Noche Buena en Cabo

    As the title suggests, I spent Christmas Eve in Cabo San Lucas.  (Noche Buena means Christmas Eve, btw)
    It was originally home to the Pericú people but today is a massive tourist attraction.  When you first leave the pier, vendors and people advertising tours come at you from all directions.  They have kind faces, calling you "amigo", and offering you toothy smiles.  It's almost regretfully that you must tell them: "lo siento. Ya tenemos un tour", in your heavily accented Spanish.
   We didn't have as much time in Cabo as we did in Mazatlan or Puerto Vallarta, but it was time well spent.  We docked just before noon, and watching the Norwegion Star pull into port was a treat.  We had to be sent ashore via tender boats-to my extreme delight and my father's dismay.  He's easily seasick, you sea (haha!).  But I'm not.  I love the feel of cutting through the waves and sun on bare shoulders. 

Getting into the tender boats. (I'm the one with the blue backpack)

 I thought of an Elizabeth Taylor quote I once heard as we neared Cabo.  My memory butchered it, but I didn't have the luxury of google then.  

"You can't possess radiance, you can only admire it."

   We had an hour to kill before our tour of downtown Cabo, so we walked along the pier, directionless.  Just outside of the duty-free shopping area was a tented market.  A flea market.  A golden opportunity to practice my cringe-worthy Spanish.  And I did, although I didn't end up buying anything.  The vendors were very kind, with the good breeding to tell me-untruthfully-that my Spanish was very good.  Someday I'll go back to Cabo and actually buy things, but bargaining is the fun part.  

  Our tour guide was a good humored Mexican named Armando.  His English, although hardly perfect, was very agreeable.  He took us to a church:

La iglesia de Cabo San Lucas, circa 1700s

and what used to be a commercial tuna fishery.  Cabo used to generate revenue as a fishing town, but now all the fishing is for sport.  Indeed, the world's largest marlin tournament is held in Cabo.  

  After our tour was over, we bid farewell to a still beaming Armando and left to find the location of our glass-bottom boat ride.  It wasn't hard; the pier isn't where you necessarily have to worry about getting lost in.  Downtown is perhaps a different story.  But I digress.

   The glass bottom boat ride was probably my favorite part.  The waters surrounding Cabo are very clear, and fish came right up to the bottom of the boat.  The tour guide told us laughingly that he had rubbed guacamole to attract them.  I still don't know if he was serious.  

The view from the glass-bottom boat ride

   The sun had begun to go down before our ride was finished.  The surface of the water was stained orange and red.  It was something I've never seen before, something I can never forget.  The ocean spray dried on my arm, leaving behind tiny salt crystals, each perfectly formed.  Beautiful. 

  There was a smell, as we neared Scooby-Doo Rock.  (Don't ask me what the real name is because I don't know.  That's what the guy called it, and that's what I'm sticking to(: )  Anyway, it was kind of salty, kind of decaying.  It made my brother sick, but I kind of liked it/couldn't stand it.  There were a number of sea lions calling to each other and swimming about in the water, sunning themselves on the rocks.  I guess I just assumed they were the cause of the odor, but I've seen sea lions before without encountering that smell.  One of life's mysteries, it would seem.  

   A lovely, sunshine-y day.  I wish you could all go there, because even though people call it "California-Mexico" it's still deeply rooted in history. 

The Sun and the Sea

    I keep a personal journal and I was going to write this in there but then I thought: Why not blog about it?  So I am. The pictures were taken by my father.

    My family and I just returned from a 7 day cruise along the Mexican Riviera.  I never used to understand why anybody would pay so much just to eat and shop and dance.  I didn't see why people didn't just fly directly to their destinations and spend as much time as they wanted exploring and hiking.  I'm still not sure what other people's reasons are, but mine is the ocean.  I miss it so much now that it's like a physical pain.  

     I live in California, and beaches are hardly scarce here.  But there is nothing like the rocking movement of a ship cutting through waves.  You can go outside any time you like, and hear the roar of the sea, feel the salty spray, squint into the sun.  I filled half of a new notebook with the things I thought of as I stood there.  Some of the things I wrote are silly, and some quite profound, I think.  But some never got recorded and are lost to me forever.  Technically they're still swimming around in my brain, but I'll never be able to remember them again.  
    What impressed me most about the wide outdoors was not the sea, but the sun.  My father and I woke early on the first day-Monday the 23rd-and went to the 13th deck to watch the sunrise.  It was bitterly and gloriously cold.  An exerpt from my journal:

The sun was magnificent, a great flaming orb that left a golden pathway to it, as if to say: "Come find me if you dare!"  I have never been so moved as I was then, by that sun.  I fancied that if I looked closely enough, I could see the sea mirrored on its fiery surface.  
The sun is very proud.  Its ascent is defiant, almost haughty.  "Admire me, revere me, worship me if you will" the sun says from up high "but I will continue to rise and set even if mankind did not exist.  If every clock in the world broke, I would be unaffected.  At least then you silly humans would see that I am above time, which is after all, a manmade thing."-about an hour later, from the Blue Lagoon Restaurant.

    Now we are back home, and I miss the rocking of the deck.  I miss the way the sun glittered on the surface of the water like a million sapphires.  I miss the bite in the air, and the salt.  I miss Mexico.  
    I still don't like the pounding, meaningless club music they insist on playing 24/7, or the excessive eating, but that's a small price to pay for the sea and the sun and the wind.  
    

“My soul is full of longing
for the secret of the sea,
and the heart of the great ocean
sends a thrilling pulse through me.”

 ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Fine Day For Sailing

   The sun had not yet risen over the horizon, and the air was bitterly cold.  Garthar Svavarsson was impatient to be off, for the tide was rolling in quicker than expected.  His men were already drinking. He didn't mind.  Drunk men made the best sailors.  He ran his fingers over his ship's smooth side, admiring the way oak changed seamlessly to spruce at the hull and ash at the prow.  Oak was Odin's wood, and very strong, but spruce floated easier.  The ash was for his wife, who was waiting for him in Hebrides.  Garther wondered idly if he would return to Sweden.
    The forest to the North of the river was gone.  The timber had been used to build his new longship. He resented the baldness of the land, the ugly stumps.  Still, it had to be done.
    His grandfather used to tell him stories of his youth, when the land was still densely covered with forests.  Many of the forests had been cut down for shipbuilding.  A single longship took an entire grove, and an army of them...Garthar shuddered.  But Vikings always needed ships, for raiding was a risky enterprise.  A good ship could last many generations, but not when hacked at with swords or burnt by angry peasants.
     Sweden, like much of the European and Scandinavian countries, was once heavily forested, but the coming of the Viking Era had meant the destruction of many old groves.  Sacrifices were offered by the hundreds to appease the gods.  Odin would not have allowed the felling of his oaks otherwise.  Even before the Viking Era, northmen had been skilled seamen, and their ships were the swiftest in the world.  They were slim enough to navigate narrow fjords, shallow enough for rivers, but equally as good on the open seas.  They were worth more than a man’s life, but they took a lot of wood.  Garthar’s grandmother was a druid, and she had mourned the loss of the trees.  Trees were sacred to the druids, who, it was said, had learned to communicate with dryads.  Garthar sympathized with her, but he was a Viking raider, and he needed his ships.  They were his livelihood.  

And so the forests were felled.  But not all of them. The sacred groves were safe, and his grandmother went there with her basket of offerings every afternoon.  

But there was always the need for more farmland, and any man willing to destump the fields could have all the land that coins could buy.  After the Summer raids, he might be such a man.  Then he could bring Kristen back to Sweden with him.  Garthar tried to picture it.  

His men were pushing his ship out from the sand and into the fjord.  It was a beautiful ship, he thought with pride.  It didn’t matter that the northernmost end of his land was now uncomfortably bare.  If he could have an army of such longships he would clear out all of Sweden.  It would mean more land for he and Kristen in any case.  

It is not known what Garthar Svavarsson’s fate was after his journey to the Hebrides.  He is thought to be the first Scandinavian to circumnavigate and live in Iceland.  It is not clear if he ever got his army of patchwork longships.  

In the years that passed, Sweden did indeed grow sparser in forests and thicker in farmland.  After the last Viking raid in Normandy in the year 1066, many took to farming.  The landscape of the Scandinavian countries-Sweden included-changed.  The rich forest topsoil was excellent for turnips.

It's Raining Outside

            It's raining outside.  The drum of water droplets drown out the world, the wind blows away, away, away.  
            I am not afraid of the cold, or the wet.  It's just that hot tea is so fitting, and a cup steams at my elbow.  I reach up to turn out the light and sit in partial darkness, listening to the howl of unseen beasts.  The light is too false.  It profanes the the atmosphere of gloomy chill.  So I leave it out and sip my tea.  I wish I could say that this silence affords my thoughts peace, but it doesn't.  
            Isn't that strange? I find that chaos is better for introspection, because your mind is forced to blaze a path through extraneous noise.  But not peace, not silence, not stillness.  Then your mind is startled by its own strangeness.  Or perhaps its just me that cannot recognize my own thoughts. 
            I feel so young.  I feel so vulnerable.  Perhaps the rain is like a great equalizer-I don't notice that it discriminates between the brilliant and lackluster, the old and young, the good and bad.  We all get wet, don't we?
            My head hurts.  I don't think people will like this post because it's nothing more than a stream of consciousness, and it doesn't even make sense to me.  But when do I ever make sense to myself?  I think the truly wise aren't those that know others, but those that know themselves.  I think the truly happy are those who have gone to the edge and learned to appreciate true sorrow.  What was that thing that man once said? It was something about skunkweed.  It was beautiful, something about the necessity of something as yucky as skunkweed to bring out the beauty of a rose.
           There are so many, many things I should be doing.  But I can't bring myself to review Calculus, or learn my new AP Spanish vocabulary.  I was very proud to be taking AP Spanish, but right now it seems pointless.  Stupid, even.  The rain doesn't care, so why should I? The rain scorns the school of men, and looks away from the fools that scramble for their fools' education.  It's so depressing.
            My bed is unmade, the breakfast dishes waiting sternly in the sink.  But my tea is only half drunk and the warm scent of mint dances across muddled senses.  
           Enjoy the rain, San Diego. 

