The Last Post

This must be where I make a short reflection of this class and give my farewell. I suppose that's a swell itinerary.

You know what, I learned something this semester. I developed as a student and a person, man. Although I've not yet experienced my final exam, according to my other two exams there was a quite the difference. D to an A. That's perty good, I'll take it. What else? I read, surprisingly, something. My initial plan wasn't to "crack," yet not fall through the cracks, a book in college. But that changed, but there's still a problem. I've yet to finish the heralded B.K. I may have learned something, but learning still takes time; and in my case, a lot of it. I'm still pushing through, but it's underwhelming to have yet finished.

The emotion that surprised me most this semester was actually coming to nearly every class. Not cause I had to, but I wanted to. The teaching and material was engaging, and that's hard to find. I know that our professor is immune to praise, but the complement is there for the taking. Also, what made the class even more tolerable, I mean fun, was the fact that many of the students were active and put their word out there for interpretation and critique. Yes, many were quieter, but that's everywhere. Yet, no one really dominated the room. It was very democratic and socialized. Props, yos.

I hope that I get the grade I want and deserve, but numbers and letters don't mean much in a world of imagination.

A Little Push

What do I get for appealing to the wise? Appealing to authority? Appealing to the man? What do I get out of a radical change in my lifestyle? Hells nahhh, being school oriented? Where's my ends with that? Where's the love, where's the fun? Wasn't I doing just fine before? Really? Was I on the path to happiness? Can I get to happiness without this lifestyle change? Learning to read (faster and gooder) is best? Will this open more doors? Will I want to dig deeper if I enjoy it? How do I know what I think till I see what I say? What's and where's the point? Is there a point? Can I do something without being the best? Am I the best? Am I a bad person? Are these questions answerable? Do these questions have a theme? No? Is this stream of consciousness or is this for real? What do I need to do? What must I do?

Yes or no, all I need is a little push.

Presentations' Reflections

Rule one: don't be in a group with four other, the only others, girls. Naw, jokes on me, I suppose, and pardon my sexism. All's well after our prez. Did we have trouble organizing? Did we have trouble writing? Did we have theme trouble? Did we have many other troubles? Yes. Yes. Yes. Aaand, yeah, sure.

But hey, nothing ever goes according to plan, right? I suppose that it did, I mean didn't, 'cause it sure worked. A true success, did we plan that? Naw. I give all-around props to my group and mates. We did the job, boys and girls. By the way, wasn't my last ad lib in the skit a hail to sexism? No matter, that -ism doesn't exist in our generation, right? Only it's fun remains.

As for my singled-out prez. I thought that went...okay, at least. I'll take it, we'll say. Gotta hand it to them Dixies, they got straight to my point by "Taking the Long Way." Props, mates. I mean ladies, you liberated me. Anywho, they weren't the core point; that was all about my incompetence. Live and learn, yo.

Spoilers

The thing is, no matter which storytelling medium is offered, I hate spoilers. I hate those who ask questions during the middle of the movie. I hate those who tell me the content of a book which I'm behind on. I don't even like when someone reviews a book, film, music album, whatever. You have to figure it out on your own. Get. An. Opinion. Now this class has taught me that I'm not up to the read-speed status quo. Thus, I know many of secrets of, say, The Brothers Karamazov that I shouldn't have known, yet. And because of this, I've stalled. It's hard for me to continue with the novel. I am, begrudgingly, but it hasn't been the achievement that it's been built up to be.

An example, a main reason, I have trouble continuing is that the day I read that Dimitri K. has been accused for the murder of his father I also find out who the real killer is in class. To me, that's a head-shot.

Now I don't know what I have a bigger problem with. Spoilers? Or my inability to keep up? Ain't this quaint. It so appears that spoilers are a part of the class, and so is speed reading. Guess I should get a hobby, and we'll start with reading so I can apply it to my non-traditional lifestyle.

In the meantime, I'll give a shoutout to Generation Kill. Get Some, yos.

Preliminary Thesis Outline

My rough thesis is going to be based off of the story Cathedral and the characters within. In the story the blind man who represents the archetype of the "Old Wise Man" shows the younger less experienced man a different way of looking at life. That's what has happened this semester to me personally. I think something came to me this semester, maybe an epiphany, maybe it's wisdom.

Although my thesis is not set in stone, it's going to examine what I've learned through my semester's experience and the new and old friends and acquaintances who have influenced my personal character development.

Paronomasia

I am true fan of puns. Being a true fan of puns is like being a true fan of the Dallas Cowboys (which, ironically, I am as well), you're going to receive a lot of scrutiny. Since coming to Bozeman, I've advocated the art of the pun and my friends generally seem to respect my opinion of them if I am receiving groans from the "pun wars" which occasionally happen.

Then about a week ago, I'm told by a few friends that they read a fun fact. At least four people in a half-house said, "Spencer, did you know that puns are the lowest form of wit?" "No, really?" I say backtobacktobacktobackto--. How can this be? Puns are so clever, so simple. They shouldn't receive this kind of disrespect. But then I think, where did they get this information? They found that tidbit on "The STALL Street Journal." Hah, get it? The alleged lowest form of wit tidbit is from a source with a play on words within itself. Now doesn't this seem unfair? But this sways the argument in my favor, doesn't it.

