UGH

http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/africa/02/29/elephant.killing/index.html?iref=mpstoryview

UGH.

A Dear Diary Moment

I can't believe I am almost half way through the semester. Time is flying by quickly and things as they are now will be missed once the summer comes. I've got a lot of material to read and papers to write this weekend, but I'm excited, because earlier today we were given an extra credit opportunity with one of my favorite professors. Class never feels like class - instead, we're a group of friends that come together to talk about what we've read and argue back and forth. I laugh more in that one hour span than I do most weeks and that is saying something. But this is sort of tangential to the extra credit opportunity. I get to write a poem emulating Paul Muldoon's "Sleeve Notes," which is basically a poem about songs that bring you back to particular memories. It should be fun, but considering I had and still have an odd taste in music, the final product should be interesting to say the least.

Earlier today we got into a debate in my Hemingway/Mamet class and when you pit me and another hot headed kid against one another, things get interesting. We were discussing the difference between fact and truth and how this pertains to memoirs, autobiography, and fiction. The book that instigated this conversation was none other than "A Moveable Feast" by Hemingway, which recounts his various encounters with prolific writers in France when he was younger. We talked about whether or not it mattered that the story was accurate, whether or not Hemingway's depiction of people was true.

Putting libel aside, I would say that it does not matter. Oscar Wilde once said that "it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors." I think you can learn from literature, regardless of whether it is "true" or not. I hate using the term because in my opinion there is no such thing as an absolute truth, but what is the difference between A Farewell to Arms and a living soldier's account of World War I? We can take things from it and grow as people. And besides, Twain was famous for saying that "the truth is often stranger than fiction; fiction, after all, must stick to the possibilities."

But let's go back to the idea of Fact and Truth. After I had said that there is no such thing as truth, another student replied that I was incorrect because certain things are undeniably true, for instance, student A walking through the doorway. I rebutted by defining his argument as fact and went further to describe it as the physical motion through space. Fact correlates directly with this idea of physical motion, but this completely removes the human and often more interesting element: the how, what and why, which are ultimately realms of "truth" and consequently subjective modifiers. Without subjective truth, facts remain lifeless and literature is not possible.

However, even facts may be subjective in nature. One could use two facts, for example, that "The War on Terror started in 2001" and "The War on Terror ended in 2xxx." However, this in and of itself is troubling. By noting these two facts, you elevate them above other facts and give them an artificially raised importance. Moreover, choosing them over others is a subjective choice on the part of the historian. What about other events? Which do we choose to include or omit? Fact, therefore, becomes subjective in particular and exciting ways.

When someone comes to me claiming to know the "truth" about something, I am always hesitant to believe them. "Truth" is a dirty word that people are attracted to, perhaps because it makes it easier to move on with our choices. If we develop an artificial layer of logic we can then continue to build upon it as a means of stability. Otherwise I suppose we would never be able to get anything done. But it was a really interesting and engaging discussion.

You can surmise from this that:

Two of my classes are fukawesome.
Two of my classes are 'kay.
One of my classes is ugh. UGH.

With that said I now leave you my audience of unknowns.

Miserere Mei Deus

I was listening to Agnus Dei when I though it would be neat to pick up some more music of that variety. I tend to enjoy literature that explores religion and religious themes and while I don't subscribe to anything in particular, I think religion has produced a lot of worth while things. I got my hands on a song entitled Miserere Mei Deus, which you can listen to here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8C4xmB1QWYk

The history behind it is pretty fascinating. Apparently it is a vocal rendition of Psalm 51 written by Gregorio Allegri. It had been kept secret for hundreds of years and would only be used on Wednesday and Friday during the Holy Week (Week before Good Friday). Writing it down or performing it anywhere else was forbidden and was punishable by excommunication. Things remained this way until a fourteen year old boy named Mozart traveled to Rome and fell in love with the song one Wednesday morning. Later that afternoon, he sat down to transcribe the entire thing from memory. He was later summoned by the Pope, but instead of being punished, he was praised and eventually the ban on Miserere was lifted.

Any who, that's my nerd moment of the day. It's amazing how much bass is in this song.

We were walking up the hill hoping to catch the meteor shower that night. Our arms were locked and we walked together so that at least a part of us didn't have to endure the cold. Thoughts were running through my head but none of them were being spoken. The dirt road was difficult to walk on because of the frozen tire tracks. My eyes were on my feet and she pushed her body closer to mine.

