if i were planning to go into psych, this would be my thing. i would study, for my own benefit, the psychological implications of modern travel. people today travel so much and so far and transit between social groups and societies so much that we are developing new strategies for it. we don't have that kind of "evolutionary experience"--this is a novel phenomenon brought on by the revolutions in communication and transportation.
over the past year i have not lived in one place for more than four months. i have traveled thousands of miles, been surrounded by vastly different languages, cultures, atmospheric pressures and geographic features--oceans, waterfalls, rivers, forests, cities, trains, highways, aircrafts, cars, and so much more. i've lived in houses, a dorm, a guesthouse, a students' house and an apartment. varying routines, supervision, expectations.
can a person create and duly respond to the social construction of reality when it is constantly in flux?? surely, there are some who can--perhaps not well--, but there are many who can't. what separates them?? what can we do to help people through such a lifestyle, or need it be obliterated from society?
i believe that so much in life relies on permanence. in order for relationships to persist, you need to maintain the social context of that relationship, and when it is in a parallel construct, it takes more work. in one mind there must be a running, changing conception of the place that mind came from as well as sensing and reacting to the mind's present environment.
anyways, that's what im suffering right now. i just came from brazil, and boston before that. now im with my sister before heading to middle-of-nowhereville, NY. im finally returning to a world i'd left behind, leaving so many other worlds behind. im conscious of upcoming psychological turmoil, but i don't know what to do with it now.
28 August 2009
13 August 2009
when God speaks, there's no doubt about it
these days, my life has been a storm, an utter whirl-wind upon earthquake, and god's voice was in them. the hubbub kept me busy and spinning, but god broke through like a truck to a deer on a forest road; his still, small voice has been with me ever since. he has showed me his wonders and his mighty power; how he orchestrates all of creation--time and space together--to his purpose. this is not to say that i have stuck with him all of the way. at times i recognized myself pulling a jonah, going exactly where god said not to, but called me persistently back. he spoke through me and to me. he has used his beautiful, broken body, the church, to speak to me. he has used books and circumstances. and he has given me the desire of my heart. i believe that my going to brazil is god's desire as well as mine--for what specific purpose i will only discover afterward--and only by seeking his kingdom first was i granted this wonderful oportunity to return to the place i call home closest to my heart. i suppose the last lesson i have to learn is that my home is not here, or there or at the ends of the earth, but in god's kingdom--and the when and wheres of that kingdom are only dimly seen today.
soon we will see face to face
soon we will see face to face
30 July 2009
key to hearts
keys are no modern invention. they've been around for ages, locking things up, keeping people out, and being broken in various locks. they can be to a door, a padlock, a mailbox, or a car. either way, they grant you access to something--access that you and perhaps a select set of others also have. a key sets you apart from the masses in respect to the thing you have a key to; of all people, you can get through the door, you can retrieve what's inside, you can drive away in it.
however, i think it is more touching from a different perspective: having a key to something sets it apart to you. it's not a store to which the door you simply push open, but you must feel uncomfortable and out of place until you look like you're going to buy something. it's not a public square with odd-smelling people lying on the bench who you're embarrassed to talk to. it's not a workplace you go to to get worn out, stressed out and payed, and then leave uncomfortably. it's not the the grimy door to a free newspaper holder that hundreds of other people have touched in the last 35 minutes, having washed their hands or not. when you have a key to someplace, you belong there, and that place is thereby specific to you. it is always a joy and a relief for me to skip up the porch steps to my apartment here in Cambridge, and pull out my brass-colored key that matches the brass-colored doorknob. i insert and turn it, and i know that i am trusted here, i can relax, i don't have to worry so much. i can sit back, eat a bite, chat it up with loving people, and cool down after a long day. when you have to ring the doorbell, you have to prod someone, to disturb them from their current activity to come attend to your need, even if your need is merely access to the housing structure. that dependence is already a negation of belonging. you may belong in part, but never fully until you have your own key. that place can't fully belong to you until you have a key, until you have independent access to it.
similarly, i guess, jesus is our key to the deep peace and strength of our relationships with god and the holy spirit's belonging to us and us to him. when we have the key, when we have jesus, our foul smells are overlooked, because we can come in and take a shower, shave, wash up and put on a fresh set of clothes. that is the only true home we can have in this life, the only complete safeplace; god is not subject to fires nor thievery--people can't break in to god and steal our peace and comfort; not unless we walk out of god and surrender it to them.
that's why i love keys.
however, i think it is more touching from a different perspective: having a key to something sets it apart to you. it's not a store to which the door you simply push open, but you must feel uncomfortable and out of place until you look like you're going to buy something. it's not a public square with odd-smelling people lying on the bench who you're embarrassed to talk to. it's not a workplace you go to to get worn out, stressed out and payed, and then leave uncomfortably. it's not the the grimy door to a free newspaper holder that hundreds of other people have touched in the last 35 minutes, having washed their hands or not. when you have a key to someplace, you belong there, and that place is thereby specific to you. it is always a joy and a relief for me to skip up the porch steps to my apartment here in Cambridge, and pull out my brass-colored key that matches the brass-colored doorknob. i insert and turn it, and i know that i am trusted here, i can relax, i don't have to worry so much. i can sit back, eat a bite, chat it up with loving people, and cool down after a long day. when you have to ring the doorbell, you have to prod someone, to disturb them from their current activity to come attend to your need, even if your need is merely access to the housing structure. that dependence is already a negation of belonging. you may belong in part, but never fully until you have your own key. that place can't fully belong to you until you have a key, until you have independent access to it.
similarly, i guess, jesus is our key to the deep peace and strength of our relationships with god and the holy spirit's belonging to us and us to him. when we have the key, when we have jesus, our foul smells are overlooked, because we can come in and take a shower, shave, wash up and put on a fresh set of clothes. that is the only true home we can have in this life, the only complete safeplace; god is not subject to fires nor thievery--people can't break in to god and steal our peace and comfort; not unless we walk out of god and surrender it to them.
that's why i love keys.