Moreover, I reveal this anecdote to my professor who says that puns are numerously, successfully utilized within some of the most important pieces of literature. Therefore, if the "pun" is the lowest form of with then are Hamlet and The Holy Bible the lowest form of literature. Oo, that's debatable.

Backtracking: Traveling versus Reading

I still cannot understand why reading can provide a more vivid experience than traveling or simply checking stuff out. Books have description, and they force you to utilize your imagination, but if you get the chance to experience new places then how do they not supply the experience-ee with more descriptive information?

For example, I lived for six months in a foreign country. Moscow, Russia provided me more of a culture shock and enlightening experience. Not only was I forced to understand a new lifestyle, I was forced to adapt to challenges that a different culture offered to me. It was a challenge, and using my imagination and improvisation skills to get by everyday was essential. There was a barrier which I had to eclipse.

Books provide many of the elements that traveling does, and they force you to expand your mind. I suppose the main difference is the experience of the matter and challenge of it. It's something that I prefer, but you cannot deem one to be objectively better than the other.

Butt(e)

This past weekend my mother and brother came down from the AK to Montana. The bro's a senior in high school, so, naturally, they come down to the old country to check out colleges, University of Montana specifically, and I'm committing tangency. Anywho, the "old country" is Butte, Montana. My family lived there 15 years too long. Now, I don't want give Butte a objectively negative front; Butte has character, it's a community with an identity and a sense of pride, and, generally, the people there aren't bad by any means. Nonetheless, I've resided in three other places which, simply, fit me better. The bottom line is that Butte wasn't and still isn't a place I enjoy myself, not my in my other three kin members minds, just me.

Now that the context is set, let's take a look at the main event, a restaurant dinner party with my mother and five other sets of parents, parents of old and left-behind hockey team friends, who've known me from my diaper years, and I've haven't talked to or seen them in this kind of setting in nearly, to lay a number down, four years, since my last hockey game in a Butte Blues uniform.

Immediately I'm overwhelmed, and I don't know why. I'm becoming that fearful, insecure child of old. I don't know what to say so I start with the generic: "How have you been?" "How's life.?" Something like this and that ten times over, and all I can think is that I don't want to be here, all these eyes are judging me, what do they think of me being back here?, do they know that I can't stand it here? I was stressed. I was tired. I may have even been unhappy to be there, I cannot even remember and it was less than a week ago. And yet, I may have been refreshed, I think. I was reliving my old life that I've come to think that I dislike. Pardon my ambiguity, but I can't say how or why I dislike Butte, but I know what I know in my heart, and pardon my sensitivity. You know what, I think That, truly, was a bad day, a bad weekend, and I may have even understood a portion of my Tragic Sense of Life.

Back to, after two hours of old people conversing, eating, and drinking, I was beat, done, finished. I thought about nothing except the negative, and I did not express or vocalize it until my mother and I were alone, finally, at last. Yeah, we sure did talk, or maybe it was just me. A rant it was, still stressed and tired, and nothing seemed to feel better. I couldn't find anything to think or say which implicated that I was somehow satisfied to see my old "friends." I was trapped in pessimism, and I hated it, and it is what it is. The next day I went home.

I've been back here in snowy ol' Bozo for a week or so, and life is good, peachy-like. But not because I hold Butte in contempt, it's that I've had some time to leave my little negative bubble and think back on what happened that weekend with those people. And now that I've had some time to reflect, I don't think one thing that happened last weekend was truly negative. All those people had nothing but nice things to say, but I couldn't accept it then. I suppose I can now, but it's sad that I had to be so negative to realize the real thing. I was doing it to myself, the tragedy was brought on by me in that period, that weekend. I 'spose you have to know bad to differentiate it from good. Is that what the Tragic Sense is, that you must know what it is to know badness, to suffer. You must suffer or cannot know goodness. That just seems unfair, but it is what it is and that's the way things are, I think.

The only problem that I see is that I was suffering that weekend over nothing. There was nothing to complain about at that point in time, but how then could I feel that way? I think I'm just angry at my past, but life goes on, right? It does go on, but it depends on how much you let go of it. I think that you have to learn to let go because then you can let go of those bad memories, moments, and experiences.

The only thing we must learn is how to hold onto the goodness, but can we if life goes on?

Guilt Trip

Ivan Karamazov's argument against God is not good, it's beyond that, pardon the pun. Ivan has his own beliefs and he provides a context for those beliefs, but he also provides premises for his argument which rely on sources from the Bible's scripture. All in all, we should emphasize one of his conclusions, which is, paraphrasing; A world without God is a world without rules. If this is the world we live in then there are no boundaries. We may do whatever is allowed, which is anything and everything, limitless possibilities.

Thereafter in the novel The Brothers Karamazov we are introduced to Father Zosima's refutation of Ivan's argument. It's not that I've found the best refutation against Ivan's argument, but I've located a strong counter-argument from the life-in-text of Thy Zosima. Personally, I may have not have found the most applicable refutation, but the one I've located and have on-hand provides quite the query.

