Providence and Seasons

In life, things do not always occur as planned. If you have been alive past the stage of an obstinate toddler, you know this. Yet, so many of us receive this lesson with agonized shock each time it is imparted to us. We question, we shake our fists to the sky, we weep into the chasm of chaos; as Jobs in all of humanity, undone, we cry out, "What is my strength, that I should hope? and what is mine end, that I should prolong my life?" (Job 6:11). Somewhere up in heaven, God is just shaking his head, maybe facepalming a little. For though the tested may, like Job, be among the faithful of the earth, each of us settles during these tribulations into a narrowed scope of "Nothing in life is worth this misery". The cause of it, perhaps, is a fundamental misunderstanding of seasons.

When I was two, I didn't understand why there just couldn't be snow in summer, or why God didn't slap bullies across the face with their own personal hurricane. My thought was that if I brought an umbrella, it had to rain. Many of us go through life like that. But I think now, that God gives us things like day and night and these four seasons to teach us profound and essential spiritual lessons about His ways. Life, inevitably, is an obstacle course of ups and downs that, like the hands of a potter on wet clay, mold us into what we are meant to be. When things are going smoothly, we see a perfect plan in everything-- each harrowing disaster in the past becomes a "bump in the road", and the future could not be anything but lovely and gentle. But the bumps do return, and as you go over them, they jostle, your clay chips, and you start to believe that any possible good in the future isn't worth this present torment. Is it?

I used to (and maybe still do) hate it when people said, "Oh, you need shadows to see the sunshine" or something else to the effect of "no appreciating the good without the bad". Believe me, I know chocolate is fantastic even without tasting broccoli first. That being said, it is true to some effect-- we learn to appreciate more what we are in danger of losing, and in comparison to the darkness, light seems to grow brighter still. Yet I think it's more accurate to say this; sometimes you have to endure the thunderstorm to have the joy of jumping in puddles later. And when you're terribly frightened by the booms and cackles, you learn that the house is safe and that your Daddy will always hold you close as you tremble. So it is that a three-year-old may understand more of God than the adult who gnashes their teeth and denounces faith in every poor circumstance.

As someone who struggles with bipolar disorder, I am unfortunately/fortunately intimately acquainted with this premise.

I won't play it like I've learned my lesson well. Without fail, each time I'm depressed I begin to draw a fantastic parallel to the book of Job. Cursing the day I was born, believing God must hate me for being terrible, the whole 'why is this happening', I'm unworthy of all goodness, general lack of perspective, etc. This presents a very real question on the case of optimism: Is it wrong to feel down? Does God condemn the times we stumble into the tarry pits of "woe is me"?

Let's take a look at the seasons.

Each is beautifully unique. Each is necessary for life. Spring heralds, "out with the lion, in with the lamb", promising gentleness, new life, and clearing of the storms. Summer brings bounty, and what feels like endless sun. In the fall, the produce is swept up, clouds begin to loom in the sky, and leaves scatter from the trees. Winter is barren and dormant, seeming impregnable and as endless as the summer before (though, you know, sledding always livens the days). And yes, too, we see the days pull longer and shorter. Leave it to God to turn a simple axial tilt of a planet into an allegory for all of life.

Galatians 6:9 says, "And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up."

1 Peter 1:6 says, "In this [salvation] you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials,"

And,

Psalm 40:1-3 says, "I waited patiently for the Lord, He turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord."

As Job is reprimanded by God for his blindness in the current situation, it's easy to forget in reading that the very first verse of this book states that Job is among the righteous. He is "blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil." Two important things may be gleaned from this: The righteous are not exempt from suffering, and, it is possible for the righteous to be soul-shatteringly depressed.

The shortest verse in the Bible speaks volumes: Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

The Bible also says, in 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God." Which is a mouthful, but a very wise mouthful.

We have a wholly loving and gracious God, our Providence, who blesses us with the trials of seasons so that we may reap their joy, grow strong in Him, and mature our hearts to gratitude in all things good and righteous. The moments of anguish here on Earth are not ignored by Him, nor are we condemned for the ill of depression. He does not waste our suffering. God tells us not to lack faith in these times, not to assume we know better (Job 33:4, 38:4); but He also tells us to heap our burdens upon him:

"I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." ~John 16:33

The earth itself, in every trail, is but training to trust in Him, for He upholds us with His mighty hand (Isaiah 41:10) and carries our every anxious burden (1 Peter 5:7). We are children in thunderstorms, and in our desperation, we cling to our Father or the protection, salvation, and love He always, unconditionally, irrevocably offers.

Sow righteousness for yourselves,

    reap the fruit of unfailing love,

and break up your unplowed ground ;

    for it is time to seek the Lord, until he comes

    and showers his righteousness on you.

~Hosea 10:12 

New Year's Resolution

Working myself into shape was not my New Year's resolution this year. In fact, my resolution last year shifted mid-January from "go to the gym at least 4 times a week" into "never make a New Year's resolution ever again". This is for one simple reason: New Year kinda sucks for introverts, in a lot of ways. A pinnacle among them being the rush that occurs directly succeeding December 31st. If you haven't made a resolution for the year but plan to go to the gym during the month of January for any reason, just don't. Walk in circles around your living room if you have to, or go kayaking downhill in the snow, but avoid the gym for a quarter mile radius.

It's a cultural phenomenon that I like to narrate a la National Geographic. It's the prime season for the developing plumage of these lanky mammals, and they flock to the local calisthenics hole for a much needed "leg day". Ah, look, there's one female of the species now. She's roosted upon what looks to be an artifact of Medieval torture. If you listen closely, you can hear her dying inside...

But that usually gets me in trouble.

Okay, look, disregard that; the problem with these resolutions is that everyone tries to pick the same thing. My big issue with this whole New Year thing isn't in the essence of me celebrating with my cat and a party popper at 9pm ("It's 12 o'clock somewhere"), which, by the way, I actually didn't do this year so the joke's on you, Mom. No, this issue begins the following morning. And it has 99% to do with this glorious blessing that is introversion:

Gym resolutions would be so fun if I was the only one who made them! All of you, stop it. It's my thing now. Give up and go home.

Just once I'd like to ask someone what their goal for this year is to hear them say, "Oh, you know, a bowl of ice cream every other morning, the usual" or maybe "Gee, I hadn't really thought about it-- I think I might like to ride an ostrich this year." People could stand to be a whole lot more accepting of the things they genuinely enjoy, and that'd do it. Here's the thing: the shift to New Year isn't going to change you. You could make the choice to eat better, go to the gym, or get more sleep any other day. It's far better to start the year in a way you'll be glad to end it: Loving yourself.

If painting makes you happy, sign up for the class. Maybe you could challenge yourself to random acts of kindness. You could buy yourself some new mechanical pencils and fuzzy socks, or check Facebook less often, or go walk dogs at the local shelter-- while getting in shape may be a great objective, there are so many other experiences worth living. If your goal is to lose 15 pounds, add in a little bonus of "Visit that fresh market I love, once a week." If you love the concept of your goals but hate how you get to them, you'll run out of willpower along with your happiness. You have to love the journey or you'll turn back on the destination. (I know this because my dad always threatens to "turn this car around right now")

And what do I love to do? Well... read. So I custom-built a 52-week challenge, and it's just descriptive but also vague enough for you to do it with me, if you'd like! Then we can all talk about the books we read in one glorious online nerd haven. Basically, here are the specs: One book per week throughout the year. You can cram all you want, or you can read one each week, but you have to read all 52. In addition, while 13 are free-reads, a whopping 39 have prompts. You can take them in any order you like and push in your free book slots whenever you like. You can also, of course, read books outside of the challenge, or customize it for your own use. Or, you can apply multiple prompts to one book you read. (Though if you do that, you're kind of a party pooper, okay?) A lot of these prompts hail from this year's Popsugar reading challenge. I can't let myself completely decide the prompts, because the whole list would sound a bit like, "nonfiction about physics, nonfiction about birds, nonfiction about Vietnamese cooking..." But I digress. Here it is:

As I read along, I'll be updating my list of books read in the following. It'll offer recommended books for specific prompts, mini reviews, links to larger posts, and general asides:

• New York Times Bestseller: Life After Life (by Kate Atkinson). A while back I tried to read this book but only had the stamina to get halfway through-- it's not a good first book after a dry spell, I'll note that. It is, however, the most brilliant anti-war novel ever crafted. I hear y'all in the back screaming Slaughterhouse-Five, but I must politely disagree. I've read both, and here is the difference: Slaughterhouse-Five, while a masterpiece all on its own, merely convinces that war is brutal and irrational. Life After Life hits with force, spiraling through a tapestry of the destiny of one woman, Ursula, amor fati, into the pained realization that we cannot know every story. Friends become strangers. Family becomes the enemy. Time after time, new pathways are revealed, new insights, people who we think will live forever and then live short. Life After Life is unique because it looks to the sky. The whole world as a snake with a tail in its mouth. And it dies, comforted, in the hands of a stranger.
• Finish in a Day: The Crucible (by Arthur Miller). This is one of the three books I brought with me to this year's Winter Camp for my church-- and, due to a surprising amount of sociability, it was the only one I finished. To give warning, it is capable of messing you up psychologically and bringing you awash to your knees in emotion in a mere 143 pages. The very nature of humanity, in all its perilous vengeance, is examined under the light (or, shall we say, darkness) of the Salem witch trials. The deleted act is best read as an epilogue to a very cataclysmic preceding scene; and through it, in the entirety of these acts, you will begin to question what malignant nature resides inside of you, yourself, no matter how pious. The just are not safe, and the wicked are martyrs. Good show, Arthur Miller, good show. 10/10.
• Graphic Novel: Tina's Mouth: An Existential Comic Diary (by Keshni Kashyap). The following is addressed to those of you who think I can find no fault in literature (it is accurate, on most occasions): I had such high hopes for this one. In the very "prologue" of the diary, which is addressed to the existential philosopher Sarte, 'Tina' writes, "I'm not one of those girls who write in diaries about boys and popularity and that sort of thing, in case you were wondering". This happens to be excruciatingly ironic because it is the only thing this book deliberates on, besides some subtle nuances to do with caste systems and appropriation of religion; but its only worthwhile content consists of a few quotes from Camus and Sarte. Sadly, yet another work of fiction that portraits teenagers as hormonal drones incapable of grasping any measure of common sense, let alone meaningful philosophy. I could excuse this if it was well-written or slightly unpredictable whatsoever, like Why We Broke Up, but alas, this book has next to nothing to offer except for a certifiable reason to go out and prove it wrong. Yikes. I feel like I need to wash my mind out with another book.
• Book by a Comedian: Man Up!: Tales of my Delusional Self-Confidence (by Ross Mathews). To be honest, I'll be a bit biased about this one. That's because I am now, certifiably, one of Ross's best friends. In fact, the book's third sentence is a sharp, "So now that we're best friends (oh, by the way, we totally just became best friends)"-- And that's all you need to know in preview for what follows. If you're interested in a spunky, raunchy, cheeky take on everything from pajama pants to lap dogs to butternut squash, this one is for you. It's a great palate-cleanser from a long string of books, and there's never a dull moment (also, Ross is gayer than a rainbow lollipop in the hands of Neil Patrick Harris). Read it and gain a new best friend! It's witty and entertaining all the way through. And while you're at it, do yourself a favor and watch through all the Ross the Intern moments-- you won't be sorry. 
• Random From the Library: Finding Zero (by Amir D. Aczel). Aczel weaves, through poignant spirituality and captivating memoirs, a tapestry of numbers that span not only human experience and the meaning of its incorporeal void, but of an existence that transcends all that we are capable of perceiving. Not only does this striking account brilliantly explain Eastern philosophy and its relation to the origin of sets and infinite nothingness, it captures some of the most fundamental aspects of human psychology and its cognitive abstraction: the longing for beauty, the satisfaction of an endless journey, the quintessential soul of questions without answers, and of course, that pivotal hidden corner of the mind where the concept of Zero merged with the vastness of the Infinite to flourish and grow to fruition. 
• Translated: Why We Broke Up (by Daniel Handler, illustrated by Maira Kalman). This was once a Spanish series, but has since been compiled, translated, and turned into one of my favorite books. It was quite a shocking revelation to me that one of my favorite childhood authors was capable of stealing the limelight in my heart once again-- Daniel Handler, aka, Lemony Snicket. I'm thinking of making up a cheer about this. Something like "Lemony Snicket, he's the ticket" or "Go Handler, he's our man(dler)", but honestly, I'm begging you, just read this book. The illustrations are lovely and the man's a literary genius.
• Required for High School: Uncle Tom's Cabin (by Harriet Beecher Stowe)
• New York Times Bestseller: The Five People You Meet in Heaven (by Mitch Alborn)
• Set in Europe: A God in Ruins (by Kate Atkinson)
• The Mind-Body Problem (by Rebecca Goldstein)
• A Twist in the Tale (by Jeffrey Archer)
• What Alice Forgot (by Liane Moriarty)
• Blue Cover: The Soul of an Octopus (by Sy Montgomery)
• Recommended by a Family Member: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (by Douglas Adams)
• The Restaurant at the End of the Universe (by Douglas Adams)
• Frida's Bed (by Slavenka Drakulic)
• The Psychopath Test (by Jon Ronson) 
• Just Mercy (by Bryan Stevenson)
• Becoming a Movie this Year: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (by Ransom Riggs)
• First Book Seen at a Bookstore: Diary of an Oxygen Thief (Anonymous)
• A Field Guide to Awkward Silences (by Alexandra Petri)
• This Land is Their Land (by Barbara Ehrenreich)

Okay. This is my real resolution, and I implore you to consider it: Love yourself. While you fulfill your goals to get in better shape or advance in your career, be proud of the person you truly are. Take time to grow in your strengths and cherish what you enjoy, and spend time with those you love, because the year will go by fast-- and you won't want to waste a single moment by being anyone other than the amazing you. Trust me on this one. This year is full of possibilities set out just for you.

Touching Time

Inertia is a property of matter that dictates that an object will stay in its current state of rest or motion until acted upon by an outside force. It is my belief that our minds are very much the same. It is for this reason, to continue in a trajectory of thought against the friction of fatigue or indifference, that this morning I opened a random volume of my encyclopedia set to an undetermined page and allowed my finger to fall by happenstance on the entry of inertia. So now here I am, surrounded by physics books (and I was ever so close to studying the industry of meat packing).

Now, back to inertia. The property of inertia states that an object will move, indefinitely, at a constant speed and direction until some outside force accelerates its motion to make it slow down, speed up, or turn. (If I hear one more person talk about this mythic "deacceleration", I am going to lose my last measure of sanity). One such force is friction, which affects two objects against each other. The force required to affect the movement of an object will depend firstly on that object's mass-- this can be defined, simply, as the density within the volume of an object, or in a sense, the amount of matter it contains. The official definition of mass is the property of resistance to acceleration.

 However, weight and mass are not the same! The measured weights of these two objects are included for comparison of density. On earth, it is simpler to measure the relative weight to determine the mass-- the explain how these two terms are different, picture weighing a bowling ball on your bathroom scale and then taking it to the moon. On a scale there, it will weigh far less than on earth even though the mass is the same. The object, despite its weight, retains its relative resistance to acceleration.

The greater an object's mass, the harder it will be to act against its inertia. If you've got to have either a bowling ball or a soccer ball flying at the same velocity towards your face, which miserable experience would you opt for? If you're not psychologically unsound, you'd choose the less excruciatingly painful one-- the soccer ball, which is lower in both mass and weight. Or, you'd run in the other direction and refuse to participate. Your face definitely won't exert a large enough opposite force to stop that bowling ball whatsoever, but either way you'll end up with a broken nose and a definite concussion. Bad news, Scott Sterling.

Well, similarly, this is why trains can't break fast. It takes a lot of force to stop that mass-momentum combo!

Another thing that influences the effort involved in changing an object's speed or direction is how quickly that change is made. It's harder to change momentum suddenly rather than gradually. If you're going around a go-cart track at 30 mph and you try to turn a corner or slam the breaks, you're going to spin out and slam into a pileup along with both of your sisters that results in multiple neck and back injuries from the sheer impact of the accelerative (fun story, that one). On the other hand, if you slow down gradually to turn those corners, you'll remain safe and have no fun and no friends.

Inertia is Newton's first law of motion, and thankfully, indisputable physical laws transcend the inevitable test of time. You can demonstrate inertia by dropping an apple on someone's head an observing how the impact against their cranium alters the object's acceleration (and the speed at which they will yell at you). OR, you can do what I did, and conveniently "borrow" someone's deck of cards and their wallet to demonstrate this property of physics. 