16 July 2009
ice ice baby
my job this summer is at midwest grill--a typical brazilian grill, churrascaria, that wouldn't compete with any of the same kind in brazil. it is an establishment that survives on what is left of its exotic appeal, and the comparatively cheap price for meat--a novelty that to an american is unheard of. while the somewhat half-baked establishment keeps running, it has a lot of people that run around keeping the place going. mostly, it is the four partners who own the place--they are always in the kitchen, talking to people, and tending to different matters with people; at any common restaurant, the owner might be overseeing in the kitchen, but rarely doing the meat of the cooking--or cooking the meat either. they're surely not the only ones around, though. there are many minions and hang-abouts in the place. many have been there for ages, for as long as the place has been. the three leading waiters, all men, have been there for more than ten years. some of the meat-cutters, too. when i met one of them on my first days of work, and we were talking about ourselves, he said that he had been there for only three or four years--that he hadn't been there for very long. for me, of course, that is a long time. but compared to the others, it really isnt long.
i started off as a meat cutter. it was my job, along with others or sometimes on my own, to tend to the three tiered gas grill, with rotating spits under the flame, and be sure that all the tables got their share of all the different cuts of meats. it took me about a week to become accostumed to the work, but the different expectations took much longer to understand. working in that kind of place, you need to know the right dance to please each manager or boss--that's how it seemed in the beginning. now i've learned the ropes, and i get along fine most of the time.
since then, i've also learned the role of waiter, which takes much more work. i'm no longer bound to the spits or the grill; i've been loosed upon the customers. as a waiter, i need, of course, to tend to my tables, keep all of my people happy and content, and keep an eye on the rest of things in the establishment. that's not too hard to learn. as a waiter, though, the periferal responsibilities are much more important than tending to the tables themselves. we have to watch the salad bar, get the clean dishes in their places, handle take-out orders, bus the 'used' tables; when i have to set up in the morning, the process is even more elaborate.
things are easy enough to handle as a group, when there are other people around to cover your back and keep things going. it's the morning set-up that gets rough. i have to rejuvenate the salad bar--taking things from the fridges, distributing them to their appropriate receptacles and getting it all out the the cooler buffet. i have to see to the lights, the tvs, the mood music, and make sure everything's ready to bring all kinds of drinks to the tables. i get out the frozen concentrate for juices, make sure all of the +21 drinks are stocked up and all the cocktail ingredients are readily available. i have to stock up the water pitchers and get ice to where it needs to be.
one of the first ways i learned to be helpful, one of the first things i did when i was training as a waiter was to go down to the basement to stock up the ice. you need it at the bar--at least 20 liters of it--and at the water station to have it ready for all the tables. you walk down the stairs into a cool dark. when the lights come on, you're surrounded by shelves of boxed disposable supplies, and stacked tables and chairs. past the stacks of clean rags and table napkins, next to the table full of bleaches and detergents. there it is. the ice machine. the reason i've come down to the cool, damp, dimly lit room. i set down the containers for the ice, grab myself the big metal scoop and flip open the metal door to the freezer.
this is the best part of my day. i sink the 1 liter metal scoop into the pile of ice in the cooler. it makes a crisp chink. i feel the cold waft toward me as i lift the first scoop and dump it in the container. the chips of ice tumble noisily into it, and the scoop takes another dive into the pile. when i hear the sound of the ice falling against the inside of the cooler in the wake of my metal tool, i feel a relaxation come over me, as i steep in the gelid air. even more fulfilling is to scoop away the ice at the center of the pile, where it accumulates from the ice-maker. sometimes it freezes onto the walls of the spout from the ice machine on top of the cooler, and i always take pride in knocking it down with my metal scoop. the most fulfilling of all is to hear the freezer start up and the water start running into the machine, initiating the process that will create the millions of chunks of solid di-hydrogen oxide solution that i need for each day of work.
i slam the door, discard my metal friend on a small ceramic plate on top of the cooler, and walk away with a box on my shoulder and a bucket in my hand; i walk up into the light, into the heat, but my endorphins are still going. my happiness takes me through the dining rooms, up the hallway and to the bar, where i scoot in and deposit my treasure--i dump the bucket and slide the box in place--until i turn around and have to face the light, the heat the people, the responsibilities, the things, in short, that i am actually paid to do.
i started off as a meat cutter. it was my job, along with others or sometimes on my own, to tend to the three tiered gas grill, with rotating spits under the flame, and be sure that all the tables got their share of all the different cuts of meats. it took me about a week to become accostumed to the work, but the different expectations took much longer to understand. working in that kind of place, you need to know the right dance to please each manager or boss--that's how it seemed in the beginning. now i've learned the ropes, and i get along fine most of the time.
since then, i've also learned the role of waiter, which takes much more work. i'm no longer bound to the spits or the grill; i've been loosed upon the customers. as a waiter, i need, of course, to tend to my tables, keep all of my people happy and content, and keep an eye on the rest of things in the establishment. that's not too hard to learn. as a waiter, though, the periferal responsibilities are much more important than tending to the tables themselves. we have to watch the salad bar, get the clean dishes in their places, handle take-out orders, bus the 'used' tables; when i have to set up in the morning, the process is even more elaborate.
things are easy enough to handle as a group, when there are other people around to cover your back and keep things going. it's the morning set-up that gets rough. i have to rejuvenate the salad bar--taking things from the fridges, distributing them to their appropriate receptacles and getting it all out the the cooler buffet. i have to see to the lights, the tvs, the mood music, and make sure everything's ready to bring all kinds of drinks to the tables. i get out the frozen concentrate for juices, make sure all of the +21 drinks are stocked up and all the cocktail ingredients are readily available. i have to stock up the water pitchers and get ice to where it needs to be.
one of the first ways i learned to be helpful, one of the first things i did when i was training as a waiter was to go down to the basement to stock up the ice. you need it at the bar--at least 20 liters of it--and at the water station to have it ready for all the tables. you walk down the stairs into a cool dark. when the lights come on, you're surrounded by shelves of boxed disposable supplies, and stacked tables and chairs. past the stacks of clean rags and table napkins, next to the table full of bleaches and detergents. there it is. the ice machine. the reason i've come down to the cool, damp, dimly lit room. i set down the containers for the ice, grab myself the big metal scoop and flip open the metal door to the freezer.
this is the best part of my day. i sink the 1 liter metal scoop into the pile of ice in the cooler. it makes a crisp chink. i feel the cold waft toward me as i lift the first scoop and dump it in the container. the chips of ice tumble noisily into it, and the scoop takes another dive into the pile. when i hear the sound of the ice falling against the inside of the cooler in the wake of my metal tool, i feel a relaxation come over me, as i steep in the gelid air. even more fulfilling is to scoop away the ice at the center of the pile, where it accumulates from the ice-maker. sometimes it freezes onto the walls of the spout from the ice machine on top of the cooler, and i always take pride in knocking it down with my metal scoop. the most fulfilling of all is to hear the freezer start up and the water start running into the machine, initiating the process that will create the millions of chunks of solid di-hydrogen oxide solution that i need for each day of work.
i slam the door, discard my metal friend on a small ceramic plate on top of the cooler, and walk away with a box on my shoulder and a bucket in my hand; i walk up into the light, into the heat, but my endorphins are still going. my happiness takes me through the dining rooms, up the hallway and to the bar, where i scoot in and deposit my treasure--i dump the bucket and slide the box in place--until i turn around and have to face the light, the heat the people, the responsibilities, the things, in short, that i am actually paid to do.