And I shall also tell you, dear mother, that each of us is guilty in everything before everyone, and I most of all. - Father Zosima's recollection from the memory of Alyosha Karamazov

Guilt is the main idea here. Guilt, why guilt? Think, from Ivan's point-of-view, why guilt? If there's not a God, then how is there a God if there's guilt? Many people feel this emotion, guilt, and they only feel that way if they've broken some sort of worldly, social, or moral rule. I would induce, that in Ivan's world, if there's no rules then guilt cannot exist. Yet, is there, shoot, probably. But how is there guilt in a Godless world if there's no rules? Sheesh, I don't know, don't most people feel guilt at some point in their lives, right? In my relatively brief life experience, guilt is inevitable, but does this mean that there's a God or none at all? Shoot, who knows, it's probable, improbable, or improvable. Nonetheless, the query stands, if the idea and potential for someone to experience guilt is possible then there has to be some lawful or moral rule that has been broken. The "Law" is based off morality, which must exist if there is guilt, which is based off of the idea of there being Divine Ruling, a code, a truth, a God.

From the POV of Zosima, it may be argued that the idea of guilt is a downfall of atheism. I 'spose it depends on who believes in guilt, in shame or in wrongdoing. If you don't have that emotional capacity, then believe what you want. But if you do, then consider character Zosima's potential refutation or indirectional idea.

A Scapegoat, an Excuse

I'll tell you what, the second time around there was much more to Ivan's "poem," which is more of a backing to his argument against the existence of God. The first go'round was tiring, the pages are jam-packed full of description, but there was an inspiration to focus and better understand the second rodeo.

Although Ivan's big-picture opinion differs a bit from my own, a lot of his work's/argument's elements made sense and they stood for something, involving religion and other delicate matters, in our world. Words and ideas such as freedom, miracle, mystery, and authority stay with you after reading, although the middle of the chapter lost me for a bit. They are well emphasized and repeated, as they should be. Nonetheless, the endgame shows why a lot of people accept their happiness. Their ignorance makes them happy, and they accept, although they don't understand, that others (say, authority) will take the emotional and spiritual [or lack there of] hit. Their ignorance gives them freedom, freedom instead of a lifelong endurance of hopelessness, freedom from pain, happiness.

Ivan forms this Grand Inquisitor to act as an allegory of Jesus, the church, and other religious branches. Moreover, this Grand Inquisitor is a scapegoat for people's beliefs. If the G.I. helps uphold religion and God then people have reason to believe. The G.I.'s purpose is to be an excuse for people, a truth and a false truth simultaneously. His job is to uphold a lie, to let ignorance flourish, to let freedom reign. If [most] people are ignorant then they will truly believe a false truth, it's a sort of faith. The G.I. has the view that if he takes part of the burden [along with his few authoritative counterparts, those few who know the "real" truth], if he understands the true "truth" then the rest of the world's people will be free, they'll be happy. The Grand Inquisitor is like Jesus, except Ivan's Jesus doesn't believe in God. Why is this, though? His views are based on a mystery, ah, mystery, as are those who believe in God.

Halfway

It's been 324 pages (of the 'bout-750), and I still don't have a set-in-stone opinion of The Brothers Karamazov. It's like a day where your family attends a professional baseball game: The kids make sure to bring their mits. The family shows up to the stadium a few hours before gametime right in time for batting practice. You know what my family always wanted from a baseball game? A baseball. The family thinks that attending batting practice is a promising idea. So they show up and they think they have a good chance to get some action, but as batting practice commences, continues, then begins to wind down the family is still empty handed. Nonetheless, their experience is only half over and they still know that they have an entire game to get a baseball, which might be a larger reward.

You could say that I had high expectations for a novel which was hyped-up and wanted immediate results. I really wanted to have a ball (pun intended) right off the bat when I began reading The Brothers Karamazov, but it looks like I'm going to have to be more patient. Then again, batting practice is only half the battle. The climax usually arises around the seventh-inning-stretch.

Moreover, is attending a baseball game more about getting that coveted souvenir, having your team come away with a victory in the end, or is it the experience? Alas, a problem I'm having with The Brothers Karamazov is I don't know which team I'm rooting for, but I also don't know if I should be choosing sides. I suppose the experience is necessary for your views to be formulated or understood.

I guess I'm trying to figure out what The Brothers Karamazov's batting practice does for me since I haven't gotten my baseball, yet.

A Bad Day?

Have a bad day; that's what was recommended to me. Today, I already had the jump start. Must've been fate or some unrecognized intuition, the bad day had a jump start on me. It started with me waking, taking a shower, brewing some coffee, and doing all that everyday-like routine thing. Then the bad started, something that a student like myself fears, a midterm exam. But how is that a truly bad thing, this fear? Well, if you forget when your midterm is then this fear thing exponentiates. Thus, the beginning of my bad day. It was quite funny after the conclusion of Lit. class. I was told that if I had a bad day then...who knows? I'll be glad next, I'm presuming? Something will come of it? Maybe it's a cause-N-effect/pain-pleasure/good-evil deal, a fluctuation of events and emotions, a recession of my personal, poly-variabled economic status. Shoot, if I have a bad day then some good must come of it, right? Hmm, well, considering it's still that bad day, my intellect and sophistication or something like that tells me that I best sleep on it.

