employee of the United States Government. Believe it or not, it takes four days (8-5) of training to become a member of the army of census takers, one of whom will show up at your door if you didn't fill out a questionnaire.

clink

clink

clink

That sound is the only sound that got me through a day of paperwork that I could have completed in 20 minutes. It got me through the seven practice "10-minute" interviews (days 2 and 3) and through a day of review and "field training."

The clink is the sound of a penny falling into a jar. See, I make roughly a penny every two seconds while I'm on the clock. As I watched the class dissolve into yet another 20-minute discussion about hopelessly improbable what-if situations, I envisioned a glass jar in front of me on my desk.

clink

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.

clink

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.

clink

"What if a person threatens to kill you . . . should you still ask for his name?"

clink

A 45-minute argument over whether or not a house with broken windows could be considered an official housing unit.

clink

Literally 15 hours of lecture read word-for-word directly from a government issue script.

clink

From the aforementioned script:

"The best way to find people at home is to visit them when they are most likely to be home"

and

"We need to talk about political promotion while on the job. Do not look at maps while driving."

clink

A sudden phone call to our training revealing that our field work training was moved from "next Monday" to "this afternoon" and that we'd be required to drive to Lafayette (a little under one hour from where I live). I arrived on time at 1pm and stood around until 4:30 for my turn to do a real-life interview at a real life NRFU (non-response follow-up, or Narfoo) address. It lasted 30 seconds. Then I drove home.

clink

Please don't misunderstand. I'm grateful for the job (and even more so for the salary). But I've gained yet another reason to see my education out to the end. In a job that doesn't inherently interest me, money becomes the standard unit of time and distance. For instance, today I drove $18 to my area (we get reimbursed by the mile) and waited for $30 until I did fifteen cents of work.

Daniel

The Pursuit of Identity

2010-04-30T13:44:00.003-06:00

While reading the work of an old friend, I was led to reflect on cultural identity. I agree with the author, who, in his treatise on language as a cultural marker, argues that it is impossible to understand a culture simply by learning the grammar of its language. Greetings are simply the hollow echo of a teacher's instruction until they are matched with faces, names, handshakes or embraces. No person could call himself bilingual who had not spent significant time surrounded by native speakers in their own native land.

In his essay, he implores his audience to "become a part of an international identity [and] reject the American arrogance that there is nothing to become above what we already are." Here, in my opinion is where the author makes a common mistake. Being an American, it would be easy for me to assess my nation as an arrogant society whose boorish ignorance forces other countries to learn my language if they wish to do business with a front-runner in the global economy, whereas other nations teach their children two or three languages.

Further, I had a conversation last summer with a native Haitian who asked me why we lock our doors and why it is customary to knock before entering. She was my neighbor and couldn't understand why she couldn't simply walk in my house and invite herself to eat with us as she could in Haiti. Again, are we an arrogant civilization which values personal property more than interpersonal relationships?

The mistake here—and in the previous example—is that, from the perspective given, the assumption is made that only those who do not behave like Americans have a cultural identity. We easily make the assumption because that identity is invisible to us. We have lived as us for our entire lives which makes it nearly impossible to understand that the little things we do each day—our behaviors, our passions, our reactions—come from something deeper, something older which is easily mistaken for arrogance. There's a reason that the citizens of many European countries speak several languages. There's a reason that a Haitian can walk into another's house and eat with them with no prior warning. But just because we don't do those things doesn't mean we're not cultured. Not doing something isn't an identity at all. Surely there's a reason that we are a monolingual country or that we place such a high value on personal property.

The answer lies in our history. The United States of America began with a revolution fought by immigrants, many of whom left their home country to freely practice their own religion or to own their own land. But, even with an ocean separating them from their oppressors they were still oppressed, they were still taxed (without representation), and their homes could be intruded upon at any moment by a member of the British army. The fight was for freedom, for private freedom. To us, the equality for which we fought means that each is allowed to live where he will and to practice, do, and believe what he will. To us, equality does not mean that each is equal in belief, in station, or in practice; we are equal in opportunity.

So why should we be surprised when we want our own land with our fences, our doors and our locks? Why should we be surprised that we cling to our native tongue? This so-called arrogance stems from the particular private freedom for which our fathers fought, for which some died, and on which the remaining created a country.

That doesn't make us perfect. It doesn't excuse our insensitivity to other nations or peoples. But it does help us to understand why we are the way we are. We do not claim, as so many claim for us, to be the ignorant, proud civilization which condescends to interact with the lesser countries out of some self-perceived goodness. Rather, we are an imperfect nation with imperfect people who behave the way they do because of the values which were established from the beginning.

When we seek for an international mingling of separate cultural identities, we cannot forget that each one, including our own, is both blessed and flawed by a history receding infinitely behind us which—for better or worse—predisposes, but does not control our judgments. We may have our imperfections, but they have a reason. Understanding them, and not simply dismissing them as arrogance, ignorance, or pride, is the key to improving them.

Daniel

The Difference

2010-04-17T12:30:00.004-06:00

When I drove to my frisbee game this morning, I saw a few girl scouts and their leaders selling Girl Scout Cookies. They had a small table on which was stacked boxes upon boxes of Samoas. They were playing Uno. When I drove past again about two hours later, there was less than ten boxes remaining. They were still playing Uno.

That's not fair.

To raise money for Boy Scouts, I walked door to door selling different things. It was terrifying, uncomfortable, burdensome, and largely unsuccessful. I must have earned less than $200 during the several years that I sold. If I had set a table up on the corner, stacked boxes of popcorn on it and played Uno with my dad, we would have sold exactly zero boxes and would have wasted several hours.

The difference? We're not cute. Little girls are look-at-how-cute-she-is cute whereas little boys smell funny and don't comb their hair. Our sales generally come from the we-feel-sorry-for-you crowd or the here's-five-bucks-now-get-off-my-porch population. Girls Scouts, on the other hand, cause cars to pull over and make otherwise rational adults spend exorbitant amounts of money all on account of cuteness. Not that I'm bitter...

Daniel

A Dream

2010-04-11T23:08:00.005-06:00

My thesis advisor had invited me over to his house so that we could discuss revisions to make. When I arrived at the address he gave me, it was a huge dilapidated mansion with shuttered windows and walls of rotted wood. Pushing the creaky door open just enough to fit my head in, I peaked in the house. It was empty.

"Dr. [Professor]? Are you there?"

Suddenly I fell through the floor. When I came to, I saw my advisor sitting on a chair with skulls on it. I understood. He was the Voodoo King. How could I have not seen this before? It was all a setup and now I was fated to be his slave forever. Fortunately a long forgotten friend walked quite calmly through the door flying a kite. I wondered in amazement at how she could fly a kite in the basement and determined to try it myself. But when I took the kite string from her hands, a gale-force wind swept it up through the hole I had fallen through. The kite burst into flames.

My friend and I bolted for the door. The next thing I know I'm flying away with her, the house is quickly disappearing from my sight as we soar higher and higher. But it was to no avail. I knew I couldn't escape for long. My thesis advisor, the Voodoo King, let her escape, but drew me back into his lair with some unseen, unimaginably strong force.

"Did you really think you could get away that easily?" he asked with a sneer and an evil chuckle. I was doomed.

I think this is the way my brain has chosen to tell me that graduation cannot come soon enough.

Big and/or Awesome Words: Part 8

2010-04-09T13:52:00.002-06:00

Velocology - /ve-lɒ-sɒ-lə-dʒi:/

This is another word that I recently invented as a result of my research. In the particular branch of astronomy that I study, we commonly see three dimensional structures whose shapes are observed by plotting the relative velocities of each object in the field of view. The faster it is moving, the further away it is. Thus, we commonly arrange our objects not in terms of size, or in any sort of time-related parameter, but in terms of velocity. While making notes in my calculations, I found it prudent to describe the organization of my data as "Velocological" (as opposed to chronological, for instance).