05 July 2009
the works
it's been an infinite week. until an hour and a half ago, of course. that's when saturday ended and sunday began. another fourth of the seventh gone by; i've been working much of this week--a good thing, in terms--and was tending to dishes or something when the boston fireworks show began and ended. i had purposely not hyped myself up for it, because i was positive i'd miss it.
i can't seem to sleep before 1, even 2 anymore. 12.30 at the latest, really. so im up now. clock says 1.42. i left work two hours ago. i left attleboro 11h15m ago. or so. last i'll see of the parents til december. work is looking up, hours-wise. haven't done anything else with my brain, of late. just started my steinbeck novel. it's been lying around for the past days. that's what i do too, when i've been home. "home". lying around. napping, playing a tune or two--my guitar is finally here, but i guess i've become more acustomed to the steel-stringed--the nylon feels two soft and i can't tune it as easily.
life is changing. it feels like somethings slipping--many somethings, much slipping, and i'll only get it when i run into something that i hang onto or something. things are going by quite quickly. i suppose i oughtta start thinking about my return to houghton. it's strange even to consider. it feels like i've already left that place behind, but i've still got a good while before that happens.
thoughts end there. i need more sleep for a more consistent, patterned, non-clumsy ... anything ... to come out. of my fingers.
i can't seem to sleep before 1, even 2 anymore. 12.30 at the latest, really. so im up now. clock says 1.42. i left work two hours ago. i left attleboro 11h15m ago. or so. last i'll see of the parents til december. work is looking up, hours-wise. haven't done anything else with my brain, of late. just started my steinbeck novel. it's been lying around for the past days. that's what i do too, when i've been home. "home". lying around. napping, playing a tune or two--my guitar is finally here, but i guess i've become more acustomed to the steel-stringed--the nylon feels two soft and i can't tune it as easily.
life is changing. it feels like somethings slipping--many somethings, much slipping, and i'll only get it when i run into something that i hang onto or something. things are going by quite quickly. i suppose i oughtta start thinking about my return to houghton. it's strange even to consider. it feels like i've already left that place behind, but i've still got a good while before that happens.
thoughts end there. i need more sleep for a more consistent, patterned, non-clumsy ... anything ... to come out. of my fingers.
19 June 2009
wet of lies
wet. that is the word that would best describe the day. i just rode home on my bike in the rain, after spending the afternoon in the rain. i guess the whole morning and early afternoon that i was out, i had no wet problems. but as of about six pm, when my day part 2 started. i should go to bed, but i can't sleep right away, so i have a cup of tea, which sets me back an hour, plenty of time to write this up. besides the wetness, today hadn't many events.
the highlight, besides dining on a sausage, churro, and buying pistachios, was going back to, as tio wally says, brikadeiro's, putting bella down--okay, so i didn't really do the putting down, but i was there--, and sitting down for Ridley Scott's body of lies, from David Ignatius' novel. besides dicaprio's age, i was stricken by Ignatius' story and scott's delivery. i kind of want to read the novel, now, but there isn't time for that right now. good intentions. for one, it was a successful thriller. it kept my mind spinning for a lot of the time, which is good for a thriller. also, there was much of it that i wanted to believe, and much that i wanted to disbelieve. there were incredible things that, because of ignatius' background, i accepted as truths--certain situations, attitudes. a certainly impacting component was dealing with the disposability of human lives for someone's greater cause. both sides harmed innocent people deliberately; that was that.
the plot was incredibly enthralling, there was even a love interest that was not dealt with in the common hollywood way--which leads me to the greatest part of the film: the cultural sensitivity. the film clearly advocated cultural sensitivity and appreciation over "the amreican right". the film tells the clear story of the individual american--a deft, red-blooded, beer-drinking american--sticking it to the man, and having things his own way. the Man, crowe, is a meddling american government authority/soccer-dad glued to his phone, and is a near perfect foil to the young, adroit dicaprio. while crowe bumbles through his operations, watching camera images and moving pawns from the homeland, dicaprio travels all around the middle east--amman, jordan and dubai, uae, and others--dabbling in hands-on "agent work", including international diplomacy, hot pursuits, torture, hostage negotiations and an attractive--on a good day--iraqi(?) woman. he comes to trust the head of jordanian intel, and learns that he is more reliable than his friend in langley, va. he makes many mistakes, dicaprio, but his biggest are two: violating the jordanian boss's trust, and (another, which i forgot...).
while the movie, on the surface, violates certain tennets of american life by having the hero defy his superior officer and "walk out on america", it upholds, i believe, the free american spirit. the spirit of the individual, with his/her right to come and go, and trying to lift every person--american or not--above the status of cogs and wheels; people are not just parts in an act to accomplish a goal, they are individual, valuable lives. from the beginning of the film, there is a tension between dicaprio and crowe on whether or not to try and save an informant--crowe mandates: "you milked him dry, he's no further use to us" (not a direct quote), while dicaprio argues, "i just granted him asylum", only to have to face that individual, who calls him a lier, a traitor, and send him to his death. the viewer sympathizes as dicaprio complains about the death of a middle man that they framed as a terrorist, while crowe acknowledges it was necessary. the jordanian, on the other hand, is portrayed as a cool, in-control man, who makes orders and gets things done: "we do not work like the CIA; it is too democratic". he is able to act swiftly and of his own accord, and thereby gets things done, thereby protects his friend, our hero.
in short, i applaud it, and--despite the enormous amount of violence and terrible language--reccomend the film. it made me want to go to the middle east, and fall in love with it. crowe says, near the end, "you don't want to stay here; there is nothing you could like here. i have an office down the hall from mine waiting for you, as soon as i get the guy who's in it now out of it". admittedly, it is the best crowe can offer, but the audience is captive to our hero's passions: we want him to stay and make the best of it. it made me want to do the same--go somewhere and be a part of it, and be more than just an american--go to the middle east, or russia or sumthing. oh, wait, God has me covered on that one: i was born into another such culture. a new world culture, but a brilliant one, nonetheless. i can't help but love my home, brazil.