Place a card on top of a glass of water, and a penny on top of the card positioned over the center of the glass. Flick the card away, and the coin falls into the cup! Now the water is poisoned by excess copper and zinc. You're welcome.

Even though the card is flicked away, the penny doesn't travel along with it. This is because of inertia-- even though the penny was affected by the friction of the card moving against it, inertia dictated that it stay in place, until gravity pulled it down into the cup. That's also why you can set your mom's fine china on the table and yank out the tablecloth from beneath it without any collateral damage. That is, if you're skillful enough. (Please don't try this, I'm grounded for five months).

Can you imagine a world without the blessing of inertia? It'd be utter chaos! Sudden movement and inefficiency of force would reign an unparalleled kingdom of insanity-- take one step and you can't stop sliding; no one hit that ball and now it's hurtling across the room; heavy objects fall faster than lighter objects and Galileo was made to look like an idiot; jump and the whole planet moves; etc. It'd be, to say the least, interesting. Normal societal function would become obsolete in the wake of a universe descending into what would possibly literally be the dark ages in which not even photons would obey the properties of matter.

As we know it, matter exists in three dimensions, all of which we can sense and exist within. However, as the book Flatland and many others pertaining to the subjects of geometry and theoretical mathematics speculate, we have the privilege of partially viewing the fourth dimension as an incomplete representation within our three dimensions. This fourth dimension transcends all we can comprehend. To simplify the theory, let's break it down into two dimensions.

You now exist as a square on a plane of only length and width, something you wouldn't know unless you'd existed in the third dimension to look down as yourself from above. If a person, existing in three dimensions, were to stick their finger through the plane, it would appear as a circle (Though, as depicted in Flatland, to you the square it would appear as an unending, variant line).

Can we truly predict or even comprehend how the influence of a fourth dimension would appear in our three-dimensional perception of the universe? Well, some physicists theorize that this fourth dimension is time. Time can be warped, such as by the infamous singular gravity of a black hole, as can physical objects that can be stretched, squeezed, or even torn apart atomically by the intense pressure of such a gravitational pull. Light cannot escape. Time is not immune.

And, time is relative, both metaphorically and physically. One hour on a planet influenced greatly by the gravity of a black hole may be years to another planet in the outside realm. But the stream of time is not sped up or slowed, it is merely stretched, bent, and dis-configured into the delicate fabric that comprises our universe. Space-time is warped and disoriented by the energy and matter in it-- a measurable effect, such as how light waves bend when nearing the sun. This causes the sun to appear where it isn't. This theory is known as General Relativity, and perhaps time, then, is subject to the geodetic effect.

(Click the picture for a pertaining article)

It is altogether incredible and unbelievable. What if time, like physical matter, possesses inertia? What if it is, in the fourth dimension as well as our own, physical? Could it be influenced by force? Is it moving as a vector, continuous plane or indefinite line? Is there an original force that set the object of time into motion?

Can we touch time?

Such questions crave hope of answers. The law of the human pysche is that true curiosity can never be satisfied, and I hope it is so, for then there is no force to act against the perpetual motion of learning. Alas, we are Babylon.

The Music of Nothing

I care a lot about music for someone who's going deaf.

My mom says she thinks it started when I was much younger, the details of which are not important, but at the epicenter of all this she had a child who learned to sing do-re-mis before she spoke them and yet would one day cease to sing at all. They found out at some standard procedure audiometry exam when I was in third grade; a little bird whispered, "By the way, you can't hear in your left ear". So it goes. We had hope, of course, as all people do before they're told not to. Year after year, the hearing worsened, deteriorating... into nothing.

For all that I profess as to the virtues of silence, I am a person favoring a steady susurrus of faint classical music, jingling bells in some room far away, slow breaths, and the drum of an almost-broken washing machine. Such sounds are my constant companions. When I step outside, I hear the birds twittering, gentle breezes caressing the trees, and the faint beat of footsteps, and mechanical noises that come with living above a city. I love the sound of rain and the sporadic cackles of fire. I love the pulse and sound of my heartbeat, two senses I can't untangle. I love the color of someone's voice as they laugh and the shape it makes as it hangs in the air. And names. Oh, I love names.

When I was reading Stargirl (Jerry Spinelli), I became enthralled at this character who so embodies everything I am and want to be. As soon as I heard her names, I knew that for a single second, my soul was understood. Yes, names. Susan, Stargirl, Hullygully, Mudpie, Pocket Mouse...  Someone like me. All through my life I've felt that names were a different kind of meaningless than everyone thought. They're meant to encompass who we are, and yet, we carry around (most of us) only one, like a weight around our proverbial neck, through the entirety of our lives. One can hardly be expected to remain the same person they were a few short moments after their birth. Names are to reflect who we know ourselves to be.

In 2012, Emma was the top girls' name in 31 states; since then it's carried through as the overall greatest statistic, into 2015. One Emma will hardly be like any of the others. Stargirl.... she will be someone different. Better yet, she will be herself. Yet, we stereotype names so blindly-- Every person I meet named Blake, I instantly shy away from in a certain apprehension that comes from my memories. It's even worse in racial profiling cases-- Studies have shown that interviewers are more likely to hire a person with a "white-sounding" name, even if the resumes are identical.

In sixth grade, I first came to the conclusion that names have this profound impact. I then made attempts to legally change my name, to no avail, and perhaps that was for the better, since the name I picked was "Echo Silver". Since then, I have absorbed more fragments of thought and personality than I could ever have imagined. So of course, I've gone by many titles-- Olive, Hollownight, Rachel, Flower, Opal, Harley, Cricket, Madhuri, and finally, currently, Ariel. Each of these names was once so dear to my heart and harmonious to my ears, but now they have each in turn become foreign and replaced. It is something I can never understand; all I can say is that I am changing.

It's more clear to define who I am by saying I collect succulents, Moroccan pottery, and sand than to say my name is Julia. How much easier it would be to know someone without a name there to impede the way, if such things were only whispered secrets among the closet of friends.

This reminds me of a plane flight to Seattle I took this February. I was seated far away from my family, and began nearly shaking with fright as some stranger took his place next to me. It was a long flight; and I began it by tracing over the lines of an already completed drawing and skittishly avoiding human contact, In the end, boredom got the better of me, and as I noticed his open laptop-- "What are you working on?" We talked for hours upon hours, and he was by far one of the most fascinating people I have ever met. It was psychology and cinematography and the human condition and wizards and puzzles and everything I could ever want to talk to someone about.

And the plane touched ground.

I realized then that I never asked his name,  never said mine. I had, in every literal sense, brushed souls with a stranger. So I asked him, and he said something that can never escape my memory--

"If I tell you, you'll forget me. You'll remember me as a name and before you know it, this will all fade away. But if I don't tell you... You'll never forget that guy you met on the airplane. You'll have to remember what I said and who I am instead.."

He left, dragging his suitcase behind him. He was right. I've always been left with a sense of wonder muddled by hints of agony for never knowing. It's very likely that I will never see him again. But if I do... I won't ask his name. It's the most magical thing in the world, the sound of resonance in a soul that will always be remembered.

But yet... I'm afraid. I'm afraid of going deaf because playing the Moonlight Sonata is the only thing that can heal me when I'm distraught. I will never know the sound of an instrument I haven't heard yet. I won't write songs or chirp back to birds or watch my anguish dissolve to the lull of a piano. Yet... I might have something better. I'll get to feel the vibrations of a person's chest as they sing some serenade, one day. I'll know what eyes look like when there are words trapped behind them, how some words taste bitter on lips and the quiver of a touch feels like the words I love you. I'll feel the sand rattle with crashing waves, the purr of a kitten as it resonates in the delicate bones of my fingers, the exact depth of a piano key as it plays the brooding C that I always hold for too long; I will never have to hear another name.

I may not have working ears, but perhaps in that all encompassing silence I will finally, truly hear.

Crivens, More Rambling!

It was by the charity of the universe that my friend Anne introduced me to the author Terry Pratchett, through his book We Free Men. This guy is basically about as INFP as you can get, and it's amazing down to every last dripping morsel of sarcasm. The allegory is hidden well and some points and rather conspicuously at others, in the name of humor, but its rather poignant. I've gleaned quite a few quotes that hit me like a frying pan over the head. And of course, because I'm me, I went through the whole book Myers-Briggs typing all of the characters.