Since were already on the issue, I might as well confess what my others pains from today were. Let's see: I went for a run (it sucks compensating good habits for the bad ones. [We could be hitting on something here, but we needn't pry.]), I did some homework (naturally, not that much fun), and, oh yes, I read some that darned book, The Brothers Karamazov (oh how I believe in that one saying, "patience is a virtue," A virtue which I have yet to find, develop, acquire, or however the hell it goes around the way).

But you know what, when I look at my so-deemed complaints it seems like these activities are what . amounts would love to do everyday, except for maybe the "homework" part. But, to make it sound more positive, we'll call it learning instead. Good comes with the bad and bad comes with the good, I think. When you run (especially if you just started), you hurt, you get tired, you get sore, you suffer. But you know what they say - "It's good for you!" Much like doing your homework; if you do your work then you get good grades and you learn. Much like reading, you'll learn and develop your skills if you do that work, too. And also, work is boring, it's hard, it's lengthy, and, shoot, it flat-out sucks, but if it's done or given some true effort then you'll find its worth, the good.

Think of it this way, and correct me if I'm retelling the story wrong or misconstruing my not-so-well-known history, but I remember the story from Lit. class about Fyodor Dostoevsky being brought out into some square because he was condemned to death for some reason (the place and reason I don't recall). At that point, F.D. probably was thinking something like, "You know what, I'm having a bad day." Alas, the condemners' plans abruptly change and F.D. lived and he was pardoned, back-to-back-to-back. I'll go out on a limb and hypothesize that Fyodor Dostoevsky found the good in his experience the bad. He probably did a lot of thinking after that incident, and then he went on to write quite a piece of work, The Brothers Karamazov.

I'll admit, this "bad day" of mine was probably somewhat mild as opposed to Fyodor's. I suppose I could pay some dues to F.D. by reading his book, and this will elongate my bad day. Wouldn't that be cool if the bad was prolonged then the good might be prolonged accordingly? Nonetheless, it's still hard to find the good in forgetting about a test, but, hey, I haven't seen any score, yet.

The B.K. Whomper

No, B.K. doesn't stand for the famous fast-food franchise, but The Brothers Karamazov still takes a toll on its audience. Most particularly, in my current situation, me. The book whomps on me. The characters are hard to understand, the scenes and characters are, well, quite descriptive, the dialogue is, well, quite the same, and I find it incredibly difficult to keep up with who's talking. I'm not bashing on the book, but it's nothing like I've ever read before. I guess that's why they call it "literature."

The factors which have been accounted for must be a part of the reasons why our Professor calls this novel "the greatest novel of all time." I'm not going to lie, I'm farther behind than I should be, but for me to understand the information I must the time I need, especially with a novel of The Brothers Karamazov's magnitude. It's quite an "experience," I suppose.

Nonetheless, although I'm [far] behind, I still have the motive to finish the novel. There's too much that may be potentially learned from the book's thick content. Why, though, do I have this drive? I 'spose that I have the drive to continue on this journey because I have some "experience" with the culture of the matter. To simply put it, I enjoy reading this novel because of the six-month hiatus my family and I spent in Moscow, Russia. Although my skepticism of the novel has been expressed, I still am forcing myself to want to learn about, for lack of a better term, Russianism; Or Russia's background, literary contribution, culture, or whatever this book may potentially offer to its readers. You could call it a passion of mine, to learn about Russia, its people, the lifestyle, and its historical implications.

I 'spose I believe that The Brothers Karamazov offers me some sort of hours-and-hours-long lesson which might act as a catalyst for my interests and inquiries about Russianism, per se.

Robert Frost

We hear his name is we're in ear's reach of a Lit lover, poetry person, or my grandpa. Robert Frost must be famous, but what does he have to bring to the table. Hows about "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," granted the given assignment. To be honest, what is this poem about? What's the endgame? I'm following the 'story,' the man?, and the horse, but what's the predicament? Must be the snow which is halting the en route, thus the twofolded "And miles to go before I sleep." Are the snowed-in journeyers waiting for their break or are they enjoying the ambiance and scenery? I reckon that the teammates weren't planning for this roadblock, but they're not necessarily unhappy with their situation. It's not an ideal situation for the mates to be stuck in the snow, but, hey, they're enjoying it while it's here and there. They stop their trip, they have a ways to go, and, right then, it doesn't matter that their blockaded; it's a deep, dark, white wonderland. The woods are their home for now and it's worth the wait.

Rough Sonnet 'N' Found Poetry

Sonnet -

I guess you say…dashing eye games of play.

She is a know-it-all, per say. Look here.

Say you see. What can make me feel this way?

Look empirically, my girl. My fear.

The vitals inside slither and wither.

Slim impression. Will this one be worth it?

How shall’st such gal come o’er hither?

Then, our eyes click. Initiative’s hit!

This instant, neither good judgment or luck,

Hit me. This moment, I needn’t a coach.

No need to act or move. He’s right there, stuck.

Just be my girl, by making the approach.

Y’all’s sight is no worse than hers or mine.

All’s thinkin’, be-shortsighted sometimes.