Homo Sapiens are so Difficult

             What is this thing individualism? Why do we celebrate those that stand out from the rest, even as we refuse to accept them?  Many argue that as humans raised and felled civilizations, our intellectual and cultural advancements allowed us to appreciate differences.  This celebration of differences, and of the individual, is uniquely human.  Now, we do not fear predators and so the idea of conformity is largely dated.  And yet, society is collective, and we all tend to blend in.  It's almost as if being radically different means being put on a pedestal for rising above man's basic instinct, and triumphing over the sea of sheep-like followers.
            But if you think about it, why are those artistic individuals so different?  What we really celebrate in them is a product not of a unique spirit of creative and social rebellion, but of discontent.  The knock-offs are those that follow standards others have set for being unique individuals-they are different for the sake of being recognized as different.  The people that have truly risen above their fellow men are often not admired by their peers.  They are different because of their discontent with the way things are, and that discontent is not a quality often extolled by the masses.  
            It isn't the kind of shoes you choose to wear, or the shade of lipstick; it isn't the music you listen to, no matter how obscure; it isn't the era your mind is stuck in.  It's how you act on your disgust for the way something is.  The true definition of a "hipster" should be  "martyr".  
           Besides, being a part of  society is not lamentable.  Humans are by definition social creatures, and our heritage is one of collective achievement and advancement.  I apologize for previously misusing the word "individual".  It is not one who is radically different, and it is not my redefinition of the word "hipster".  We are all individuals, and we are all as worthy as anybody.  Any one of use can become great.  We all love, hate, cry, remember, and above all, we all live.  Our outward appearance is a testament to the era we live in, so that future historians can say "ah, the 2010s...an era of consumerism and prosperity.  See this Tyler Oakley t shirt?  It's a testament to the homegrown YouTube generation, a defiance of the crystallizing Hollywood industry..."
            Everyone is inherently different, no matter how much you conform to any given institution.  Those others, the martyrs, are never truly appreciated in their time. 
           

  
 

"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superiorto your former self."    -Ernest Heminway

                
“The sadness will last forever.”   ― Vincent van Gogh 

Yngnah (Repost) 2

 Years passed, and I grew stronger, harder.  Most began to forget that I was woman. 
                   * * * * * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There is an uproar in Ragnar Lodbrok's great halls tonight.  It is because Ragnar, strongest and hardiest of rulers, has been taken by a man that can be no man.  What man hides behind stone walls and cannot bear to do his own killing?  Here in the North, we would tear him apart for cowardice.
  There is talk that this is the punishment of the new god.  But I look across the dusky firelight into the faces of Ragnar's sons and I cannot believe that a birthling god would dare cross such giants.  
   "Aella.  Aella."  the halls writhe with hatred, swelling beneath the chants of the Coward's name. Bjorn Ironside spits at his imagined foe and roars for blood.  His brothers join their voices to his, mingling with Thor's thunder outside.  The rain, always rain, cannot wash away such blood, such hate.  Only more blood can wipe clean the wrath of Odin-and of Bjorn.  The crowds call for the Coward's death, for Ragnar is much loved here.  
   I stand and cast aside my cloak, scratchy in the heat of the firepits.  I can feel the eyes of men, tracing, appraising.  They must wonder at a woman dressed in a man's leathers.  Those that know me look away as soon as they realize where their eyes have wandered.  The chicken-livered look away beneath my gaze, fearful of my ravaged face.  Now there is only one man whose eyes boldly fix themselves upon me. A rose blossoms between his eyes before he even has time to blink.  I yank my dagger out of his skull and bury it to the hilt in the soil beneath the rushes on the floor.  When I pull it out, it has been cleansed by the earth.  
    "Yngnah!" Bjorn bellows, thrusting a tree-like arm heavenward.  His eyes glint with humor, beneath his murderous rage.  "Sister-not, I see your anger tonight.  Do you not wish also to avenge Ragnar-king?  Will you join our Great Heathen Army?"  His query is directed to me, but is met by Ragnar's people with thunderous approval.  I kneel before him.  
     "I will fight."The hall erupts.  Lagertha rises, shakes free her famed golden locks, and kneels beside me. 
     "I will fight."  Our twin oaths bind us, our wrath unites us.  I notice that Ivar, wisest of Ragnar's sons, celebrates not with his brothers, but with his horn.  Lo, his eyes are filled with the same hate, the same fury as Bjorn, as Ubba, as Halfdan, and even as Lagertha.  But his glitter with an ice colder than the midnight sun.

Yngnah (repost)

The home is the sphere where a woman many reign supreme.  At least, where the care of such sundry items as child-rearing are concerned.  My mother passed such divine knowledge unto me, in the year of our lord, 912, before the Almighty saw fit to take her life.  My mother taught me things a woman ought to know, even as she lie expiring upon her straw pallet.  She had only me, and although a child still, I was old enough at least to send her off with a dog at her feet and her sword in her hand.  A longship we had no longer, and even if we had, I would not have been strong enough to defend it from thieves.  
    When my mother,the greatest of the shield maidens that had served the great Lagertha had descended beyond even the powers of Ineata, wisewoman of the village, I closed my eyes and laid my brow against her wasted arm.  I prayed to the gods of old, and the Christian one fore good measure, that she may be allowed into the Halls of Valhalla, although she had not died in battle. 
   I knew not the name of the man that sired me, but my mother told me once that he had not come with the wave upon waves of Christians, clad in their rough woolen smocks and shaven heads.  I would have gone to him, if I could have.  If i knew where he was, or even who he was.  I would ask him to learn me in the arts of the Ulfberht; I would ask him to help me become a shield maiden like my mother, most trusted warrior of Lagertha, wife of Ragnar Lodbrok.  
    My mother had not wished a raider and warrior's life for her daughter.  Had I not been born beautiful, it is likely I would have had my way.  Instead, for all my wit, I was cursed with a fair face.  I was raised not to fight, but to bear fighters.  My glories could come only from my sons.  
    A beautiful woman cannot be taken seriously, and an ugly woman cannot be trusted.  This I understood only upon reaching my fourteenth summer.  The pain in my flesh almost rivaled the pain of being alone, bereft of a mother.  This second pain I inflicted upon myself, for a woman scarred, at least, is neither beautiful nor ugly.

