A Wink and a Nod

I was watching the sunset today, which happened to be full of beautiful pink shafts of light, and I was suddenly reminded of a phrase from The Odyssey that my professors continually pointed out to us. These wise and learned men reminded us often of the frequency with which Homer invoked the image of "rosy-fingered dawn," a description very nearly fitting of the sight I beheld this evening (of course, in this case the phrase would more correctly be "rosy-fingered dusk"). I always found it odd that my Great Texts professors focused so intently on this one phrase. Certainly it is a precise and lovely image; we have all watched fingers of light spread across the sky in the early morning. But of all the spellbinding images in Homer's epic, this one snippet of description is by no means exemplary.

Suddenly, as I watched the sun sink below the horizon, I realized the purpose behind this fixation. The phrase "rosy-fingered dawn" is well known, for reasons that escape me, as belonging to The Odyssey in some vital, highly significant way. It is a signpost, a convenient password by which one may indicate one's familiarity with this foundational text of Western culture. Employing this phrase in intellectual conversation in a sort of merit badge, an expression of the speaker's literary credentials. Or, used another way, it serves as a test whereby one might feel out the learnedness of his interlocutors. 

I find such posturing terribly pretentious, but I certainly cannot claim innocence. I am well aware that I often drop tidy quotes from literature of note in everyday conversation, just to see if anyone picks up on the allusion. I do not enjoy feeling out of my intellectual depth, and so I attempt to shore up my fragile superiority by simultaneously proving my extensive literacy, vast powers of recall, and razor wit. Such petty linguistic tricks are surely small crimes in the grand scheme, but these subtleties are the guise beneath which I obscure the corners of my soul thus far resistant to interrogation and improvement. 

I am a frail, whimpering wretch in my fashion, but I pleased to find I am less so every day.

How Do You Catch a Cloud and Pin It Down?

You'll know it when you feel it? What kind of new age, sentimental hogwash is that? If you've never been in love, how can you be expected to tell the real deal from just some passing fancy or indigestion? And how can you ever know, with any degree of certainty, that your love is genuine? "Ah," quoth the sages, in all their whimsical sagacity, "but you must only believe! You'll know it when the time comes!"

I never bought into the idea that love is some universal, inherent force just waiting to be discovered by each of us when the planets align and we stumble into blissful romance. Then again, I've never been accused of undue sentimentality. My adolescence, most of which I spent single, was a time of great maturation in many areas, especially in terms of my views on interpersonal relationships of manifold kinds. Being in a romantic relationship for the past 16 months or so has put my deeply cherished opinions to the test, and thus far I have amended my philosophy only slightly. I am pleased to find that what I expected and desired out of love has been granted me.

The attentive reader has no doubt suffered a bout of bewildered head-scratching at this last claim, and justly so. How does one who questions the quantifiability of love assert that he has found it? Though superficially paradoxical, the resolution of this conundrum lies in the proper definition of terms. To settle my roving and restless mind, I needed only to focus on love as a verb, not a noun. Certainly there is love (noun) in the world, but only because individuals consciously and routinely choose to love (verb) one another. Love is a process, an assertive act of the will. It is neither an arbitrary accident nor a biochemical magnetic pull. Love exists at the mercy of a perpetual cost/benefit analysis: does the other's joy pay dividends exceeding my numerous and inevitable sacrifices? Love is also a zero-sum game; nothing is gained except that which is contributed by one or both parties. Love must be cared for a maintained religiously, fed, clothed, and housed with tenderness and vigilance. The least inattention can introduce mildew and festering rot that will prove love's undoing. This process sounds arduous, frightening, and uncertain only because it is.

However, the joys of love are rare fruits that grow on no other vine. Love is uniquely and powerfully edifying, life-giving, beautiful, and warm. The toil and pain are washed away in each simple moment of contentment, from a lazy afternoon spent together to the first brush of a lover's hand. How do I know I've found love? Because the divine, incomparable She decides each day to renew her commitment to me, and I return her commitment in kind. And for this I am blessed beyond measure.