Found Poetry -

Original:

Of course, not all thermometers are reliable, and even a reliable one may be accurate only under certain conditions.

Remix:

Certain all condition are, of’, under

and, ‘course, reliable only thermometers.

May even a reliable one be accurate?

Da Sonnet

Derived from some language, sonneto in means "little sound." I think one of the reasons "sonneteers," Shakesphere for example, are so famous is because they put this little ring in their iambic pentameter. This "litte sound" is the art of the ring, perhaps? Now you ask, what are some of the elements in this ring, this iambic pentameter?

For example: The rhyme scheme from a Shakespherean sonnet.

a-b-a-b

c-d-c-d

e-f-e-f

g-g

So what of this, perhaps? Does this complex scheme give the "sonnet" an edge of sorts, considering the most famous, perhaps, story-teller and poet, William Shakesphere, was heralded as a genius, all things considered. You have to admit, Shakesphere comes of with some pretty witty grittiness. Wit, charm, dueling, death, love, sex, you name it; it's engaging, relatively speaking, and it just works and it just happens to put a stamp on history. Are these storytelling and character development techniques enough? No. On top all those prime Shakespherean story-telling qualities, he still has to stick to the rhyme scheme. Did he? Probably.

Quote analysis

This quote from The Brothers Karamazov gives one of the more intriguing, and personally relatable, anecdotes from the novel:

"I heard exactly the same thing, a long time ago to be sure, from a doctor," the elder remarked. "He was then an old man, and unquestionably intelligent. He just as frankly as you, humorously, but with a sorrowful humor. 'I love mankind,' he said, 'but I am amazed at myself: the more I love mankind in general, the less I love people in particular, that is, individually, as separate persons. In my dreams,' he said, 'I often went so far as to think passionately of serving mankind, and, it may be, would really have gone to the cross for people if it were somehow suddenly necessary, and yet I am incapable of living the same room with anyone even for two days, this I know from experience. As soon as someone is there, close to me, his personality oppresses my self-esteem and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours I can begin to hate even the best of men: one because he takes too long eating his dinner, another because he has a cold and keeps blowing his nose. I become the enemy of people the moment they touch me,' he said. 'On the other hand, it has always happened that the more I hate people individually, the more ardent becomes my love for humanity as a whole.'"

Dang. It's lengthy and it's paradoxical. How can one love mankind, yet not stand a single player for mankind? What type of traits does this person posses, how insightful are they? From several views, you may induce, for example, that this doctor likes sociology, but isn't social. He wants to help people, thus being a doctor, but he doesn't want to integrate himself with them, with friendship-like affiliation. He is proud person, he likes what he's made of himself, and when someone else is near he makes sure to convince himself that he's the better person. He has problems, but he doesn't want to have others create more problems for him. He gives examples of problems, slow-eater and nose-blower, but these examples seem like petty annoyances. Sure, some people eat slower than the 'status quo' and people occasionally get the common cold, but there's a difference between a petty annoyance and an inconvenience. It seems that the doctor, as intellectual, analytical, and experienced he is, is exposing his sensitivity and his long-term stress buildup through blunt conveyance, but his given everyday examples are far too petty. Henceforth on top of all of this, this doc strengthens his love for mankind. How can you strengthen this type of love when one is so proud, so sensitive, so individualized, and so secluded from a successful social interaction come to such an endgame? I'll go out on a limb and say that his pride is his downfall. Going back, if this doc believes that a single's opinion will oppress him and his freedom then I'll accept this as a valid argument if and only if some other non-petty example escapes his conscience and provides more positive insight.

Araby/Shutter Island/parallels

This past Tuesday a few friends, along with myself, happened to catch a twilight-hour flick. Naturally, Shutter Island seemed encouraging; We joined its audience. The post-two hour movie passes along with the corresponding time, then ends. Our group exits the theater with intent to interrogate others' developing opinions and theories. For the sake of simplicity, Spencer's score: 8.5/10.

My next goal was to surf the wavelengths of the interweb to research some background information. The main reason is because Shutter Island was especially solid in the "writing" category of film critique. Dennis Lehane is the adapted novelist; his other screenplay work consists of the human drama Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone, and three episodes of the most sophisticated contemporary television show The Wire. I see this, and I'm thinking I don't know what I'm thinking. This Lehane guy is a contributor to for my personal favorite television show, The Wire, and he is the original writer of one of the most heart-felt, unjust films of the past decade. All in all, at least I know to look for this guy from now on.

As for Araby, it's one of those simple, yet complex stories because, on any day, the reader misses something, yet gets something. I understood the whole story as using one of those "Blinded by Love"/"Broken Heart" themes. Why? The guy tries to do something nice for a girl, but the girl asks too much of him. It's like hitting a dartboard bullseye from fifty feet, it's a near impossible task when it comes down to the wire. That's when he turns back because he doesn't belong at the bazaar.

On another note, I liked the part with Mrs Mercer, a woman "who collected used stamps for some pious purpose." Can stamps enchant spiritual awakening. My theory is that this woman believes that her hobby, collecting stamps, collects history. This here stamp collection seems to refer to another important compilation of history, The Bible.

