Here it is at long last! Sorry for YouTube's poor quality--it looked a lot better on my computer. I tried this "old film" effect on parts that ended up looking pretty strange on here. And I also apologize for the long pause at the beginning...it will start eventually, I promise!
Wednesday, December 17
Monday, December 15
Vocabulary and Pending Visual Argument
Here's some more vocabulary words:
Picayune ~ Of little value or importance, paltry
Abstemious ~ Marked by temperance
Macerate ~ To make soft and cause to desintegrate, usually by steeping in liquid
Confabulate ~ To talk casually, to chat
And a note about my visual argument this week: it is coming, it will just take a while to do, and thus will probably appear nearer to the end of the week.
Looking forward to seeing everyone else's visual arguments. This is definitely one of my favorite assignments so far.
Picayune ~ Of little value or importance, paltry
Abstemious ~ Marked by temperance
Macerate ~ To make soft and cause to desintegrate, usually by steeping in liquid
Confabulate ~ To talk casually, to chat
And a note about my visual argument this week: it is coming, it will just take a while to do, and thus will probably appear nearer to the end of the week.
Looking forward to seeing everyone else's visual arguments. This is definitely one of my favorite assignments so far.
Sunday, December 7
Sestinas
M'kay...so the other day I learned about a really awesome form of poetry I had never heard of before: the sestina. Sestinas originated a very long time ago, with medieval troubadors and such, but they actually lend themselves very well to modern, unrhymed poetry as well. Here's how they work (this is so cool!): 6 stanzas of six lines each, plus a concluding three-line stanza. The neat part is that each of the six stanzas has the same line-ending words, just in a different order. I know that sounds totally confusing, but here it is: If the lines of the first stanza end with the words "boy", "dog", "house", "lawn", "cars", and "suburb", then each of the other stanzas will have those same ending words in a re-arranged order (615243, if you're curious). So our example would go:
Stanza 1:
...boy
...dog
...house
...lawn
...cars
...suburb
Stanza 2:
...suburb
...boy
...cars
...dog
...lawn
...house
And so on for six stanzas. If you do it right, no two stanzas will have the same ending pattern. In the ending triplet, the six words are used in any order, one in the middle and one at the end of each line. So our example could end with something like:
...boy...house
...car...dog
...lawn...suburb
Needless to say, these are really difficult to write. At first I thought maybe I could just pull six completely random words out of the dictionary and use them...but that makes the poem almost nonsensical.
Here is an example of a "professional" sestina, which I really like:
http://poetry.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ/Ya&sdn=poetry&cdn=education&tm=15&gps=89_532_855_362&f=00&tt=14&bt=1&bts=0&zu=http%3A//www.sccs.swarthmore.edu/users/03/ahead/sestina.html
When I was trying to come up with an idea for my own sestina, I came across an example in a book that had a very cool layout. Since there is no set line length in this form, someone did a sestina that started with long lines and with each stanza grew shorter and shorter until the sixth stanza consisted only of the end words. In that case, then, you begin with six end words that, in some order, make a coherent sentence, and then work backwards through the previous five stanzas, working them in. This was so cool that I decided to try one of my own in this style. Unfortunately, this blog is so narrow that you lose the effect of the long lines getting shorter. But hopefully it gives the idea:
As a child, you tread lightly, carelessly, through time and you simply know “forever”
Is as elastic, as elusive, as empty of meaning, as “next week”. And to you “never”
Has no meaning. You only breathe and eat and sleep because that’s how you live
And somehow, unlike those grown folks, you have no eyes for the crouching fear.
Dancing down streams, peering around bends in the road, and plucking at flowers,
You notice people disappear sometimes but you figure they’re waiting somewhere.
When does the horror come crashing in? From nowhere? Somewhere?
Finally you realize just how much unspeakable time forever
Can span. When you cut them from the earth, fading flowers
Drop leaves on the oak table. Really, before you had never
Bothered to read the headlines. Now the quivering stench of fear
Rises from the newspaper at breakfast. See, child, where you live.
Or settle and watch television as it broadcasts live
From Africa, Asia, Europe, America, somewhere
Where the newsman chats confidentially about fear
And spilled blood and the empty losses of forever.
No sound, no sound comes after you reach never.
It is always gone there, where nothing new flowers.
Festoon graves with flowers.
Feel grateful that you, at least, live.
Cry, swear, that you will never
Forget those living somewhere
Whose hopes have faded forever
Into a broad enveloping fear.
Child, here I fear
The bright flowers
Let go of forever.
How can you live,
When somewhere
Dies into the never?
Never
Fear.
Somewhere
Flowers
Live
Forever.
You can’t expect the fear to pass away forever.
It dares to live on and on. But you’ve never
Tried picking up dirt somewhere to plant a flower.
The end...anyway, the next kind of poem I want to try is one...I can't remember the name right now...in which the first and third lines of one stanza become the second and fourth lines of the next...or maybe it's the other way around...
Stanza 1:
...boy
...dog
...house
...lawn
...cars
...suburb
Stanza 2:
...suburb
...boy
...cars
...dog
...lawn
...house
And so on for six stanzas. If you do it right, no two stanzas will have the same ending pattern. In the ending triplet, the six words are used in any order, one in the middle and one at the end of each line. So our example could end with something like:
...boy...house
...car...dog
...lawn...suburb
Needless to say, these are really difficult to write. At first I thought maybe I could just pull six completely random words out of the dictionary and use them...but that makes the poem almost nonsensical.