the highlight, besides dining on a sausage, churro, and buying pistachios, was going back to, as tio wally says, brikadeiro's, putting bella down--okay, so i didn't really do the putting down, but i was there--, and sitting down for Ridley Scott's body of lies, from David Ignatius' novel. besides dicaprio's age, i was stricken by Ignatius' story and scott's delivery. i kind of want to read the novel, now, but there isn't time for that right now. good intentions. for one, it was a successful thriller. it kept my mind spinning for a lot of the time, which is good for a thriller. also, there was much of it that i wanted to believe, and much that i wanted to disbelieve. there were incredible things that, because of ignatius' background, i accepted as truths--certain situations, attitudes. a certainly impacting component was dealing with the disposability of human lives for someone's greater cause. both sides harmed innocent people deliberately; that was that.
the plot was incredibly enthralling, there was even a love interest that was not dealt with in the common hollywood way--which leads me to the greatest part of the film: the cultural sensitivity. the film clearly advocated cultural sensitivity and appreciation over "the amreican right". the film tells the clear story of the individual american--a deft, red-blooded, beer-drinking american--sticking it to the man, and having things his own way. the Man, crowe, is a meddling american government authority/soccer-dad glued to his phone, and is a near perfect foil to the young, adroit dicaprio. while crowe bumbles through his operations, watching camera images and moving pawns from the homeland, dicaprio travels all around the middle east--amman, jordan and dubai, uae, and others--dabbling in hands-on "agent work", including international diplomacy, hot pursuits, torture, hostage negotiations and an attractive--on a good day--iraqi(?) woman. he comes to trust the head of jordanian intel, and learns that he is more reliable than his friend in langley, va. he makes many mistakes, dicaprio, but his biggest are two: violating the jordanian boss's trust, and (another, which i forgot...).
while the movie, on the surface, violates certain tennets of american life by having the hero defy his superior officer and "walk out on america", it upholds, i believe, the free american spirit. the spirit of the individual, with his/her right to come and go, and trying to lift every person--american or not--above the status of cogs and wheels; people are not just parts in an act to accomplish a goal, they are individual, valuable lives. from the beginning of the film, there is a tension between dicaprio and crowe on whether or not to try and save an informant--crowe mandates: "you milked him dry, he's no further use to us" (not a direct quote), while dicaprio argues, "i just granted him asylum", only to have to face that individual, who calls him a lier, a traitor, and send him to his death. the viewer sympathizes as dicaprio complains about the death of a middle man that they framed as a terrorist, while crowe acknowledges it was necessary. the jordanian, on the other hand, is portrayed as a cool, in-control man, who makes orders and gets things done: "we do not work like the CIA; it is too democratic". he is able to act swiftly and of his own accord, and thereby gets things done, thereby protects his friend, our hero.
in short, i applaud it, and--despite the enormous amount of violence and terrible language--reccomend the film. it made me want to go to the middle east, and fall in love with it. crowe says, near the end, "you don't want to stay here; there is nothing you could like here. i have an office down the hall from mine waiting for you, as soon as i get the guy who's in it now out of it". admittedly, it is the best crowe can offer, but the audience is captive to our hero's passions: we want him to stay and make the best of it. it made me want to do the same--go somewhere and be a part of it, and be more than just an american--go to the middle east, or russia or sumthing. oh, wait, God has me covered on that one: i was born into another such culture. a new world culture, but a brilliant one, nonetheless. i can't help but love my home, brazil.
14 June 2009
sidewalk ettiquete.
There is a peculiar thing about living in society--surrounded on every side when you lay down at night, in every direction for miles, people sleeping, loitering, perambulating, watching pulsing-lit screens. There are strange rules that reign us all--silently agreed upon. Etiquette, rules dealing with proper association and dissociation of those people that move around each other. "it's like, we go through life, with our antennas bouncing off one another, continuously on ant autopilot with nothing really human required of us."
There is a certain queer human quality about the way we deal with such banal interactions as walking down the sidewalk. I noticed this just this week; as I walk along, I am at a different pace as another person who goes the same direction I am going. As I catch up with him or her--or he/she catches up with me--it is not permissible, it is beyond our social boundaries, to walk along side that person which I do not know for any stretch of time at all. The quicker person must speed up, and/or the slower person must slow down so that neither of them--or anyone else walking by-- may be forced to consider that they have anything to do with each other. It feels awkward to walk beside a person I don't know, at the same pace, without looking at them--that is an unmentionable violation of their personal space--and yet without overtaking them.
It seems as though walking beside a person somehow binds you to them. Obviously, if you want to be associated with a person, to carry on with them in some way, you do walk alongside them. Perhaps it is too much intimacy to share with a stranger. That is what I have learned with city life, there are people out there that I don't know, and "I'm not supposed to speak to strangers," after all. But, "I don't want a straw! I want a real human moment, you know!"
I could go on, but I'll leave it at that...what do you think??
There is a certain queer human quality about the way we deal with such banal interactions as walking down the sidewalk. I noticed this just this week; as I walk along, I am at a different pace as another person who goes the same direction I am going. As I catch up with him or her--or he/she catches up with me--it is not permissible, it is beyond our social boundaries, to walk along side that person which I do not know for any stretch of time at all. The quicker person must speed up, and/or the slower person must slow down so that neither of them--or anyone else walking by-- may be forced to consider that they have anything to do with each other. It feels awkward to walk beside a person I don't know, at the same pace, without looking at them--that is an unmentionable violation of their personal space--and yet without overtaking them.
It seems as though walking beside a person somehow binds you to them. Obviously, if you want to be associated with a person, to carry on with them in some way, you do walk alongside them. Perhaps it is too much intimacy to share with a stranger. That is what I have learned with city life, there are people out there that I don't know, and "I'm not supposed to speak to strangers," after all. But, "I don't want a straw! I want a real human moment, you know!"
I could go on, but I'll leave it at that...what do you think??
10 June 2009
if i could only keep up--
First things first:
These are the things that I miss the most right now:
1. My girlfirend;
2. My guitar;
3. The class of 2008 (PACA);
4. The class of 2010 (PACA);
5. The class of 2012 (HC)...
I realize it's been over a week since I last posted. Plenty has happened. I'm fully moved in; my house meeting went fine and since then I've met with everyone enough so that I feel more comfortable at home (with most people). I've watched plenty of movies and had many ideas about everything. (Since Taken, it's been The Knack, and How to Get It--which had you cheering for the morally wrong thing to happen (well the better of two evils, I guess)--, plenty of Morgan Spurlock's stuff--i.e. Supersize Me and his TV show 30 days on intriguing social experimentation-- a creepy movie about a bad roommate, and Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist--kind of cute and playful, but still a tad morally dicey, since it catered to the tensions of teenage life in the adventuresome NYC nites. I haven't listened to any new music--I need to hook into source for that at some point. I have read some things, but I'll get to that later.