I'm going to assume that James Joyce is a Caltholic/Christian, considering he's definitely from Scotland or Ireland, fallaciously speaking. A writer most likely writes with strong consideration of their family granted religion, their ancestral religious context. Naturally, Joyce's written characters are of his religion. If it's the case that the main character in Araby is Catholic, then it would make some sense of why he was blinded by love. Assuming there was some church-related, personal, or cultural beef between the Jewish church and the Catholic church in Joyce's personal pretext before writing this story, it would make sense that the main character feels blinded in the end. He chose the wrong girl. She's a tease. She thinks he's the wrong religion. She's Jewish, and he's Catholic. This may be a motive for the girl ending up with the guy. On the contrary, I caught a fun fact from the most reliable Wikipedia; James Joyce, at the tender age of 16, rejected the Catholic Church. Did religious affiliation have anything to do with the characters' choices? I don't know where or how to analyze with all of these possible motives for Joyce's writing choices.

In Shutter Island, the island's hospital is Araby's bazaar. By the end, both main characters are looking for belonging, and they're looking for some meaning or another (with them girls always in mind). With both stories coming to conclude, the characters have had the tables turned on them, and they're still searching for something, a deeper side of things.

Hard to be Good

A simile (at least the best one from A Good Man is Hard to Find):

"She could hear the wind move through the tree tops like a long satisfied insuck of breath."

The context: There was a pistol shot, and a part of the family had been moved into the woods.

The word here which is interesting is "satisfied." Does this mean that the killers are satisfied? Or does this mean that a part of that family is satisfied with their fate? You could argue either, obviously, but I think, if we appeal to the induced majority, that choosing the killers may be a more sought choice. I beg to differ, but first we must investigate in to when a person becomes satisfied with death. In this story, the man, assumptuously, becomes satisfied at gun point, thus hopelessness. We could discuss, but that might get groteque, huh?

psyche-ology vs. psychology

If I'm not mistaken, Sigmund Freud was atheist, right? (If I'm wrong then tough, he's going to be in this misinformed blog.) Furthermore, Freud is the architect of modern psychology, the study of the mind, how people think, and stuff. To study the soul wasn't Freud's interest, but his subject psychology began with the soul, not the mind. Psyche is a word from some other language, probably Latin, and it means "soul." So how and why did "psyche-ology" morph into psychology when modern psychology doesn't have much or anything to do with the soul?

We do use philosophy to inquire about the soul, the meaning of life, and whatever preference one has about life or the world. Now I'm not a religious person, so to speak, but I'm more of a fan of the soul than the mind. (When I'm not in Bozo) I attend church to hear the good word, but call me a skeptic. Churchgoers support the soul. Skepticism supports agnosticism. I go to church to listen, think, question, and, on a good day, understand a little more of life's meaning. I "believe" meaning lies within the soul, and this makes the soul more intriguing than the mind.

But there's still a problem. Psychological and philosophical studies do not and cannot provide concrete answers. Freud started a movement, but what has psychology done since it's initiation? I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it hasn't done much. What's the point if we're jotting in stone mostly correlation, not causation. I'm not saying philosophy gives more answers because it's probably a more frustrating subject. Psychology and philosophy's problem is that they study what might be, not what is. From this claim, simply we just don't know. The mind is smarter than us, and the soul is better at hide-and-seek than us. Call me a philosopher.

No morals necessary.

There is no such thing as a "moral of the story." Morals are non-existent because they cannot justify a story. People ask for a moral or synopsis, but all they get is empty words because they do not know the story. To know the story is to have the story know you as well. You have to care about the characters because they are the story, and they're the audience's teachers. Sure, these characters advocate numbers of so-called "morals" through their words and actions, but the thing is that a story has so much more than just morals. If you give your attention to the characters then they'll teach you all about themselves, their plans, and stuff like that then maybe you'll apply some of what you learned in the story.

The story is about the experience, not the moral.

...just morals. Are we allowed to use "just" when it's describing "morals"?

Should probably write this down...

...my conscience tells me to write this down. I wake up.

"Ughhh..."

There's shuffling. The clock is teasing me. It's much too early to do anything. I smack my lips. Remember, what's tonight's story?

My thoughts:

"There's a lake. A familiar lake? No. There's a dog. My dog. Hi, dog. Name's Cloudie.

His name is Odie, but he's gone blind and now has cloudy eyes. Thus the nickname, Cloudie.

I'm on the lake's beach sitting in a sun-lounger. And a fishing pole...reel...whatever is dug into the sand next to my chair. I don't even fish in real life.

Real life, what am I thinking?

Cloudie has a leash which is knotted around the pole.

Cloudie needs a leash because he cannot wander off in unknown minds because he'll get lost because he's blind. Also, Cloudie does not like his leash although he understands that his human feels like he needs it for safety.

The leash is gaining slack, and Cloudie emerges from the lake shallows with a small rainbow trout. And he's dripping and his breath stinks. I see that Cloudie unsuccessfully opened the trout for its meat. That must be my job now. I take the fish from his stanky mouth and work the fish. Here you go, Cloudie. I give him some trout meat to eat. He moves in for seconds, then begs, then whines.