Subtlety

2010-04-07T12:10:00.005-06:00

I woke up this morning to pounding on my door. Taking a few seconds to gather my senses and make myself at least semi-presentable (you know, in case it was a pretty girl. Because random pretty girls always just show up at my door...), I stumbled lazily through the front room. Opening the door, I saw the UPS man several yards from me, back turned, walking to his truck, having already delivered his package. I'm not entirely sure what he was thinking when no one answered the door, but it goes something like this:

"Well, I guess no one is home. I really don't want to come back, but I can't just leave this package out here in plain sight. Oh, I know!" Then he casually lifts the door mat and places the box underneath it. The box is so large that the mat does not touch the ground.

Good job, UPS man. Good job.

Surrealism and the Objective Poetry Experiment

2010-04-01T00:11:00.004-06:00

In a discussion about surrealism in my French Civilization class, we were asked to mimic the authors of the time and write with no purpose as quickly as possible. That is, we were supposed to write without thinking (or maybe write exactly what we thought without questioning it). This is what I wrote:

Ducks find midnight orange

To write and banana around,

Until sun's precipice falls

off itself throughout interwoven

spiders (not their webs) truncating

symbols.

It reminded me of an idea I had that I borrowed from Stravinsky who often wrote music with emphasis on the rhythm and not the notes. A poem like that would pay attention to the way words were read and not what they said. I borrowed rhythms from the scriptures (patterns of stressed and unstressed syllables) and tried to fit whichever words I could into the spaces. I called it the Objective Poetry Experiment.

Intrepid orchard gentle highrise flake

Together lift search simple time still far

Unique first understanding destined lake

Fiscal half repeat strength avatar.

Reality girl bequeath chill window steeped

Alive climb youthful corpulent existence

Grand trifle reach and rhythmic deep

Turn flanking storage faithful crime persistence.

I'm sure it means nothing, but I thought it was an interesting experiment on words and their power. I tried as much as I could to remove meaning from the words and focus only on their meter. I even wrote the lines non linearly (filling in a word here and a word there), looking at a schematic that I'd drawn up indicating where and in what pattern I needed stressed and unstressed syllables. But, when reading it aloud, I can never quite separate the meaning of accidentally formed phrases ("faithful crime persistence," and "corpulent existence" make sense to me, for instance). Objectifying language—making it an object without inherent meaning—is impossible because language was created specifically to assign a meaning to a sound so as to communicate ideas. The OPE was a failure in that I could not come up with a series of haphazardly placed words selected only for their rhythmic value that had no meaning. It was a success however, in that I relived memories accidentally conjured, relearned old lessons, and remembered forgotten ideas by reading the same haphazard jumble of words.

Daniel

Contentment

2010-03-24T01:05:00.007-06:00

A recent discussion about contentment got me thinking about why it's scary to feel content. In my head, it goes a little something like this:

As of this (and every) moment, there are literally an infinite number of choices to make. However, our life takes only one distinct path in time. Making one choice excludes the infinity of others. That is, by deciding to write this post, I am also effectively deciding not to make the infinity (minus one) of choices I could have made. I'm not, for example, making pancakes right now.

The problem with this fact is that its reality extends without deviation from the little choices to the big ones. By choosing a school to attend, a degree to earn, a career, or the people with whom I associate, I have, in effect, made an infinite sacrifice in the sense that what I have chosen eliminates the billions and billions of other choices available to me.

The choice to be content with what I've selected comes with (depending on the size of the choice) a degree of regret for the choices I cannot make as a result. I can never go to the Naval Academy and work as a nuclear technician on a submarine, I will never become a professional swimmer or a research physicist or a psychologist or marry so-and-so. It's not that I can't, but that my choice to do what I've done precludes my doing them.

Have I settled? If I were any one of those things I've just mentioned and my list included what I've become, would I look at it and say, "Boy, I wish I'd chosen to study astronomy and become a physics teacher." or would I sigh in relief and say "I'm so glad I didn't go that way."? Should I go to Boston or Colorado? Should I move back home or stay in Provo for the summer? Each choice offers me so much yet makes me sacrifice what is seemingly so much more because choosing one is not choosing a million others. The price of the million seems to weigh me down sometimes.

So what is contentment? Where's the line between settling and being content with what I have? To some degree I can't really answer the question. Frankly, if I could know what the effect of every choice I've made (or could have made) has had (or could have had) on my life, it's entirely probable that I could see a happier state out there among the infinite possible realities. But that kind of what-if-ing is both useless and harmful. I can't ever know.

Therefore, contentment, not being the knowledge that every choice I've made has always been the right one, is really more like letting go of the infinitely possible in order to make the best of the choice I've made, good or bad. When I take that perspective, the value of the path taken increases to fill any need for unique adventure or perceived perfection I could imagine in all of the paths left behind. It's not worrying if the choice I'm making to go to this school or study this subject or date this person or work for this professor is any better or worse than any of the other possible choices, but making sure that since I've chosen it, I put everything I've got into turning it into the life I've always hoped for.

Further, by sacrificing diverse infinite possibility we gain specific infinite potential. That is, our future is still just as infinitely variable when we've made a choice, but now the infinite possibilies are focused around that choice.

Daniel

__________

Contentment is a pearl of great price, and whoever procures it at the expense of ten thousand desires makes a wise and a happy purchase.

-John Balguy

Senioritis

2010-03-16T02:12:00.007-06:00

One month (ish) away from graduation and I'm getting a little antsy. My nerves are making certain, less essential parts of my life either more or less pleasant depending on how you look at it. Take, for example, the last batch of grading I just finished. Here are some samples of things I really, actually wrote to students.

"pencil pencil pencil pencil pencil pencil pencil pencil"

Circling some scribbled out calculations: "This is why you should use a pencil"

"Fix equipment problems or report unfixable ones as error. You don't just get to make stuff up."

"EMF is equivalent to change in flux, not just flux. Your way is kind of like saying 'the place where I'm standing is my velocity'"

"10^-7? So it's going at 30 billionths of a m/s? Yeah, no"

Circling the words 'magnetic charge': "That's not a thing"

"The calculations you've written equal 1.5. Just 1.5. Where are you getting this?" Arrow pointing at an extremely large number.

Circling two numbers stated to be equal, but one was really three orders of magnitude larger. "≠ or even anywhere close."

(The next three are to the same student)

"I'm going to circle all the words I can't read. Ready, go." Proceeded to circle 15 words in 3 sentences.

"This sentence looks like 'They softer last rule is boy'"

Assigning a bad grade: "Feel free to talk to Dr. [Professor] and interpret this for him. Until then, write so I can read."

Only after I was finished did I realize just how many things I wrote and how much of a bad person I felt like. All in all, it's a pretty harmless way of taking out pent-up aggression since my grading is weighted against all the others so as to remove prejudice and equalize the varying degrees of 'tough-ness'. Still, though, I can't wait to be done.

Daniel

Paul Like Me

2010-03-10T01:02:00.006-07:00

I'm not really sure how or when it happened. All I know is that I had a math professor who called me Paul. He was big on learning every student's name within the first week or so. I can't remember if he used the wrong name right from the beginning or if Paul sort of evolved over time, but I never objected.

I mean, I had a roommate named Paul who was better looking, more talented, got more dates, and was generally more successful than me in every aspect. Being Paul could only help my chances. So I never said anything. In math, I was Paul.

After about two months we had our first test. After having graded them, Dr. [Professor] passed them out personally to each of us. It was the first time he'd ever handed back our work. I knew I was caught when, while handing out tests (during the course of which he had not yet asked anyone's name), he paused, looked at the paper in his hand, looked around the room and back at the paper again. He confessed, "I'm sorry, I don't know who this is: Daniel?"