Here is an example of a "professional" sestina, which I really like:
http://poetry.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ/Ya&sdn=poetry&cdn=education&tm=15&gps=89_532_855_362&f=00&tt=14&bt=1&bts=0&zu=http%3A//www.sccs.swarthmore.edu/users/03/ahead/sestina.html
When I was trying to come up with an idea for my own sestina, I came across an example in a book that had a very cool layout. Since there is no set line length in this form, someone did a sestina that started with long lines and with each stanza grew shorter and shorter until the sixth stanza consisted only of the end words. In that case, then, you begin with six end words that, in some order, make a coherent sentence, and then work backwards through the previous five stanzas, working them in. This was so cool that I decided to try one of my own in this style. Unfortunately, this blog is so narrow that you lose the effect of the long lines getting shorter. But hopefully it gives the idea:
As a child, you tread lightly, carelessly, through time and you simply know “forever”
Is as elastic, as elusive, as empty of meaning, as “next week”. And to you “never”
Has no meaning. You only breathe and eat and sleep because that’s how you live
And somehow, unlike those grown folks, you have no eyes for the crouching fear.
Dancing down streams, peering around bends in the road, and plucking at flowers,
You notice people disappear sometimes but you figure they’re waiting somewhere.
When does the horror come crashing in? From nowhere? Somewhere?
Finally you realize just how much unspeakable time forever
Can span. When you cut them from the earth, fading flowers
Drop leaves on the oak table. Really, before you had never
Bothered to read the headlines. Now the quivering stench of fear
Rises from the newspaper at breakfast. See, child, where you live.
Or settle and watch television as it broadcasts live
From Africa, Asia, Europe, America, somewhere
Where the newsman chats confidentially about fear
And spilled blood and the empty losses of forever.
No sound, no sound comes after you reach never.
It is always gone there, where nothing new flowers.
Festoon graves with flowers.
Feel grateful that you, at least, live.
Cry, swear, that you will never
Forget those living somewhere
Whose hopes have faded forever
Into a broad enveloping fear.
Child, here I fear
The bright flowers
Let go of forever.
How can you live,
When somewhere
Dies into the never?
Never
Fear.
Somewhere
Flowers
Live
Forever.
You can’t expect the fear to pass away forever.
It dares to live on and on. But you’ve never
Tried picking up dirt somewhere to plant a flower.
The end...anyway, the next kind of poem I want to try is one...I can't remember the name right now...in which the first and third lines of one stanza become the second and fourth lines of the next...or maybe it's the other way around...
Monday, November 24
Short Stories Realized
Well, I promised I'd share the short story if I finished it. So here it is. I kind of rushed at the end, so I think it could have been a lot better. Maybe sometime I'll share something more polished that I've written. But anyway, here is this for now:
Parables
A farmer went out to sow his seed.
~~
He closed his book and turned out the lights and sat quietly by the window. Watching the city lights flicker in the rain, chasing thoughts through his mind, he tried to discover why the Bible had opened at that particular story—the parable of the farmer and his seed. What was he to do with it?
Finally, he sat back, satisfied. For him, it was a story of sowing and reaping. No matter what happened to the farmer’s crop, he kept sowing, and in the end he had a beautiful field which grew up despite the circumstances. What did God want to show him from this farmer? Could he be like this, sowing more every time his crop failed? Suddenly, he leaped to his feet as an idea came to him. From the weeds and the thorns could spring new seeds, to bring forth a great crop where nothing had yet grown.
Shrugging on his grey overcoat, he lofted his umbrella and tramped down three flights of stairs into the roaring downpour. Shop lights seemed to shimmer and run wetly in the distance, and the rain made a physical weight, a battering assault, upon the umbrella. He drew himself together inside his coat and weaved his way down the sidewalk, avoiding the torrent that had once been a gutter. After two blocks, he stopped before a small shop with only a dim light in the window which indicated that although it was open it did not expect any customers on such a night. Intrepid, he marched forward and thrust his weight against the glass door, setting off a cheerful rattle of bells as he staggered inside. The shop was so quiet that he halted, looking about until he spotted the Girl behind the counter, watching him. Awkwardly, he shook his umbrella and wrestled it closed before noting with consternation that he had created a puddle on the spotless floor.
“I – I’m sorry,” he stammered.
The Girl smiled. “It’s quite alright. Can I help you?”
Seeming ill at ease, the Man hesitatingly explained what he wished to do. “But I’ve no idea how to go about it. Could you perhaps show me what I ought to buy?”
“Of course. You’ll need a box, one of these. And a bag of this. Then you can pick whichever of these you’d like.”
“Splendid.” The Man surveyed the objects, then fished about for his wallet. “I’ll take thirty of everything.”
Her hand arrested over the register, the Girl shot him a startled glance. “Thirty, sir?”
“That’s right,” he returned cheerfully, suddenly imbued with purpose. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh, no. I just...how are you going to...?”
“That’s right, I suppose I should call a cab or something to carry all this. Can I use your phone?”
Bewildered, the Girl began to ring up the purchases, watching the Man as he argued happily with the cab service.
~~
As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.
~~
The Bank Manager paused for a moment before he turned the corner, peering at the Man who presided over the front desk. A pity, he thought. This Man had certainly proved himself in the years of his employment here. The elderly, the disabled, had always been greeted on their bank visit by this bright employee vaulting over the counter to hold the door open for them. Often they returned time after time, which was the part the Bank Manager cared about. Not only that, but this Man was hardworking, laboring at unpaid overtime if he did not finish his task during the day.
But something had to be done about this other affair.
Taking a deep breath, the Manager entered the room.
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’re having a wonderful day.” This was the Man’s habitual greeting every time the Manager entered.
“We need to talk,” the Manager rejoined curtly, offering no information about the quality of his day.
The Man’s eyes were empty.
He had no idea what was coming. Like a lamb to slaughter.
“Certainly, sir.” He smiled.
“It’s the other desk clerks. The girls say you’ve been messing with them when no one’s around. And they all say you’re taking customers’ personal information, charging them for nonexistent expenses, and pocketing the difference. We can’t have that.”
Slowly, a cold, silent understanding grew in the Man’s eyes—a realization that something was going terribly wrong. “I didn’t. I haven’t.”