A Russian Sketch

     
  His eyes were on her then, watching lithe movements, the slim, girlish figure.  He could not help but compare her to Anja, athough he did not realize that he did so.  Anja was small and pretty like a little bird.  She was sweet and delicate, but she paled before this other one.  Such broad, square shoulders, such a splendid waist!  He marveled at her, even as he scoffed at her.  She darted here and there, alluring, charming, wild-but never beautiful.

 
    Someone called his name.  It was an acquaintance of his, a man he met at his university in St. Petersburg.  He turned his head to acknowledge him, but was unaware of their exchange.  His attention belonged to the waif with the locks of flaming hair.
    The light reveled in her coppery tresses, on her many jewels, the smooth contours of her arms, her neck, her unfashionably bare throat.  
     His colleague paused, noticing for perhaps the first time his companion's distraction.  He looked to where Constantin looked, and a wide smile parted his boyish lips. 
     "Aha!" he cried with great mirth.  The prospect of discussing girls, and flirting, and dancing made him  forget what he was saying about the Zemstvos.  "Pretty, that girl.  An American, most likely."
    Constantin was silent.  He pursed his lips in annoyance, for he did not wish to discuss the creature in such plain terms; to do so would be nothing short of desecration, for surely such a girl was like the nymphs in the old Greek stories.  
    "Pretty," his companion repeated. "Though not so pretty as Natasha or Glafira.  Still, not bad for an American! "  Constantin ground his teeth.  "It is too bad she is betrothed," the scholar sighed, drinking deeply of his Medovukha.  
    Betrothed.  It was inconceivable to him, to Constantine, that the strange girl belonged to anyone.  She was so free.  Anyone but himself, for he had already claimed her. He forgot Anja,  for whom he had declared his undying love to his highly amused father only that afternoon.  His whole existence had wound itself inextricably with hers, whether she would have it or not.
    Constantin was not a bad fellow.  He was honest and his family, the Selanovs, was an old and honorable one.  He was intelligent, but never smug, and rarely given to the fickle whims that so ruled his youthful friends.  Good looking, the girls were apt to giggle, but so serious! Even his smile- so dazzling a smile, too!-was grave.  How they envied Anja her good fortune.
   Face flushed from the good Russian vodka, Constantin excused himself and left the company of his still-rambling schoolmate.  He staggered to the drawing room and dropped heavily into a seat.  Anja came to him and stroked his brow with her slim, white hand.  As she prattled, Constantin felt that she was boring, that her superficiality was intolerable.  He stood abruptly, bowed, and hastily left her.  Immediately afterward he regretted his rudeness.  After all, he thought, she cannot help the way she is, and she has always been kind to me.

    Later, his mother, the celebrated Princess Stasia Ivanova Selanova, introduced him to the girl.  Then, upon spying an acquaintance to whom she had not spoken in nearly a year, the princess took her leave.
    "Inès" the girl smiled and offered her broad, long fingered hand.  As he shook it, he noted the white teeth, charmingly irregular.  Her proximity thrilled him, affected him more than drink ever had.  It made him bold and for once, Constantine lost his reserve.  As they talked, he loved her more.  He admired her height, her gray eyes, her rough French voice. 
    "Monsieur," she smiled to show that she was about to jest with him. "Have you any loves? I have seen dozens and dozens of your Russian girls and I feel that I should never tire of looking at them."
     "Loves? No." An image of Anja came unbidden to his mind and his conscience smote him.
      "None?" her eyes danced. "Surely not! A handsome fellow such as yourself must have all the girls in Ryazan dancing after you! Not all men that are so fine and so good-looking come from such lineage as the Selanovs.  
     "No.  And you, Inès?" He asked.  He was so strange then that she grew wary.  "Have you any loves?"
      "Monsieur, I am to be married next Fall!" she laughed. "So all the young men in my own Lille pine and cry to their cups."  She laughed again to show him her joke, but he did not join her in her merriment.
      "Why are you so serious? Why do you not laugh as I do?" Her Russian was not very good and he thought it charming.
      "Do you love him?"
      "I?" Her smile faltered. "He is rich, and very kind.  Only a little older, not like my sister Orlene.  Her husband is already an old man.  But he is the richest of them all!"  Inès chuckled.  "I think she is very happy.  She spends here, spends there, Oh! Left hat in Paris, must buy two new ones! But her husband-Olivier-he loves her very much.  Orlene is very beautiful.  My grand-mère likes to say that Orle got our maman's good looks and I got her temper!" Here her good humor was restored and she threw back her head in mirth.  The sound drew several scandalized looks.
    "Do you want to marry him?" 
     "Alphonse is a good man," Inès said slowly.  "I do not know him very well, but his father is good friends with Papà.  So you see, it is all right."
    "You are very beautiful, but it will be wasted.  You do not love this Alphonse," Constantine spoke to her in French.  His French, unlike her Russian, was flawless.
      Inès as silent.  Her lips pursed in disapproval and her eyes grew icy.  She noticed then that he looked at her the way young men always looked at her.  
     "It is late," She said formally, rising.
      "Wait!" Constantin's hand closed over her arm.  Inès froze him with a look.  Her eyes held his disdainfully then flicked deliberately to his hand on her arm.  He released her hastily. 
     "I believe I love you," he words came out quietly, half-choked.

      "Monsieur, you have been drinking.  This is not a fairy tale, and you do not know me."  Icicles hung from her words.  
      "I know you better now than Alphonse ever will."

       "That is not for you to judge, Monsieur.  You forget yourself.  Good night!" As she turned to go, she heard him reply, quietly, so that his answer fluttered below the din of the other guests.