I raised my hand. He looked at me with a face that could make a lumberjack weep for his mommy and said in a little voice, Paul?

I sighed with resignation, "No, Dr. [Professor], I'm Daniel."

He looked confused. "Then why do I call you Paul?"

I told him I didn't know but that I didn't mind because of my positive association with the name. I asked him to keep calling me Paul, but the damage was done. Paul was the one who was good at math, the one who could tediously complete hours of tedious problem sets. And once I was no longer Paul, the skill was gone. I've never fully regained it. Rest in peace.

Daniel

A Dream

2010-02-27T13:46:00.004-07:00

I was lying on my back. Someone was plugging my nose and pouring water in my mouth, but try as I might, I could not swallow. I was running quickly out of air. In a last-gasp attempt to breathe, I simultaneously awoke and spit forcefully. There was a split second where I realized what I'd done before the spit landed back in my face. Yes, I spit in my own face. Apparently I think I'm contemptible.

Daniel

The half-dollar

2010-02-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

As the inspection of a common vending machine coin slot will reveal, American coinage has seriously overlooked a very important issue. Recently, while purchasing a much needed bag of peanut butter M&Ms, I was dismayed that the vending machine would accept neither pennies nor "fifty-cent pieces." Setting aside the travesty that one cannot use simply any coin he wishes, the issue here is the willful ignorance of a better name for a historical piece of currency.

I mean, the penny has a name which lends it much more import than it's actual value. Nickel comes from the name of the metal from which it was originally made, and even quarters and dimes are at least named for their worth in units of percentage of a dollar. I further submit for consideration the names of the Canadian one- and two-dollar coins, the looney (because of the depiction of a loon on one side of the coin) and the tooney (in rhyming reference to its value) respectively. Surely we can do better than "fifty-cent piece" or even "half dollar" (the latter of which, I admit, coincides with the names for the quarter and dime. However, one cannot simply refer to a "half" and be understood.).

Thus, I submit for your consideration the following names:

Half-y
Hemi
Kennedy
Gilroy (Gilroy Roberts was the designer)
CJ (after Curtis James Jackson III the rapper, better known as 50 Cent)

I'm accepting votes or other nominations before making my final (and authoritative) decision. Please weigh in so that you, too, may be a part of history.

Daniel

Professional Correspondence

2010-02-23T14:06:00.004-07:00

I received an email from one of the graduate schools to which I applied. It stated, in its entirety:

Dear Daniel,

For various reasons, it's unlikely we could admit you to the Master of Arts degree program for next year.

BUT from you [sic] application, you might be a good candidate for our Masters Certification program — that program is also a master's degree, designed for people who want to be teachers. It leads to Maryland State Certification.

The question—urgent because we're soon to close the MCERT process—is whether you'd like to be considered for that program.

David Hammer

My disappointment was quickly masked by the thought of having been emailed by someone with such a great name. With that (and really only that) rolling around in my head, I responded with sincere admiration:

Dear Mr. Hammer,

You have to realize how intimidating your name seems. I'm a little jealous. Thank you for informing me about my options at UMD, however I don't wish to be considered for any alternative program.

Sincerely,

Daniel

I deliberated for about two minutes as to whether or not I should send him such an email and finally decided to do so based on the fact that he probably very rarely receives emails in jest, and also that he would undoubtedly appreciate such open praise of his family's (probably prestigious) history. Further, the conclusion that I would never meet this man or ever again correspond with his organization basically necessitated this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to send what was in all realistic terms a very sincere and honest email.

Daniel

The Cupcake Monster

2010-02-08T00:09:00.004-07:00

When I was in the first grade, I had a best friend named Kyle. We met on a playground next to the baseball field where both of our brothers were playing little league and decided to play Ninja Turtles together. I wish dating were that easy. For the next five years we were practically inseparable.

I remember Kyle's birthday of our fourth grade year with vivid clarity. He had moved to "split-level" classes (fourth and fifth grade together) and so was on the other side of the school and didn't even have the same lunch period as me. However, he still wanted to bring me a cupcake (which his mom had made for his entire class) in celebration of his birthday. For some unknown reason, he decided to give me the cupcake during my gym class. Standing at the door, he waved me to him and before I knew it I was standing in the gym (in the middle of a game of sharks and minnows, no less) with a chocolate frosted cupcake.

Now, my parents raised me well. I knew that I couldn't share this cupcake with my entire class and I further knew that if my classmates (who hadn't noticed my treat yet) discovered that I was holding a real live frosted cake in my hand that there would be no end to the mayhem. Questions as to its origin would fall like rain, best-friendships haphazardly formed in hopes of getting half, and jealousy would turn me into the most noticed kid in the grade. Thinking quickly, I unwrapped it, stepped into the hallway, and shoved the entire thing into my mouth, trying to swallow as soon as possible.

"Daniel! Get over here!"

I was caught. My gym teacher (Ms. Kester, no joke) had seen the whole thing and wanted an explanation. I stammeringly tried to explain that my actions had been justifiably altruistic. Fortunately for me, she agreed, but I was not to escape without punishment. I was then to be known as the Cupcake Monster (a name infrequently employed, to be sure, but one which—when used—was a great source of embarrassment to a kid who was just trying to do right by everyone).

Daniel

A Dream

2010-01-14T10:20:00.000-07:00

My friend had taken me to Wal-mart. In the odd manner of dreams, at the moment that we arrived we had already been there for 30 minutes or so and I couldn't find my friend. As if on cue, she appeared from behind a display in the aisle. I immediately noticed that something was different about her. She had braces on her teeth. And when I say "braces," I mean that there were small metal squares hideously glued on to her teeth with pink glue. For a moment, my dream zoomed in on the braces so they filled my entire field of vision.

"Where did you get those?" I asked.

Her voice dropped to a whisper as she glanced furtively around the room.

"I stole them!" she confessed with a mischievous grin.

When I asked how she planned on getting out of the store without being noticed, she responded by lifting her hands to her mouth and removing it from her face. Oddly, she had another mouth (already with perfectly straight teeth) underneath it and was able to reply with something to the effect of "It's simple!"

Apparently I was able to accept the plan, but as we moved to the door she took a game of Trivial Pursuit out of a pocket in her jeans (which kind of pocket more girls need) and asked if I wanted to play.

"You stole that, too? Don't you think it would be a bad idea to play a stolen game in the store from which you stole it?"

She didn't seem to mind, so the next thing I know, I was a fugitive, playing a stolen game of Trivial Pursuit with a girl with a removable mouth.

Daniel

Big and/or Awesome Words: Part 7

2010-01-13T14:12:00.002-07:00

Baroluminescence:

This only recently became a word when I invented it a while ago with the help of a friend. Its reason for being created is the movie Avatar, in which we see a vegetated alien planet. Frequently, a character would step on a piece of moss or brush past a plant only to have the plant emit a little light as a result of the touch. During the movie, I ignored several minutes of dialog in an attempt to create a word for the effect and have only recently succeeded. Baroluminescence (coming from the "Baro-" of Greek origin meaning "pressure or weight" and luminescence, the word describing the emission of light due to a stimulus) can also come in ajective form (baroluminescent) describing a plant with such a characteristic.

Daniel

The Dude Code

2010-01-11T18:45:00.005-07:00

Every man must follow an unwritten code that dictates the correct course of action in every circumstance. The code dictates propriety, preference, etiquette, and comportment such that manliness is maximized at every possible instant. And, while it seems unfathomable that a man would not know the code, some don't. For their sake, and for the sake of any women reading this post (who, as I have come to discover are both surprised at and amused by the existence of such a set of rules), I present you with a non-exhaustive enumeration of several points of what is known as the Dude Code. Some of these are serious rules designed to preserve virility. Others of these rules are more like descriptions of what tends to happen. You decide which is which.