I've got four to present to you today, cognitive function theories and all: Tiffany, Granny Aching, the (general) Nac Mac Foogles, and the Queen of Dreams. But first, a little bit about my thoughts on the book as a whole.

My two main reasons for enjoying this book are as follows:

1. I have never found a character more relatable than Tiffany. Seriously, the whole book I was reading through thinking "I don't remember myself doing this, but hey, proof of samsara."
2. Frying pans were used as weapons, seven years before Tangled.

That should be more than enough basis for me to force you to read this book. If you're not running to the library right now (darn you), I'll talk for just a little bit about the metaphor of the book itself. The major theme of it all is that we, as humans, walk through our lives seeing only what we want to or think we should see; a comatose state in which we cannot truly comprehend the wondrous nature of experiences we might have if we only were to open our eyes and wake up for real. However, being mere mortals, we could not begin to comprehend or exist in such a state of consciousness. It's the paradox and malaise of humanity.

All this, from a book whose every other word is a curse in some pictsie language.

There are some doubtless profound quotes, though. They contemplate religion, alternate realities, susuristic silence, hyperawareness, and of course, hypnagogia. I won't say it's my favorite book, as I do tend to prefer texts that leave me questioning my existence in near psychological breakdown state, but as for things that may or may not leave you in existential crisis, it's pretty dang good. Thank you, Anne, I'd recommend it too.

Also, thanks to this book, I now have a halfway decent Scottish accent under my belt.

I went ahead and researched the painting it was loosely based on, The Fairy-Feller's Master-Stroke. Incidentally, the artist went insane and killed his father, whom he thought was the devil in disguise. His caretakers at the insane asylum encouraged him to keep painting, and thus, commissioned by one of the doctors, this was born. He also produced the Sketches to Illustrate the Passions, which are pretty cool. They're actually quite lovely, although some are a tad morbid. 

In my mini research project, I also discovered that Queen wrote a song about this, with the same title of The Fairy-Feller's Master-Stroke. It suddenly turns into Nevermore, and I think the lyricist was high as a kite. Anyways, here's a link to the song. Now, onto our main feature: Myers-Briggs typing!! :D

First up, Tiffany Aching. She's a pretty fun main character to tag along with, and though I initially saw her as INFP, I later questioned my prior judgement and came to the outcome of a solid INTP. Let me explain why, first with the original MBTI and followed with cognitive functions.

Tiffany is most definitely an introvert. She reveled in silence and thoroughly enjoyed her alone time, which was one main reason why that little jiggit was Granny's (unofficial) favorite.

Secondly, we know she's intuitive because of the many references to "First Sight and Second Thoughts", which are among other things a fancy way of stating that she doesn't rely on what's expected or normal. Half of the book takes place in her thoughts, and she's not one to rely on those of others.

In deciding T or F, it got a bit harder. I went with T, for the primary reason that while she's an emotional person, she's decidedly very calculated about it. She used her little brother as monster bait-- with definite Perceiver-style impulse-- and decided not to cry about her grandmother.

It was definitely a harrowing issue to come to the conclusion that Tiffany is not, in fact, an INFP. My tears stain the keyboard even as I type, ect. There could be a definite debate to this-- for one thing, I see a lot more Fi than Fe. It's entirely possible that she's a well-rounded INFP, and this is my fervent hope and prayer. I don't like to rely too much on cognitive function theory, since it usually muddles things, but it's useful for explaining a character's thought process.

Introverted Feeling (Fi): Tiffany relates the outside world back to her feelings, and uses her sense of morality to guide her actions. It's often controlled, as she decides through a set of inner values what is worth her emotions. She doesn't worry too much about what others think of her, but rather, what her actions will cause her to think of herself.  For example, saving her brother. She doesn't think, "I have to find him, or how will my family feel?!" but "I need to save him because he's my brother, and if I didn't love him, what kind of person am I?" In spite of this, I typed her as a Thinker and not a Feeler, mainly because of the scene in which she confronts the Queen. While the Queen is using classic Fe manipulation strategy, Tiffany logically insults her instead of playing on her emotions. However, she's able to read the Queen quite well based on war she knows about her, enough to know her crucial emotional weak points. That smells of a Fi vs Fe contest, and a pretty well-written one at that.

Extroverted Intuition (Ne): Tiffany is open-minded, abstract, idealistic, insightful, and flexible in thought. The majority of her emotional reasoning sources inside (Fi), but she bounces her ideas off of others in order to fully grasp them. She likes to be present where possibilities exist, readily grasps foreign concepts, and seeks out creative solutions-- such as marrying Rob Anybody once a bird grinds a mountain down to a grain of sand. By the hundreds of obscure connections she makes throughout the book, it's easy to type her as a solid user of Ne. 

Introverted Sensing (Si): While Tiffany often lives among her thoughts and is wrapped up in her own imagination, she's also quite the sensor. She notices when things are off in her environment-- the unreality of the Drome's creations, Jenny Greenteeth appearing subtly, the slight noises of the pictsies-- and reflects heavily on the past as a guide for current actions. She's quite sentimental over her memories and they comprise a good portion of the book. She's consistent, hard working, and uses her routines to find comfort in daily life (This is offset by her rampant Ne, which pushes her into exploring everything). 

Extroverted Thinking (Te): Logic is a driving weapon at Tiffany's disposal. Once she's reasoned through her emotions, ideas, and sense of morality, she steps right into doing whatever makes the most sense. This could be using her brother as monster bait or defying the Queen by coldly playing her deepest insecurities, but once she's decided what the right thing to do is, she'll go by whatever means are objectively necessary. She makes decisions quickly and decisively.

Granny Aching

What we know of Sarah Aching comes entirely from the dialogue of the Nac Mac Foogles and Tiffany's memory. This is ~~SPOILER~~ because she's already deceased, but nevertheless she remains crucial in the underlying plot, up to the climax, and is therefore deemed by me a major character. I'll try to keep this profile a lot shorter. Granny Aching is an ISTJ. She was undeniably an introvert, relied on a strong moral code of right and wrong, worked within the law, nurtured both her sheep and any person in need duly with a spirit of moral obligation, worked hard unceasingly, and did her best to fill the traditional role of a "grandmother". On top of this, she stubbornly refused to leave the Chalk and clung to her constant values.

Nac Mac Foogles

The  Nac Mac Foogles (pictsies) seemed to have one general, shared personality. There were, of course, deviants, but as a whole, they conformed to a broad cognitive structure. The Nac Mac Foogles are ESFPs. And they were so, so fun to type. We know, for starters, that they're extroverts-- you never see one alone, their idea of heaven is endless parties and beer (as well as rampaging), and they're quite loud and exuberant. As SPs, the Sensor-Percievers, they're full of hedonism and are lively, fast-paced, skilled in battle, and based on their interpretation of common sense. They also tend to cry "Waily waily" on everything, though they can be serious on some rare occasions, and have a strong compassion which drives them to be the Robin Hoods of the fae world. They're ready to rush into both danger and fun, have a strong instinct to protect and fight for others, lack long-range vision, and can never seem to take the logical path.

Queen of Dreams

Let me just say right off that I love this character. It's fantastic development, even though it seems superficial at the surface. Fi vs Fe clashes are some of my favorite moments in literature. This one comes across as Harry Potter meets Chronicles of Narnia, in the worst way, which is alright I guess, but not ideal. There's not a lot of of information to go off of, but I just had to type her. The Queen screams ENFJ to me. For one thing, she's definitely got extroverted feeling at a max, and it's been corrupted to villainry. Her back story involves being left by her King, following which, her happy summer kingdom descends into eternal winter. Writers just love characterizing xNFJs as the harbringers of winter-- Elsa, Ingrid, Queen of Dreams, etc. It's such a trope, but I love it. 

Anyways, when a Fe-Ni combo goes off the deep end, you have some of the most manipulative and fantastic, poignant, gray-area villains. By this I mean, it's oftentimes hard to not fall into sympathy for them. The Queen's warped NF typing is blatantly present from the moment we see her: One, kindap children because she just wants to care for them; Two, fall into the classic primary Feeling function of "your mistakes are not your fault, but that of your circumstances"; and Three, her response to losing who we can only assume was the love of her life.

