June 19: Day 6
On days like this (102 degree high with an unutterable humidity factor), my parasol ceases to be a fashion icon and suddenly decomes an indispensable necessity (since there’s another kind). Valdosta has a way of rejecting one’s plans and imposing upon its inhabitants a design of its own; I may never wind up wearing my Link and Star Wars shirts out of my dorm room, as the black fabric renders them unbearable.
But on to the day’s more tangible happenings. In my media class, we were assigned our first and only non-reading project. We had to create our own ad for a pan-demographic product (our class’s was soap) and gear it towards a specific audience. Our group got 35-60 year-old men. To capitalize on possible midlife crises and a certain loss of the self-determining ways of youth, our product was called “Sovereign,” with the tagline “Control your clean.” I had the incredibly entertaining job of photoshopping the body wash’s bottle. I took a Don Julio bottle (a brand of upper crust tequila) and replaced their label with ours, resulting in one of the more entertaining hybrids I’ve ever seen in my life. Our teacher and peers loved it, so I guess it was a success.
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- Behold the Charisma!
Computing was also rather exciting. We split into groups and started laying out the most basic elements of the site: the main page, the major abstracts, and the events calendar. I co-headed the calendar group, and I suppose all went pretty well, though I don’t particularly suppose that we’ll meet our deadline of next weekend without some deux ex machina acting on our side (though I hope to all that’s holy that that is one machine that speaks English, not C++).
The most interesting part by far was definitely Donnie Darko. As Commies, we have the unique, parent/guardian-surrendered privelege of being the only students on campus allowed to watch R-rated movies (during official functions, at least). So this evening, 92 of us crammed ourselves into a room moderately smaller than the average classroom (yes, it was very, very crazy) to watch one of the deepest pop movies of all time. And, though the movie was fantastic, I have to say that the conversation circles that spontaneously formed afterward surpassed the initial experience by far. It was, sadly enough, my first real exposure to willingly intelligent conversation at GHP. And I loved it.
I also had the incredible pleasure of taking a late night intro to Japanese seminar, the even greater pleasure of knowing everything the instructor had to say (with the exception of the actual symbols), the greater still pleasure of knowing exactly where said knowledge came from, and the greatest pleasure of all in loving said source quite profusely.
Oh, and a schedule, since I have posted nothing of the sort yet…
6.30-8: Getting ready and eating breakfast
8-10: 1st period
10.15-12: 2nd period
12-1.30: Lunch
1:30-4: Computing
4-10.30: Pretty much anything
10.30-11.30: Hall meeting and pre-bedtime preparation
June 16, 17, and 18: Days 3, 4, and 5
Waiting in line for a Casablanca showing.
Preemptive Post Script: It’s a sad but insurmountable paradox that the moments in life in the most need of chronicling are also the ones that allow the least time for it. That’s fancy pants talk for “sorry I haven’t updated my blog, shift+6 shift+6 semicolon.”
In keeping with my habitual newspaper style, I suppose I’d best begin the days’ tale with a mere chronological recollection, sparing the philosophical, cathartic reflection for a section further removed.
Tuesday began simply enough, with majors continuing much as they began the day before, a theme that the latter two days repeated with all the fervor of an AP journalist (though this is one case where repetition really isn’t all that bad).
My minor, however, is much considerably more interesting (and also considerably more time-consuming). Effectively, the poor computer minors (as one of three Communicative Arts majors and Computer minors, I’m either a Com2 (Com*Com) or an inverse p (Com/Comp)) are expected to put together the GHP website for next year. This is a relatively monumental class for high schoolers with practically no site-building experience (to see how fantastically other years have failed, visit www.vsu.edu/ghp). Fortunately, our teachers (whom we are to address as Marsh and Brian) are excellent, and my classmates and I are very motivated. I have already volunteered myself as copy editor, and, despite my candid acknowledgement of my computing ignorance, I seem to have become something of a leader in the design half of the class (the other half being the programmers, or oompa-loompas of web design, to paraphrase a great man). All told, I really look forward to the cessation of instruction and the beginning of actual work (which will happen in just a few days; expect a shell of a site to be up at the old address by next Friday).