Regarding couches:

Ideally there shall only one man be seated upon a couch at any time. In the event that there are too many dudes present for each to claim his own couch, the number of men sitting upon a single couch shall not exceed one per cushion (noting that immediately after the couch-to-man ratio reaches or descends beneath 1 that everyone should make every effort to redistribute immediately).

There shall be no touching of other men, inadvertent or otherwise unless it is a slap with the back of the hand to get attention. To avoid incidental hand or leg contact, the dividing line of personal space shall be that of the cushions on the couch. Extreme caution should be made never to cross these lines.

During which times men find themselves in the company of women, the one person per cushion rule may be violated provided that no two men are sitting next to one another.

Regarding food:

The preference of food for men shall be as follows (in order of importance): Beef.

Regarding public restrooms:

No man shall engage another man in conversation unless at the sink and only then if it is vitally important (ex. to warn a fellow man that he is on fire).

Regarding women:

Interest in a woman shall be expressed by the asking of that woman on a date. There shall be no other concrete method of expression. All alleged hints, indications, looks, inferences, allusions, approaches, intimations, gestures, connotations, insinuations, remarks, or interpretations are—as previously noted—alleged and no man can be held accountable for them.

Similarly, a hint, indication, look, inference, allusion, approach, intimation, gesture, connotation, insinuation, remark, or interpretation (i.e. anything other than a direct statement of fact) shall not be construed as anything whatsoever by a man not because he is dense, but because it is most probably not what it purports to be.

If a man finds himself in the position to court a woman who has previously courted a man that he knows or with whom he is acquainted, the man shall inform (not ask permission of) the aforementioned of his intentions.

The informed shall acquiesce.

Regarding Sports:

No injury sustained during the fair play of a real sport shall be complained about, gone to the hospital over, wept about, or—to be perfectly truthful—sustained unless in the presence of women (in which case the story should be told with slight embellishment).

Regarding Movies:

A movie about love whose ending is predictable but whose plot and dialog are nonetheless entertaining (also known as a Chick Flick) shall never be viewed by a man unless the ratio of women to men is at least 1 (and preferably greater).

Only when the previously mentioned ratio is in force is a man allowed to admit that he enjoyed such a film (I'm kind of a sucker for CFs, but I rarely admit it).

Otherwise, the only movies to be described as "great" shall be movies during which lots of stuff gets blown up.
__________

As I said, this is hardly a comprehensive list. However, I think it should get you started on understanding why men do what they do.

Daniel

(Untitled)

2010-01-04T23:30:00.002-07:00

On second thought,

The Earth is really square,
A box with sharp corners around which step
The lands and ships, the yous and me.

And Elephants are kings who rule (square) worlds
With iron trunks and heavy thuds of militant feet
Watching humans with oddest curiosity.

Mosquitoes, the fierce hunters, wondering at the
Swarm of eagles buzzing insignificantly about
Their blood-hunted prey.

The stars are sand, and sand the precious quest of
Bearded panners who reject the gold for glass,
The silver for stone.

But blink again to round the world,
To burn the stars, to crown the man
And to fill his pride.

Daniel

In which I learned to watch what I say

2009-12-29T00:52:00.004-07:00

I like to think that people who know me have become somewhat accustomed to my personal brand of humor. However, I sometimes forget that people who don't know me often take my sarcasm seriously and my jokes literally. This is a story of one such incident.

Barber: So do you live here?

Me: No, I'm home for Christmas.

Barber: Oh, are you a student?

Me: Yes, at BYU.

Barber: That's great, what do you study?

Me: Astronomy.

Barber: Cool!

Me: Yeah, actually it is really really cool. (This is my standard response)

Barber (with a chuckle): Have you seen any UFOs?

Me (joking back): Only five or so, which is remarkably below average.

Barber (suddenly serious): Yeah. I only asked because I've seen a few myself.

Me (suddenly realizing that she was serious): Wha...? Um, that's... wow. Yeah, those are crazy.

Barber: So, what did the ones you've seen look like?

Me (now afraid to admit I was joking): Oh, you know. (a sudden idea to attempt to lose her with jargon) Sometimes when you look through a telescope you see little stellar aberrations from imperfections in the glass or asymmetrical lens grinding.

Barber: Oh

Me (thinking to myself): It worked! Now change the subject. (to her) Do you think I'm going bald?

Barber: I wouldn't worry about it.

Me: Oh, ok.

I remained silent for the rest of the haircut.

Daniel

The Big Questions

2009-12-09T10:28:00.001-07:00

I think it is without question that at some point in their lives, each person is brought to consider the three big questions:

1) Which superhero's powers would you like to have (that is, to have his powers in your own life)?
2) Which superhero would you like to actually be (that is, to take his place)?
3) Which superhero do you respect the most?

In considering these questions, it is extremely important to remember that this is not a question of mutation. Mutants are not, strictly speaking, superheroes, and thus cannot be considered. The question on mutation is a subject for another post. In considering this question, then I submit that the only three superheroes worth considering are the big three: Superman, Spider Man, and Batman. Here are my thoughts.

Which superhero's powers would you like to have?

Without any doubt, I would have Superman's powers. He can fly, shoot lasers from his eyes, see through walls, and he's super strong. He's super everything. Superman is the compendium of every super power that people wish to have and his only weakness is an extremely rare rock that cannot be cultivated and does not occur naturally on earth. That's a pretty good deal.

Which superhero would you like to actually be?

To me, the answer to this question is rooted in a single consideration: women. Batman's girl knows his secret but decides not to be a part of it. Lois can never know Superman's secret (except for that one time she figures it out, but Superman reverses the earth's spin causing time to reverse and undoes her knowing. Like I said, super everything). Spider Man, however, has a girl (a redhead, no less) who knows his secret and respects him more for it once she discovers it. She remains his supportive companion throughout difficult times and wants him to continue to be Spider Man unselfishly. I think I could handle the rigors of superhero life if I had a girl like that. Again, I think this dwarfs any other consideration. Each superhero has his ups and downs, his strengths and his weaknesses, but the Spider Man is the only one who keeps the girl.

Which superhero do you respect the most?

Batman. I could almost leave the answer at that, but I'll explain. Frankly, Superman and Spider Man have it easy. Anyone can be super if they're an alien or have been bitten by a radioactive spider. But Batman is a self-made superhero. The argument is made that it's possible because he's a billionaire and that money is his superhero endowment, but I draw your attention to all of the billionaires on the planet. There are hundreds of billionaires out there, and how many superheroes are you aware of? That's right, none. Being a billionaire does not a superhero make. Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and Donald Trump just sit around and make new software, buy up companies, and fire people (respectively). I mean, that's great and all, and they're all philanthropists, but none of them are trained ninjas who use their skills to beat up criminals. So, even if he's rich, it's Bruce Wayne's determination, strength, morality, and will power that have turned him into the only non-alien, non-genetically-altered superhero out there. That's worthy of some serious respect.

So there you have it. I invite you to respond yourselves with considerations that I may not have made. I'm always open to suggestions (although I think I've got this one figured out).

Daniel

Beauty

2009-12-02T12:22:00.003-07:00

In the mid- to late 17^th century, France began to create "academies" for just about everything. The first was the academy of the French language, which determined the rules for spelling, grammar, and usage, but it expanded from there to academies of science, music, architecture, creative writing, painting and sculpture. Each of these domains had set rules and a known ideal. One could quite easily define "good" art and the best painting in the world was even recognized because it followed all of the rules. In the same vain, science was determined by a set of rules. Rules about convention, the scientific method, and the principles and laws were set forth so that there was a "right" way to be a scientist and that being the "best" scientist was only about following the rules.

As a society, we have much less of a problem thinking of science in this way. We are used to rules, equations, laws, and prescribed procedures in scientific discovery. In fact, I'm willing to bet that if you explained the purpose of the Academie de Science to ten people on the street, all ten of them would be more or less in agreement with the validity of its purpose. However, if you asked the same ten people about music and told them that music was "science"-like in that it had rules, dimensions and fixed procedures, those people would all object. "Music is art, not science," they would say.