The biggest thing in the last few days happened on Monday--I finally talked to one of the owners of Midwest Grill (churrascaria) and I'll be starting on Friday with my first training. I'll admit, I'm having a hard time really connecting with the owner, mostly because I feel like a child around him. Hopefully I can work on that in the coming weeks. I bought my black shirt to go with black pa--ahem...--trousers, which will be my new working uniform. I'm quite excited to start, and also very afraid of screwing up at all. I'm not sure if I'll still be looking for a job--it's actually a lot easier not to, and to sit back and wait to see if any of my 15 or so applications already submitted will do anything. Maybe it wasn't that many.
Back to reading I've just finished an article from the TIME I found lying on the dinner table here. Its cover article on the Twitter phenomenon (you can find many more on twitter at any newspage, I'm sure), to me, a not-so-up-to-date-web-user, was mesmerizing, and made me want to get on board the booming revolution. The only other impression that I had of it, really, was that my roommate didn't think it was that great--even overrated. So I was fine with what I knew, intil I saw it on the cover of TIME. It's features and potential described by Johnson seem like a very good thing. Twitter came from the creator of Blogger. Despite its critics, it doesn't necessarily limit people's interactions to 140 characters. (you know, I wish I could make a running commentary of what I'm writing, like you can in Word--just leave a floating comment in the sidebar that is directly linked to the text... oh, what the rigors of paper-writing do to you) Of course, my mind was racing with how I might or might have used the tool. The mention of Twitter used in a discussion/conference reminded me right away of debates in English class with Carps--socratic circles and all--and how such a feature could be used in the same way to stimulate discussion. Things could easily get out of hand and off topic, of course.
Speaking of getting off topic, I just browsed about 7 other webpages, and chenged the settings on both of the webbrowsers I have open. I've thought about hooking up with Twitter, in light of the above article, but I've got enough--technology or not--on my hands, methinks. On my computer alone, I've gotten a new messaging compiler, Digsby, and am considering moving from Firefox to Chrome, and basking in the wonders of the Google empire entirely--which is why I still have both of them open right now (chrome seems like the better deal, but I already have so much built into my own Firefox that it's hard to transition--all my links and add-ons. Chrome covers some of them, but not my favorite).
Speaking of empires, I went on to browse another article in the times about Palm's new Pre, made to compete with the iPhone, which basically took over Palm's niche of the smart-phone market. I mention empires, because my conception of Apple is that it's the big competitor with Microsoft--releasing ads that constantly bash PC, and Microsoft rebutting with happy PC buyers. I guess MS's Bing is competing with Google Search, too. So, it's dog-eat-dog out there--Microsoft is the old evil empire, and Apple is the Shiny new underdog that comes in shining armor and more; now we see Palm, which was exploited (sort-of, not really exploited; at least stunted) by the iPhone line, clearly building on Palm's original groundwork; in some ways, not doing things as well as Palm--see the article for a comparison. In short, the iPhone is only better because it's so popular, and three years old, not just a couple of months, like Palm's Pre, which is quite buggy, for now. I guess that's the same you could say about Windows--Apple came around, did it better, and will eventually take over. Well, not quite, but I think you see where I'm going.
I hope you got through that all in one piece. That's all the result of one week's LOA--more like AWOL, but w/e. overandout
02 June 2009
new flat, same trousers
when I was in England, there were certain things I had to get used to. People called things by different names than I was used to, had different cultural expectations--for people in general, for Americans, for a TCK. They say things like "flat" and "flat-mate" and "trousers". Well, I'm back in the big ol' U.S. of A., which really isn't all that old, and I've got a new flat, new flat-mates, new city, looking for employment--and yes, I'm still wearing the same trousers, but that's immaterial.
I'm nervous. I'm a bit uptight. I've gotten to know most of the faces and the names, but I'm still feeling insecure about this living situation. I don't have a task to carry me through the day--and I honestly have a hard time setting my mind to something more than watching episodes of the office and reading up on random things.
I have a meeting right now--in a couple of minutes--with the rest of the house. I'm apprehensive. I'm alos hoping this will help me get settled in the house, and maybe feel more at home; that's what this palce is supposed to be for me: home. For the summer. I'm apprehensive, I'm scared, I'm nervous, I'm hopeful. I'm also scared of just plain growing up, looking out for myself--at the same time that I want to do that. It'll be a wonderfully confusing experience figuring this all out. That is, if there's really "figuring" to do. I don't even know if that's what I'm supposed to do; "figure" things. "out". why not "in". or "there".
We'll see. I guess I will. or will I? gah!
I'm nervous. I'm a bit uptight. I've gotten to know most of the faces and the names, but I'm still feeling insecure about this living situation. I don't have a task to carry me through the day--and I honestly have a hard time setting my mind to something more than watching episodes of the office and reading up on random things.
I have a meeting right now--in a couple of minutes--with the rest of the house. I'm apprehensive. I'm alos hoping this will help me get settled in the house, and maybe feel more at home; that's what this palce is supposed to be for me: home. For the summer. I'm apprehensive, I'm scared, I'm nervous, I'm hopeful. I'm also scared of just plain growing up, looking out for myself--at the same time that I want to do that. It'll be a wonderfully confusing experience figuring this all out. That is, if there's really "figuring" to do. I don't even know if that's what I'm supposed to do; "figure" things. "out". why not "in". or "there".
We'll see. I guess I will. or will I? gah!
01 June 2009
Taken--and brought back
WARNING:movie spoiler probably included!
A couple of nights ago, I watched a different kind of action film. Taken, with Liam Neeson, was an action flick laced with home-spun emotion--sort of. The action is driven by the undying love for a father--who, for once, can use his skills to save her life instead of neglect her, which is his general track record. For that, I applaud the film; for once, I'm not in it for just the action--it's pretty good as a thriller.
Except for the action, of course. I am here, now, not to poke holes in the plot, but to point them out, of course. Most of those holes were in the action sequences. Most memorable to me was the raid on the docks--we already have experience with one man taking out six or seven armed ones--no problem there. The problem is, he runs outside carrying this chick to a random Jeep, and happens to find the key in the ignition--no explanation, of course, he just turns the thing on (later, when he steals another car, he does it the traditional way: using a coat hanger to get in and sparking the wires under the steering column). Then, of course he explodes a cluster of gasoline barrels that are sitting around in the parking lot--cuz that's what they keep around in dock yards, in case someone needs them (to blow up?!?). Oh, and they were right next to the bum-barrel of burning garbage or whatever it is that they burn--which is what lit the explosion. La-di-da, he doesn't get hit by any bullets, he gets away, destroying three cars--typical. One of them gets pushed onto a random ramp or pile of dirt and flips over, which was a dreadful action cut.