Of course the Manager knew this. He would believe the Man’s word over that of all his other employees put together. But that would be bad business. They didn’t like this Man, for his goodness and innocence and his cheerful smile every morning, and the Manager couldn’t risk losing all his employees over this one.
“You’re outnumbered. I am afraid I’m obliged to fire you. I probably even need to call the police on you, but if you leave nicely, I might forget about that part.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t understand how this could happen. Please at least give me a chance to defend myself.”
“If you don’t make me involve the law, you might be able to get another job. Leave.”
“Sir, you can’t just throw me out. I have rights.”
The Manager leaned back on the counter and reached for the telephone. “You want to chat to the police about this, buddy? I’m telling you, anyone in this building would testify against you in a second.” He started to dial.
Staring in shock, the Man started to back up. “I swear I’m innocent,” he stammered, but the Manager simply started to hum absently. Finally reaching the door, the Man turned away and dashed down the sidewalk.
The Manager started to put the phone down, then paused. This whole exchange had put him in a bad mood. Though the Man was nowhere in sight, he called the police anyway.
Sitting in his apartment again, head buried in his hands, the Man fought with himself.
He forced himself to remember what he had promised himself and God. Anytime something goes wrong...but this was different. It was huge. He had just lost his livelihood and his good name.
He had promised, however—even if it was just a silent promise to an invisible God. What good was his word if he dropped it at the first sign of real pain? Finally, he rose and approached his closet, pulling open the door. He hauled out an armful of boxes, then returned for the bags, making a dirty streak across his carpet as he dragged them to his kitchen table. Pausing, he recalled the Shop Girl’s instructions, and then slowly and carefully set about his task.
Several hours later, he left his apartment and wandered down the hallway, knocking on the first door he came to.
~~
Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly,
because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched,
and they withered because they had no root.
~~
The Girl left the Man sitting limply on a park bench as she rushed away into the cold wind. Angry tears wet her face as she lifted her eyes to the boiling grey sky.
How could he demand so much of her?
When he came to her that afternoon with anxious eyes and earnest voice, she had noticed first of all the dirt ingrained under his fingernails. This had puzzled her, but it soon slipped her mind. She had never seen him this perturbed.
“I owe you an apology,” he began as they strolled around the park.
“Yes. You forgot my birthday again.” She poked him teasingly, but he did not smile.
“No. I’m sorry, but I’ve let this relationship get way too serious.”
She looked up at him. “What’s so bad about that?”
“You know that I’m a Christian and you’re not. And that means we can’t get married—at least not the way things are now. But I’ve been ignoring that because I liked you so much, and now I’ve got to say this and it’s not fair to you.” He looked at her with a sudden hope. “Would you like to come to church with me?”
She had hardened suddenly. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we be together without you forcing your beliefs on me?”
“I’m not forcing. I’m just asking.” He sat down on the bench and gestured for her to do likewise. She instead remained standing, facing him. “Please be willing to give it a try. I’m so sorry I haven’t brought it up before now. I really care about you, and I don’t want to have to end this relationship.”
“You would do that?” She felt attacked, bewildered. How could he demand this? Didn’t he love her at all? “You’re turning into some kind of religious crazy. If you’re going to be that way, I’m out of here. Tell me this is all a joke.”
He sat back and looked at her helplessly.
“Fine.” She was wearing the necklace he had given her for Christmas last year. Pulling it off, she threw it at him and left.
That night, he returned to his closet. It had started the week stuffed to overflowing. Now it was nearly empty.
Every time, he pulled out an armful of boxes.
Every time, he knocked on a few more doors and met a few more blank looks.
Every time, the wounds on his heart grew deeper.
~~
Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.
~~
Every afternoon, the three Women stood and gossiped as they retrieved their mail from the main lobby of the apartment building. Today was the first day they had something interesting to talk about.
“Did you see the police here last night?” The Woman fluttered her Macy’s Christmas catalogue in excitement. “They came in here and arrested the Man who lives in the apartment next to me.”
The second Woman tore an advertisement in half and threw it in the waste basket. “What did they arrest him for? And why on earth did they send you a Macy’s Christmas catalogue in October?”
“It comes earlier every year, my dear,” continued the first Woman. “Anyway, I heard them say he was charged with evading the law and was under suspicion for defrauding a bank and for harassment. He said he didn’t even know they were looking for him.”
“Sad. He seemed like a nice Man—went to church and all that. But you never can tell. I guess we won’t be seeing him again.”
The third Woman spoke up. “He showed up at my door about three nights ago, and let me tell you, he looked positively ill. Thin, pale, tired. Like he was the one who’d been defrauded and harassed. But he looked peaceful.”
“He didn’t make a fuss when he was arrested, either.”
“He showed up at my door last week.”
“And mine on Tuesday. It was the oddest thing...”
~~
Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred
times what was sown.
~~
The Businessman sighed as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and peered out the taxi window. His winter in Florida had been relaxing, but now that it was summer he had been forced to return to the city. Besides, he needed to check on the apartment buildings he owned. They were such drab places; he had been pondering the whole way back what he could do to fix them up.
As the taxi rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the first apartment building, the Businessman’s mouth fell open in astonishment. He hardly noticed the stained brick walls or the rusting metal of the balcony railings. Outside of every window on all three levels hung a green plastic window box. From each window box sprouted a riot of color—flowers of every description. Several of the tenants were hanging happily out of their windows, watering their flowers, and waved to him as he climbed out of the cab. Baffled, he hurried inside and caught a Woman by the elbow just as she was about to depart with her mail.
“What happened here?” he queried. “Where did all the flowers come from?”
“It’s a strange thing.” The Woman shook her head. “There was this Man who lived here, and one week he just started showing up at all the doors, one after the other. He gave each person a window box full of seeds. He didn’t exactly say why.”
“Where is he? I must thank him.”
“He was arrested last autumn...but he sure left something behind, didn’t he? Just something for each window. That’s all it took. And let me tell you—the difference he’s made to the building, inside and out, is beyond belief.”