Cloudie pleads, begs, and whines because he is spoiled. He's gone through a lot. He's a pound dog who lived on the streets his first three human years; he's also tough because of this. Now and again he'll quarrel with the neighborhood ecosystem, mostly porcupine. My mom's a quilter and Cloudie loves my mom. Hence, Cloudie loves quilting thus Cloudie loves needles. Therefore, if Cloudie loves needles then he must love porcupines. I tell him not to quibble with them, but he can't help it. And I won't stop him because he's spoiled.

I throw some meat in the lake for fetching. Cloudie gobbles all of it and rushes back.

I have an idea.

I take some slack from the fishing pole and attach a hook, then place some meat on the hook. I untie the leash. I let Cloudie smell the fish. He breathes deeply, exhales, and I cast the pole. Cloudie thoughtlessly takes off for it, but he doesn't care because there's no leash. Little time passes and Cloudie returns. I happen to be reeling in a large prize, too. Cloudie and I give one another puppy smiles. And there's a hook in his cheek. I remove the hook, and he stays by my side."

"Ugh..."

There's shuffling. Time passes. There's wheezing. It's much too early to do anything.

Account of memory one

The earliest memory coming to mind is my first injury, two years of age.

I was in our house's playroom with my brother Graham jumping on the bed. Grammie jumped down off the bed to leave the room distracting me from my activity. As my eyes wandered with Graham my bouncing body misshaped the bed's surface and I took a tumble. My body fell horizontally towards the ground, and my head lined up with the bed-side table. Then thud, on the ground my eyebrow area was bleeding. I screamed, scooped myself up, and scrambled along my brother's path to track down my mother who was promptly pacing towards the racket.

My mum, dad, and I took a drive up to the health clinic, and I was subject to a shot and stitches. This is a memory filled with firsts: an injury, a shot, some stitches, and a scar.

Ain't it quaint that this is the earliest memory I remember. Do I remember this first because of the pain, or the scar? This point in my life is memorable because many things that happened that day were new. I was in shock that day. The event took a toll on me because my life was young, I had much to learn and experience, and everything that happened ceased to be forgotten.

We remember pivotal points in our lives and those points become memories. Instances with unexpected outcomes easily implant themselves in our minds as memories. The world shocks people every moment of every day, good and bad. Being a subject of [any] shock is always good because it allows us, the people involved and their overseers, to learn. The good and bad acts of the world create a context for everyone, of happiness and pain and the latter. People learn from their own good and bad experiences, and they learn from those who are willing to share theirs, of happiness and of pain and of the latter.

From this memory I've learned to not replicate it.

Two-Two-Twoten

It's that day that Professorman told us to pay special attention to (because Bill Murray is so charming). It's midnight, does this mean I should start celebrating? I've just finished an episode of the best television show, The Wire. I've done enough tonight. I'll start celebrating tomorrow.

So I wake up to this Bob Dylan song.

That's untrue and a cheap reference, but I do awake to a crescendoing alarm. (Snooze smack). I do remember to start celebrating.

Again, I wake up to this Bo...I mean, this steady ambiance underneath my pillow. Aside from all of the moaning and complaining, there is a gameplan for today.

This is an abridged play-by-play of today.

Improvised To Do List:

- Sleep

- Eat

- Think about attending class

- Skip class

- Hang with my homies

- Talk to my family homies

- Quit video games when losing

- Do homework, with spite [and please, don't hold it against me, haters]

- Figure out other stuff to do

- Eat

- Sleep

Despite my wordy coverage, this day is more important to live than to write about. I'm not James Joyce, but we have one thing in common. I probably didn't do what he did on his twentieth, and I probably didn't write about it as much as he would've. Although I cannot recall all of today's quirks, it's a day that will be nonetheless remembered.

Engagment

How can you judge engaging writing? Is it determined by the subject matter? The word choice? The speed at which people read? How much people enjoy reading? It could be any and all of these, but are there writings out there that aren't engaging? Sure, but I thought that a book was never as boring as the reader.

As writers, if we think of it this way then at least we know that what we write about will always out-duel the audience. But does this mean that the audience, essentially, has no say, no opinion important enough for the matter? How can stories be more important than the people who read them?

How will we settle this discrepency, or needn't it be settled? The premise for our Literature class is that the stories we read are more interesting than our real lives. Our lives and the lives everyone around are living aren't interesting. There's little worth mentioning in real life compared to stories of Literature and the issues they cover.

That being said, we must learn to read boring books because they may seem more boring than real life, but they're not. If we accept this idea then we will sift boredom out of our lives, but the problem is that people still believe that Literature isn't that important.

"Imagination is declining..."

"...people are popularly and unhealthily are relying more and more on facts." This quote, or something like it, was presented by the one-and-only Professor Sexson.

There are many instances where this holds true, but this depends on the definition of imagination. For instance, we can examine a broad topic, college majors. This example has two sides: Liberal Arts vs. Math, Science, and Technology.

I'm an English-Teaching major in a Lit 110 class. Of course I believe that literature, English, and writing contain substantial amounts of imagination, but who's to say that Mathematicians or Scientists don't have imagination? Can math, science, and technology be considered art? In their case it depends on whether their work goes beyond logic to solve problems, create solutions, and make their conclusions useful. Math, science, and technology field-workers use imagination because they constantly use inductive reasoning to study or create...something.