But now on to the social portion of GHP: the real drain on my time. I’ve met some truly exceptional people here, though in the strictly denotative sense; they inhabit both ends of the spectrum of fantastic-ness. Since Tuesday morning, I’ve played two games of freeze tag, attended one showing of Casablanca (where the belated opening of the theater doors and the kindness of one bored moviegoer produced a certain picture requested by popular demand of the most wonderful sort), a how-to session for role-playing games (think Dungeons & Dragons, not Final Fantasy), a surprisingly militant game of red rover, and dozens of other sundry activities. I actually just finished planning a showing of My Neighbor Totoro for about two dozen people for tomorrow night. Though I think that some of my friends are growing a tad tired of hearing me babble about my fantastic girlfriend… Ah well, their loss. ^^ Truth be told, this program’s social ramifications are so much profound than its educational ones, if my little experience is any indicator. GHP’s classes seem more designed for their shock value than their educational content (they show us that education is not just the boring pap that we’ve been force-fed thus far rather than teach us life-altering material directly), while the social interactions are providing us with valid examples of how to interact with intellectual equals.
Whew. Yaaay, catharsis! ^^ So yeah, the program is going swimmingly (a lovely adjective that I’d horribly abandoned until just recently), and I look forward to talking to all of you at some point in the days to come!
June 15: Day 2
June 15: Day 2
Today marked the advent of our official classes. I woke up around six, took a much needed, but hitherto unavailable, shower, called Kath (which was fantastically lovely), then ate breakfast. That accomplished, I went on to my first set of week-long classes.
For our first period of the day, I have “Don’t Want to Be an American Idiot: One Nation Controlled by the Media,” which examines America’s advertising cartels and their impact on our cultural psyche. I was just a bit disappointed by it, because Jill, our instructor (all Commie instructors insist that we address them by first name only, which, as Rand can attest to, is no easy feat), advertised the class as a Socratic seminar of sorts, while it actually consisted of lectures and videos with practically no class participation. I hope that this day was just an introduction and that socialism will assert itself as the week wears on.
My second period was ever so indescribably better. Our instructor is Scott, an unmarried, middle aged, football coaching, English teacher who openly confessed to us that he doesn’t prepare for his lessons, so I was just a bit apprehensive. In all actuality, however, this only serves to make him the single most… human teacher I’ve ever had. The class, “Coming of Age in a Teenage Wasteland,” (my second choice; my first choice was a mini NaNoWriMo), focused primarily on the 80s TV show “The Wonder Years,” backing up the important points in the show with lessons in psychology and short stories. It made up for all the conversational shortcomings of the previous class; we discussed practically every valid point, and it was a genuinely wonderful exercise.
After lunch, I interviewed for (and was accepted into) the computing minor. This was a complete bolt out of the blue, as I had only been considering Design and Vocals. Struck by a sudden impulse, however, I ran as quickly as I could towards the computer lab, barely making it there in time for the session. But it went well, and I hope that tomorrow works out too.
Socially, campus life both exceeds and falls far short of my expectations. I had anticipated a truly collegiate experience, with only the best and the brightest surrounding me and an undeniable air of erudition pervading the campus. Unfortunately, the program is seeming more and more like high school, version 1.2. We have a degree of independence, but the total lack of serious maturity severely limits it, resulting in such regrettably necessary policies as placing our cell phones on our dorm desks during classes (in other words, for the better half of the day). Though the students are definitely educationally developed, most aren’t exactly intellectuals. Some are simply too shy for sustained conversation on advanced topics, while others are simply too ignorant.
Fortunately, the counter-culture of friendly, intelligent, mature individuals has not completely forsaken GHP, and I’ve been graced by no small amount of them. At first, I had the hardest trouble meeting people. This trend was utterly reversed (thank all sorts of god) when I started carrying around my pink and blue parasol (courtesy of Neko Neko). It drives away the fools to whom I have no desire to talk in the first place, and attracts those with whom I would happily develop lasting friendships. Which I’m sure is a fantastic metaphor for something or other, but I’m a bit too tired to figure it out right now…
June 14: Day 1
After two semesters of anticipation, three weeks of preparation, and four hours of transportation, I finally arrived at GHP. I unloaded my bags, set up my room, and promptly spent four hours exploring the campus (which is nice, because now I’m “that guy who knows where things are”).
Three orientations (during one of which I sat less than ten feet away from Cathy Cox) and one horribly protracted dinner later, we were shipped off to the rooms of the heads of our respective majors. There, my fellow “Commies” (as Communicative Arts majors are known) and I had the pleasure of meeting our six teachers… and our 91 classmates. So it looks like this is going to be quite the exciting summer.
My roommate is a soccer player (and French major! Yay!) originally from Mexico named Marvin, and he certainly seems nice enough, which seems to be, with a handful of exceptions, the status quo here. And, speaking of French, I’ve decided to forego it as my minor, as the only French course offered is an intro, and I like to think that I’m a bit beyond that now. So now I’m deciding between Design and Vocal Arts.
