jayhat

Archive for 2009

A Lesson on Grammar

In English, Language, What people are, nature on December 18, 2009 at 4:22 am

In English, an obviative form of a verb is used to differentiate two otherwise ambiguous third-person pronouns.  For instance, the sentence “Melanie borrowed Linda’s car” can be expressed as “She borrowed her car,” or even more ambiguous, “Melanie likes what Linda likes” can be expressed as “She likes what she likes.”  So, an obviative form would likely be a marker—some sort of affix—used to differentiate “she” from “her” or “she” from “she.”

Of course, in English we don’t have an obviative form.  We allow for the ambiguity, relying on the speaker—or writer—to avoid using pronouns in ambiguous situations.  So, for the cost of a single, extra rule of grammar, we pay by having a limitation imposed on the language.

The reason I bring this up—other than to show that English has its limitations—is to point out that we have words in English that exist only as a means to express things we don’t do.

“Obviative” is an English word that describes something we don’t do in English.

I use this to illustrate the fact that, while there are plenty of things that we do that don’t make sense, there, too, are plenty of things we don’t do that do make sense.  But we still don’t do them.

In both cases, change comes with rationality.  Or reality.

Or a gentle prod from someone who cares.

Seven Days

In Dreams, Imagination, What people are, nature on December 11, 2009 at 9:07 pm

On the first day of July, a baby was born, beautiful blue eyes blinking before he’d even breached.  The only sound he ever made was a faint grunt, as if coming to a conclusion after ruling out a number of less likely possibilities.

On the second day of July, a toddler taught himself to walk by mimicking the sky’s clouds that galloped passed his nursery window.  His bounding gait taught others how to dance and proved to birds that it was possible to fly.

On the third day of July, a frumpish little boy walked along a black sand beach along the north fork of the Isle of Man, staring over the water at the water color, rainbow sunset.  The gentle breeze whispered sweetly a song of praise, a psalm, an anecdote, advice on how to grow up, how to be a father an uncle and a brother.  The frumpish little boy grinned and spit into the sea.

On the fourth day of July, an awkward teen fumbled through his clothes, looking for a lock or a clasp or a hinge or a knot.  Although he had never seen it with his own eyes, he knew it was there, which is why he stumbled, stammered, paused, or blushed.

On the fifth day of July, a young adult made his bed.  He folded the corners and tucked the sheets, he fluffed the pillows and replaced the comforter.  He stood back, looking upon that which had created and realized that, in reality, he had not actually made anything; rather, he had simply reorganized what had already been.

On the sixth day of July, a man sat on his couch, reflective of his life thus far.  He remembered the good times, yes, but he also considered all of the wasted hours and how fast it all seemed.  He wondered if there was something that he was missing or if this was really it.

On the seventh day of July, an octogenarian stubbed his toe, yelled a curse, and was struck down, dead by the god he swore he never believed in.

I attempt to prove the existence of reality

In Dreams, English, Imagination, Language, What people are, nature on October 8, 2009 at 5:03 pm

I think, therefore I am.

I am, therefore I do.

I do, therefore I act.

I act, therefore things happen.

Things happen, therefore things change.

Things change, therefore there exists something outside myself.

There exists something outside myself, therefore I am not alone.

How Time Is

In non-fantastical, physics-nature-etc. on October 1, 2009 at 10:31 pm

Time is a funny dimension:

Length, width, and height, though often relative—certainly, at least, to each other—are somewhat constant. Though a solid might be taller or longer or wider, its dimensions generally remain stagnant. If one place is further from another, it’s unlikely to ever be closer—at least in our lifetime. If one lake is bigger or deeper than another, it’s unlikely to ever be smaller or shallower—again, at least in our lifetime. Of course, man can alter these dimensions. Something, by subtraction, can become shorter, smaller, or thinner.

Time, on the other hand, is completely unaffected—at least, intentionally—by man. By its nature—which is to say, it moves only in a single direction—something can be older, but if it is, it can never be younger.

But time is also fluid.

Sometimes it moves fast. Sometimes it moves slow. One minute might feel like five, another ten might feel like two. The only constant with time is that it is perfectly measurable and always—in a practical sense—relative only to itself.