Essentially, inductive reasoning is assuming. Logically, there's a problem with induction. Therefore in this case, if inductive reasoning isn't logical then studiers of math, science, and technology are using their imagination because their ideas are being conjured in their minds, on paper, and then played out thereafter.

Hence, math, science, and technology can go beyond logic to create new facts on which people rely. The problem is that facts are created because of imagination.

Math, science, and technology has a lot of effort put into it, but it doesn't always have the facts and the studiers set out to find them. Alike writers of literature, imagination is used to create stories, to create finished products.

A fact explains a phenomenon and a book explains a story. They're both a part of our world and they're both useful, but who's to say that imagination is declining? To a liberal artist like myself, imagination may just be becoming more polluted because math, science, and technology cannot find all the facts. People either want all the facts or they just let go.

Just -in my case

In my case here I have a story about springtime. The main character being the "lame" balloonman.

My case: The balloonman is simply going about his work in his workplace, the park or something along those lines. Point is, he's around the random occurrences which shape people's days and we set them in the back of our minds. Marbles, dancing, hop-skotch; these are everyday, social activities which people just do. The balloonman likes his job, he whistles, whistles of joy.

Case-in-point: What's your case, then?

A recent retelling of this has just come out on the big screen. Most of us know of UP. In the movie there was once a man who enjoys his job as a balloonman. Yada yada yada.

E.E. Cummings, balloonmen are not lame!

What's crackin'?

When you flip through a book you acquire less information than reading a synopsis. I'm a synopsis-sucker, but the assignment was to flip through the textbook.

I did the assignment, and, unsurprisingly, I didn't read any stories. When flipping, the smaller things are more sticky, and a single word [or expression] caught my attention.

Fin de siecle - French for "end of the century" or commonly used when describing a change in an era, or something along those lines.

I caught this saying in the Jekyll/Hyde segment on page 1441 and decided to provide a quick context for the expression.

I think that I need to develop a sense of patience for literature. Then, immediately, I can stick to page 1 first, not to the one before the appendix.

Times They Are Achangin'

We should do an experiment. We'll corral up some present-generation lab-rats and tell 'em to describe Bob Dylan's current, physical features. My educated guess would be that our current-generation's rats will screech descriptions like "poofy, curly, dark brown hair," "all-black sunglasses," "carries a gui-tar," and "he's hippy-lookin'." Etc. Etc. He looked like this way-back-when? He looks a bit different now.

Now this generation, in general, did not grow up on Bob Dylan. Sure, some can sharply name 5-10 songs, recognize Bobby's voice, or occasionally recognize him in a picture. And sure, there are those Bobdylanist know-it-alls, but there are those pure ignoramuses. Nonetheless, our generation, naturally, will always have a lack of exposure, even knowledge, about Bob Dylan.

All things considered, the cops, part of the present-generation, who arrested Dylan may be excused for not knowing whom they arrested. They may be excused for not knowing Bobby, but they're flat-out silly, too. Moreover, Bob Dylan doesn't quite look the part he did in the 60s and 70s. He's old. I mix up my grandmammies and 'pappies sometimes.

These cops really prove Bob's patented-point of "Times They Are a Changin'."

Do Biddley

Bo Diddley, that's the correct spelling I believe. Bo Diddley has this pleasant song with a serial killer as the main character. Supposedly Bo Diddley lyrics for this pleasant song were inspired by actual, true, real, events...involving such killers.

Firstly, this song-involved killa is rewarded style points for his snake-stuffed home, but that's the only fragment where I can escape from what I'm hearing in this song. My man, Bo, I'm sorry but how did this killer inspire you to write such a song...with a first-person narrative?! If you're going for something with an awe-inspiring, sadist taste then more power to you.

Now, I'm sorry, I've been far too conservative. Let's talk about something more libertarian. Love. Who do you love, Bo Bo Be? How can we love when we're killin' our lovers? Killin' lovers is irrational, BOy; 'nuff said.

Needless to say, the lyrics were awe-ful, morally. Artistically: awe-inspiring.

Eavesdropping: Golf Chatter

"Whoa. Whoa! That's perfe...ct...Noo! (Bleepity bleep) this, man!" said one playing Mario Golf. "You know, you're right. (Bleep) that," announces another. I would presume that this crowd didn't have that much fun playing video games this weekend. That Sixty-Four can be quite the pain, I suppose.

This eavesdropped conversation consistently consisted of constant cursed-banter and video game appraisal; and/or dismay. Is this what it's like to be a true gamer? A life of whining, creative cussing, pissiness, and many others not listing. What's to like so much about video games if they trigger some of people's strong emotions? It's the struggle. A mock-struggle on a screen helping gamers vent and/or control various acute emotions. Video games contain inventive stories for people to play and struggle through. To learn through. Whether the game is non-fiction or fantasy, realistic or unrealistic, people learn through gaming. The trouble is, how can and do gamers apply their game-experience in real life? They may struggle in real-life, but that's what's happening while gaming. The struggle.

Did these players suffice by the 19th hole?