Take Heart, For You Are Not Alone

There are times when a certain line from a song, poem, play, etc., seems to describe my present circumstances to the tee. I have a highly selective memory, and the phrases that stick with me are often not the most eloquent or well-constructed but simply those that paint a precise picture of a sentiment I too have experienced. Right now, the second verse of Robert Earl Keen's "The Coming Home of the Son and Brother" (actually written by J. D. Hutchison) is resonating with me:

Time has slipped away
I don’t know if I can play another tune
They want me to build single handed
A road up to the moon
They only pay me nickels and dimes
In a game that I can never win
So it’s the coming home
Of the son and brother again

I never know if I can "play another tune." Each new challenge seems more daunting than the last. I am, however, determined to endure.

The Web, She Is So Tangled

I discovered today that my unique blend of arrogance and self-doubt allows me to delight in discovering flaws and imperfections in my talents, abilities, and personality. I find these little foibles handy when my ego needs deflating.

See? I'm Not Always Morbid and Filled With Angst.

I love this place. I love the people whose skill tacitly compels me to improve. I love my art, my craft. I'm not sure I'm any good at it. I don't really care. I'm never more exuberant than when I get it right. I'm never more ashamed than when I am presenting work I know to be sub-par. I have seen moments of beauty that continue to inspire me years after I experience them. It is a gut-wrenching, light-bringing, soul-crushing, heart-mending, eye-opening endeavor.

And I love it.

At Sixes and Sevens

I am a walking contradiction, a hodgepodge of hobbies and interests, an intersection of sensibilities and aesthetics. I refuse to be confined to a genre, to be labeled, to be pigeonholed. Perhaps I am complex because I am restless, or inconstant, or easily distracted. Hopefully I am simply astounded by the beauty waiting to be uncovered in the diverse corners of human potential.

Should we take Jerry Jeff's advice and taste every single grape on the vine? I'm not a hedonist, but I do see great value in a diversity of experience and the willingness to venture beyond the pale.

Is all that can be known worth knowing? My life is a series of experiments designed to settle the issue once and for all.

Oooo, a Metamorphosis! Kafka and Ovid Would Be So Proud!

I don't make New Year's resolutions. I know myself too well to believe that the prospect of another year of life will serve as sufficient encouragement to achieve my life goals. If I'm going to change, I know full well it must be motivated by dissatisfaction with my circumstances as manifested in a single, particularly provocative event or series of events. However, in the past few months I have decided that certain promises I have made to myself must finally be fulfilled. To wit: I asked for and received an accordion for Christmas and have so far been quite diligent about practicing daily. I started an intense cardio program five times a week that I plan to continue the rest of the semester. I am also shining a painful but life-giving light on the cruel, selfish places in my soul and excising them, slowly but surely. How much pride and satisfaction it has given me to improve myself mind, body, and soul in significant, quantifiable ways!

Coincidentally, the New Year just rolled around, so I suppose those among you who wish to do so may consider these self-improvement initiatives New Year's resolutions. I see them more as long-overdue payment on post-dated checks transferring funds from a heretofore insufficient fund of inspiration and discipline into a once-dwindling reserve of recent personal change for the better. Six of one, half-dozen of the other.

You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?

I remembered today how much it bugs me when people use two exclamation marks at the end of a sentence. For some reason I feel the only reasonable options are a) one b) three or c) a ludicrous amount, each indicating a successively higher degree of emphasis. An example would be as follows:

• We're having a baby! (Usual case; typical degree of excitement)
• We're having a baby!!! (A successful result of months of fertility treatments)
• WE'RE HAVING A BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Tweet posted by the last surviving human couple in a post-apocalyptic future)

Yet another unreasonable pet peeve of mine, I suppose.