An intriguing point in the film is when he has to go through the tiers of corruption in Paris--and (SPOILER ALERT!!) comes back to his friend/contact. But he just wades stubbornly through it, tortures a man, kills plenty of others--nearly unscathed. He gets a blow to the head, a couple of bullets through the arm, and a couple of punches thrown in the side, but "you shoulda seen the otha' guys" would have been a fitting last line... Which brings me to my last point: the end, in which he returns peacefully home and gets away with everything!! I can hardly believe that just because all of the men (he did his best to keep the helpless, subdued women alive--and mourned those he didn't) he killed were involved in illegal activity it was OK?? France just let him fly back?? He threatened the family of a superior French officer, and waltzed through the airport security afterwards?? Oh, well. Everyone gets their happy ending...
A couple of nights ago, I watched a different kind of action film. Taken, with Liam Neeson, was an action flick laced with home-spun emotion--sort of. The action is driven by the undying love for a father--who, for once, can use his skills to save her life instead of neglect her, which is his general track record. For that, I applaud the film; for once, I'm not in it for just the action--it's pretty good as a thriller.
Except for the action, of course. I am here, now, not to poke holes in the plot, but to point them out, of course. Most of those holes were in the action sequences. Most memorable to me was the raid on the docks--we already have experience with one man taking out six or seven armed ones--no problem there. The problem is, he runs outside carrying this chick to a random Jeep, and happens to find the key in the ignition--no explanation, of course, he just turns the thing on (later, when he steals another car, he does it the traditional way: using a coat hanger to get in and sparking the wires under the steering column). Then, of course he explodes a cluster of gasoline barrels that are sitting around in the parking lot--cuz that's what they keep around in dock yards, in case someone needs them (to blow up?!?). Oh, and they were right next to the bum-barrel of burning garbage or whatever it is that they burn--which is what lit the explosion. La-di-da, he doesn't get hit by any bullets, he gets away, destroying three cars--typical. One of them gets pushed onto a random ramp or pile of dirt and flips over, which was a dreadful action cut.
An intriguing point in the film is when he has to go through the tiers of corruption in Paris--and (SPOILER ALERT!!) comes back to his friend/contact. But he just wades stubbornly through it, tortures a man, kills plenty of others--nearly unscathed. He gets a blow to the head, a couple of bullets through the arm, and a couple of punches thrown in the side, but "you shoulda seen the otha' guys" would have been a fitting last line... Which brings me to my last point: the end, in which he returns peacefully home and gets away with everything!! I can hardly believe that just because all of the men (he did his best to keep the helpless, subdued women alive--and mourned those he didn't) he killed were involved in illegal activity it was OK?? France just let him fly back?? He threatened the family of a superior French officer, and waltzed through the airport security afterwards?? Oh, well. Everyone gets their happy ending...
27 May 2009
The Tail of the Desperadaux
Why do animated films about mice have the word "tale" in the title? It just confuses children! I earnestly thought it was gonna be another one of those "fievel goes west" films or something--until I watched the trailer, which looked promising, maybe even engaging. The animation looked decent, if not near-realistic, and the plot, though fantastical, showed promise. Ah! You've guessed it-- I'm only building up all this hype about how I thought it might be all that good ... and was disappointed. Such was The Tale of Desperaux.
The whole first half, I kept internally groaning over the fact that it was just another underdog story, which was more like a peoplehatemecuzI'mdifferentbutI'mactuallybetterthanallofthem story. Another way to tell the kid's "It's okay to be different, even if no one undersands you, because in another dimension, you're awesome. Go find a princess and save her life!" I mean, on the one side, sometimes it's okay to say things like that, and people do need to learn to see things from different people's point-of-view instead of begging them to be like everyone else, for shame or other reasons. But it doesn't mean, also, that they are meant to set off on a Quixotic quest to prove the world wrong, bring back soup and get the girl. The truth is, Don Quixote remained misunderstood and repented of his madness! --i suppose the message is that he was wrong...
And it's another...um...what was I gonna say? Oh, right. it's another story challenging the interpretation of reality. I'm not even going to go on about the author's obscure construction of reality... or the impertinent side-story of the lost daughter. I can't really say that I revile happy endings. There are narratives of epic proportions that the warm resolution is the epitome of ecstasy in the reader--they make you sit up and bug out your eyes and breathe heavily and hope to death that it'll all, indeed, end well.
Like many animated films, the climax didn't really live up to the word, because there was no doubt that soup would return, and quite frankly I could care less--the standards, the goals of the characters were so banal, so immaterial to greatness, that I did not care if the conflict was resolved or not. The author(s) brought the parallel between human life and a animal-human interaction to such an absurd level that I could not sympathise with all of the characters. The nearest I got was the rat whose name I could never make out. He was different--not because he was born that way, but because he was from a different place than the rats he was forced to live with--he was something of a TCK, I guess. He caused a problem and hid away for ages out of fear and the conception that he, a rat, was too small to make a difference in the senseless legislation of royal humanity. He undergoes the most astonishing change through the film. First he is just plain clumsy, and basically driven by his animal impulses--don't account for the fact that he is an animal; what happened to suspension of disbelief. What sets sea rats--one of which our friend with the strange name is--apart from under-city rats is the ability to not be completely gross and evil--bringing to mind the mice/rats in Ratatouille--and their sensitivity to indirect sunlight. Under-city rats revile any form of light from above ground and will scamper away like well behaved mice inder its menacing beams. He can't stand these evil rats--even though he inexplicably has some sort of political power or advantage among them--and voluntarily ostracises himself in their deep lair with a little whole in the wall to look at the gloomy sky. He ends his time of isolation when he learns of the brave little mouse and becomes a "gentleman" with him. So Sancho Panza is tall and guilt-ridden, not short and fat. He tries to solve his problem the gentleman's way--but fails to bridge the rat-human divide (for some reason) and only makes things worse. At this point, he is gripped with insatiable but very focused wrath, driving him to kidnap the (human) princess by manipulating the irrational megalomania of a poor peasant girl. Then he sees the brave little mouse in action again and is reconciled to good--frees the princess and the world is a better place. No wait...it's only better because the cook randomly decided to make soup again, which tirggered nature to go back to its happy state.
Phew! So, the plot had more holes than pumice and I didn't care for the nuances of the message they were communicating--oh, and the animation was . . . ungraceful, and the stylization did not suit my fancy. It looks like something I could have written. But it's been "printed" to the silver screen and they can't take it back, now.