The Business man returned to the street and looked up at the building again, scratching his head.
And the sun shone down, and the flowers grew, and the whole building stood as brightly as a peaceful smile on a tired face.
~~
He who has ears, let him hear.
A farmer went out to sow his seed.
~~
He closed his book and turned out the lights and sat quietly by the window. Watching the city lights flicker in the rain, chasing thoughts through his mind, he tried to discover why the Bible had opened at that particular story—the parable of the farmer and his seed. What was he to do with it?
Finally, he sat back, satisfied. For him, it was a story of sowing and reaping. No matter what happened to the farmer’s crop, he kept sowing, and in the end he had a beautiful field which grew up despite the circumstances. What did God want to show him from this farmer? Could he be like this, sowing more every time his crop failed? Suddenly, he leaped to his feet as an idea came to him. From the weeds and the thorns could spring new seeds, to bring forth a great crop where nothing had yet grown.
Shrugging on his grey overcoat, he lofted his umbrella and tramped down three flights of stairs into the roaring downpour. Shop lights seemed to shimmer and run wetly in the distance, and the rain made a physical weight, a battering assault, upon the umbrella. He drew himself together inside his coat and weaved his way down the sidewalk, avoiding the torrent that had once been a gutter. After two blocks, he stopped before a small shop with only a dim light in the window which indicated that although it was open it did not expect any customers on such a night. Intrepid, he marched forward and thrust his weight against the glass door, setting off a cheerful rattle of bells as he staggered inside. The shop was so quiet that he halted, looking about until he spotted the Girl behind the counter, watching him. Awkwardly, he shook his umbrella and wrestled it closed before noting with consternation that he had created a puddle on the spotless floor.
“I – I’m sorry,” he stammered.
The Girl smiled. “It’s quite alright. Can I help you?”
Seeming ill at ease, the Man hesitatingly explained what he wished to do. “But I’ve no idea how to go about it. Could you perhaps show me what I ought to buy?”
“Of course. You’ll need a box, one of these. And a bag of this. Then you can pick whichever of these you’d like.”
“Splendid.” The Man surveyed the objects, then fished about for his wallet. “I’ll take thirty of everything.”
Her hand arrested over the register, the Girl shot him a startled glance. “Thirty, sir?”
“That’s right,” he returned cheerfully, suddenly imbued with purpose. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh, no. I just...how are you going to...?”
“That’s right, I suppose I should call a cab or something to carry all this. Can I use your phone?”
Bewildered, the Girl began to ring up the purchases, watching the Man as he argued happily with the cab service.
~~
As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.
~~
The Bank Manager paused for a moment before he turned the corner, peering at the Man who presided over the front desk. A pity, he thought. This Man had certainly proved himself in the years of his employment here. The elderly, the disabled, had always been greeted on their bank visit by this bright employee vaulting over the counter to hold the door open for them. Often they returned time after time, which was the part the Bank Manager cared about. Not only that, but this Man was hardworking, laboring at unpaid overtime if he did not finish his task during the day.
But something had to be done about this other affair.
Taking a deep breath, the Manager entered the room.
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’re having a wonderful day.” This was the Man’s habitual greeting every time the Manager entered.
“We need to talk,” the Manager rejoined curtly, offering no information about the quality of his day.
The Man’s eyes were empty.
He had no idea what was coming. Like a lamb to slaughter.
“Certainly, sir.” He smiled.
“It’s the other desk clerks. The girls say you’ve been messing with them when no one’s around. And they all say you’re taking customers’ personal information, charging them for nonexistent expenses, and pocketing the difference. We can’t have that.”
Slowly, a cold, silent understanding grew in the Man’s eyes—a realization that something was going terribly wrong. “I didn’t. I haven’t.”
Of course the Manager knew this. He would believe the Man’s word over that of all his other employees put together. But that would be bad business. They didn’t like this Man, for his goodness and innocence and his cheerful smile every morning, and the Manager couldn’t risk losing all his employees over this one.
“You’re outnumbered. I am afraid I’m obliged to fire you. I probably even need to call the police on you, but if you leave nicely, I might forget about that part.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t understand how this could happen. Please at least give me a chance to defend myself.”
“If you don’t make me involve the law, you might be able to get another job. Leave.”
“Sir, you can’t just throw me out. I have rights.”
The Manager leaned back on the counter and reached for the telephone. “You want to chat to the police about this, buddy? I’m telling you, anyone in this building would testify against you in a second.” He started to dial.
Staring in shock, the Man started to back up. “I swear I’m innocent,” he stammered, but the Manager simply started to hum absently. Finally reaching the door, the Man turned away and dashed down the sidewalk.
The Manager started to put the phone down, then paused. This whole exchange had put him in a bad mood. Though the Man was nowhere in sight, he called the police anyway.
Sitting in his apartment again, head buried in his hands, the Man fought with himself.
He forced himself to remember what he had promised himself and God. Anytime something goes wrong...but this was different. It was huge. He had just lost his livelihood and his good name.
He had promised, however—even if it was just a silent promise to an invisible God. What good was his word if he dropped it at the first sign of real pain? Finally, he rose and approached his closet, pulling open the door. He hauled out an armful of boxes, then returned for the bags, making a dirty streak across his carpet as he dragged them to his kitchen table. Pausing, he recalled the Shop Girl’s instructions, and then slowly and carefully set about his task.
Several hours later, he left his apartment and wandered down the hallway, knocking on the first door he came to.
~~
Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly,
because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched,
and they withered because they had no root.
~~
The Girl left the Man sitting limply on a park bench as she rushed away into the cold wind. Angry tears wet her face as she lifted her eyes to the boiling grey sky.
How could he demand so much of her?
When he came to her that afternoon with anxious eyes and earnest voice, she had noticed first of all the dirt ingrained under his fingernails. This had puzzled her, but it soon slipped her mind. She had never seen him this perturbed.