She's an extrovert because she must always have company and doesn't withdraw into solitude (additionally, because of her primary Fe function), and the J/P difference comes from the cognitive function stack. Again, in order to have that extroverted feeling, she fits with the classic ENFJ villain. Other example of Fe is Hans, from Frozen, and another pseudo-villain of NFJ-ness is Elsa from the same movie. The ENFJ vs INFJ difference in supposed evil is obviously present.

An important point to remember: Functions display differently for every individual.

This concludes my massive text on Wee Free Men! I checked out the one copy, but it's soon to be at our local library :P If you'd like to follow up on more book recommendations, simply click on my tag #bookreviews. If you enjoyed this book, you'll probably like Simon Bloom: The Gravity Keeper by Michael Reisman.

It's humorous, action-packed, profoundly intuitive, and most certainly makes you go about the world looking for suspicious textbooks. A couple years back, this was the book that made me enjoy reading more than I could express with words. Simon Bloom was the novel that started it all, and I will forever be grateful.

If you'd like to purchase the book, it can be found on Amazon here.

You can thank me later ;)

Crivens, what a long post!

I conclude with one of my very favorite quotes:

"We sleepwalk through life, because how could we live if we were always this awake?"

(Okay okay I'm sorry, here's a link to the actual song.)

The Curious Case of my Outdoor Ineptitude

When I was little, I sustained fanciful visions of living alone in the woods in my Hobbit hidey-hole. That was a pipe dream, and I very much thank my strange little four-year-old self for it. Well, I also had some ideas then that were not so fantastic-- for one example, part of that whole "living in the woods" thing included me being a captive princess, adventurer on an exotic undiscovered island, or a cat. Possibly a caticorn.

Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that I've always loved the idea of peaceful solitude in nature, of existing free from societal conventions and interpersonal toxicity. Once, on a "where do you see yourself in ten years" paper, I wrote, quite literally, "living alone in the woods with my pet green conure, named Rue, and a baby hedgehog." Now I have the conure, but she's named Tango. And much to my chagrin, no hedgehog. Additionally, I've realized that I'd die of agony in under a week if I didn't have access to strawberry milk or takeout Chinese food.

This, of course, was an extremely distressing realization. I'm plenty skilled in the art of cooking, as it pertains to preparing my boyfriend a different strain of pasta each week; but in terms of outdoor survival skills, I'm the kind of person who sets priority on decorating the stick tepee and tries to snuggle the fire because it's just so warm and cozy. Now, if you know me personally, you'd laugh at me being tormented by this because I've also studied herbal sciences rather extensively and would be reasonably adept in a survival situation, with that and my general study of outdoor skills.

But to me, it just isn't enough.

To be outdoors, out in the wide expanses of earth's embrace, the ground trembling with the heartbeat of all existence, and unconstrained air in your lungs; you cannot feel more alive than when you are one with the world. It isn't, for me, a matter of survival-- it is of mutual growth. Fighting against nature grants us the possibility to survive, but immersing ourselves within it inspires us to truly thrive.

If I sound vaguely like a Druid by now, I can honestly say that I have practiced as one. This philosophy of oneness within the self and the world is intrinsic to my view of life. Withdrawing from the universe pulls me into grueling bouts of depression and a lack of connection to my inner self utterly destroys me. That being said, and knowing that some existence of solitude at the least is of the utmost importance to me, I do find incredible value in reflections with others. My general thought is this: The purpose of the soul is for true, authentic connection, and verbal expression is but a sometimes necessary means. Nevertheless, I'm possessed with this "living alone in the woods" vision. Maybe I won't be alone alone, but I definitely get a little snappy when someone else invades the quiet serenity of my morning walk.

My point is, if I want to exist in this natural world, I have to know how to. My one big problem is that while I can basically forage for any edible plant and discern or apply its medicinal properties, I am downright AWFUL with plants. Honestly, I write up hundreds of garden plans but I can't keep one little sprout alive for more than a few days. The root of this problem (*humorous snort*) is that I treat plants like sentient beings (Trees of Cheem) and have a propensity to over-water so they "won't be hungry". I've combated the soil quality issue with my little worm farm, but I still have that nasty residual proclivity to smother every living thing within a mile radius with affection and warm cookies. With plants, this kind of doesn't work. Whatsoever.

So, there are a few things I want to do to acquire skills in this particular area of passion: grow a mini garden, renew my first-aid license, make homemade cheese, spend the night sleeping under the stars without a tent, go solo hiking, and create a collection of herbal remedies to store for later need. My little explored mission in life, the desire of my heart, is to immerse myself completely into the beauty and peaceful entropy of nature. I hadn't realized until lately how strong a facet of my personality this is-- until I noticed that my idea of an amazing life is and always has been existing in perpetual awe of the world around me (or, of course, being a caticorn).

From my fixation on naturopathy to my possible non-violent pyromania to the bizarre impulse to get truly lost in the forest- if only for a few hours-- it is evident that my greatest happiness comes from harmony with nature. In both solitude and close connection I find my joy. It's the paradox of human nature, the craving to be at once so close and distant from those around us. Perhaps in the delicate balance of this, our hearts are most aligned to all the world around us and to ourselves. It is in this equipoise that our souls are set free, unburdened, and we are most truly alive.

Of Speculation and Silence

"I seen it over and over-- a guy talkin' to another guy and it don't make no difference if he don't hear or understand. The thing is, they're talkin', or they're settin' and still not talkin'. It don't make no difference ... It's just the talking. It's just bein' with another guy. That's all."

Once you carve through John Steinbeck's blatant sexism, you may find in his words an illustrious meaning and allegorical symbols, perhaps a commentary on the essence of human existence. Despite the quite irksome flaw of inherent misogyny in all of his works-- if a female character is not the physical incarnate of evil or lust, then invariably she steps out of line at some point and is beaten back into her place with none of the other characters thinking ill of it-- ahem, despite this, Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors. If you've ever heard me speak of East of Eden, you know I have for it an unbridled enthusiasm and somewhat obsessive passion. It is not only the voice of his writing but the aquifer of poignant metaphor that flows through each and every one of his works.You won't find an author more dedicated to pronouncing the reality of the human condition (Except, side note, women actually do have souls. Just thought I'd mention.)

In the past two nights, I've been reading Of Mice and Men and The Pearl cover-to-cover in one sitting each. East of Eden is a walloping and formidable endeavor, possessing a great length of text- albeit undoubtedly worth it-- while these two books both have approximately 100 pages, give or take (in the editions I've been reading). I could write 10,000 words on only one facet of these books alone, but for the sake of your sanity, I shall not. I compile this post today to briefly delve into a shared concept that runs through the philosophy of Steinbeck and expound upon the consequences of its application.

The theme is: Silence.
For all the folks at home; what follows will contain some impressive spoilers.

As I was reading The Pearl, I realized in it a dual and contradictory philosophy to be present, contrasted in my mind by a significant ideology embedded in Of Mice and Men. In chapter four (OMAM), which, by the way, is actually closer to the end of the book than its beginning, we finally meet a character who shows that Steinbeck is not only extremely sexist, but racist! However. In works such as The Pearl, Steinbeck presents many well-rounded, heroic, insightful characters who are, in fact, people of color. His apparent racism in Of Mice and Men is to coerce the reader into considering what unjust treatment African-Americans have been forced to endure. If these are truly his motives, then I can forgive them. Anyways, on to this character.

Steinbeck has a habit of forcing incredibly detailed descriptions, in a single wall of impenetrable text, onto the reader out of nowhere. Just to provide a bit of background on these quotes, here's what we know about the speaker:

• Crooks:

• African-American man
• Stable buck
• Has to bunk in the harness room because he can't quarter with the whites
• Crippled back from being kicked by a horse
• Instinctively angry against white people, all of them, because of how he's been mistreated
• Reads books, unlike everyone else in the story
• Definitely a loner, but also lonely
• Scarred past
• Somewhat pragmatic and aloof

Two of his most profound quotes are at the very beginning of this post and directly below.
Context? He's rambling on and on, now that he finally has someone to listen to him. No matter that the other person doesn't comprehend and isn't listening anyways, because he probably couldn't care less.

"Books ain't no good. A guy needs somebody-- to be near him ...  A guy goes nuts if he ain't got nobody. Don't make no difference who the guy is, long as he's with you. I tell ya, I tell ya a guy gets too lonely and he gets sick."