Why do we, as a people, have such a problem trying to define music as a science? I think it's because we don't want to give up the possibility of creativity, taste, style, beauty and passion that we consider to be inherent in music. Calling it a science sterilizes all of those emotions that we associate with good music to the point that it seems impossible to believe that science could possibly dictate its creation.

The fact is, music is scientific. There's a mathematical reason that beautiful music is beautiful. Just because Bach didn't know it doesn't mean that he didn't follow the "rules". Analyze his music and you find incredible scientific precision.

Our problem lies not in the fact that music is a precise science, but in the fact that our society has misdefined "science." Many people percieve it to be the sterile, uncreative, rigid process that I described above. But it's not. In fact, the reason that basically all of the major developments in science have ever occured was because their originators decided to go against the grain and to develop a theory that went completely against convention. They broke the rules. On purpose. And they did it because of a beauty they saw in physics or in math that wasn't yet exploited. Frankly, without creativity, innovation and some guts, we would still believe that the earth was the center of the universe.

With that recalibrated definition, I have no problem describing music as scientific. Even the deliberate ignorance of science—deciding to break the rules—requires that one know them in the first place. In that sense, as one of my classmates put it so beautifully, "Music is art because it's science."

This particular lecture made me rethink my definitions. Why do we separate arts and sciences? They both form a part of a body that we call "knowledge," but we put them at odds with each other as if science is only science if it's not art and vise-versa. In actuality, I think the answer is that art and science have exactly the same composition but manifest themselves a little differently. That is, there are some rules, and there's some rule-breaking. There's creativity and there's rigid process. All domains, studies, emphases, and courses are merely isotopes of the same basic entity called knowledge.

Daniel

Jibson's Airport Rules

2009-11-25T12:01:00.004-07:00

In science, we establish rules and laws based on repeated observations of controlled experiments. If something happens over and over again in the same way with the same circumstances, we feel fairly confident in establishing it as a law. Sometimes, the law seems to contradict another previously established law that is also repeatedly observable. The reason for this contradiction is usually simply a lack of understanding of both laws in their complete (undiscovered) form. That is, if we knew everything about everything, it wouldn't be a contradiction. With this in mind, having kept to the scientific method as scrupulously as possible, I present you with the rules of air travel and airports.

Jibson's First Rule:

Every strange, scary, large, smelly, or in any other way disturbing person who I see in the airport at any time during check-in will be on my flight and will sit in relative proximity to me.

Jibson's Second Rule:

Contrary to standard combinatorial evaluation, the number of pretty girls present in the world, in the airport, or on the flight does not affect the odds that I will sit next to one. That's because the odds are zero.

Daniel

All Things Considered

2009-11-24T09:00:00.004-07:00

There are days with meaning and importance and days with potential. There are days you look forward to all of your life and days on which hangs the fate of other days.

And, all things considered, today should have been one of those days.

Daniel

A Dream

2009-11-11T12:13:00.004-07:00

I received the unexpected assignment to be a missionary for a small, tropical island. The assignment, however, was different from most. Instead of proselytizing, teaching, and serving, I was going to be the king of the island. I wore a toga made out of a bed sheet and my job was to stand in line at weddings and be the first person to shake the hands of the newly married couples as they left the chapel in which they were being married.

I attended several marriages, blessing the couples as their king. People, as I recall, were generally impressed to see me at their wedding (apparently I didn't attend every wedding on the island) and there was lots of genuflection. At the last of the weddings I attended, a longtime friend from my childhood was also there. He walked past without recognizing me. I was about to approach him and catch up on the last ten years of our lives when I realized that I would have a lot of explaining to do. So I practiced.

"Hey, Greg. I'm the king of ... "

I went through the names of several of the islands I knew: Tonga, Samoa, Hawaii. None of them seemed right. And realizing that I didn't know the name of the island of which I was king, I logically deduced that I must be dreaming and promptly awoke.

Daniel

The Tyger and the Lamb

2009-11-02T17:15:00.009-07:00

I think I've figured out what it is that bothers me about two poems that I've read and re-read for years. Blake offers his audience an astounding surety in response to the question "Little lamb, who made thee?"

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and he is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.

Yet in the same compendium, he finds himself asking the same question to a tiger either unaware or seemingly afraid of the answer.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
...
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Blake, is that fear I hear in your voice? Are you afraid to admit that God created the tiger and the lamb? Or is it disbelief? Or is it anger?

To some degree I understand your query. Sometimes I want to believe that God is only in the best of things: happiness, love, patience, calm, peace. But then I awaken to the disturbing reality that in me is sadness, hatred, anger, anxiety, turbulence, and discord. Is He there, too?

What about sadness? I've had such a hard time admitting to myself that sadness is a part of the life I live. Did He, the source of all happiness, make sadness too? Can He be found there also?

The more I think about it, the more it must be true because when I search my sorrow, my anger, my insecurities, my anxiety, I so often find Him. Not to say that He deliberately made me sad, but that when I look at my life, I find a necessity for these kinds of oppositions. At the bottom of all my negative feelings I find love; I find God pleading with me to do the right thing, or comforting me in my difficulties.

This is what I think Blake was trying to depict when he drew this picture. We see God sitting on his throne in heaven reaching down, not with recklessness but with absolute control, to create. His hand is sure, his gaze fixed upon his task. With tools of gold and with infinite wisdom He deliberately draws, each stroke containing purpose. Did God create the man and accidentally discover that there were irreparable flaws in him? Was sorrow an accident? No, this creator's hand is steady, his purpose clear. He made us the way He wanted us to be. And as for all those flaws, He has not left us without a way to overcome them. He does not intend for us to remain this way, even if we must temporarily experience the bad. We may overcome through Christ.

Ah, there it is. You weren't asking in incredulity, were you, Blake? You were wondering in awe. The majestic tiger and the meek lamb; the sun and the rain; the joy of life, the pain; the happiness, the sorrow—the opposition is on purpose because both sides make me more aware of who I am and where I am going. Thanks for tigers.

Daniel

Dating Theory: To Refuse and Be Refused

2009-10-26T22:30:00.003-06:00

Dudes:

When asking a girl on a date, if she says she's busy, you are entitled to one (1) attempt at rescheduling. After that, you start to look pathetic.

Not-dudes:

When being asked on a date, if you are not interested, say something to that effect. Saying things like "I'm busy for the next two weeks" and especially, "I'll tell you what, I'll let you know if my schedule opens up"** are both painfully transparent and tend to make the dude feel pathetic.

Daniel

**Yes, both of these have happened to me. Yes, it was the same girl. Yes, those two sentences were spoken in succession.

Dating Theory: Pockets

2009-10-05T12:25:00.007-06:00

The fashion industry wants to believe that it affects us. Their clothes make us look good. According to them, we follow their trends. It's not true. After all they do, the people who are on the other end of the noses they look down—you and I—are the ones with the real power. After all, look what we did to pockets.

The way I see it, pockets used to be pretty homogeneous additions to pants. Each pair of pants had pockets—two in the front, two in the back—which served one, single function: they carried stuff. Of course, depending on the cut and size of the garment, pockets ranged minimally in size. But for the most part, pockets were what they were.

As has been the case since there were two humans of opposite gender on the planet, men continued to ask women on dates and to go out with them. And, as has probably been the case since there were two humans of opposite gender on the planet, women felt the need to carry significantly more than their pockets could carry. A man on a date carries keys, a phone, and a wallet. A woman carries lipstick, lip gloss, chapstick (yes, all three), eyeliner, foundation, a wallet, a phone, four pens, a small pad of paper, a light jacket (in case it gets cold), a toothbrush and toothpaste, a small flashlight, signal flares, pepper spray and/or a taser, a camera, a small sewing kit, keys, and paperclips. While useful, this kind of cargo merits an additional pocket that can be both organized and accessible. We call it a purse.