A mile might not seem that far if you’ve already traveled a hundred and ten stories might not seem tall next to a skyscraper, but ten stories from a mile is shorter than the first knuckle of your middle finger.

An hour will always be an hour—independent of space.

It just might not seem that way.

Shades of Gray

In Sports, What people are, non-fantastical on September 21, 2009 at 10:46 pm

My friend,

This is not a world of extremes. Surely, extremes do, in fact, exist, but they are rare. Really rare. As rare as a perfect circle or a certain snowflake. As rare as you are exactly–exactly–the same.

Extremes are defined by what they aren’t. They aren’t what everything else is. In shades, black is extreme because it is [not white]. White is extreme because it is [not black].

Every other shade is some variation of gray because it has at least a little black and a little white.

In the shade spectrum, there are a single two extremes for infinite grays.

This, extrapolated, is how life is. Given something–anything–there are two extremes that provide counterexamples rest of the mass of humanity.

Think of this in sports terms, if you will–if we can agree that there exists someone, at sometime, who was the best at a given sport or event or position–then he or she or it is one extreme–or [not bad]. The other extreme, then, is the individual who was the worst–or [not good].

–And just as surely as someone–at his or her or its peak–was the best, someone must have been the worst–

Everyone else, since they weren’t [not bad] or [not good] are a shade of gray, some combination of bad and good, no matter how close he or she or it is to a given extreme.

–Or, the second best putter ever–ever–to touch a golf club is/was/will be slightly more bad than the best putter in the history of humanity, who is, by our definition [not bad]–

The reason I bring this up is because the ratio of anything to infinity is zero. Despite the fact that the world speaks in extremes–in labels and genre and hyperbole and shortcut–extremes are statistically insignificant. We speak of conservative and liberal, of smart and stupid, qualified and unqualified. We speak of amateurs and experts, of best and worst, quickest, tallest, and shortest. Of exceptional. Of insubstantial. Of gay and straight.

If, statistically, no one is any one thing, then everyone must be composites of everything. Yet, no one ever acknowledges this fact.

The Fall

In Ancillarious, Writing, novelish on September 17, 2009 at 7:54 pm

Something happened and then the midnight sky bled with the embers of a burning city.

Below, a stale crimson fog lavished and hung. The sewers flooded through broken pipes, a viscous water that stank of dog and rot and sweat, an earthy dew that salted the seas of crumbled grain.

Within minutes, they grey remains of death covered the streets, inches deep in a mid-summer blizzard, each unique flake a piece of something that used to be. Leaves, stone, people, birds, glass, metal, wood, rubber, plastic, tile, bugs and worms and grubs. All soot and ash. Crosses, apses, domes, pillars and pews and pulpits. All soot and ash.

Within hours, waves washed the streets. Mildew corpses moldered in fish stew, a fecund boil that begat a fine green salt that dried in clumps and lined the rubble with undulating stencils that parodied the tide…

Writing (as it pertains to Darwin)

In Language, Writing, novelish on September 13, 2009 at 10:57 am

It’s a landmark moment in every writer’s life when he receives his first rejection letter, and it can affect him in a number of ways.

Possibly,

If he is foolish enough to believe that his work was actually as good as he felt it was—to chew the very truffles he dug up—the letter comes with humility. It is the recognition that it is not a perfect work, that he is not infallible. That some people just don’t jive with everything he writes, lean on every word, enunciate the last phoneme of every sentence. That nothing is ever finished as long as there is someone who disagrees with it. That if everyone agrees with something, it must not really say anything.

This man—he, who had been foolish and ignorant—can either learn his lesson or he can become a brick wall, believing the rejection is no fault of his own; the publisher simply has bad taste and it is to his detriment that he rejects such a fine piece of literature.

Or,

If this man lacks the confidence to withstand criticism, a rejection might mean the end. Some people take resistance as a challenge; others shy from it, choosing instead to live safely within their limitations. Why risk failure when the alternative is so comfortable? There’s regret, sure, but regret is for the feeble. Regret only irks those motivated enough to do something about it. And if one is willing to do something about regret, a challenge should have been of no consequence in the first place. In which case, we are talking of cowards and misers.

To whom criticism is of no consequence.