I watched this film last night and basically wrote this as I watched it. In my head. I think I got the jist of it down. I was gonna say more, but it's not that important. I do recommend the film; even if it's just to see how right I was--huehuehuahuhue.hu..hugh....
The whole first half, I kept internally groaning over the fact that it was just another underdog story, which was more like a peoplehatemecuzI'mdifferentbutI'mactuallybetterthanallofthem story. Another way to tell the kid's "It's okay to be different, even if no one undersands you, because in another dimension, you're awesome. Go find a princess and save her life!" I mean, on the one side, sometimes it's okay to say things like that, and people do need to learn to see things from different people's point-of-view instead of begging them to be like everyone else, for shame or other reasons. But it doesn't mean, also, that they are meant to set off on a Quixotic quest to prove the world wrong, bring back soup and get the girl. The truth is, Don Quixote remained misunderstood and repented of his madness! --i suppose the message is that he was wrong...
And it's another...um...what was I gonna say? Oh, right. it's another story challenging the interpretation of reality. I'm not even going to go on about the author's obscure construction of reality... or the impertinent side-story of the lost daughter. I can't really say that I revile happy endings. There are narratives of epic proportions that the warm resolution is the epitome of ecstasy in the reader--they make you sit up and bug out your eyes and breathe heavily and hope to death that it'll all, indeed, end well.
Like many animated films, the climax didn't really live up to the word, because there was no doubt that soup would return, and quite frankly I could care less--the standards, the goals of the characters were so banal, so immaterial to greatness, that I did not care if the conflict was resolved or not. The author(s) brought the parallel between human life and a animal-human interaction to such an absurd level that I could not sympathise with all of the characters. The nearest I got was the rat whose name I could never make out. He was different--not because he was born that way, but because he was from a different place than the rats he was forced to live with--he was something of a TCK, I guess. He caused a problem and hid away for ages out of fear and the conception that he, a rat, was too small to make a difference in the senseless legislation of royal humanity. He undergoes the most astonishing change through the film. First he is just plain clumsy, and basically driven by his animal impulses--don't account for the fact that he is an animal; what happened to suspension of disbelief. What sets sea rats--one of which our friend with the strange name is--apart from under-city rats is the ability to not be completely gross and evil--bringing to mind the mice/rats in Ratatouille--and their sensitivity to indirect sunlight. Under-city rats revile any form of light from above ground and will scamper away like well behaved mice inder its menacing beams. He can't stand these evil rats--even though he inexplicably has some sort of political power or advantage among them--and voluntarily ostracises himself in their deep lair with a little whole in the wall to look at the gloomy sky. He ends his time of isolation when he learns of the brave little mouse and becomes a "gentleman" with him. So Sancho Panza is tall and guilt-ridden, not short and fat. He tries to solve his problem the gentleman's way--but fails to bridge the rat-human divide (for some reason) and only makes things worse. At this point, he is gripped with insatiable but very focused wrath, driving him to kidnap the (human) princess by manipulating the irrational megalomania of a poor peasant girl. Then he sees the brave little mouse in action again and is reconciled to good--frees the princess and the world is a better place. No wait...it's only better because the cook randomly decided to make soup again, which tirggered nature to go back to its happy state.
Phew! So, the plot had more holes than pumice and I didn't care for the nuances of the message they were communicating--oh, and the animation was . . . ungraceful, and the stylization did not suit my fancy. It looks like something I could have written. But it's been "printed" to the silver screen and they can't take it back, now.
I watched this film last night and basically wrote this as I watched it. In my head. I think I got the jist of it down. I was gonna say more, but it's not that important. I do recommend the film; even if it's just to see how right I was--huehuehuahuhue.hu..hugh....
20 May 2009
what is obsolete and aging will soon disappear
God made for us a new covenant in Christ.
"This is the covenant I will make with the house of Israel
after that time, declares the Lord.
I will put my laws in their minds
and write them on their hearts.
I will be their God,
and they will be my people.
"No longer will a man teach his neighbor,
or a man his brother, saying, 'Know the Lord,'
because they will all know me,
from the least of them to the greatest.
"For I will forgive their wickedness
and will remember their sins no more."
I read this passage in Hebrews 8 yesterday and it struck me. This quotation that the author used shows a definitive break point from the old covenant with the Jews. It's amazing, to me, to think that God said he would write it on our hearts--we don't need to tell each other about it; you don't need to sharpen it and hold it over your neighbor's head! I can't wait till that day when we will, indeed, all know the Lord! And finally, our wickedness forgiven! Remember our sins no more--what a prospect! My only question is whether this covenant is what has already been established by Jesus' death and resurrection, or will it be brought in by the second coming? The passage goes on...
"By calling this covenant "new," he has made the first one obsolete; and what is obsolete and aging will soon disappear."
It is explicitly set in present tense, showing that it's already done! He HAS made it obsolete. It is no more. It is our utmost joy that we don't have to wait for that forgiveness, for that covenant to pass on: it's obsolete! I really don't know what to add...
On a more worldly note, today, I had the chance to go back to Houghton and see who's there on mayterm or just hanging out and working. I loved catching up with those people--something I do so much better in person then over the internets here. I even got to see my roommate one last time before we each go our ways. My visit has given me the new desire to be back at school and see eveyone again, but that's still three months off...it's a good anticipation, I guess.
It' sbeen a long day and I still have some reading to do if I'm gonna get through my books before Sunday, so I'm off!
"This is the covenant I will make with the house of Israel
after that time, declares the Lord.
I will put my laws in their minds
and write them on their hearts.
I will be their God,
and they will be my people.
"No longer will a man teach his neighbor,
or a man his brother, saying, 'Know the Lord,'
because they will all know me,
from the least of them to the greatest.
"For I will forgive their wickedness
and will remember their sins no more."
I read this passage in Hebrews 8 yesterday and it struck me. This quotation that the author used shows a definitive break point from the old covenant with the Jews. It's amazing, to me, to think that God said he would write it on our hearts--we don't need to tell each other about it; you don't need to sharpen it and hold it over your neighbor's head! I can't wait till that day when we will, indeed, all know the Lord! And finally, our wickedness forgiven! Remember our sins no more--what a prospect! My only question is whether this covenant is what has already been established by Jesus' death and resurrection, or will it be brought in by the second coming? The passage goes on...
"By calling this covenant "new," he has made the first one obsolete; and what is obsolete and aging will soon disappear."
It is explicitly set in present tense, showing that it's already done! He HAS made it obsolete. It is no more. It is our utmost joy that we don't have to wait for that forgiveness, for that covenant to pass on: it's obsolete! I really don't know what to add...