       "He could never please a woman like you.  Deny it now, but tomorrow,the next day, the next year, you will remember! Then you will wonder what it might have been like to love and be loved by me!"

       Inès turned slowly to face him.  Eyes ablaze, she drew herself up to her full height-taller than some men-and said: "I? You flatter yourself.  A bumbling country boy, fresh from university and overconfident in the charms from money and fine stock.  You think all the girls will fawn and fall like sheep before you? I? Love you? Incroyable!" To show him how incredible it all was, she laughed.  Then she was gone.

Stupidity is the Birthright of Humanity

       On the first day of eighth grade, my new homeroom teacher stood before a class of disinterested adolescents in the throes of puberty and clapped his hands together.

       “There is,” he began importantly, “no such thing as a stupid question.” and smiled encouragingly into strained silence.  A hand rose slowly into the air, the owner wearing an expression of excruciating concentration.

       “Yes?” inquired Mr. Blodmann pleasantly.

       “Will we be learning about African Americans like Nelson Mandela?” Had it not been for the fact that Chauncey (names have been changed to protect the perpetrators’ identities)  was completely in earnest, had it not been for the fact that most of us hadn’t the faintest clue who that was, we would have erupted into uproarious laughter.  But the smarter kids chuckled to themselves, appreciating the irony of the situation.  Chauncey had just proved our well intentioned teacher wrong: there is definitely such a thing as a stupid question.  

        A question is classified as stupid when it contains any element of: irrelevance, irreverence, repetition, or obviosity.  As Chauncey had also asked his question in our Earth Science class, it had the rare and unusual quality of belonging to all four categories.  However it is worth noting that not all stupid questions are asked by stupid people.  Sometimes stupid questions serve an intelligent purpose, such as drawing attention to an important point in a humorous way.  It is usually plain when the question is deliberately stupid; just look for air-quotes, eye-ball rolling, or the smirk that loosely translates into: “Step aside, PEASANTS” .  

        Irrelevant (off topic) questions interrupt discussions with a completely random subject, or a subject broached at a previous point in the conversation.  They are sometimes asked by self-proclaimed jokesters, whose comedic efforts often fall short.  Because it is a fact of life that people are generally jerks, we seem to find it funniest when dumb questions are asked in total seriousness, probably due to our massive egos and superiority complexes.

       On the other hand, it doesn’t matter how deep or profound the question is; if it doesn’t somehow relate to the discussion, it can safely be labeled “stupid”.  Can you imagine reading a thrilling piece about yams and midway through exploring the international yam community the author suddenly has an existential crisis all over the page? ( “Nigeria is by far the the world’s largest producer of yams, but more importantly, how is humanity supposed to function in a society where we have killed God?!”) But then, if the essay about yams was actually an allegory for existentialism, that question would no longer be stupid because of its irrelevance.  It all depends on the rhetor’s purpose.  As in, whether or not he has one.  

          A person demonstrates a lack of respect, understanding, or empathy by asking an irreverent question.  This kind of question is almost never funny because while the other three deal with stupidity, this one deals with ignorance and even bigotry.  It would be like asking a Syrian to expound upon the benefits of biological warfare, or a hobo his opinion regarding this year’s price inflations in the diamond-encrusted chihuahua market.  The Syrians recently experienced a civilian massacre due to the rebel forces’ use of biological warfare and it’s generally accepted that the homeless have little interest in something as opulent (aka, expensive) as the diamond-encrusted chihuahua market.  Such insensitivity to human suffering can only be born of an inconsiderate and self-absorbed attitude, which is why it is considered bad taste to make 9/11 jokes.

        Repetitive questions repeat the same question or questions multiple times, and is best seen when families go for extended road trips.  While Mom and Dad are busy swearing beneath their breaths at a sulky GPS who is recalculating in a little corner and being most unhelpful, Junior is bored in the backseat.  While Mom and Dad are trying to keep their indoor voices, Junior can be heard reiterating: “Are we there yet?” from the backseat.  Every so often he might throw in a “How much longer?”.  Junior’s question was stupid in the first place, as anyone can plainly see that because  the minivan is still moving, with no signs of slowing down, Junior is most certainly not there yet.  The repetition transforms Junior’s stupid question into an animal noise that conveys his feelings of boredom and fussiness.   Repetition is the bane of the spoken language; it has the potential to destroy meaningful questioning.  Adding the element of repetition to an already stupid question takes it from “rather stupid” to “obscenely stupid”.

        My personal favorite is the obvious question.  These are almost always funny, regardless of the asker’s intent, because they can happen to anyone.  Even someone as omniscient and infallible as my mother, who once asked a waitress if the vegan kale salad had meat in it.  Therefore, an obvious question occurs when the asker has purposely or accidentally missed an unspoken or self-explanatory premise.  A few days ago, my brother’s friend called our home phone and declared: “Yo, dude, I’m bored.  Are you at home right now?”  In this case, the implicit assumption that escaped my brother’s friend was that home phones are located in one’s home, and not at the Corn Palace in South Dakota.  

       Stupid questions are not merely the questions asked by stupid people.  The fact that they come mostly from stupid people is just a coincidence.  Anyone can fall victim to asking purposeless questions.  Just ask any seasoned receptionist at any doctor’s clinic who has experienced flu season.

I Used to think Highschoolers had Everything Figured Out

   It has been a long time since I have sat here and released a torrent of nonsense onto the internet.  I've been busy with school, volleyball, and the SAT, and generally uninspired.  But today I have a sad story to tell.  
   It's quite sad, especially since it sounds like a common affliction amongst the world's hormonal youth.  