"You think we'll see anything tonight?"

A thick layer of clouds moved across the sky but patchwork openings littered their canvas. "We might," I said. She tapped the side of my pocket with the arm that was wrapped around my own and I brought my hand out from the warm comfort of my jacket. We held hands as we made it to the top of the hill.

I grabbed a blanket from my backpack and set it on the grass. It rested at the peak of the blades but was depressed once we had decided to make ourselves comfortable. We laid down and watched the clouds pass.

"I wish it wasn't so cloudy."
"Same."

We sat there for some time in silence. The wind was still and I could hear the silent pressure pushing against my ears. I was hoping the entire time that the clouds would move so that I could see the stars.

"So how are your classes going?"
"Pretty well. Yours?"
"Everything is good," she said with half-meaning. "I really hate the 8 A.Ms"
"Those can be brutal."
"They expect us to change our life schedules every four years."
"Yeah."

I was beginning to feel colder now that we weren't moving and I shivered. It was fine though.

"How was your weekend?"
"Good."
"Mine was okay. Mostly got ahead of some work."
"At least you won't be as stressed this week," I said. She rolled over on her side and I could feel her eyes studying me.

"It seems like you're too busy wasting your time by hanging out with people that don't care about you."
"What," I said, pretending that I didn't hear her the first time. "Sorry, I missed what you said."
"Nothing. Nevermind."
"Sorry, I was zoning out," I said.
"It's okay, it was nothing," she said.

The sky was covered with clouds and the air pushed silence over our bodies. The patches disappeared and a filmy gray spread across the sky. "Well, I don't think tonight is our lucky night," she said.

"Neither do I."
"Do you want to go?"
"I guess."
"I love you."
"I love you too," is what I said, but it was different.

Sudden Realizations Over Time

When I shower, I often shave. When I shave, I often look like Santa Clause.

To walk by a puddle without jumping in it is to ignore the screams of your inner child. Jumping in puddles is fun. Jumping in puddles when you need to be somewhere however leads to wet furniture.

Like puddles, jumping in a pile of leaves is awesome. Jumping in your neighbor's leaves is still awesome, but considerably less awesome for him, especially when he goes through all the effort of piling them up again, only to have you jump in once more.

When I was a boy, I thought that I would live forever. Now that I am a man, I think I could die every day.

When I was a boy, I thought that it would be a crime against nature for my parents to pass on before me.

Math is only fun if it is being taught by a cartoon character. Long division, however, is considerably more fun when done out with crayons. It is not fun for the person grading the long division.

My greatest love is for humanity. My greatest hatred is for humanity. My 2nd greatest fear is that I die alone and remain that way.

If a penguin was placed at the top of a ski mountain, I am confident in its ability to find its way home. Sliding on your stomach is all natural and healthy for the environment.

I don't say the things I mean because I am too embarrassed. I say things that I don't mean, but am too embarrassed to apologize.

Family is and is not a word. Family is action. Family is caring. Friends and family can become interchangeable.

When confronted with a closed container with a childproof lid, an adult will quit after trying to open said container after several minutes has passed. When confronted with a closed container with a childproof lid, a child will be entertained for hours.

If God created man in his image, he is officially the coolest person and biggest asshole ever.

When I was in a junior soccer league, we had won the championship and were given trophies and a celebratory pizza party. My trophy was 4 inches tall. My Coaches trophy was 4 feet tall.

When I become a senior citizen, I've got nothing to lose.

My favorite animals are the platypus and panda. Both are nature's greatest practical joke.

If I were to grow old, I would make the best of it.

My greatest weakness are all things cute and cuddly. My greatest strength is my cynical optimism. My greatest fear is that my friends and family will die before I do.

ENGL 226 Short Essay Rough Draft

But as he stood there beside his own bed, seeing the replica of Harris's room around him, the washbasin, the table, the grey mosquito-net, even the cockroach fastened on the wall, anger trickled out of him and loneliness took its place. It was like quarrelling with one's own image in the glass. I was crazy, he thought. What made me fly out like that? I've lost a friend. (Greene 61).