But yes, overall, the program is fantastic, and I will not regret the six weeks I spent here in the least. Hoooooray!
Beauty is the Blighted
I am looking at a number line. I trace my path to the right, passing by negative numbers until I finally arrive at zero. I continue my path right-wards, passing, over five, then ten, then twenty, spanning onto numbers greater than the human mind can fathom. Nonetheless, those mathematical monstrosities, however grand, exist on exactly the same line as that negative nine with which I began.
Likewise, beauty and imperfection exist along a single plane, one uniform philosophical number line. When an object agrees with a person’s concept of perfection, then he or she deems it “beautiful”; when it differs, he or she calls it “ugly.” These two extremes create a spectrum upon which humanity acts out its grand melodrama. Without one or the other, we would dwell in a monochromatic wasteland. Without the contrast allowed by varying degrees of imperfection, beauty would never advance beyond that monotony; only degrees of quality can create the chiaroscuro needed for beauty.
This concept may clash rather harshly with some preconceived notions, however. Recent philosophies emphasizing relativism claim that, since each individual finds beauty differently, one cannot make unilateral statements regarding its quintessence. But, although opinions may differ, they come from the same mental avenues; in order to assign one object value, one must place other values in lesser esteem.
Nature and the aesthetics therein illustrate this point consummately. When one glances at a limpid lake, freshly fallen snow, or an ancient forest, he or she usually finds the purity beautiful. But how do we define purity, if not by corruption’s absence? Through definition by negation, one can succinctly arrive at the matter’s heart. People find something beautiful when it lacks corruption. Therefore, one’s knowledge of imperfection shapes his or her perception of beauty. Even though beauty itself may lack impurities of any sort, one needs a working knowledge of them to construct an opinion regarding beauty’s nature.
Nothing contributes to a database of imperfections like crime. By destroying a society’s order, crime illustrates the order inherent in beauty. Every time a boy loses his father to an alcohol-induced car crash or a local miscreant vandalizes the side of a house, the affected parties understanding of beauty deepens. When one sees the imperfect, the “evil” end of beauty’s spectrum, he or she can grasp beauty on a more fundamental level; with more information, one can arrive at a more informed conclusion.
So how do we define beauty? By euphoria and optimism, or by cruelty and wanton despoilment? Truthfully, one needs only the latter; then, when a moment more akin to the former comes along, he or she can notice the difference and deem it beautiful. Life’s harsher realities create the lattice on which its pleasanter realities may flourish. Crime, death, and despoilment may not exactly inspire memories of delightful occasions, but they loan the delightful occasions which we can recall a sense of separation, a mental barrier between happiness and pain.
Just as an architect who designs the grandest skyscrapers and most elegant bridges must appreciate the lowly iron and concrete that hold his elaborate creations together, so must humanity appreciate the simple, often inconvenient imperfections that allow beauty to remain diverse and unique. When we finally acknowledge our inability to experience joy without first knowing pain, then we can begin to live without fear of our unwitting benefactors.
The Most Beautiful Noir
By: Jesse Riggs
Chapter 1
“Good evening, Mr. Aleazar! Welcome to my ever-so-modest abode. I apologize for the current accommodations; I’m afraid I keep a habitually unkempt house. I trust your trip here went smoothly?”
Were one to see nought but the host’s open arms and hear nought but his warm tone, he would never believe that the embrace was proffered to a man in chains, or that the welcoming formality was all but drowned out by gag-muffled screams of terror. The man bound to the chair glanced fearfully around the dank cement cell with panic-stricken eyes, anticipating the moment when his host’s overtures would turn cold.
“Oh, but where are my manners? You may call me Rye. I am the master of this miserable hovel, and it’s my duty to ensure that we don’t mar such a lovely evening with anything that either of us might come to regret. I apologize for the chains, but I fear that, were you ambulatory, that lofty goal might not be realized, and our business would go untouched.”
Mr. Aleazar attempted to calm himself down, but the eerily predatory way in which Rye was circling his chair made it difficult, though the cessation of his screaming revealed a measure of success.
“And what is our business, you ask?”
Rye paused, but it soon became very clear that Mr. Aleazar, was not, in fact, asking much of anything. Rye resumed his monologue, seeming not to notice.