    The story involves a boy, as many sad stories are apt to do.  I don't know this boy, but two friends of mine do.  He seems to be more trouble than he's worth, if you ask me.  True, he's on varsity football and was lucky enough to be blessed with fine features, but there are a lot of people like that in this world.  It seems to me that we ought to be more concerned with things that didn't come from mommy and daddy.  If I am coming across as judgmental, it's because this whole affair seems so absurd.
     Anyway, one of my friends had an on and off "thing" with this boy.  I have always struggled with the phrase "to have a thing".  What is that? Is it a relationship? A secret relationship? A flirtation?  What I mean  is whether or not "having a thing" means commitments.  Because while having an "off" period, where they were not an item, this boy went and insinuated himself into the affections of another of my friends.  They were just supposed to be friends, but to make a long story short, they did not get off the train at Friends-ville.  So now they two are no longer friends, they who have been inseparable for so long.  All because of an oafish pretty-boy moron.
     Is that not sad?
     I cannot help but sympathize with the second girl, who I cannot view as wrong.  If all is fair in love and war, why is she being punished for following the dictates of her young heart? Why cannot she experience this inevitable heartache, this sweetly toxic rite of passage? This is a ridiculous and outdated custom that society has perpetuated for too long; there is no exclusive ownership of anyone's affections.  All is fair in love and war.  All is fair in love and war.  All is fair in love.  
     Let's talk about that second girl for a moment. I believe she is misunderstood, and many people treat her badly.  I don't believe that she understands people in general, which also means that she cannot understand herself.  She is constantly under pressure to be a great volleyball player. She is constantly craving acceptance and attention, often making a fool of herself to a crowd of disillusioned half-wits that laugh at her.  Sometimes she is very quiet, with a dreary expression twenty years too old for her.  My heart cannot help but twist for her.
     But what really strikes me as ridiculous is the need to involve people.  These two had a very public confrontation.  So, half the school witnessed the destruction of a friendship.  The other half will know about it by tomorrow.  Not only is this a stupid thing to break a friendship over, this is also no concern of anybody else's.  So why cause a scene?  Both of these girls are extroverts, so I understand the ease and desirability of the limelight, but this is not a reality show.  I believe we are capable of solving our problems like mature, civilized adults.  Or, at least scream at each other in a discreet place.  
   But the publicity makes me wonder if it isn't more than about that boy.  This may be a clash of two dominating personalities, each trying to triumph over the other.  For all anyone knows, the boy may be nothing more than a pawn. 

            "Maybe our girlfriends are our soul mates and guys are just people to have fun with.”
                                            ~Candace Bushnell

“Parents are not interested in justice, they're interested in peace and quiet.” ― Bill Cosby

     I do not understand parents.  More specifically, I do not understand my parents.  I assume that something about birthing a child means that the memories of adolescence are wiped from memory.  As I myself am not a parent, I am not privy to their secrets.  
    I have often seen those self-help parenting books in the aisles of libraries and bookstores and garage sales.  One should never judge a book by its cover, even if there is a buxom, smug-looking woman on the front cover, holding in one hand the hand of an equally smug looking child and a tray of muffins in the other.  However I cannot help but scoff every time I see one.  After all, just because I'm considerably younger than most parents doesn't mean that I'm a vapid little idiot. I always wondered why those books never took the actual advice from actual kids.  Now, obviously there is the issue of maturity and whatnot, but most children would be able to tell you that yelling and screaming is scary.  Why do adults trust science over their children? Can they seriously not remember what it's like to be a child? 
   Dumbledore once said something along the lines of: "The truly wise do not forget what it is like to be young".  I think that was in the fifth book, after Sirius Black is killed.  But my point is that the greatest minds were, at some point, the minds of children.  Maturity is not a manifestation of character, but rather the development of our ability to make decisions that do not contradict our consciences.  Also, maturity is not the equivalent of wisdom.  I know myself, my values, and my desires yet I would hardly call myself "mature", which is a hackneyed term anyways.  
    Something about growing up means that you  lose that frank, childish inquiry and that honest transparency.  What adults must use words to communicate, a child can convey with a look.  What adults call love, a child feels no need to label or categorize.  
     Parents, please stop taking everything we say as an attack on your authority.  Please stop pressuring us, because we already compare ourselves and are compared with the "elites" of our generation.  Please stop expecting us to act our age if you won't treat us as though we are.  Please remember that this is a difficult time and that one day we will know how to show you that we love, respect, and admire you.  
    Parents, why are you so confusing? Why don't you understand us, if you were once where we are?