For it is their nature.

But,

If this man is realistic enough to realize that even the smoothest roads need to be repaved from time to time—that achievement is relative to what one is capable of—he will see rejection is a rite of passage, something every author experiences, a yardstick for measuring miles.

* * * *

Which is interesting, because:

An author will go back on his previous works and read, utterly embarrassed.

The work is alien. Commas are not where they should be. Too many superlatives. What awful, contrived dialogue.

The embarrassment is not that it is poorly written; rather, the embarrassment is that, at one point—maybe not even that long ago—the author had been convinced that the writing was very nearly flawless.

Writing evolves.

Like anything worth doing, it gets better the more it’s practiced.

But the feeling upon completion never changes.

Check it.

In Getting Close, Post Script, What people are on September 10, 2009 at 11:51 am

Check it.  Uncomfort: the feeling when I don’t know what/why/how I’m doing.  Comfort: the feeling that I know what/why/how I’m doing.

The problem is this–Comfort: familiarity.  Familiarity: easy.  Easy: boredom.

Boredom leads to transition, which leads to not knowing what/why/how I’m doing: uncomfort.

Uncomfort and boredom.  To do away with one is to invariably lead to the other.

****

Check it.  A girl is good enough for me only when I decide she’s too good for me.  If I decide she’s too good for me–and I get her regardless–she’s decided that I’m good enough for her, which means she’s not too good for me, which means she’s not good enough for me.

How fucked up is that?

Rejected Blog Idea #5

In Rejected Blog Themes on September 10, 2009 at 11:36 am

A blog in 140 character bursts that inundates those who follow me with the inanities of my interaction with the world that exists within the six inches in front of my face.

On Regret:

In What people are, novelish on September 7, 2009 at 5:46 pm

It does no good to regret things, if you like who you are.

To regret something is to wish change upon yourself. If you learn from your mistakes, anything you would regret has only made you stronger. If nothing else, you learned never to do that something ever again—which you would have no way of knowing if it had never happened.

To wish something undone is to open yourself up to repeating the mistakes of your past.

And the next time, you might not get anything out of it.

Rejected Blog Theme #4

In Rejected Blog Themes on August 28, 2009 at 1:24 am

A blog that defends Nic Cage as the greatest actor of our generation

What Humor Is

In Dreams, Humor, Imagination on August 25, 2009 at 11:09 am

Dreams and imagination are a bit like comedy.

A good joke is one where the punch line is unexpected. If the audience knows what’s coming—if the punch is anticipated—it’s not going to be funny. If the punch is wholly nonsensical—get a few laughs as it might for the absurdity—it’s still not a good joke, as the creative construct of the joke itself was not the reason for the laughs.

So really, a good joke is one that is told to an end that the audience did not see coming, but when they think about it later, they realize they could have.

* * * *

Oh, and one more thing about that:

Humor is firm, but once it breaks, it’s practically irreparable.

Which is to say,

When someone loses the ability to make you laugh, they aren’t likely to get it back.

* * * *

In summation:

Humor is a product of awareness.

From the files of Kilgore Trout

In Kilgore Trout on August 19, 2009 at 12:05 am

The tiny island nation of K’wang-Kwat has perfected democracy.

Every five years there is an open election for president. As not voting is a felony punishable by death, at each election, 100% of the nation’s of-age voters come out to the polls. The night prior, however, an independent counsel–made up of foreign dignitaries with personal interests only in the fact of the succession of the island’s presidency–goes from home-to-home administering a treatment made from the extract of k’wangleberry–the island’s most important and prevalent export. In high enough doses, such as those administered by the independent counsel, k’wangleberry has amnestic qualities, brainwashing the entire voting population into forgetting everything irrelevant to their personal well-being. For just long enough: They forget about human interest pieces, the botched publicity stunts, the back stories, and the gaffs. They forget about daily polls, the appeal of horse races, red herrings, and media bias. They forget about who their friends and family members are voting for. They forget who their co-workers are voting for. They forget who their boss is voting for. They forget about the issues that are brought up simply to get people angry. They forget about all the issues that are brought up simply to get people jaded. In short, they forget about everything that doesn’t have any direct effect on the quality of their individual lives. At the time that they vote, all they know is what they want out of life and that they should vote for whichever candidate they believe gives them the best shot at achieving this.

