Go Create Some Reality

My well-oiled plan did not produce the best results.

There's something to be said for exploration, but then there's also something to be said for having a plan of attack. I enjoyed the luxury of dabbling in many subject areas my first two years of college, a luxury that I am paying dearly for now as I sit through the pre-requisites I put off and put off while I took the more interesting courses. To be honest, I probably could have used these classes a couple of years ago, rather than labor through everything the hard way.

I arrived on time but not early enough to secure a good seat (although, given the usual first-day attendance, I should be grateful for any seat at all). My horror of standing in line compells me every term to buy my books a week early; the girl next to me, the one emitting equally spaced non-commital hrmmphs every few moments, came prepared with a notebook containing a single piece of paper which she proceeded to cover, top to bottom, with equally non-commital doodles. The professor handed out a packet, labeled "Arguments". 

Socrates is a man? Socrates IS a man! I wonder, in all seriousness, how much of this could be taught to second-graders:

"What is this?"

(pregnant, or not so pregnant, pause)

"This is the subject. And this? This is the predicate. So what is this whole thing, together?"

"An argument?"

"No, this is a premise. But what is THIS whole thing, together?"

"An argument?"

"Yes."

"Yay!" 

And the peasants rejoice. Maybe some grammar schools already have this covered, but in case they don't - as mine surely didn't - I think we could safely take the next step and teach some basic logic to the kiddies. Douglas Hofstadter apparently had the chance, in his teenage years, to teach an elementary class some of this in an effort to see whether their nubile young minds could easily assimilate the information (and did this happen? I'm interested to know). Whether the results of that particular investigation were positive or negative, I think we ought to try again, give the kids a head-start on their syllogisms. It would really save so much time in the long run.

In keeping with my self-imposed stylistic constraints, I suppose there's also something to be said for repetition. I have a hard time drawing the line between useful repetition and the annoying: in first grade, copying the spelling list over and over and over again was annoying, but perhaps also useful (or at least, that was the general idea). Now, learning the difference between induction and deduction yet again is annoying, and I'm pretty sure it's no longer useful. This also applies to the number of times I'm assigned "The Republic", although an argument could be made that this is somehow good for me, or some under-accessed part of me that is not only busy at work internalizing this story but is also deeply, deeply concerned. 

This is fine. In many ways, it's also easier.

In an hour I'll be off to Sci-Fi Fantasy Land, where we will hopefully watch movies and be assigned hours of page-turning fun. I can't believe that I actually complained about taking this class - I should be grateful, if anything, for the delicious distraction.

Nine Minutes

That's how much time I have, and I'm not using those minutes very efficiently. Managed to power through two articles on the bus, and am very much looking forward to reading sci-fi on the couch in my pjs tonight (for a class, no less!). 

Bit of a boring update, really. Blog notwithstanding, I'm remembering my roots as an intensely private person, one who recently may have spent too many days with too little adult interaction. Ah, well. That will be over now, both the lack of engagement and the nine minutes.

Great. More Pictures.

I tried to circumnavigate jetlag post flight by submitting myself to twenty-four hours of pre-flight wakefulness. Not one of my best ideas. By the time I climbed aboard a bus in Newark at 7:15 in the morning, about to embark on my six-hour tour of New York, I was irritable and nodding off upright. Looking back over my photos from that brief but inspired blink of my life, I realize that I perfectly captured, not the subject of each photo, but my mood: exhausted but insatiable, a hundred photos taken of a wall but all from the same straight-up vantage point. My physical expenditure was kept to a necessary minimum, so in response I seemed to have snapped photos of everything from the mandatory Statue of Liberty to scenes from the subway to a potted plant in a restroom. 

Most of the photos aren't that great, especially, interestingly, the ones I was most invested in at the time. I'm lucky to salvage a few of the above-mentioned wall that inspired such immediate obsession; many of the objects and novelties that captures one's eye when sleep-deprived are less than extraordinary under normal circumstances. So while I find this particular selection fascinating, I imagine that you, dear viewer, may not find yourself transported to my momentary frame of mind.

A Random Smattering

What follows is pretty much the entirety of my non-Vasa Sweden photos... yes, I know, a bit pathetic, especially considering that these were all taken within 48 hours of my arrival. Whatever. This is what you get.

The first thing one notices when stepping off the plane is that everything in Sweden (well, more specifically, everything in the Arlanda airport) is beautiful. I hadn't yet quite recovered from snapping a million-and-one impromptu pics of Manhattan, so I felt compelled to take more, even here in airport hotel. Pretty, no? This country was made just for me.

But it gets better! Here's another hotel lobby. I failed (failed!) to take any photos of the staircase in this hotel: a shame. 

A boat. Probably my favorite photograph.

Another boat, streetsign adjacent.

Look at the pretty flower... believe it or not, I took about thirty photos of this damn flower in my attempt to capture the detail of the petals. If you can't appreciate the photo, at least appreciate my time (and slavish dedication). 

This is a structure, and it's made of bricks. I do not know what possessed anyone to create it, although I'm rather glad they did.

A window. I know.

Sweden's motto: Cover your bases! I assume these are photos of famous Swedes, maybe even famous Stockholmians (Stockholmites?). Whether you're coming or going, they're here for you.

Can't Type: Fingers Broken

Where did September go? 

I just looked at my blog list: 15 posts for August, 18 for July, 16 for June, 32 for May... and 1 single, stunted, under-watered post for September. Which, I might add, is almost over.

Somehow I'm going to have to make up for this - not for you, dear reader! - but to raise myself again in my own esteem, recapture my blogger identity. How shall I do this? I think I'll post some pictures (they're worth so many words, they say). 

Recently I took a merry trip to Sweden (that's where September went!). Didn't actually... see much of Sweden, but I did occasionally venture out for bagels and other Swedish delicacies, and one day I went to a museum! Beautiful country. Here are some pictures; try not to be overwhelmed:

Vasa Museum: The Vasa is a ridiculously ornate Swedish warship that sank half an hour after setting sail on her maiden voyage in 1628. Not well-designed, one might say, but beautiful. The low salinity of Stockholm's harbor preserved the ship until she was discovered

 and, eventually, resurrected - 333 years later. The brightly colored carvings above and below are reproductions; the originals, having lost their hue after years underwater, are located on the Vasa herself.

The darkness of these photographs is partially due to the dim lighting necessary to preserve the Vasa, partially due to my resolute refusal to use flash. R eventually pointed out that raising my ISO would help, too.

Beautiful bondaged mermaid.

The Vasa was no tiny ship - this photograph gives a good idea of her depth.

I'll post more photos from Stockholm tomorrow - I'd post them now but they don't quite fit in with the feel of this set. See you soon.

Jigsaw

Once upon a time I thought of writing as the overflow of ideas and emotion, the pressure-release valve that brings relief and keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground. Now I feel as though I've waited too long, intimidated by my own words or, rather, by my inability to capture an essence or a simple wisp of feeling that I no longer know how or what to say.

Unused as I am to this feeling of trepidation, I'm hesitant to post anything at all. In the past I've accepted words for what they are - a swirling, insubstantial, beautiful mask for what lies beneath - but I'm forced to reject that now, wanting as I do for words to mean something, to say something true, that I can't simply use them as a game or a ploy but want them - need them! - to reflect what I mean as if that would somehow prove myself. Somehow make myself real.

In the end, we're only as real as the impact we've made, whether in the minds of others or some arguably more tanglible creation. It's not that I fear mortality; I fear never having been. I fear that everything I've never said will vanish like unseen smoke and I with it, unrealized.