The problem with purses, as most women know, is that lots of activities (dancing, for instance) requires that a woman leaves her purse somewhere unattended while the activity is taking place. Not wanting to misplace her valuables, she removes some half of the contents of her purse to take along with her. The conundrum: they don't all fit in her pockets. The solution: the dude has pockets too. The over-preparation and scrupulousness of women is really the foundation of that phrase dreaded by men, "Could you put this in your pocket for me?"

A simple examination of formal wear yields the conclusion that fashion has quite obviously adapted to this peculiar phenomenon. How many pockets does a dress have? Zero. What does a man wear when he's out with a woman who is wearing a dress? A suit. I have four suit coats in my closet. Each one of them has six pockets—three on the outside and three on the inside. Put that on a guy wearing slacks and a button-down shirt and you've got a guy with eleven pockets. Eleven! Remember what a dude carries with him on a date? Keys, phone, wallet. Even at maximum distribution, that only uses three pockets. What about the other eight? Lipstick, lip gloss, chapstick, eyeliner, foundation . . .

The trend is even more reprehensible on casual wear. There is a style of men's pants called "Cargo" pants. Cargo? What cargo? What on earth are we walking around with that could be possibly be given so bulky a term as cargo? I'll tell you what: my date's phone for one thing. And why doesn't she put it in her pocket? Either her pants don't have any, or on her hip is but the vestigial remains of a once flourishing pocket community. She can't even fit her hand into it, let alone store something in it.

And when it's not in my pocket, her phone is sitting on a table, or in her room, or in her car, or in her purse, or somewhere where she doesn't even notice it ringing and never answers. This is the catastrophic though unintended casualty that has been sustained by men. Complain all they might about the lack of forwardness, Facebook courtships, or the decline of normal guys asking normals girls on normal dates, women—as a gender—simply cannot deny their involvement in this terrible turn of events: the tragic lack of pockets in girls' jeans which leads to an unanswered phone call and reduces the already nervous gentleman on the other end of the line to a neurotic, self-conscious idiot (frankly). All I'm saying is, it's not all our fault.

Daniel

Big and/or Awesome Words: Part 6

2009-10-01T22:45:00.004-06:00

Conflation:

The word conflation literally means the amalgamation of two things to become one. However, its specific use is fascinating. The word "conflation" is used to describe the erroneous combination of two ideas that share similarities but are not completely equal to the effect that the unique properties of each combined idea are lost and only the similarities are kept.

Wikipedia provides the example of the word 'respect' which can mean either 'to recognize one's right to have an opinion' or 'to hold in high regard.' Quoth Wikipedia, "we can recognise someone's right to the opinion that the United Nations is secretly controlled by alien lizards on the moon, without holding this idea in high regard. But conflation of these two different concepts leads to the notion that all ideological ideas, for example, should be treated [in high regard], rather than just [honoring] the right to hold these ideas."

Issues

2009-09-24T10:17:00.003-06:00

Gmail sent me a little warning today. It said in totality, "Gmail is temporarily unable to access your Contacts. You may experience issues while this persists."

So, until I can access my Contacts again, I'm just going to assume that all issues that arise are related to this problem. So far I've used it to explain why I'm tired, the mess in my apartment, the difficulty I have completing my quantum physics homework, my lack of desire to actually cook a meal for myself, and my continued lack of dates.

I just wish Gmail would have let me know earlier that it was their fault.

Daniel

La Langue d'Amour

2009-09-18T12:31:00.002-06:00

Once upon a time, I took a weekend trip up to Salt Lake City with the girl I was dating. We stayed at her grandpa's house and spent time with her sister. Saturday morning was a clean-the-church service project, which we attended. The project wasn't too involved: yard work and general landscaping. We spent several hours trimming bushes and the like.

The entertainment, however, was provided by the bishop's wife, a self-appointed matchmaker. I gather that she wasn't terribly picky on who she matched with whom when she set herself upon us; me and the girl that I was currently dating (unbeknownst to the bishop's wife). She started by commenting on how I worked hard and how that would be something a girl might look for in a husband. Later, she dropped by and saw us still working together and said something like "Well, this much time spend together deserves a lunch date, at least!" (as it happens, we were going to the temple later that day, though we hardly mentioned that to her).

Immediately before we left the premises, she arrived to seal the deal. As we talked, she learned that I spoke French. This, of course, caused a new tirade from our persistent matchmaker of the endless romanticisms that I could whisper into my girlfriend's (which fact she still didn't know) ear. "If he says, Je t'aime (I love you), that's a good sign!" she said with nary a blush. "And there's another one the French say . . . oh, what is it?" She looked at me inquisitively, as if to draw this unknown phrase from my lips. So I indulged her.

"Je sors avec la facteuse sans ta connaissance"*

"That's it!" she exulted. "Oh, isn't French romantic? How could you not love a man who can say things like that!?" She was about to leave, her work completed, our fates sealed. But, in curiosity (and because she forgot what exactly it was supposed to mean) she asked one last question, "What does that mean again?" I was honest. "Oh, it means, 'I'm seeing the mailwoman behind your back.'"

I've never been able, in all my ponderings on the face that she made then, to accurately determine the emotions she was feeling at that moment. Anyway, a new joke was born and a new discovery made that absolutely anything you say in French sounds romantic to an American.

Daniel

*Facteuse is a decidedly Quebecois word, so any of you who know "real" French may not recognize it.

Insomniac Poetry

2009-09-14T12:44:00.002-06:00

Thoughts sing underneath trees
And sometimes in the dark
(But not always)
Soft lullabies and wispy elegies.

They get tangled in the branches
Never sounding quite the same
As when they left.
But the music doesn't fade.

It seems to echo, ever softer,
More melodic, less complex
Off hearts (and ears)
And under whispered rustling of trees.

Until—at last—it blends harmoniously
Not as it came out at first,
But changed
By the trees and by listening.

Daniel

Big and/or Awesome Words: Part 5

2009-09-10T16:28:00.007-06:00

Analemma: (\ænə'lɛmə\)

We all know that if we looked at the sun (note: don't look at the sun) at exactly the same time every single day, it would not be in exactly the same place. However, I just learned that if you were to take a picture of the sun every day from exactly the same position at exactly the same time every day for a year with the same film, you would see that the sun traces out a sort of figure eight in the sky. This shape is known officially as the analemma. Now you know.

Daniel

Daniel(le)

2009-09-04T14:44:00.011-06:00

When I was in the first grade, my entire life changed. A boy who was much cooler than me because he could think up insults that involved making other boys feel like girls found just such an opportunity with yours truly.

He called me Danielle.

I felt like a girl.

Shortly thereafter, in my stubbornness, I came home and announced that I was thenceforth to be known as Dan. Just Dan. Apparently, I wouldn't respond (to the degree of not batting an eyelash) to my full name no matter who was addressing me. I insisted on being called Dan by everyone everywhere: my parents, my siblings, my school teachers, and especially that idiot who started this whole mess.

Throughout my life, isolated Danielle incidents cropped up—usually when I accomplished something in academics. As is not surprising, academic achievement—while not totally limited to the females in my class—was fairly well monopolized by them. I have a distinct memory of being called to the front of a rather large assembly of students and parents as Danielle, the academically achieved 7^th grade girl. When I arrived at the podium Mr. Mummert looked at me as if to say "Wow, poor kid. Why'd your parents name you Danielle?" immediately before the revelation came to him that my name was Daniel. Needless to say that this did not increase my resolve to ever be known as Daniel again.