The Jenniferius

     I wanted so badly to write about this but now that I have begun I find it difficult to put what I think and how I feel in writing.  Truthfully, she is the bravest, kindest, most inspiring person I know.  Her name is Jennifer, and (I don't want to give away too much of her private life) she has spent the last few months in the hospital.  
     This is my way of letting Jenn know how I respect and admire her, but for your sakes, I think I better stop jumping around.  I met Jennifer about a year ago, in the first couple days of school.  We were both in Mr. Whitney's physics classroom, waiting to talk to him.  I had come to see Mr. Whitney about some scheduling conflict, and nearly walked into her.  I didn't think too much about the tallish, pale girl with the swirl of soft raven curls and black-rimmed glasses.  Not even after noticing the sweet face, the flushed cheeks and the shy smile.  Why is it that people always overlook the beauty of kindness in the search for the extraordinary?  Because in truth, the truly good are a much rarer phenomenon.  But I digress.  She let me go first, assuring me that she would take a while.  When I finished, I confess that I listened to her conversation as I deposited my things into my seat.  First with an incurious idleness that then grew into sympathetic surprise.  She had come to tell our physics teacher that she would be missing most of the class due to her imminent hospitalization.  
   When they had finished conversing, she looked about her timidly, for class was about to begin.  I caught her look, and patted the stool beside me, smiling (hopefully encouragingly).  Her uncertainty vanished in the gentle radiance of her smile.  That was how I got to know her, the best of all of us.  
    Jennifer, how we miss you! If you only knew how Emma and I celebrated the advent of your transplant.  If you saw how we clasped hands and spoke of our excitement and anxiety for you in hushed voices-the reverence due a saint.  
     There is no way to tell more of this extraordinary girl's life without violating her trust in me, so I won't.  But know that like every good story, there is more to tell.  Every day, every breath she takes will add more to her story.  Jennifer, my dear, you are truly an inspiration.  I would hope for your perpetual and never-ending happiness if not for the fact that sorrows bring out the true flavor of joy.  It is in honor to be your friend.

Humans and Orangatuns

     Below is an essay I received a score of 8 for.  To be honest, I still feel like it should have been higher.  I regard this as the best essay I've ever written, and I don't really understand why I got an 8 out of 12.  I'm probably just being immature, but I can't help myself.  Technically, the graders aren't supposed to judge you if you creatively BS-ed everything but your intro (I did).  

    Prompt: Do people need other people to understand themselves? Support you answer with examples yada yada yada...

    When I was still in preschool, I made friends with a tree, whose wit I treasured very much.  My peers couldn't understand why anyone would want to spend time with something as incapable of reciprocation as a tree, so they teased me for it.  They called me things like "weirdo" and "tree beard".  I later realized that it is human nature to put down or ridicule things we cannot comprehend.  So I would say that yes, humans need other humans in order to understand themselves because one human is merely a part of the bigger whole that is the homo sapiens species. 
     My good friend and celebrated biologist, Dr. Annae Blythe explained to me once, how organisms need to be a part of a society made up of those same organisms in order to achieve an understanding of themselves (naturally this only applies to creatures that are capable of meta-cognition).  Humans are no different.  Humans also do not possess any predilection for self-study.  It is only through social interactions that we can develop an understanding of human nature and the workings of the human mind.  As we mature, so does our comprehension of humanity and because everyone is ultimately a member of humanity, that leads to a greater understanding of ourselves.
     Some twenty years ago, Annae conducted a study with our close relative, the orangatan.  She found that when isolated, they did not develop the social skills necessary to pick up on the emotional cues of their companions.  In addition, they had a harder time figuring out a means to respond to certain signals their own bodies sent them: hunger, pain, discomfort.  In contrast, however, the second group consisting of several orangutan that spent time in each others company did rather better at all these things.  Annae concluded that therefore, organisms such as orangutan and humans can achieve  greater self-awareness and understanding when able to observe those around them.  Our compatriots bring out our own quintessentially human qualities and observation of theirs allows for a greater understanding of our own.
    Yes, there are those special individuals that do consciously contemplate their own personalities and character, but the rest of us achieve that same understanding at the subconscious level.  Because of this, we learn by unconsciously observing others of our species and are better able to consciously analyze our own feelings when they are brought to the surface by certain events or interactions.  As Anne Sheppard said :" As human beings we all have things in common".

The Reward for Conformity is that Everyone Likes You Except Yourself

    I have a new math teacher, whose name I'll leave to your imagination.  He is the child of a dying race of a bygone era.  To give you some idea of what I mean, he graduated high school in the year 1974.  He must have been one of those rebellious spirits that marched, protested, and perhaps even fought.  Even now, with long silvery hair and a beard to match, the aura of intellectual power swirls about him.  As he stood before the class, towering above we mortals as a cliff stands over the sand, his every worded incited rebellion, individualism, a break from conventions.  I wished, in that moment, that he were a grandfather to me because I felt that we were as, Anne Shirley put it, "kindred spirits".  
    I hate math.  But according to this man, we do not learn math; rather, we memorize rules and regurgitate them onto paper, in the vague hopes of one day moving on to learning real math.  I could hear his disappointment in the system, how he wanted us to break away from restrictions.  "I want you guys to say to your teachers 'Hey teach! Is this math? When are we really gonna do math?'".  There is an eloquence in the roughness of his manner, and an elegance in the single-mindedness of his denunciation of what  can only be "the man". 
    Why have I not met another person like this?  A person that tells stories about halcyon days, a person that politely begs us to "please forgive his French," when he curses in front of us, a person whose watery blue eyes are mournful beneath black rimmed spectacles.  It is easy to envision him as a friend to Robert Plant, whom I have romanticized many times over (note: friends, stop misusing the word "romanticize").  This is no example of the idealized, perfect human, yet this is also no example of the product of complacency and mental stasis.  
     Nowhere shy of 6'5", lanky, and rather stoop-shouldered, he is at once an old man and an immortal man.  Immortal, I imagine, because his life had meaning; he was his own man, and fought to prove it.  He could have been stationed in Vietnam, had he enlisted as soon as he left high school.  He speaks with the authority of a person that has seen horror, and has learned to appreciate beauty.  He speaks of his travels and the books he has read, the things a lifetime of questioning has taught him.  
     On the surface, there is nothing remarkable about him.  A little too loud, a little too emphatic, yes, but nothing anyone else thought out of the ordinary.  But he is what I wish to be.  I want to be freed of the constraints of society, the way a man such as him must be.  I want to see the world through eyes none other than my own, and accept the horrors of a technologically changing world without swallowing the sugar-coating. 