Steinbeck, unfortunately, forms him as an "angry black man" stereotype, and that doesn't sit well with me. Nevertheless, Crooks serves as a metaphor for the desolation and depravity of loneliness, and the kind of desperate character it inspires. No matter what he does or how many books he reads, he can't seem to fill the gaping need for human acceptance and interaction, however superficial.

Well, I could contend with that. And thinking on that quote a couple nights ago, I began to mull over a concept (which I'll come to later).

Crooks makes some intense points, as the dialogue continues, about the need to reflect experiences-- with only one mind, I have one dimension of a viewpoint. With another mind, there is stretched from my experience another dimension, and the space in which I can process, interpret, and edify my understanding is exponentially increased. From a singular line there now comes a plane of thought.
This is the source of Crook's misery; that he cannot achieve the simplest, yet most complex, and most pleasurable of human experiences. It is intriguing, then, that he at first adamantly refuses to speak to anyone or let his space be violated-- perhaps it is because he anticipates that he himself will be made not to speak, just as in the scene where Curley's wife threatens to lynch him (She does three things in this book: attempts to seduce men, complains about her life, and threatens to execute someone because he told her t get out of his room.)

So it seems that John Steinbeck's philosophy is that there is a necessity to express to one another, any other, human being. This is understandable; we humans are social creatures, we thrive on connection. The error in this reasoning comes in that there is no true connection in simply speaking. It does, in fact, make a difference whether "he don't hear or understand". Communication, language itself, was invented in effort to make raw the soul. This is the true human need; to be bare and authentic, and loved in spite of or because of it.
Otherwise it is dull, shallow, and false.

Yet, in reading The Pearl, a contrasting philosophy emerges.Steinbeck, speaking of the close relationship between Kino and Juana, says this:

"She knew him and she knew she could help him best by being silent and being near ... She knew he would ask when he wanted it."

And, this:

"There is not need for speech if it is only a habit anyway." 

In Steinbeck's eyes, this must be the ideal relationship. They work together nigh-flawlessly, as one being, the only conflict coming when Kino's wife dares to defy him. Juana is obedient, quiet, supportive, and in Kino's own eyes, strong-- she never cries in pain, not in childbirth or even when Kino beats her half to death (In love, of course, because that's definitely what you do when you love someone.) This theme of beautiful, wordless communication is present throughout the entirety of the story, in which there is little dialogue whatsoever. So, if this is the "ideal relationship" to the author, what can we gather?

Abuse aside, which may be dismissed for the moment as a cultural thing, this couple harmonizes very well. Kino and Juana need no excess of words; knowing each other so openly, they must only exchange a touch or a glance to communicate with the same authentic vulnerability. When words are thought necessary, they are spoken with little inhibition. The rest is sung through actions, much like a delicate, interpretive dance comprised of gentle three-note songs and affectionate touches.

My compromise is this: Perhaps we speak too much or not enough, and either of these impedes the deepest desire of our soul to be felt and cherished as we truly are. When our words become necessary, we should let them come freely. But more meaningful than this, more intrinsic to connection, are the knowing exchanges and clement touches passed between two souls who are already exposed to true understanding of each other. The purpose is true, authentic connection, and verbal expression is but a sometimes necessary means.

Hey, Steinbeck fans!
Want an equally profound novel in which neither sexism nor racism prevail?
Look no further! I recommend Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, which you can purchase on Amazon here








When I first read Of Mice and Men, I was so rival to the philosophy of this superficial "connection" that I devised to test against it by taking a vow of silence, to any linguistic communication, for the duration of a week. Now I see that these two books harmonize with each other like the songs they are, ancient, of the family (openness) and the ocean (inner thought). Steinbeck's meaning is not evident in one work alone, and still, from any book we will derive our own meaning. Therefore let us traverse in intimate, infinite dimensions of reflection, gleaning from each other what we ourselves alone cannot.

People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening, people writing songs that voices never share, and no one dare disturb the Sound of Silence.

-William Shakespeare

On the Malaise of Monetary Gain

When I first began to read The Best Things in Life by Peter Kreeft, my parents could not have known that stuffing me full with Socratic dialogue was about the worst possible thing they could have allowed, for both themselves and anyone exposed to my shouting range. On the other hand, I can't and don't blame them for the intellectual chaos that ensured-- Nope, that was definitely all me.

The Best Things in Life is a piece of contemporary philosophical literature, written in the form of a script, that can be best described either by smashing together the concepts of "moral justification" and "conjecture of the truth of others to be fallible while determining the truth of oneself to be undoubtedly accurate" OR by a general outline of the topics discussed and conclusions reached. I find the latter to better depict the underlying message of the book.

1. An introduction to the the flaws in the educational and occupational systems, dispelling both hedonism and labor futile in meaning.
1. Introduction to Socratic philosophy
1. Assume no truth
2. Say what is
3. Ask the great question of "Why" -- obtaining all of the answers and none of the questions is a useless pursuit
4. There is no such thing as a last question. "The unexamined life is not worth living". When we sit in complacency, we forfeit our meaning. 
2. As a society, the vast majority go to college and study that duration of their lives away to get a degree, to get a good job, to earn respectable wages, to buy things and raise a family, to send children to college.
1. When a trajectory is circular without reason, it is devoid of meaning. Why waste our time on this useless pursuit? 
2. There is a general attitude of self-indulgence in our culture clashing violently with the concept of delayed gratification. People desire immediate leisure, but give up everything to misery in the present to obtain it in an uncertain future. 
1. The hope of pleasure is in and of itself no sufficient reason to deny gratification now
3. The most valuable lesson is that which inspires you to become your own teacher.
2. It is a better and more fulfilling practice to serve the true design and meaning in our lives than to comply with societal standards of what should and should not be done.
1. The world's most practical decision-maker is logic, though philosophy can often impede philosophizing. 
1. Questions are more important than their answers. "They are the road, and only those of us who use the road find their way home"
2. We choose everything as a means to happiness, the ultimate goal. Even enlightenment serves us to happiness. Our choices should depend on what best leads us to those ends, not just in the present, but in the future.
1. Philosophy is useful because it helps us to identify what is good and true. Without knowledge of these concepts, nothing can be discerned as true or untrue, good or bad (countless numbers of synonyms could have been supplemented, as these four words are at the cornerstones of our lexicographical language.)
3. Money is good for nothing unless it is assigned meaning. Take the dollar bill, for instance. Without the government to assert that it has economic value, it's just paper.
1. The value of money, then, is what we choose it to purchase; but none of these things-- houses, cars, yachts-- is an end in and of itself. This acquisitions do not guarantee us any amount of happiness.
4. Is there a common and universal end sought by everyone?
1. Happiness, pleasure, and joy
1. Preservation of life-- health, food, drink
2. Connection-- love, companionship, loss of loneliness
3. Self-actualization and meaning
5. Is the value of serving humanity in the pursuit of truth?
1. Our time doesn't often think of truth as a close means to the ends of happiness. We instead desire monetary gain or the acquisition of  power, but power is as futile a purpose as money.
2. Making the world a better place to live in should come second to the more intimate improving of the self, which directly concerns life, more so than the outside world. 
1. There are practical sciences and productive sciences. Practical improves practices, productive improves products. 
3. We should seek knowledge for its own sake. While we can improve our practice and the world around us, philosophy improves our self. Our true being.
1. No matter what our career or path in life, we are called first and foremost to be ourselves, as human beings, serving the pursuit of knowledge. 
1. Know thyself.

And these are just the first two sections of the book! In order to avoid strangling you, dear readers, with an overly gratuitous amount of points, I'll say this-- To learn more, check out this book at your local library.
When faced with this looming wall of text, it seems a daunting task to carve through and begin to delve into the real meaning-- the purpose and implementation of Socratic dialogue. This work of philosophy, and Socrates himself, are not purposed to teach us what to thing. Rather, how. That grand and bold teaching, the golden lesson, is this:

Ask an infinite number of questions.

Better yet, discard your concept of numbers and build it up again, for that is in itself an assumption. Socrates instructed us to think like children, brazenly open to the impossible, daring to explore every crevice of a question, pointing out flaws in theories as boldly as any objective statement. With this in mind, let's examine Peter Kreeft.