Mixed Messages

Today I had lunch with my 90-year-old grandmother at her assisted living home and took the winding drive through the country to visit Camp Champions. These two experiences, coming one after the other as they did, combined to produce a confusing philosophical haze that has settled on me all afternoon and evening. I have been faced with my own mortality and gripped with an intense fear of mental degradation while simultaneously celebrating my own vitality and relishing the peculiar joie de vivre that washes over me from time to time when I'm especially content with where I am and where I'm headed. At times like these I am indecisive, hesitant, perhaps tortured. Speaking generally, I don't know whether to lament that which has been lost or to exalt the wonders that are surely to come. I feel confident that each response is appropriate for different periods of our lives (The Birds and Ecclesiastes would agree). The trouble comes when one feels the urge to participate in both.

Failure to Self-Flagellate

How I wish I could convince myself that I'm not good enough for this. The evidence is inconclusive, particularly considering the difficulty of finding an unbiased source of information. If I could only stop absorbing the blows of disappointment and let them knock me down for once, maybe I could leave the part of me behind that insists on squeezing blood from a stone. Or if I could produce one crowning achievement that I could look back fondly on in the dark times. As it is, I'm so conflicted I'm starting to worry that I'm incapable of letting go of what may already be gone.

Introspection. Also, a Parable.

I realized tonight that the only reason I can "play a part" as an actor is because I can somehow empathize with the character's situation. It saddened me to think that I can show rage and hatred only because of the potential for those dark emotions in myself. I must conclude that a part of me, hopefully a small one, would like nothing better than to fiddle as Rome burns.

A parable:

A young Native American squaw was sitting by the communal campfire, gazing intently into the flames. The tribe's elder, seeing that the youth was deeply troubled, said to the young man, "There are two wolves at war in your soul. One is dark and evil. He thirsts for conquest, vengeance, and power. The other is bright and good. He strives to build a time of peace and joy." For a few moments, the youth did not acknowledge the elder's words. Then the boy looked up at the elder and asked solemnly, "Which one will the win?" The elder replied, "Whichever one you feed."

Hello, Yeah, It's Been a While

Oh, how my vanity drives me to unrealistic expectations of myself!

Full to Bursting

On occasion, when I see something artistic and wonderful, I feel this strange compulsion to create something artistic and wonderful of my own. Rarely does this go anywhere, partly because I'm inconstant and the feeling passes, partly because I'm secretly not that artistic (like, at all) most days, and largely because I get so overwhelmed with the need to act on my impulse that I end up doing nothing except staring slack-jawed at whatever it was that brought this feeling on in the first place.

Have I written about this before? I think maybe I have, but I'm too lazy to look back through my handful of blog posts to verify. Oh well, here it is again.

Maybe someday I'll make something so beautiful that it'll purge all this longing. Somehow, though, I doubt Nature would allow the void that would be left behind to exist for long before refilling it with ever-stronger desire. Perhaps that's part of what keeps me going, an indelible element of my identity. A blessing and a curse, I suppose.

By the way, check out the band Discovery, if you haven't already. They're a side project of Ra Ra Riot and Vampire Weekend. They're weird, but strangely awesome. You'll see what I mean. Thanks, Callen McLaughlin and Jeff Olson, for turning me on to them.

Your Homework

If you are reading this, your assignment is to research Paulo Coelho, if you're not familiar with him already. I've only read one of his books (The Alchemist), but it forever changed the way I view God and the world around me. His language is so simple, so beautiful, so timeless. He's an example of that rare individual who can combine accessibility, depth, and beauty in his writings.

Here's his blog: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/

Enjoy.

Tongue-Tied

Today I really don't feel that I have anything to say.

I get this way a lot. Which is part of the reason for my infrequent posting (along with being busy and procrastinating). Maybe I'm too focused on being able to say something revolutionary or profound or "right." I know that's a potential pitfall in my life that I have to be careful to avoid. I truly love learning, as corny as that may sound. I love classes and books and holding deep philosophical conversations with people who intrigue me (of which there are many). One of the problems that presents is I often refuse to allow myself to be ignorant, to not know. I almost always take special care to formulate my words, whether spoken or printed, to demonstrate linguistic skill, eclectic academic expertise, and lofty ideals.