When people communicate with one another it is often to bridge a gap between themselves and their audience. By communicating, a person hopes to foster an understanding by reaching out and touching an individual in a fundamental way, regardless of the medium they use. However, meaning is sometimes lost because of the delivery, language barriers, or slight nuances tied to the person communicating. After grappling with all of these obstacles, is it possible to understand another person? Is empathy something that can be truly felt from one human being to another, or is it merely an ideal that we place on a pedestal and strive for? These are the questions one might ask themselves after reading Greene’s novel The Heart of the Matter. The characters in the novel, and most notably Scobie, struggle to communicate with each other and often blanket their language with lies that inhibit a mutual understanding between parties.

In the narrative Scobie struggles to make his wife “happy.” However, this is an entirely futile attempt primarily because he does not have an understanding of what it his wife wants. Louise describes his behavior perfectly when she says that his desire to make her happy is "[his] conscience…[his] sense of duty. [He’s] never loved anyone since Catherine died" (Greene 49). While Scobie attempts to provide happiness for his wife, his inability to understand her or want to understand her damns his relationship. He is unable to recognize the lies between him and his wife and continues to aggravate the gap between himself and Louise. The steps have become mixed up as Scobie tries to arrange for his wife’s happiness before understanding her instead of approaching the problem from the other angle.

The novel paints a rather cynical viewpoint about whether or not two people can ever come to understand each other. Scobie ponders what to do next after his wife expresses her desire to leave the country, "If I could just arrange for her happiness first, he thought. And in the confusing night he forgot for the while what experience had taught him--- that no human being can really understand another, and no one can arrange another's happiness" (Greene 75). The last half of the sentence appears to be more declarative, as if it was not spoken by Scobie, but by a third party, “that no human being can really understand each other.” The passage serves as a commentary from a third party, which could presumably be Greene himself or a general narrator. The idea of arranging another’s happiness is an interesting way of phrasing Scobie’s need to please his wife. The term “arrangement” is very formal, almost businesslike and is devoid of the emotion attached to the word “happy.” The idea of arranging someone’s happiness is very mechanical versus the desire for another person to be happy. Happiness, however, is not something that can be “given” and it is certainly impeded by a lack of understanding.

It would be an understatement to suggest that Scobie’s relationship with his wife is damned from the start due to his inability to understand his wife before trying to make her happy. His inability to understand his wife comes from his constant pitying of her. In the very meaning of the word, pitying places two parties on uneven ground, elevating the one who has pity against the one being pitied. Understanding and pity can lead to a desire to make another individual happy, however, both go about doing that through different means. One appeal is more genuine while the latter is artificial and mechanical. Unfortunately, Scobie barely understands himself, although he certainly does a great job of pretending like he understands the relationship between he and his wife.

The lack of understanding on Scobie’s part has developed a gap so large between he and his wife that he fails to recognize how much she knows about his affair and how much he knows about love. In a rare instance, the reader is able to see Louise speak outside of Scobie’s presence and we are able to get a better understanding of how she feels about the marriage. After moments of awkward silence between herself and Wilson, she calmly says, “I hate him” (Greene 67). Scobie humorously says later on that “it occurred to him, as it hadn’t occurred to him for years, that she loved him” (Greene 85). The disparity between his perception of the world and reality is a direct result of his inability to empathize. Pity is a poor man’s empathy and it is often easier because it requires no effort on the part of the one who pities.

After witnessing Scobie’s downfall and the plethora of lies that travel between characters, one imagines that Greene might have considered communication a worthwhile, but ultimately futile attempt at developing an understanding between two parties. However, the reader can find sparse glimmers of hope through out the book, an example of such glimmers resting at the top of this essay. Its purpose and meaning is hard to describe; calling it a solution would seem to be a cursory attempt at oversimplifying the issue. However, the passage and novel as a whole portray that we all want the same thing: happiness. That happiness is easier to obtain through a mutual understanding of one another and much of the suffering caused human to human could be dispelled if we were to stop, think, and realize how alike we are. Wilson comes to such a realization when he recognizes the similarity in he and Harris’ living quarters. Wilson was arguing with another human being and “it was like quarrelling with one's own image in the glass.” The preposterousness of his behavior becomes clear to him after he stops to think about what he has just done, noting that inflicting emotional or physical harm on another human being is “crazy” and ultimately based off of some sort of misunderstanding. Like communication, empathy might be an ideal, but it is an ideal worth striving for, because the moment we do give up is the moment we have damned ourselves and our humanity.