“I owe you an apology,” he began as they strolled around the park.
“Yes. You forgot my birthday again.” She poked him teasingly, but he did not smile.
“No. I’m sorry, but I’ve let this relationship get way too serious.”
She looked up at him. “What’s so bad about that?”
“You know that I’m a Christian and you’re not. And that means we can’t get married—at least not the way things are now. But I’ve been ignoring that because I liked you so much, and now I’ve got to say this and it’s not fair to you.” He looked at her with a sudden hope. “Would you like to come to church with me?”
She had hardened suddenly. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we be together without you forcing your beliefs on me?”
“I’m not forcing. I’m just asking.” He sat down on the bench and gestured for her to do likewise. She instead remained standing, facing him. “Please be willing to give it a try. I’m so sorry I haven’t brought it up before now. I really care about you, and I don’t want to have to end this relationship.”
“You would do that?” She felt attacked, bewildered. How could he demand this? Didn’t he love her at all? “You’re turning into some kind of religious crazy. If you’re going to be that way, I’m out of here. Tell me this is all a joke.”
He sat back and looked at her helplessly.
“Fine.” She was wearing the necklace he had given her for Christmas last year. Pulling it off, she threw it at him and left.
That night, he returned to his closet. It had started the week stuffed to overflowing. Now it was nearly empty.
Every time, he pulled out an armful of boxes.
Every time, he knocked on a few more doors and met a few more blank looks.
Every time, the wounds on his heart grew deeper.
~~
Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.
~~
Every afternoon, the three Women stood and gossiped as they retrieved their mail from the main lobby of the apartment building. Today was the first day they had something interesting to talk about.
“Did you see the police here last night?” The Woman fluttered her Macy’s Christmas catalogue in excitement. “They came in here and arrested the Man who lives in the apartment next to me.”
The second Woman tore an advertisement in half and threw it in the waste basket. “What did they arrest him for? And why on earth did they send you a Macy’s Christmas catalogue in October?”
“It comes earlier every year, my dear,” continued the first Woman. “Anyway, I heard them say he was charged with evading the law and was under suspicion for defrauding a bank and for harassment. He said he didn’t even know they were looking for him.”
“Sad. He seemed like a nice Man—went to church and all that. But you never can tell. I guess we won’t be seeing him again.”
The third Woman spoke up. “He showed up at my door about three nights ago, and let me tell you, he looked positively ill. Thin, pale, tired. Like he was the one who’d been defrauded and harassed. But he looked peaceful.”
“He didn’t make a fuss when he was arrested, either.”
“He showed up at my door last week.”
“And mine on Tuesday. It was the oddest thing...”
~~
Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred
times what was sown.
~~
The Businessman sighed as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and peered out the taxi window. His winter in Florida had been relaxing, but now that it was summer he had been forced to return to the city. Besides, he needed to check on the apartment buildings he owned. They were such drab places; he had been pondering the whole way back what he could do to fix them up.
As the taxi rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the first apartment building, the Businessman’s mouth fell open in astonishment. He hardly noticed the stained brick walls or the rusting metal of the balcony railings. Outside of every window on all three levels hung a green plastic window box. From each window box sprouted a riot of color—flowers of every description. Several of the tenants were hanging happily out of their windows, watering their flowers, and waved to him as he climbed out of the cab. Baffled, he hurried inside and caught a Woman by the elbow just as she was about to depart with her mail.
“What happened here?” he queried. “Where did all the flowers come from?”
“It’s a strange thing.” The Woman shook her head. “There was this Man who lived here, and one week he just started showing up at all the doors, one after the other. He gave each person a window box full of seeds. He didn’t exactly say why.”
“Where is he? I must thank him.”
“He was arrested last autumn...but he sure left something behind, didn’t he? Just something for each window. That’s all it took. And let me tell you—the difference he’s made to the building, inside and out, is beyond belief.”
The Business man returned to the street and looked up at the building again, scratching his head.
And the sun shone down, and the flowers grew, and the whole building stood as brightly as a peaceful smile on a tired face.
~~
He who has ears, let him hear.
Tuesday, November 18
Favorite Lists
Ok, so most people find that they cannot hang around me very long without being subjected to my "favorite lists" of books, movies, and music. And since this is a blog to share the stuff we interact with mentally, I figured it would actually be quite an appropriate topic. Please note 2 things before you read these lists: (1) These are not in any particular order of liking, except that the first one in each list is my all-time favorite and (2) I am not in any way suggesting that you ought to read/watch/listen to all these things or that they will all be appropriate for anyone. They won't be. So please use your own judgement if you decide to check out one of these and please don't sue me...
All that said...(drum roll)...here they are:
Top Books:
~"The Once and Future King" by T.H. White
~"Watership Down" by Richard Adams
~"A Separate Peace" by John Knowles
~"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee
~"Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury
~"The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara
~"How Green Was My Valley" by Richard Llewellyn
~"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" Trilogy (5 books; all but #4 make this list) by Douglas Adams
~"Cry, The Beloved Country" by Alan Paton
~"Empire of the Sun" by J.G. Ballard
~"The Bridge of San Luis Rey" by Thornton Wilder
~"Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier
~"The Complete Book of Poetry" by Carl Sandburg
(These are, of course, not all of the books that I love. They are just the ones that have taken a special place in my heart.)
Top Movies:
~"The Lord of the Rings" Trilogy
~"Empire of the Sun"
~"Apollo 13"
~"Les Miserables"
~"Chariots of Fire"
~"The Dark Knight"
Top Music Groups:
~Jars of Clay
~Stephen Delopoulos
~Chanticleer
~Enya
~Lisa Gerrard
~Selah
~Soundtracks (Lord of the Rings & Passion of the Christ)
Sooo, there you go. Those are the pieces of media that have touched my heart over the years. What about you? I would be curious to see if anyone shares any of these favorites, or what other peoples' favorites are.