Sometimes I think what I really need is to just let go and express myself (or refrain from expressing, gasp!) as I truly am, undecorated and unfiltered.

My Junk

I've realized I'm a bit of a packrat.

The weird thing about it is how methodical and organized I am in my packratness. I was going through my room at my parents' house packing for college and I realized just how much stuff I have from over the years. Some of it is sentimental, but a large portion is just old junk that I've packed up neatly and stuffed in some random corner to rot for all eternity.

Not only that, but I'm an electronic packrat. My photo folder is meticulously organized, with folders upon sub-folders upon sub-sub-folders, but I have a hard time culling photos after a high-volume shoot. I have no problem tossing the out of focus and over- or underexposed ones, but I will agonize over which of two nearly identical photos of a certain subject I want to keep and will usually just give up and keep both.

The worst part is that I keep waiting for life changes (moving houses, getting a new computer, etc.) to motivate me to clean things out. Since my junk is kept from interfering with my productivity, I ignore it until it reaches critical mass. Usually I do pretty well in the foresight department, but this is one area of my life where I'm operating on a purely reactionary maintenance schedule.

I'm Very, Very Sneaky, Sir

I've noticed a sly trick that I pull on people.

Whenever I'm in my tiny little Texas hometown, I talk to locals in a subtle but noticeable Central Texas accent. This happens especially when I'm trying to sound like I know what I'm talking about even though I'm completely lost.

For example, today I went to get my tires checked out because I was told when my car was recently inspected that some of them needed replacing. I drove down to a local tire shop and talked to the secretary about getting new tires. She walked out with me and inspected my current setup, asking all kinds of questions about tire sizes which I did not have the slightest idea how to answer. As the conversation progressed and she weighed the pros and cons of big and small tires for me while I stood wide-eyed and nodding like an idiot, I noticed my Burnet accent slowly creeping into my voice in an effort to blend in. My attempts at social camouflage were futile, however. I could tell she could see right through my paltry show of tire knowledge.

Does the trick work? Hard to say. It usually seems to produce the desired effect of masking my ignorance. I figure it can't hurt in any case. Plus, it always happens subconsciously, so I don't feel guilty about hiding behind my drawl.

At least I can give you this warning: if you're ever talking to me and you notice my accent slowly increasing during the course of the conversation, it's probably because we've entered intellectual/linguistic territory in which I feel less than supremely confident.

...And We're Back!

So I haven't posted in a while. I just realized my number of followers almost exceeds my total posts, which is a bit ridiculous. Does that sound like I'm bragging? Well, I'm not. I'm actually self-deprecating.

What am I going to do about this disturbing reality? Make a Labor Day resolution, like any good American (it's the closest holiday I could think of). Here's what I'm going to [attempt to] do:

• Post more.
• Make smaller posts.
• Get more autobiographical, in hopes of making my blog more accessible. To that end, I'm also getting rid of the Rancor guarding the blog's doorway. 450 cool points to everyone who gets that reference.
• Not be so cerebral all the time. I recognize that using the word "cerebral" is itself a tad cerebral, but what can I say? I like irony. Especially the irony of the fact that this post promising to make more posts doesn't really count as an actual post.

Keep me in your prayers, America. This seemingly trivial undertaking is actually monumentally difficult for someone with such a terrible habit of starting things and not following through with them.

Antiauthoritarianism? And So Young!

This week, the other counselors and I were playing a game where we tried to keep the kids from getting on this big floating pad in the lake. They giggled and screamed and loved it. At one point, one of the kids asked who I was, to which I replied, "I'm the king of the lake!" This 7-year-old then proceeded to shout, "Anarchy! Anarchy!" as he shoved, pulled, and prodded in an effort to dethrone me, as it were.

I was laughing so hard I couldn't even fight back.

Entering a Strange and Unfamiliar World

I am now, for the first time, the owner of my very own pair of Ray-Bans. They are black Wayfarers with a yellow inner side. Thanks, Maria!