“It`s not how old you are, it`s how you are old.”
― Jules Renard

Best Love Story Ever

I had a writing teacher once, whom I and my classmates were quite fond of.  Part of the reason must have been our light-heared camaraderie that sprung from his ability to tolerate our good-natured ribboning.  We used to heckle him quite a bit about his wife, whom I will rename as "May".  You see, "Daryll" was, in our minds, quite a romantic figure as well as a man of the world.  We were after him for ages to tell us their proposal story, which he finally did tell us, days before term ended.  

 

So here is the story.  Disclaimer: some things were changed.  

  "There is a time in your life when you will find yourself in a relationship.  And in every relationship there is a time, although you all might be too young to know about, where you either realize that you two will get married and be together for ever, or that things are going nowhere and you just need to break up."  At this point, Daryll literally had half of us in what I like to call H.S.F.C.C. (Hysterics Stemming From Cuteness Overload).  
    Then the dirty little bugger stomped on our hearts by continuing: "So May and I broke up." Now, we all cried out in our distress, but they clearly worked out their differences, seeing as Daryll was standing there, looking all smug and wearing a wedding band.
      (I am now going to pretend I'm Daryll, because I can't remember what he said, word for word)  So, kids, my friends wanted to cheer me up.  That's what friends do: meaning well while in actuality making a crappy day worse.   They took me bowling.  Here I am, on the worst day of my life, trying for their sakes to carry on like my heart wasn't broken.  There inevitably will be that one friend that makes everything ten times worse because he tries too hard to make you have fun.  This one friend-his name was Stephen-thought it would be a good idea to push me into a puddle of melted ice cream, just for kicks and giggles.  Yeah...math teachers are bad at jokes.  
    Anyways, there I was, now sopping wet and sticky, when my phone rang in my pocket.  Surprised that it was still functional (seeing as the phones back in the days were pretty much brick-like fossils, haha), I checked my messages to see that May had left me about eight messages.  She was all:

     "Daryll.  My U-Haul has a flat tire, and I have no idea where I am.  I hate to do this, but please come help me."

 Now, I'm a pretty nice guy, but I reeeeaaaaalllllly did not want to help her.  But like I said, I'm a pretty nice guy.  I drove to her, still in my sticky shorts, and found her drenched in sweat, courtesy of the Arizona sun.  I changed the tire for her, nodded awkwardly at her equally awkward thanks, and got into the U-Haul.  We made eye contact, and there was this moment.  ( Daryll pauses to let that sink in.  Everybody  flipped out) We were like: "Did we make a mistake? Were we too hasty?" So then I looked around and the only ring I could find was they U-Haul key, with that stupid key chain that says "You want quick? You want U-HAUL!".  So I put it on her finger.  Then the people back at the company made us give it back.  It didn't matter in the end because I wore my distant friend, Elvis Presley,'s ring and May wore her mother's.  
 

  

See? Wasn't that the best love story ever? That would be one rom com I would willingly see twice.

Insomnia

   Sleepless nights preceding hazy mornings.  The worst is when you know that a big day is ahead of you, and you really, really needed a good night's sleep  to avoid the situation where you say something stupid in a moment of haziness.  Or when it is exactly and frustratingly 3:17 am and you're trying not to dwell on the fact that you're thinking too hard about sleeping.  
   Sometimes, though, I feel that it's not so bad to lay awake during the  purplish hours from midnight to dawn.  When your heart is broken, when you feel that it is simply too insensitive to be productive the next day, sometimes it's nice to have all of the night to ponder and contemplate things.  It's an unexpected luxury, because your exhaustion lends a certain languid flavor to your thoughts.  It's so beautiful, because everything is colored a whimsical, dusky blue.  Suddenly your life as you look back becomes a thrilling storybook tale, worthy of song.  Suddenly things are not as they are; quintessence is no longer quintessence; you are not you; everything ceases to exist as it is.  All is at the mercy of your fancy.  
   My room-it's quite a nice room, with its numerous prints of Nattier and Robert Plant -melts into the mist and might reappear as the silken lining of Sultan Mehmed's tent. The sultan himself sits before a vast mahogany table, surrounded by his courtiers, generals, and advisors, all resplendant in splendid tunics and turbans.  My imagination might pause at that table; surely a piece as fine as that would be heavy?  It's such an impracticality to haul it over such a long distance as one of the Sultan's military campaigns.  And the a map sits atop the smoothly ruddy surface! Finely etched upon the finest calfskin, it must be the marvel  of whole nations.  

      A whirl, a spin, a waft of grass and horses and soldiers, and then the scene shifts at my mind's command.  The walls are papered with dainty apple blossom prints and the windows are hung with frilly muslin curtains.  It is evident by the costly furniture that this is a room of heirlooms and ancestors.  Festooned by candles and sprays of cherry blossoms is a yellowing picture of Robert E. Lee.  Ah, so this is the Old South, caught in the ravages of the American Civil War.  I had wondered at the bareness of the room, even with its fine threads.  I pause, mourning the loss of the old Southern ways, of fine ladies and powdered gloves.  Yet I feel, too, a sense of exultation at the emancipation of a people too long oppressed, whose stories were too long disregarded, and whose children were too long shuffled off to the side.  




At some point, my waking fancies will see me to the edge of the the River of Consciousness and accompany me, instead, as Dreams.  

   
 
“I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.”
― David Benioff, City of Thieves