Thanks for listening!
All that said...(drum roll)...here they are:
Top Books:
~"The Once and Future King" by T.H. White
~"Watership Down" by Richard Adams
~"A Separate Peace" by John Knowles
~"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee
~"Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury
~"The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara
~"How Green Was My Valley" by Richard Llewellyn
~"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" Trilogy (5 books; all but #4 make this list) by Douglas Adams
~"Cry, The Beloved Country" by Alan Paton
~"Empire of the Sun" by J.G. Ballard
~"The Bridge of San Luis Rey" by Thornton Wilder
~"Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier
~"The Complete Book of Poetry" by Carl Sandburg
(These are, of course, not all of the books that I love. They are just the ones that have taken a special place in my heart.)
Top Movies:
~"The Lord of the Rings" Trilogy
~"Empire of the Sun"
~"Apollo 13"
~"Les Miserables"
~"Chariots of Fire"
~"The Dark Knight"
Top Music Groups:
~Jars of Clay
~Stephen Delopoulos
~Chanticleer
~Enya
~Lisa Gerrard
~Selah
~Soundtracks (Lord of the Rings & Passion of the Christ)
Sooo, there you go. Those are the pieces of media that have touched my heart over the years. What about you? I would be curious to see if anyone shares any of these favorites, or what other peoples' favorites are.
Thanks for listening!
Friday, November 14
Vocabulary
Here are a couple more vocabulary words...one of them from our syllabus (hehe).
Roborant ~ vigorous or strong
Lagniappe ~ an extra or unexpected gift or benefit
That's all for now. It SNOWED for the first time here, which made me happy. But within just a few hours the sun as come out, which is making me sad. Oh, well.
Roborant ~ vigorous or strong
Lagniappe ~ an extra or unexpected gift or benefit
That's all for now. It SNOWED for the first time here, which made me happy. But within just a few hours the sun as come out, which is making me sad. Oh, well.
Wednesday, November 12
Short Stories
Short stories and I have a quintessential love/hate relationship. On one hand, short stories seem to be the only writing projects I can ever finish. However, short stories require--in my opinion--the most masterfully crafted plots of any kind of writing. And my plots are neither masterful or crafted. My "short" stories turn into the plot of a 500-page epic crammed into 10 pages. As a grossly verbose writer with mind that thinks in massive categories, I find that most short stories turn into torture sessions.
I bear full admiration for those capable of crafting an ingenious short story plot. And every author of short stories has a sort of trademark. O'Henry always twists his story around for a surprise ending. Hemingway can make a thought-provoking moment out of an almost non-existent plot. Bradbury tends to beat readers over the head with the "moral of the story", but can make up for it all simply by his wonderous prose style. Reading all of these authors truly inspires me to take another shot at the short story, until I start searching my brain for a plot and find either too much or not enough but never the "just right".
This month I have an opportunity to practice with the Patrick Henry College homeschool short story contest. Participants are given only a theme--"Joy in Pain"--and a fairly gentle word limit. After a week of wracking my brain and alternately being inspired/discouraged by reading as much great short fiction as I can find, I think I finally have the glimmerings of a plot idea. So this afternoon I plan to try my hand at one of the most difficult types of writing out there. Perhaps after I finish, I'll share my attempt here to see what anyone thinks.
By the way, pretty soon I'll be updating my Media Corner with some Christmas themes (yay!). Late November, and all of December make up my absolute favorite time of the year. However, it has thus far stubborly refused to snow a flake in our part of Colorado, which I find extremely depressing...
I bear full admiration for those capable of crafting an ingenious short story plot. And every author of short stories has a sort of trademark. O'Henry always twists his story around for a surprise ending. Hemingway can make a thought-provoking moment out of an almost non-existent plot. Bradbury tends to beat readers over the head with the "moral of the story", but can make up for it all simply by his wonderous prose style. Reading all of these authors truly inspires me to take another shot at the short story, until I start searching my brain for a plot and find either too much or not enough but never the "just right".
This month I have an opportunity to practice with the Patrick Henry College homeschool short story contest. Participants are given only a theme--"Joy in Pain"--and a fairly gentle word limit. After a week of wracking my brain and alternately being inspired/discouraged by reading as much great short fiction as I can find, I think I finally have the glimmerings of a plot idea. So this afternoon I plan to try my hand at one of the most difficult types of writing out there. Perhaps after I finish, I'll share my attempt here to see what anyone thinks.
By the way, pretty soon I'll be updating my Media Corner with some Christmas themes (yay!). Late November, and all of December make up my absolute favorite time of the year. However, it has thus far stubborly refused to snow a flake in our part of Colorado, which I find extremely depressing...
Thursday, October 30
Please Watch!
Below is a video that is interesting for two reasons: 1) It offers an important message about Obama and abortion and 2) It was made by someone I know. I actually got to go on the shoot and operate the camera for part of the time. The extreme close-ups at the beginning, the wide overhead shots, and the shots when the girl is first looking around in the room are ones I did. Anyway, I think the girl who wrote, directed, and edited it did a great job. Please watch it if you have time.
Wednesday, October 29
Vocabulary
I finally went on a determined hunt for vocabulary words and came up with a pretty nice list. Here it be...
Isochronal - Equal in duration
Sedulous - Persevering in effort
Gelid - Very cold
Jejune - Uninteresting; dull
Vituperate - To rebuke or criticize harshly
Edacious - Voracious; devouring
Nonpareil - Having no equal; peerless
Farrago - A mixture
Eristic - a person who disputes; one who enjoys controversy
Attrition - a wearing down by friction
Isochronal - Equal in duration
Sedulous - Persevering in effort
Gelid - Very cold
Jejune - Uninteresting; dull
Vituperate - To rebuke or criticize harshly
Edacious - Voracious; devouring
Nonpareil - Having no equal; peerless
Farrago - A mixture
Eristic - a person who disputes; one who enjoys controversy
Attrition - a wearing down by friction
Monday, October 27
Notice
Please note that the media corner has been updated...check it out if you have time!