“Our business is you, Mr. Aleazar. You’re an extraordinary man, I hear. Your résumé is more impressive than any I’ve seen in ages. Only two years with the police force, and already you’ve ferreted out four of those nasty Argot terrorist cells, and one in the mayor’s own staff! Rumor has it that we may see you behind the commissioner’s desk come election day. The youngest commissioner in Archadia’s history, I believe. I’m genuinely honored to stand in the presence of a truly singular man.”
The prisoner was anything but flattered. The panic that he had fought so valiantly to overcome had regained control of his features, and the chains boldly announced the recommencement of his futile attempts at escape.
“But let us not be deceived,” Rye continued, “And think that you are a man dominated by work. Indeed, that would be an error of the most unforgivable order. Seldom do I have the pleasure of seeing such dedication to one’s fellow man or to his God. Your devotion to your daughter and your unquestioning loyalty to your religion easily outstrip that of any other I’ve been graced with in my decades of sun-forsaken life.”
The host’s peculiar emphasis on the word “daughter” brought immediate cessation to Aleazar’s struggles. The blood began to drain from his face, and a feeling of imminent doom settled deep in his abdomen. He could vaguely hear Rye continuing his torrent of praise in the background, but Aleazar couldn’t bring himself to focus upon it. His attention was reclaimed, though, by a sharp kick to the small of his back.
“Now, under the weight of all this evidence, it cannot be denied that you, my guest, are a believer. In the God you worship, in the law you uphold, in the sanctity of your family, and in your own feeble righteousness.”
No longer was Rye’s tone one of ironic etiquette. What was formerly a friendly list of accolades was rapidly becoming a bitter diatribe, a rant against the ways of a world filled with frippery and weakness.
“Mr. Aleazar, allow me to tell you of the fault inherent in any belief, the terrible, gaping hole that sits in the heart of adherence to a cause: the instant the a more noble, more desirable idea comes along, you flock. You gather ‘round the new cause, warming your hands by its philosophical hearth and breathing in the heady scent of the polystyrene peanuts in which all good ideas come packaged, leaving the newly antiquated shell of a credence to rot in the intellectual dust. Little do you know that the same philosophical vagrancy that brought you to the new set of values has already doomed it to same fate suffered by the old one. That is the flaw of belief.”
Once more, the man in the chair ceased grappling with his chains and regarded his captor with a fascination born of utter terror.
“Ha! You don’t believe me? Fool! Allow me to bestow upon you the gift of a firsthand example. At this very moment, your daughter is bound to a chair not entirely unlike your own listening to speeches from a man not entirely unlike myself… At least I hope she’s listening to speeches. Not all of my comrades are as—”
Rye effortlessly sidestepped the officer’s encumbered lunge, causing Aleazar to land on his shoulder with an unsettling crack. His tears began to accumulate in a small puddle on the unsympathetic concrete. Rye bent over his captive’s crumpled heap and continued his condescending orotundity.
“Oh, fear not, you temerarious dolt; you and your daughter will be safe in your beds before sunrise. You will not, however, be free. Though you will drop one set of chains at the door, you will carry another with you; you work for me now, Mr. Aleazar. You are to continue your career on the police force, but you will take your orders from me. Oh, and take care not to play hero; should you decide to ignore our orders, you had better be prepared to attend your daughter’s funeral. Closed coffin.”
I’m afraid that, as a story teller and not a film maker, I cannot relay to you the horrid mixture of sorrow, pain, and anger that contorted the victim’s face. But I can tell you that I, who have watched this scene from the anonymity of a peephole more times than I care to remember, could not prevent a tear from weaving its path of woe down my cheek.
Rye returned to his feet and prepared to leave the cell.
“Well, this concludes our business. Soon, a very large man, who would not hesitate to cause you great pain should you show any signs of resistance, will come along and escort you home. Tomorrow morning, you will show up to work and consult the staff physician about the shoulder that a mugger broke while you were walking home. You never talked to me, and you never set foot in this cell.”
Rye gave the dim light’s drawstring a tug, extinguishing the meager illumination. Before leaving the room, he turned around one final time.
“And, I beg you, don’t forget: we watch very closely.”
Why I am not a Patriot
One day, an apathetic fry cook will unwittingly listen to the sizzling fat of the last hamburger, calmly thawing away amidst the unsympathetic lard. One day, the last running back will fumble the last handoff of the last football game on the year’s last crisp autumn day. One day, the last Democrat will malign the last Republican over the last petty feud in Congress’s penultimate session.
One day, America will die.
So why do so many serve a dying institution, to which they are bound only by the coincidence of birth or the temporal commitment of citizenship? An incomprehensively massive world lies outside US borders; why swear fealty to this nation over any other? The vast majority of Americans, of any nation’s citizenry, hold nationalistic views of their homeland without even once considering alternatives. This corporate narcissism blinds a people, replacing logical conclusions and valid devotion with misleading delusions and empty emotion.