On a more worldly note, today, I had the chance to go back to Houghton and see who's there on mayterm or just hanging out and working. I loved catching up with those people--something I do so much better in person then over the internets here. I even got to see my roommate one last time before we each go our ways. My visit has given me the new desire to be back at school and see eveyone again, but that's still three months off...it's a good anticipation, I guess.
It' sbeen a long day and I still have some reading to do if I'm gonna get through my books before Sunday, so I'm off!
19 May 2009
reader report
Well, I've gotten Frank Miller's Batman out of the way, and Neil Gaiman's first Sandman book, too. I got another Sandman from the library, along with Pratchett's Thud! and F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories. I'd forgotten my love for Fitzgerald's short stories, and I've figured out what I'll be reading for the summer, I think--depending on the library I find and how much time I really have to read things. I have to give back these books by the end of the week, but I will be delving happily into the moderns if all goes accoriding to plan.
I'll catch up on Fitzgerald shorts, then go on to Salinger's series and throw some more Graham Greene in for good measure. Then I'll take a poll on my spirits and see where I'll dabble next!
I'm also somewhat concerned for the current state of affairs in the world--that being that I don't know what it is. In other words, I don't know what's happening in the world, and it disconcerts me, so I will be catching up on world drama--I don't mean movie or soap stars, but WORLD drama, like between presidents and CEOs and what not.
Well, I guess I'll have to get on to the whole world drama thing later, cuz I need to get these books out of the way first--not to mention the wedding prep. that's going on. It's off to the dry-cleaners now!
I'll catch up on Fitzgerald shorts, then go on to Salinger's series and throw some more Graham Greene in for good measure. Then I'll take a poll on my spirits and see where I'll dabble next!
I'm also somewhat concerned for the current state of affairs in the world--that being that I don't know what it is. In other words, I don't know what's happening in the world, and it disconcerts me, so I will be catching up on world drama--I don't mean movie or soap stars, but WORLD drama, like between presidents and CEOs and what not.
Well, I guess I'll have to get on to the whole world drama thing later, cuz I need to get these books out of the way first--not to mention the wedding prep. that's going on. It's off to the dry-cleaners now!
16 May 2009
quis custodiet ipsos custodes
Who's watching the Watchmen? They're watching themselves, of course. After just finishing the Alan Moore graphic novel, I'm nothing but shocked and impressed. It's a work that is exquisitely orchestrated and beautifully delivered. I was not greatly impressed by Dave Gibbons' illustration, to be honest, but I don't really have all that much experience with illustration. I guess Arkham Asylum doesn't really count, because it's so new. I guess for 1987 it's good. Anyhow, it's nothing really to complain about. It was an engaging book that I couldn't put down at all.
Today is also Becca's last day here, before she goes to prepare for her wedding next week. She won't be back, really. At her 'recognition ceremony' for finishing her nursing program, people spoke of the nostalgia of leaving each other behind and the prospect of moving on. She is miles ahead of where I am, that's for sure. We packed up her car, and had salmon and cheesecake. Now we watch Jeopardy. Becca's the one who's good at it, of course.
I got started on one of mom's books before I got the Watchmen and two others at the library. It's a David Baldacci one, supposedly not his usual type--not that I would know; I've never read anything of his. But after I get through that one, and the second Dark Knight and one of the Sandman novels, I don't know what I'll be reading. I've considered throwing in some more classics, like Dickens, or something. Maybe some Camus and Cummings thrown in. Who knows, really? I'll only really decide once I get there. Usually.
Today is also Becca's last day here, before she goes to prepare for her wedding next week. She won't be back, really. At her 'recognition ceremony' for finishing her nursing program, people spoke of the nostalgia of leaving each other behind and the prospect of moving on. She is miles ahead of where I am, that's for sure. We packed up her car, and had salmon and cheesecake. Now we watch Jeopardy. Becca's the one who's good at it, of course.
I got started on one of mom's books before I got the Watchmen and two others at the library. It's a David Baldacci one, supposedly not his usual type--not that I would know; I've never read anything of his. But after I get through that one, and the second Dark Knight and one of the Sandman novels, I don't know what I'll be reading. I've considered throwing in some more classics, like Dickens, or something. Maybe some Camus and Cummings thrown in. Who knows, really? I'll only really decide once I get there. Usually.
15 May 2009
year 1, day 1.
It's a specific point in life that you've reached when you're walking through your parents' house and you think, "When I have my own place..." In my case the phrase ended, "my bathroom will have a window"--a descent light source. I'm at my parents' place, back from college, before I go to my sister's place, and finally on to a place that's almost my own. Summer life, I settled for any apartment I could get, so I could get a job.
I have no experience--no criteria for criticism, really. I don't know what good or bad rent is, or what good or bad flatmates will be. It's a new world full of mystery and novelty and mostly naivety. The place that I will most likely move into next month seems full of promise. I've only read about it and heard second-hand stories. I trust these accounts, and like what I've heard. Quite honestly, I don't know what else to expect from a place. You can't just ask what the emotional atmosphere of a house is.
They won't advertise their misgivings. That's why clever people pride themselves in discerning defects in people from little to no information. You see it in movies and TV shows--there's the tricky guy who reads someone's self-description online, "Oh, that guy's old, and she's fat, and you don't want to go near that guy 'cause he talks too nice--he just wants to rob you." But that's just criticism; I tend to be rather critical of criticism.
Well, I could keep going, but I'll stop here. This is my first post on my first blog, and I really have no direction for it. I basically intend it to be some sort of diary, and to cultivate my writing, of course. Help me get thinking of things, and what not. God only knows where this'll all end up, but that's not such a bad thing, either.
I have no experience--no criteria for criticism, really. I don't know what good or bad rent is, or what good or bad flatmates will be. It's a new world full of mystery and novelty and mostly naivety. The place that I will most likely move into next month seems full of promise. I've only read about it and heard second-hand stories. I trust these accounts, and like what I've heard. Quite honestly, I don't know what else to expect from a place. You can't just ask what the emotional atmosphere of a house is.
They won't advertise their misgivings. That's why clever people pride themselves in discerning defects in people from little to no information. You see it in movies and TV shows--there's the tricky guy who reads someone's self-description online, "Oh, that guy's old, and she's fat, and you don't want to go near that guy 'cause he talks too nice--he just wants to rob you." But that's just criticism; I tend to be rather critical of criticism.
Well, I could keep going, but I'll stop here. This is my first post on my first blog, and I really have no direction for it. I basically intend it to be some sort of diary, and to cultivate my writing, of course. Help me get thinking of things, and what not. God only knows where this'll all end up, but that's not such a bad thing, either.
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