I will also be adding my working bibliography as soon as I can--I'm just having a little bit of trouble getting it to work.
I will have something of greater substance to say later this week...but for now the media corner took all of my blog time...
I will also be adding my working bibliography as soon as I can--I'm just having a little bit of trouble getting it to work.
I will have something of greater substance to say later this week...but for now the media corner took all of my blog time...
Monday, October 20
Vocabulary and Random Thoughts
So I took the PSAT's on Wednesday and came across two words I didn't know (I think I got the question wrong because of them...grrr...) But now I'll know them for next time...
Demagogue -- a leader who obtains power by means of impassioned appeals to the emotions and prejudices of the populace
Prognosticator -- someone who makes predictions of the future
Besides this, I have a couple of writing projects on my plate. Before the end of October, I hope to finish and send off an essay for the HSLDA essay contest. Then in November I could enter the Patrick Henry short story contest, which would be fun if I can think of a plot. I'm also working on writing some monologues to maybe record when they are polished. We'll see if I ever get any of this stuff done!
I'm also working intensively on trying to narrow down my list of prospective colleges. I spent about two hours this weekend writing stuff down, then deleted it all by accident. So I'm going to have to restart that later this week. I'm planning to start with my top ten colleges and, with some helpful direction from my mom and God, see which ones really fit what I want and value in a college.
Whew...busy times...
Demagogue -- a leader who obtains power by means of impassioned appeals to the emotions and prejudices of the populace
Prognosticator -- someone who makes predictions of the future
Besides this, I have a couple of writing projects on my plate. Before the end of October, I hope to finish and send off an essay for the HSLDA essay contest. Then in November I could enter the Patrick Henry short story contest, which would be fun if I can think of a plot. I'm also working on writing some monologues to maybe record when they are polished. We'll see if I ever get any of this stuff done!
I'm also working intensively on trying to narrow down my list of prospective colleges. I spent about two hours this weekend writing stuff down, then deleted it all by accident. So I'm going to have to restart that later this week. I'm planning to start with my top ten colleges and, with some helpful direction from my mom and God, see which ones really fit what I want and value in a college.
Whew...busy times...
Thursday, October 16
A New Feature!
I am a media-loving person, and am always excited by books, movies, or music. So with that in mind I am starting a new feature in the sidebar of my blog: the Media Corner. Check it out! I'm hoping to update it every week, but since I don't think anyone but my mother and grandmother is reading this blog anymore, it might not be that regular. But for those of you who might happen along...enjoy!
Saturday, October 11
Tapping into Pain
I roll out of bed with a groan, deciding once again that 6:00--in the dark--is too early for any sane human. Grinding out my electric toothbrush, I sigh to the mirror about how tough it is that I have to brush my teeth more than the average person. Oh, yeah. I really need to charge up my phone and iPod this morning--they're almost dead. Maybe I won't get the paper this morning--it's cold out there and I don't really care about reading it. If my brother wants the comics badly enough, he'll get it himself. And hey, wonderful. The only oatmeal flavor left is banana--that stuff is disgusting. I guess I'll just have some bread. Yuk. Or maybe nothing. Anyway, I really need to get started on my history paper. My computer is taking a long time to boot up this morning. Come on, hurry up. Ah, here's my brother with the paper--hey, stop deconstructing the entertainment section! I want to read the movie reviews...Man, isn't life hard? As I turn away, the front page of the paper catches my eye. "Genocide Continues in Africa" or "Thousands Die in Iraq" or "Teen Murders Family". I slide the paper away and turn back to my computer screen. Can't it load any faster than this?
****
I hadn't looked at myself in this way, really, not until our pastor challanged us in his Sunday sermon. "We worry more about our investment portfolio than about the AIDS crisis. We get more upset about a ding in our car than about the genocide in Sudan." And so he continued. I returned home with a cold hesitation in my mind, a new way of reading the paper in the morning. Our world is so full of death and pain; it washes over us in waves every day, every hour. If we let each thing break our heart, we would be incapacitated with constant grief.
Occasionally, I have been stopped in my tracks by a sudden interaction with the pain in our world. The first time was when I was probably twelve or thirteen, and completely focused on myself and my own little world. I never read the paper, but one day when I was sitting at the table a picture of a child with only one arm caught my eye, and I started idly reading the related article. By the end of it, I was in shock. It had to do with the court testimonies of various villagers in some place I cannot even remember--as these people related the atrocities they had suffered at the hands of young radical militants. This was the first time something so awful had confronted me, and I went my way in stunned silence. Several weeks later, I was in the middle of some everyday task when I suddenly broke down crying, lost in the terrible pain of people I didn't even know.
Then I got older. I read the newspaper every day. My heart grew harder, and the sympathy hid itself away somewhere. Once I paused over a photograph of a little boy crying at his father's funeral. Another time over an article about an abused child who went on to shoot up a school. I caught glimpses of a pain greater that my everyday frustrations--something great and terrible, something that breaks even the heart of God. Once I tried to put my sudden, raw frustration into writing:
"The world weeps.
There is blood
There is sweat
There are tears
Smeared across faces
Stinging gritty eyes
Tearily void of innocence.
It isn't right.
Dreamers grow cynical.
Lovers are wounded.
The world weeps
Because its surface is scarred with
The unimaginable
The unexplainable."
So what can we do? Will we close ourselves away, making oatmeal flavors our greatest concern, pretending we cannot read those headlines? Will we descent into hopeless dispair?
My favorite band--Jars of Clay--once wrote a song called "Oh My God". It is a powerful, prayerful lament for all of the evil and pain in the world. For a long time, there was a line of this song I couldn't figure out.
"Oh my God, can I complain?
Take away my firm belief,
And graft my soul upon your grief."