Rather than cling adamantly to a single nation, perhaps one should look outwards. Other nations succeed where the US fails and fail where the US succeeds, yet America focuses solely on its own policies and ideas. For example, America’s healthcare ranks 37th (directly following Dominica’s and Costa Rica’s ) among countries worldwide, though it holds a steady 2nd in proportional medical expenditure. So why do America’s politicians not look to France or Italy for suggestions? Why does America reject United Nations conventions that would greatly benefit citizens, especially children? What could possibly weigh so heavily on America’s conscience as to cause it to reject desperately needed assistance?
Patriotism. That same fuzzy feeling that brings butterflies to enraptured stomachs and handkerchiefs to tearful eyes every July 4th is aiding the murder of the country that stirs it. When “American” becomes a more honorable label than “human,” this pitiable nation exposes its vulnerable underbelly for the whole world to see. And when Americans subject themselves to meaningless pathos and shallow jingoism, they surrender the very dignity that created patriotism in the first place. How has the United States lost so much self-respect that ads like Kiefer Sutherland’s American Express commercials can sell their products with no backing but an appeal to freedom?
Though American society indoctrinates every child with patriotism, repetition lends the philosophy no credence and, indeed, affirms many faulty premises. For instance, one need not embrace patriotism to respect the soldiers who maintain American freedom. In fact, embracing patriotism detracts from the respect that soldiers deserve. By claiming a part of a nation to which one has sacrificed nothing, one belittles the contributions of those who have sacrificed everything.
Patriotism, though quaint and inspiring, creates no inimitable benefits that extend beyond the human mind. Though it may seem innocent, even crucial, as an emotion, patriotism in practice creates an intimidatingly blatant Achilles heel in an otherwise beautiful nation. If the United States could rid itself of this well intended menace, then, and only then, can it start becoming an equal on the global scale. In the words of Emma Goldman, “When we have undermined the patriotic lie, we shall have cleared the path for the great structure where all shall be united into a universal brotherhood— a truly free society.”
Of Teapots and Toothpicks
I’ve been doing a bit of thinking lately. And a bit of laundry. But the question is this: which one is more consequential? Which, of course, leads to more thinking and less laundry. Eventually, I will end up without any clean clothes, but with quite a bit of thought.
But, since it looks like I won’t be washing any clothes, I might as well get the thinking out of the way. A utilitarian would likely answer my query with a resounding “Laundry!”, but an incorrigible sentimentalist such as myself has great difficulty accepting such a conclusion without some intense meditation. And, since the sentimentalist in question would be thinking and not washing clothes, the answer would be decided for them, regardless of their verdict.
Eventually, the said sentimentalist and the utilitarian would begin to bicker, and bickering would lead to squabbling, and squabbling would lead to quarreling, and eventually someone would most certainly be hit on the head with a tea pot. At this stage in the increasingly degenerate debate, I’m afraid that I must leave my bathos-ridden comrade and join the ranks of my hitherto fore rival. You see, dear, when debating becomes about the mere debating and not about something more, then our time is wasted. Even if one should win the debate, he gains nothing but a frustrated opponent and an inflated ego. Argument for the sake of argument is no better than a new refrigerator for the sake of a new refrigerator, or a vast quantity of toothpicks for the sake of a vast quantity of toothpicks.
What then, do I propose? To the former problem and this essay’s original topic: thought and Febreeze. To the latter problem: a new definition of victory. What if we started to argue… so that our opponents and our audience might benefit? What if we decided to fight amongst ourselves not when it makes us look intelligent or formidable, but when those around us would walk away from the experience enlightened? This is a radical idea, I know; it means no more ad hominem tactics, no more yelling, and no more leaving in a huff. It would require two or more people to discuss civilly a concept using such arcane methods as taking turns, conceding points, and appreciating another’s insight.
I propose a society where even the basest tiff resembles Plato’s Republic more than it resembles an ideological blitzkrieg or a particularly brutal method of slash-and-burn farming. I propose a society that listens as well as it speaks and values the ideas of others every bit as much as it values its own.
I know; such dreams aren’t likely to come true in my lifetime, or in anyone else’s lifetime, as long as people are still people. But I can still soliloquize, can’t I? And maybe, just maybe, the next person to hear this will walk away and, with a contented sigh, think, “You know, that was very civil and enlightening. Hmmm….”