In process of time, my priorities shifted as did the level of insults delivered one to another on the sports field. I'm happy to report that only very few 24-year-old males find the need to belittle their opponents by employing the feminine form of their names. When I arrived home from my mission, I decided that it was time to let people know who I really was. After a few years, I have actually become used to my full given name and almost prefer that people use it (there's a theory there, but I'll save that for another time). However, something else happened on my mission that while giving me great joy, has given me cause for a small regret: I learned French.

Today, I was sitting in my French civilization class. Our professor was performing a random homework inspection during which he selects three students to turn in their homework for the day. He called my name. I was prepared. I stood up from my desk at the back of the classroom and walked toward him with my homework in hand only to find him looking at someone else. Another Daniel? No. A Danielle. The two names are exactly homophonous in French. The class looked at me and with the same giggles that have haunted me since I was six seemed each to whisper one to another "Now, he feels like a girl." My professor, sensing his mistake then immediately called my name (again in French: \dæn-'jɛl\) so as to alleviate my embarrassment, but the damage was done.

Let's face it, this probably wouldn't have been such a big deal if my specific experiences weren't involved. And I'm not making any movement to revert back to Dan again. But seriously? Why me? Why again?

Danielle

The Conundrum

2009-09-01T09:35:00.002-06:00

I let fly with a throw that I know will be good the moment it leaves my hands. The frisbee races, slightly rising, towards my target. We score a point. This time we're playing at night, with a light-up disc, which allows for certain liberties not taken in the day time. I take one of them furtively.

One of my teammates runs up to me with a hand held out, congratulating me on a good play. Here, however, I have a decision to make. I can either return the gesture, knowing what I've just done, or I can ignore her and make her feel like an idiot. It's really a no win situation. Still, honesty being what it is, I think I made the right choice.

I look at her and admit, a little sheepishly, "I can't give you a high five because I just picked my nose, I'm sorry." The game continues with one of its players a little wiser, a little humbler.

Daniel

248

2009-08-28T01:58:00.006-06:00

If you can understand the reasons that I write,
And feel my feelings underneath your skin.
If you read with your lips and speak with your eyes,
A broken brother, then. I welcome you.

If otherworldly heroes sink in despair
To see your foot step and recede again,
And weep a hallowed, spiteful elegy
At westward's flighty trip,

Hail, then, my wander'd kin, thou sorrow
Fill'd with joy. Hail and well met;
Come cast your tears aside like rain,
Throw down your grief and sit.

Come, feed with me at brimming trough,
Where none do thirst nor drink,
Yet all do lap with hands outstretched
At veil'd, northward streams.

Come, dine a mortal's supper filled with grapes burst open wide
And wonder how the bird doth sing and why the sun doth shine.

Walk witless, brave, bereft and bare
'Neath shady trees and jeweled sand
And fling aloft your love to fly
The wind beneath her blossomed.

Fill sky with blue and earth with death
(that wakes new life and crowns new kings)
To shout defiance o'er trembling walls
And paltry shields to crumble.

Step quickly now, they're coming through the rye,
Catch best and worst alike!
Men who blind themselves with passion
Fall to perfect, knowing sight.

And ruminate the coming of a broken brother's kin
'Cross bridges built of blood, scribbled worries on his skin.

Daniel

The Size of the Job

2009-08-22T11:32:00.007-06:00

Handy - \'han-dē\ - adj:

1) clever in using the hands especially in a variety of useful ways
2) probably the most desired quality that a man wishes for himself

There's something about knowing that if it's broken, you can fix it. You spend fifteen minutes thinking about it, looking at it, sizing it up. You think about what you know about craftsmanship and which tools you'll need. You secretly rejoice at the realization that you don't have all the materials or tools that you need because it means that you get to go where every real man goes on Saturday morning: The Home Depot. Externally, of course, you grumble and find a girl—any girl—and tell her where you're going. She's impressed.

The size of the job is unrelated to how much money you spend getting the parts. It has nothing to do with how many people it takes to complete it or even how much time it takes. The size of the job, and the true frustration of home improvement, lies in one single number: how many trips you took to the hardware store. It's not that you didn't make a list, or that you got the wrong part (although that does happen, too), it's that the job always throws a curve ball at you halfway through. A cut wire, a screw you didn't see, a broken tool, an unforeseen complication necessitates another trip. You tell your girl with a little menace in your voice that you'll be back in fifteen. Now it's a two-tripper.

On the third trip, the frustration is gone. It's replaced with a healthy respect for the job, for its complexities, its unseen difficulty, and the knowledge you have that you will conquer. The guy at the checkout stand is starting to recognize you, even though you've got an increasingly thick layer of dust sticking to the sweat on your forehead. He smiles knowingly and asks you how it's going, not if you need any help (he knows better than that). You give him a little smirk and tell him that this is the last trip.

It's over: a three-tripper, completed with four classic rock albums or so playing in the background. You bought six items, but you only needed four of them. The other two were things that you will probably need in the future that will make the next job a little easier, maybe a two-tripper.

In my case today, it was a simple one-tripper: a wobbly table that needed a couple of 1/4"-20 brass machine screws (what's a job without man-jargon?). I listened to The Best of The Doors and bought a set of hex keys for next time, in case I need them. It wasn't much, but it was my first individual-effort one-tripper, and it felt good.

Daniel

Thoughts on Wicked

2009-08-19T01:35:00.003-06:00

I think we were supposed to identify with the fact that Ephelba was green. I think life feels like we've been given everything that we need to become the best possible person, but we're stuck with a few things that people see that they can't get over. We all know what it's like to know that we're capable of anything, but to feel held back by inconsequential facts.

Take my friend from freshman ward. She was overlooked so many times that she started to believe that she was the reason for being missed. She saw herself as not pretty enough, too smart, too loud, too [something] and not enough [something else]. It took a Fiyero to show her that her 'faults' were in fact triumphs, her failures successes.

In the middle of the best intentions gone slightly wrong, Ephelba saved the lives of many people who, in turn, cursed her forever and twisted others into thinking that she was evil. The best part was that I figured out what was going to happen, and then it didn't. Our hero, Fiyero, said "It's OK. You did the best you could" and took her away.

I guess that's what I'm looking for. I don't really need someone to be so good that they stand out in stark contrast to my medicrisy. I need someone who looks at the best in me, ignores completely the fact that I'm green, and takes my mistakes with a grain of 'It's OK. You did the best you could.' That's the way we improve, not by rigidly rejecting all that is wrong with ourselves and others. I think that attitude is yet another facet of the ever-elusive perfect friendship. Any takers?

Interestingly enough, Ephelba spends the introspective moment with a greedy, impulsive, self-indulged, ignorant, manipulatrice during which she recognizes that 1) hers was the only friendship she had, and 2) their friendship had changed her for better. She then, in grand Dark Knight fashion, heaps guilt upon herself allowing Glinda to continue because she is the one who everyone thought was good in the first place.

There's the Christian element. There's the simple, innate goodness of the Wicked Witch that comes through, as well as the power of forgiveness to heal deep wounds. That's what I wish I could be strong enough to do, but realize that I'm far from the end of that path.

Oh, it was funny too. And the music was phenomenal.

Daniel

The Toast I would have given You, Except for that I wasn't your Maid of Honor.

2009-08-15T18:41:00.003-06:00

Karen,

In some ways, you're still the little sister who I convinced that rabbits grew on trees. You're still the person whose imaginary friend I scientifically disproved based on the fact that he didn't have enough chromosomes (you said 2. Correct answer: 26). For my entire life you've been my younger sister; the one who came to me for advice, the one who I counseled, and the one to whom I lent my experience of being a whopping three-and-a-half years older.

I've always loved you and I've always wanted the best for you. But tonight, I gained a new kind of respect for my little sister. And, let's face it, tonight you did something that isn't entirely fair. You grew up. And not only that, you got older. And in some ways, even older than me. Now there are some things that you've done first, things on which you'll be the expert when it's time for me to do them. In some ways, honestly, this is kind of hard to handle for a big brother who likes being big (and wise, and—what the heck—handsome). But all strange and difficult feelings aside, I want you to know that there's something that I do now that I may not have done before. Something which—looking back on it—you've always deserved. Now I get to look up to you.