Though I much appreciate the deviation from the usual societal standard of learn to work, work to earn, die; I disagree with Kreeft on one solid point that he did not address: Sometimes there is value in serving humanity not only for the pursuit of truth, but to help others to obtain that same happiness, pleasure, and joy, whether by guiding them to the philosophy of pursuing truth or tending to the needs of connection and preservation of life. The same follows for his point against the practical and productive sciences, or the goal of serving humanity; I argue that self-actualization can be better served not by constant pursuit of introspection, but upon the reflection of those around us. As we serve others, place their needs before our own (by pure altruism, not by some concept of gain or duty), we gain more a wisdom of our psyche than we do by the refusal to sacrifice the self. The pursuit of knowledge, of self-actualization and the happiness it ensures, is still inherent in this philosophy. However, rather than gaining it by theory, it is gleaned through the shared experiences of others. Kreeft states that we are called first and foremost to be human beings. Perhaps a more crucial distinction of philosophy is that we are called to be human beings together.

The major flaw I find in the Socratic method is that it can be used, by the right, deliberate, and tangling misconstruction of words, to conclusively prove anything. The dialogue becomes circular, and in the right form, it invariably supports itself no matter the weight of evidence against its cause.

It is this very flaw that makes the Socratic method, warped, ideal for an angsty seventh grader. At the time, I gleaned the process but not the philosophy. I learned to question to an end, not as an end. It is more important, I realize now (after those past months of haggarding my parents with unwinnable, pre-scripted debates), to appreciate the wisdom of others while leaning not on our own assumed understanding. There is an endless wealth of questions to be explored within the universe and within ourselves-- perhaps they are the same.

Socrates asserted, Know Thyself, and only this can I know for certain-- For every question that I may answer, I will come upon a thousand more. And, for the sake of my soul, may I never cease to ask them.

The Mantra of a Wanderer

Be kind, not for what you can gain
          But for the worth of what you may give
Be courageous, not from what you fear
          But for what you do not have enough fear of
Be peaceful, not for the moment of rest
          But for the moments following, where there is no rest
Do not look to the future for what it offers you
          But for what you can offer it
Do not be selfish without grace
          Do not have courage without mercy
                  Do not be anxious for what you cannot change
                          Do not have vision for your own benefit
                                  But for the betterment of the earth
Be pure in your intentions
Gentle in your steps
Soft in your words
Fleeting in your remorse
          Wear no mask of joy nor piety
                  Make no sovereignty
                          Weep with the mourning
                  Make for each morning a new person
           Wear no image of your past
Remember all you have done, but do not dwell on guilt once its time has passed
Leave no image of yourself
          Only what change you have caused
Let your ripples wake gentle in the pool of existence
You alone are not important....

But your actions are.

Delving into Julius Caesar: A Series

THE WHY OF THIS UNDERTAKING
It is one of the most fascinating intrigues in Shakespearean literature that play should be titled in the name of a character who appears, amidst other dramatis personae, in only three scenes; his lines unfathomably egotistical at best and dull and unmemorable at worst. Why, then, is this luminary, the archetypal pinnacle of regalia and conquest, echoed throughout the tropes of art, writings, and history? What condemned his legacy to a catastrophic fall in the fateful Ides of March?
In this post series, I will be studying the context of the ambivalent tragedy of Julius Caesar in regards to its historical significance and eminence in tact and elegance of prose. Shakespeare was a connoisseur of words, both bitter and sweet, and his compositions are relevant and poignant even today. Perhaps he only matured to rise upon the pedestal of eminence we esteem him on presently with age-- and the evolution of English. It is only the sentimentality of death that lends high appraisal to innumerable puns and scandalous wise cracks ("Thou hast undone our mother" "Villain, I have done thy mother"). But unlike many revered artists, Shakespeare was recognized in his own day. His sonnets still ring pure with the music of his iambic rhythm, and his remarkable plays, performed with increasing regularity, captivate audiences without fail-- as long as the language can be understood.
As John Steinbeck proclaims in his classic East of Eden; "...what had happened was all muddied by the way folks wanted it to be- more rich and meaningful the farther back it was."
This being said, I do treasure Shakespeare. It may be difficult, at times impossible, to wrench from the dialogue of every wayward character the ideology of the author, but there is much benefit to be gained from the study of past arts and literature; not just the 154 sonnets, but the Vatican paintings; not only the grim account of Romeo and his lover Juliet, but the lyrics of the Troubadours and the novelists, historians, song-writs of yesteryear. No memory is fit to be marred with the label of "antediluvian", "passé", "impractical for modern times". Embrace the past, analyze it, pull it to the present. Learn about yourself through the minds of those far before you. Know that you will be swallowed up by the grave of earth, the despaired end-- and comfort yourself in the hope that your legacy of thought, if recorded, may be venerated in the centuries to come.
Live on, little planet.

Dust to Dust: Analysis of Out of the Silent Planet

CS Lewis shoves at us, time and time again, complex allegories that would rival even the most profound musings of Thales; even him, the supposed founder of Grecian sciences, might not level the heavens to the gentle reaches of the earth so, with such artistry of tact and grace. Rather than number the days in a year, he redefines time. Rather than predict the olive market, he would present an intricate understanding of mankind's interworking. And rather than measure an impossible shadow; he might capture light itself.

Out of the Silent Planet is no exception. It is all mirth but plenty matter, forcing readers to introspect until their minds collapse; to choke on harsh critiques of their own nature until they vomit, and then thrusts it down their throats again. CS Lewis may very well have succeeded in capturing the grim undertones of existence, in symbolically expounding his philosophy, but he has never succeeded in subtlety. Perhaps, though, if he had spoken less definitely, he might not have been heard. We have, then, his brazen tongue to thank for both the severity and the grace of his profoundly poetic dialogue and whimsical scopes.

The meat of this book, then, is to be fed upon ravenously. This is no five-star radish and sauce dish that presents itself as exquisite but is merely inedible; it is put before us as a supper of necessity. It was not meant to be sampled, but to be devoured in its entirety. Such passages as those he offers should not be picked at daintily. He cooks it as a dinner so hearty that it would make the thickest of men feel themselves empty after every meal following. But enough of this appraisal!


WARNING:: SPOILERS AHEAD!

What I find most intriguing about this book is, in fact, a sum of several points-- centering around Ransom's decision to leave Malacandra, and the tumultions of his mindset following the ascent from this foreign world. A brief assessment of CS Lewis's blatantly worn theologies will attest to his motives in writing most (if not all) of his novella-- therefore, it can very well be theorized that, in this system of Maledil over Oyarsa over eldil over hnau over beast; Maledil is an allegorical portrayal of God, and that this "bent" Oyarsa would be Satan in all his rich darkness. Eldils, the beings of light, would be heavenly attendants-- angels. And the ever questionable Thulcandra- Earth-- the Silent Planet-- may be bent down to the cracks in its soil, producing only withered virtues. The "Lord of this World" is a very charismatic one, persuasive in every tongue. He bends the soul but seldom shatters it beyond use or repair.

Oyarsa are set as the governs over the souls of a world, expressing their dominion only as justice would see fit, only as balance and the decrees of nature would dictate, only so far as it were rightly given them, chiefly out of respect for the sanctity of that which is not their own belonging. From this platform, CS Lewis launches us into the complex parable that is not laced with words faute de mieux, but weighed and weaved with throbbing force into a reader's conscious.

At the end there are gleaned some principle aspects of the hnau-- souls, one could call them. This word, hnau, is similar in structure to several other terms of the Hrossan language, comparing forms of landscapes; leading me to believe that it could quite literally derive from roots meaning "of the earth". In the Biblical book of Genesis, man is said to have risen from the dust of the Earth. Formed from the blood of our planet; "First were the darker, then the brighter. First were the worlds' blood, then the suns' blood…" Then comes the Oyarsa, plainly contrasting in its meaning: the intelligence, the spirit, of a heavenly sphere. Something quite transcending, then, of the earth itself. The soul of a planet. Etymology aside, one of the final, most poignant scenes of this book offers us a picture of the virtues cast aside in man's eternal quest to satisfy himself.

There may used to have been more consuming our minds than fear, death, and gluttonous desire; filling up instead with dulcet virtues such as pity, honesty, capacity for guilt, love of one's own kind, and so much beyond-- but under the weight of war, of slavery, of rape, of such things we dare not speak of out of shame for our own race; these virtues are crushed under man's heavy footstep. There are people starving who could very well be fed and given water if not for the steely walls of politics that triumph over human suffering. There are wars capable of giving way to peace and prosperity, if mercy chipped away the divides of pride and gave us back our humanity.