When the votes are tallied, the person with the most wins. There are no run-offs.

When a winner is selected, all of those who voted for other candidates—along with the candidates themselves—are promptly executed. This, of course, is something that would likely alter voting patterns if it was not brainwashed out of them as a result of the treatment administered by the independent counsel the night before.

Sinners in the eyes of others

In What people are on August 16, 2009 at 11:48 pm

People are generally good.

Really.

They are.

They mean well, and–so long as it doesn’t indebt them somehow–they will do well.

However, things get complicated, because quantifying debt is a fickle little game. In fact, in order to further this discussion, we need to point out a seeming paradox to the previous graph’s assertion: A simple, undeniable fact is that every single action an individual takes is done under the pretense that it will improve his or her life.

Starting broadly, if someone steals, he or she does so out of some desire–be it material or chemical, monetary or adrenal. Less broad: If someone talks, he or she feels that something unsaid should be spoken, and–further–that he or she should be the one to speak it. One would not speak if the consequences of not doing so outweigh the weight of the words.

–Consider here how the fifth amendment abolishes a catch-22 wherein someone would have to either face the consequences of speaking or face the consequences of remaining silent–

Even less broad: Partaking in religion is a means to comfort, whether it be sating insatiable questions eschewing tough decision.

Even charity. People do charity because of how it makes them feel and/or because of the expectation of reciprocity, not because altruism is instinctual.

It’s not.

Which brings me full circle: People are generally good and generally do good things because, in general, these little favors make people feel better about themselves–in fact raising their overall value.

Every action is an end to a more valuable self in some way, and no single action by any single individual is any more self-righteous or selfish than you, yourself, are capable of–and, quite likely, often surpass.

Evil does not exist. People simply want different things and, because of their environment and temperament–or perhaps more proper, predisposition–have different moral compasses.

Because of this, we need to be careful about how we judge others whose actions we don’t approve of. We, in fact, are sinners in the eyes of others, others we probably won’t agree with but who have as much right to judge us as we, them.

Cryptomnesia…

In Memory on August 14, 2009 at 12:08 am

…is the name for that thing you have when you accidentally plagiarize someone–because you forget that he or she ever wrote it in the first place.

Apparently it happened to Paul McCartney every once in a while.

Me, I’ve been struggling with this or, perhaps more properly, a form of this–or an inversion. There’s this aspect of a story I’d love to write into one of my own–except for the fact that I’m fairly certain–no, remarkably certain–that I read it somewhere.

I have memories of dreams, I have memories of actions. I have memories of reading, I have memories of what reading made me dream about.

Each of the described memories is of an identifiably different sort. Though the most vivid memories of dreams seem like they might be foggy memories of actions, the most vivid memories of actions aren’t likely–at least in my current condition–to ever be confused with dreams.

–Although, one could make a convincing argument that I’m wholly unqualified to make that claim–

It should follow, then, that the vivid memories I have of reading are quite alike those I have of actions, and those I have of what reading made me dream about, quite alike those of dreams when I sleep.

And it should go without saying that–while all these things often confuse themselves with one another–each is quite different from thoughts I believe to originate within myself.

–Which, again, one could–perhaps should, in this instance–argue I cannot possibly say–

Anyways, I’m fairly certain this isn’t my idea–whatever that really means–which means that I read it in someone else’s story, but I have no memory of reading the story–nor of any story that happens around this particular aspect of it.

Which is particularly jarring because–as this aspect clearly stuck with me–I must have found it interesting when I read it, which means I should have–somewhere within my mind–marked it down as something, written by someone, to remember.

One of these days I’ll write out the aspect in detail, even if unliterary, just so I can show it to people who might have some clue whether or not it’s something I dreamed or thought or imagined rather than read or heard or saw.

Either way, it should be out there, and if it isn’t, it will be.

Rejected Blog Theme #3

In Rejected Blog Themes on August 13, 2009 at 8:14 am

A blog about erroneous claims in this blog

What mushrooms are like

In Food on August 12, 2009 at 10:45 pm

A chicken is like a duck. A duck is like goose. They all go back to fishies.