So raise your glasses, everyone, and toast to Colt, a new brother-in-law, and Karen, an admirable, older, younger sister.

Daniel

Sitting on the grass with the crickets

2009-08-13T01:27:00.003-06:00

The earth sang to us,
Under the stars, next to the tree
Where we sat with the crickets
And one curious spider.

She listened to us as we discussed deep fears,
And ice skating,
And playing the piano,
And sometimes we just sat there.

Her quiet song assuaged our grief,
Even if only for a moment.
Sometimes together, sometimes syncopated,
The crickets chanted, ever less important,

Until you were the only one I heard,
The only one I heard,
The only one I heard,
The only one.

Daniel
__________

I will learn the truth with sorrow,
Here today and gone tomorrow.

A Dream

2009-08-01T08:44:00.004-06:00

I was a contestant on the show Jeopardy! and I was late for our first filming. A friend of mine from work was already there (he being another contestant) and had been listening to the instructions given by Trebek. To my dismay, our host had decided to give the answers to the questions and had allowed each contestant to take notes. Having gotten there late, all I got was a pizza on which to write down all the answers (by inscribing them on the back of the pizza with a fork). Unfortunately, I was ravenously hungry and kept eating my notes after having made them. Frustrating.

Daniel

Flanders Fields

2009-07-26T01:22:00.004-06:00

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Do you hear the dead? They call you, too. It's soft, almost inaudible; a whisper rising up from between the crosses that mark their places like so many poppies rustling from a breeze. They lived like you. And they plead with us:

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep

-John McCrae

We are in a war that is bigger than us, older than us. It started with the birth of humanity and will be waged long after humanity's mortal death. Ours is the task not to start again, but to continue from where they left off. We are to become more than those who went before just as they were more than those who went before them. Their death was not a failure so much as it was a testimony of all they could do and that which they expect of us. We will not fail. And we must not give up.

Daniel

Responsible Parenting

2009-07-15T21:49:00.004-06:00

I work in a large warehouse. My job is fairly simple; I pull things out of large freezers and put them onto palates. Then I put the palates on a truck and deliver them to different entities on campus. The freezers are all located along a rather long hallway (at the end of which is a blind corner) and can be accessed by large, sliding doors. The forklift I drive is pretty quick, and must be taken several times an hour around the blind corner and into the freezers, which makes my warehouse a dangerous place to be if you aren't accustomed to the day to day work we do. So, you can imagine my concern when I saw two little boys (~7 and 5 years old) wandering around on the staging floor (the place we put stuff before we load it onto the truck). I disengaged the forklift and walked up to them.

Me: "Hey guys, whatcha doin'?"

Older boy: "We smiefn jumfinn snarzle fillint fweed plop."

Me: "Um, I didn't really understand that."

Younger boy: energetically "Oh, my bwother has a pwoblem with his ears."

Me: "Well, it seems I do, too. Who's your dad?"

Older: "My dad's in California."

Me: thinking "OK, bad guess..." to the boys "Well, where's your mommy?"

Older: "At home."

Me: "And she knows you're here?"

Older: "Uh-huh."

Me: "So your mom said it was OK to play in a warehouse?"

Older: "Yeah."

Me: "Well, why don't you tell her that she has to come too, and then we can show you around a bit."

Older: "OK."

And off they went. I haven't seen them for three days, which kind of disappoints me. I was hoping to give them the grand tour. I think if I were a boy that age, seeing a place with a freezer four times the size of my room would have made that building seem like Narnia and I would have remembered it for the rest of my life. Heck, I still think that place is cool, and I'm 24. Oh well. The biggest lesson I learned is one of those things that you'd think everyone would already know.

Parenting tip number 312: Don't let your kids play in a warehouse.

Now I know.

Daniel

Notes

2009-07-06T12:18:00.004-06:00

Have you ever had a moment in your life where you wanted so badly to learn some piece of unknown information, but you knew that there was absolutely no way that you would be able to learn it? Sometimes, I resolve to research the matter and learn about it later. It seems so vitally important to me then, but by the time I'm in a position to figure out what was going on, I've completely forgotten what it was that I was supposed to find out. Either that or the information I'm looking for is totally unattainable and I simply have to forget that I ever wanted it. This is totally unacceptable to me. There must be a way to learn all those little, important things in our lives! Well, now I've got the solution.

I'm not really sure how dying is going to work, but I've got some pretty good working hypotheses. I don't think I'm the first to guess that we'll be able to look back on our lives (often referred to as the "Highlight Reel" or "The Movie") with some degree of completeness and detail. I'm going to assume also that we will also be able to understand our own thoughts (and, possibly, those of other people).

So, whenever I come up against a situation where I can't figure something out, I just mentally send myself a little note. It goes something like this:

"Hey, me, would you mind checking that out for me?"

or, alternatively,

"OK, what the heck is going on here. What did he say to her just then?"

Then I can completely forget about whatever it is I want to know, knowing that I'll be able to learn it later. I should point out here that I'm not joking in the slightest. My movie is going to be replete with little, mental notes that will satisfy all of those pesky unsolved mysteries and curiosities that haunt so many people. I'm not sure if my life is totally worry free as a result, but I'm convinced that this is the only way to go.

Daniel

Zero Fun, Sir

2009-06-29T12:14:00.005-06:00

It is inaccurate to say that I hate fun or that I don't like having fun, but the more I think about it, the less I like the concept of "fun".

Once upon a time, I think that people invented the word

(as a side note, when I was young I always thought that language was invented in a laboratory by scientists with white coats and clipboards furiously scribbling notes about what certain sounds felt like they should describe:

"What do you think of when I say 'stop', Johnson?"
- Johnson scribbles some notes on his clipboard, looking thoughtful -
"It sounds like things that were moving aren't moving anymore."
"Well, that's what it means then; write that down. S-T-O-P.")

to describe the feelings they have when they do something with someone they love. Thinking back on an activity done with friends, one can remember that they felt either elated, happy, content, or whatever and they'll say "I had fun".

Sometime between the invention of the word and now, we became a fun-seeking society, where we try to feel the same feelings of exhilaration without all the difficulty of making deep friendships. We get into huge groups of people and do things that provide us momentarily with "fun", but leave us ultimately lacking in the contentment of loving and being loved.

In other words, fun should be a product of good friendships, not an end in its own right. Seeking fun before real friends—to me—is wholly unsatisfying. In those groups I feel uncomfortable, as if my ability to have fun (without satisfying human interaction) determines whether or not I'll be liked by the group. When I do something with a good friend who I'm not worried about impressing or entertaining, I find that it doesn't really matter what happens. We can play cards, sit and talk, or go sky diving, and we'll always have a good time because we are more interested in spending time together than we are in providing an atmosphere of adrenaline-charged hilarity.

I think that's why I don't like dancing (which, to me, is the epitome of a 'fun before friends' activity during which I'm required to cavort around like an idiot or else I'm ruining everyone else's good time) or large group activities. While recognizing that they are important for meeting the people that could eventually become good friends, I'd much prefer an evening with a few good people who care about me and about whom I care. Give me quiet conversation before loud parties, real questions before yet another explanation of where I work and what I'm studying, and genuine concern before "Dude, she's hot. You should hook me up."

Daniel

Big and/or Awesome Words: Part 4

2009-06-25T12:15:00.004-06:00

Perspicacity:

This is a noun meaning "acute mental awareness," as in the sentence "He perspicaciously noticed that she was having a bad day and let her off an hour early." Aside from being a word that I had never heard before about a month ago, it also is extremely fun to say (lots of /s/ and /sh/ sounds) and seems to be a quality that is desired.

Daniel