We are only contented by that which we do not have. A culture of hedonism leads us to believe that every pleasure is fruitful only in the now, and all the produce of the tree must be gobbled up before others have taken. There is no balance, no concern for the lives begotten after our own extents on this Earth; only a systematic moral decay declaring that all the world can go to fire and brimstone after we ourselves are gone from it. We cannot live for a future of pleasure, always crying for cravings of the next moment and never this one. We cannot truly revel in a memory if we beg it to return to the present. I urge you to believe, to realize that none of us now are truly content in our joy. So is the warped nature of man, always on climax, always aspiring to something greater, insomuch that we can never come to peace. All that man requires for happiness is to be "healthy in his body, easy in his circumstances, and well-instructed as to his mind". Instead we see the hungry and do not feed them, do not heal the sick, do not teach the unlearned, do not rescue the refugees, do not clothe the needy; are not moved within a speck of compassion to our fellow man. We must work ourselves into the ground until to dust we do return.

It is this knowledge, with these inescapably set virtues, that Ransom decides to risk the meeting of his mortality to return to the home he once though barren of anything to offer him. For, he says, "If I cannot live in Thulcandra, it is better for me not to live at all."

Oyarsa tells him he has chosen correctly.

There is the moment, then, when Malacandra ceases being an intimate thing of beauty and transforms, once again, into the reddened orb of Mars. With a broadened perspective, it is almost impossible to believe that such vitality, such wisdom could be so pursuant on a planet already named, already seen, already a component of such fanciful literature as no one could believe. We feel Ransom's paradigm shift and, almost, his inability to cope the global value, the shock of it-- Malacandra and Mars have become two separate entities in his mind, repelling each other like water to oil.

CS Lewis is, in fact, suggesting that Mars could have this life; however, it is not for scientific debate, but it is for this paradigm shift that he did not select some far away world on which to base this society. It is to make us consider the bearings of our universe, to dismay our philosophical presuppositions. The end is meant to merge fiction with fact; to convince the reader that anything he has gleaned as tokens of wisdom are just as real as if they had journeyed with Ransom himself. And in a way, through eloquent wit and prose of word, beauty printed on these pages..... they have.

Buy the book at its page on Amazon! 

What's coming up next?
So glad you asked! I've got my very own sketch of the inhabitants of the planet Xodus, and a bit of a narration on self help books. You'll also be seeing some crazy recipes that I'm inventing just for the heck of it; most of them terrifying to even the least squeamish of eaters.

xoxo
Julia

A Most Delicate Monster

Caliban; one of Shakespeare's most complex and ambiguous characters; deformed, instinctive, malevolent… and misunderstood. He is the only inhabitant of the island not to take a human form, a distortion that extends well beyond his physical appearance: "as disproportioned in his manner as in his shape". Left alone on the island after the death of his mother, he is befriended by Prospero, trained by him, taught language and for a short time, it seemed, remained in his favorable company. Through a combination of circumstances gone unmentioned by the play, Caliban seeks to "defile the honor of [Miranda]", which prompts Prospero to cast him out of kindness; riddling him with agonizing pain and enslavement. Realizing he has been brought into servitude on the island he believes to be inherently his own, Caliban turns to his more instinctive and violent tendencies and plots to usurp Prospero. Though it may seem strange, I find in more ways than one I identify with Caliban.

Unusual, it might seem, that I align myself so much with this monster so many believe to be a cursing, malignant, and brutish villain. But a closer look reveals the link to have much deeper symbolical meaning. But first, a few reasons why you might believe Caliban to be the sluggish, malignant monster many have portrayed him as. Of course, the most pressing issue is the several-times mentioned actions of Caliban that brought him dangerously close to "defiling [Miranda's] honor", which, of course, you can assume what that means. But when we take a look at how Miranda is portrayed in the original play and other since adaptations of it, there begins to shine a different light on the subject of Caliban's debated villainy. 

In particular, the version of The Tempest that our Shakespeare class was watching, Miranda was headed down the same path with Ferdinand… that is to say, Ferdinand was also going to 'defile her honor', per sae, before they were married; and Miranda was in full compliance. The only difference being, that Prospero was more in support of this relationship, as opposed to Caliban. Mayhap because Ferdinand was more worthy, or a prince? Perhaps Caliban did have softer feelings for Miranda, and he took the blunt of Prospero's wrath in a similar situation. This isn't to say that Caliban's actions were entirely justified. However, I think he is entitled to more merciful and just treatment than that which Prospero gives him.

With this perspective, Prospero being somewhat interested in the status Ferdinand offered, it is easy to see Prospero as being someone who would act in syrupy kindness towards Caliban until a point where Caliban would begin to trust him. Then, Prospero gained control of the island by forcing Caliban into slavery with both physical and psychological abuse. With a 21st Century mindset, we can compare Caliban's situation to that of the victims of European colonization. In a broader sense, Caliban stands for the countless injured parties of European imperialism and injustice; those who were disinherited, exploited, and subjugated. Like him, the learned a conqueror's language and perhaps even some of their values; and like him, they endured enslavement and contempt from their usurpers and eventually rebelled. Like him, they were torn between indigenous culture and culture superimposed on them.

Caliban is berated several times for being one angst and cursing, but many neglect to notice that Prospero (or Miranda, depending on which version of the play you are reading) was the one who taught him language. Would he have learned culture-specific swear words in a language he was not by birth raised up in? I think not. Quoting section 1.2.24 of the play, in which Prospero (or, again, Miranda) says 

[...] I pitied thee,

Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour

One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,

Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like

A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes

With words that made them known. But thy vile race,

Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures

Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou

Deservedly confined into this rock,

Who hadst deserved more than a prison.

In other words, Prospero suggests that Caliban's "vile" race and lack of language makes him deserving of the status of a slave. Hmmm, isn't this exactly what the European imperialist philosophy was? When Caliban declares "This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother"  we are reminded that Prospero effectively took over the island and made Caliban his slave. 

Whilst Caliban is coarse, vulgar, and misshapen, his speech differs from that of Shakespeare's other rogues in that his speech contains a remarkable amount of passages in verse- an inspiring and poetic form normally reserved for noble and dignified heroes. For example, in this passage where he describes the inflictions set upon him by Prospero:

            All the infections that the sun sucks up

            From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him

            By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me

            And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,

            Fright me with urchin–shows, pitch me i’ the mire,

            Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark

            Out of my way, unless he bid ‘em; but

            For every trifle are they set upon me;

            Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me

            And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which

            Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount

            Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I

            All wound with adders who with cloven tongues

            Do hiss me into madness.”

In another, he speaks of the island homeland he feels he has been robbed of, and produces some of the most beautiful and stirring imagery in the whole play:

 “Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises,

            Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.

            Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments

            Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices,

            That if I then had waked after long sleep,

            Would make me sleep again; and then in dreaming,

            The clouds methought would open, and shew riches

            Ready to drop upon me: when I wak’d,

            I cried to dream again.”

Caliban seized upon the ability to articulate his sense of identity and sensitivity to his treatment as something incredibly humanizing. It's this delicate, poetic side that I have combined with my own experiences to produce what I believe is Caliban's true self, underneath the monstrous exterior and bitter angst. Caliban reminded me of what it feels like to be someone alienated, someone who has set themselves at a distance and underneath a shell of anger to avoid being hurt again. If you don't fit in, people treat you differently; they are harsh with their words and with their hands and some may deceive you outright for their own personal gain. They try to tear away your inner strength and you right to feel loved. When you are told that you are credulous, stupid, ugly, slow, sub-normal, even vile… you start to become it. Because you think that's all the identity you can have. I think it was the same for Caliban.

Caliban gives us a concept difficult to grasp and painful to think about. Despite being the least human appearance-wise, deep down he has suffered pains whose crippling agony most of us suffer on a daily basis. Like all of us, he has made mistakes and continued to make mistakes. He has plotted, been plotted against, and more than once fallen under deceit. To some he is a villain and to others he is not, and things aren't perfect for him in the end. In a way, Caliban is like each of us. 

Perhaps it is the decay of our own sense of self-worth that leads us to toss the mirror aside in fear and to resent Caliban for the allegory he so portrays.

^A portrayal of Caliban in one production of Shakespeare's The Tempest