A cow is like a pig. A pig is like a lamb. They all go back to fishies.

A plum is like a cherry. A cherry is like a grape. They all go back to ferns.

A cucumber is like a zucchini. A zucchini is like a gourd. They all go back to ferns.

A mushroom is like a toadstool. A toadstool is like a truffle. They all go back to athlete’s foot.

Rejected Blog Theme #2

In Rejected Blog Themes, Sports on August 12, 2009 at 10:06 am

A blog extolling the usefulness of recording saves in baseball, as well as lauding those who themselves specialize in such endeavors.

What, no schwa?

In English, Language on August 11, 2009 at 8:58 am

It’s interesting to me that in the English language we have all sorts of sounds that our letters shouldn’t naturally make. We take words from other cultures–if cultures exist–and integrate them into our own without respect for whether or not these words are pronounceable given our previous set of sounds. And, rather than integrating new letters to represent these new sounds, instead we appraise our established set of letters and decide which one is closest.

Most people don’t write, yet, we refuse to change our written language because we imagine words to be something stagnant, constant, quantifiable. We imagine that we can put a o- next to a u- next to a g- next to an -h and we can learn to pronounce it the same way we always have, independent of the fact that we never have, that we pronounce things differently, all the time, over space.

Even more interesting to me: We generally ignore sounds we’ve used since the language first diverged from German.

And not just sounds we use every once in a while. I’m not talking about eñes or umlauts.

Get this: The schwa is the most common vowel in the English language.

Languages are the cornerstones of cultures–if they exist. How a given people interact with their given language tells you much about who they are, as a people.

So, what I’m saying is, extrapolate.

Extrapolate, people.

Rejected Blog Theme #1

In Rejected Blog Themes on August 10, 2009 at 6:45 pm

A blog about writing a blog

Vonnegut

In Vonnegut on August 10, 2009 at 6:19 pm

I’ve been reading a ton of him.

It’s for school–yes. It’s for pleasure–certainly. It’s to become an expert–no.

I’ve always thought it was kinda silly, those professors who become experts, who spend their whole lives studying minutiae about whoever. Henry James. James Joyce. Joyce Carol Oates.

What a waste. So what. You know what Conrad had for dinner his first night in New York City when he visited America in 1923. Awesome. What does that really tell you? What did you learn from that, that you use to engage others in the broader discussion that is your life?

And I don’t mean to pick on English professors. It’s a fault of their medium. I could/would/should say the same thing about music professors or film professors or art–whatever that means–professors, but I can’t. They don’t spend three weeks annotating Madame Bovary.

Paint is seen. Music is heard. Film is both.

Books are read, and reading takes time.

Anyways, back to my point. I don’t have the time for someone who has the time to know everything there is about some author who I don’t get. It’s not that they don’t make useful teachers–they do. Rather, becoming an expert on someone–even if it is Vonnegut–takes a certain tick in someone’s personality. Regardless of boredom, this person–whoever it is–needs to force himself–or herself–to appreciate things that–possibly–even the creator himself–or herself–didn’t appreciate.

At some point, all artists are worse than they can be–or become–and–if anal enough–an artist might not consider anything but his–or her–best work worthy of his–or her–appreciation.

Point made? Good.

So what I’m saying is this: I like Vonnegut and I’ll keep reading him. I’ll even write more about him because, frankly, doing so hasn’t bored me yet. When I’m done, chances are I’ll know more about him than you. But that’s not what motivates me.

I’ll never become an expert on him. Whatever that means.

So it was…

In The Beginning on August 10, 2009 at 5:57 pm

…that I decided to start a blog. I’m cutting edge. I’m an innovator.

In short, I’m the first person to ever think this–blogging–was a good idea. I’m ahead of the game. I’m the new that’s new.

I had this old site that I wasn’t doing anything with, and now I have this new site. We’ll see if I do anything with it.

I hope I do. It would be nice if it kept my interest. It would be nice if other people would read it. It really would. I could serve as a record for my being, that I’ve done something–contributed.

Maybe I could do this once a day. Maybe. If I get a job, I’ll be bored at work, which means I’ll have time to do something to occupy my boredom. Maybe this could be it.

Like I said, we’ll see.