Why, I wondered, would I want to pray for God to take away my firm belief? I think I know now. I have a firm belief. I go to church and sit at home and believe firmly in God and truth. And yet I miss the heart of God. Of course God mourns for every agony in the world. His heart breaks. And to truly find the heart of God, I must be willing to tap into the agony, to feel the pain, to weep for the whole aching world.
Of course, there is hope. God will judge the evildoers and will bring the world to right. This cannot be forgotten. But as I write this, someone has died in agony somewhere. Satan has destroyed one of God's precious children. Pain wraps itself around our planet. We tear ourselves apart from the inside out. I cannot lock myself behind church doors. I cannot hide in the comforts of a loving home. I must let myself feel the same grief God does for every shock of pain. Alone, I am utterly selfish, as evidenced by the opening of this post. But I must be willing to feel the pain, to love the oppressed, to reach out my hands to something larger than myself.
****
I hadn't looked at myself in this way, really, not until our pastor challanged us in his Sunday sermon. "We worry more about our investment portfolio than about the AIDS crisis. We get more upset about a ding in our car than about the genocide in Sudan." And so he continued. I returned home with a cold hesitation in my mind, a new way of reading the paper in the morning. Our world is so full of death and pain; it washes over us in waves every day, every hour. If we let each thing break our heart, we would be incapacitated with constant grief.
Occasionally, I have been stopped in my tracks by a sudden interaction with the pain in our world. The first time was when I was probably twelve or thirteen, and completely focused on myself and my own little world. I never read the paper, but one day when I was sitting at the table a picture of a child with only one arm caught my eye, and I started idly reading the related article. By the end of it, I was in shock. It had to do with the court testimonies of various villagers in some place I cannot even remember--as these people related the atrocities they had suffered at the hands of young radical militants. This was the first time something so awful had confronted me, and I went my way in stunned silence. Several weeks later, I was in the middle of some everyday task when I suddenly broke down crying, lost in the terrible pain of people I didn't even know.
Then I got older. I read the newspaper every day. My heart grew harder, and the sympathy hid itself away somewhere. Once I paused over a photograph of a little boy crying at his father's funeral. Another time over an article about an abused child who went on to shoot up a school. I caught glimpses of a pain greater that my everyday frustrations--something great and terrible, something that breaks even the heart of God. Once I tried to put my sudden, raw frustration into writing:
"The world weeps.
There is blood
There is sweat
There are tears
Smeared across faces
Stinging gritty eyes
Tearily void of innocence.
It isn't right.
Dreamers grow cynical.
Lovers are wounded.
The world weeps
Because its surface is scarred with
The unimaginable
The unexplainable."
So what can we do? Will we close ourselves away, making oatmeal flavors our greatest concern, pretending we cannot read those headlines? Will we descent into hopeless dispair?
My favorite band--Jars of Clay--once wrote a song called "Oh My God". It is a powerful, prayerful lament for all of the evil and pain in the world. For a long time, there was a line of this song I couldn't figure out.
"Oh my God, can I complain?
Take away my firm belief,
And graft my soul upon your grief."
Why, I wondered, would I want to pray for God to take away my firm belief? I think I know now. I have a firm belief. I go to church and sit at home and believe firmly in God and truth. And yet I miss the heart of God. Of course God mourns for every agony in the world. His heart breaks. And to truly find the heart of God, I must be willing to tap into the agony, to feel the pain, to weep for the whole aching world.
Of course, there is hope. God will judge the evildoers and will bring the world to right. This cannot be forgotten. But as I write this, someone has died in agony somewhere. Satan has destroyed one of God's precious children. Pain wraps itself around our planet. We tear ourselves apart from the inside out. I cannot lock myself behind church doors. I cannot hide in the comforts of a loving home. I must let myself feel the same grief God does for every shock of pain. Alone, I am utterly selfish, as evidenced by the opening of this post. But I must be willing to feel the pain, to love the oppressed, to reach out my hands to something larger than myself.
Thursday, October 9
Some Rhetorical Strategies...
A few weeks ago I posted some vocabulary words, which are honestly the only words I have found so far. I always have trouble with that sort of thing because I have a pretty big vocabulary to start with and I've gotten so used in my reading to charging right through unfamiliar words without stopping to note them. So I'll work more on that later. For now, I realized that I was happily working on implementing rhetorical strategies without ever having posted much about them here. So here is a list of the major ones I have noticed so far:
1. METHODS OF ARGUMENT:
a) Ethos--this is an appeal to the identity of the speaker/writer. They are establishing "who they are" so that audiences will know that when the award-winning Russian history professor lectures on Russian history, they can probably rely on what he says. Ethos really should open an argument, because it will assure people that your later arguments are authoritative. You can also establish the ethos of people you quote. For example, in my paper on the public school system, I had almost no ethos of my own to present. I wasn't an authority. However, I balanced that by carefully noting the identity of who I was quoting. This wasn't just a quote from Bill the concerned parent, it was a quote from the Horace Mann, father of American public education.
b) Pathos--this is an appeal to emotion. Just because pathos is often used opposite of humor doesn't mean that rhetorical pathos has to relate to negative emotion--sadness, for example. It sometimes does--a politician telling stories of families whose sons have died in the war, for example. However, pathos could also appeal to emotions like patriotism or nostalgia. In a sense of strict rhetoric, pure pathos is a weak method of argument. However, when presented to ordinary people, it is often very effective.
c) Logos--this is an appeal to logic--citing facts or statistics, for example. If used truthfully, logos can be a very powerful argument. A startling statistic can stun people into listening, can make them rethink their presuppositions. However, one of the downfalls of logos appears if the speaker/writer forgets that he is addressing a crowd of emotional humans. Pure logos, lists of facts and numbers, will often cause people to blank out if they do not have an emotion, a personal connection, to tag it to. Therefore, logos and pathos work really well together if combined in the right fashion.
2. ARTFUL LANGUAGE:
You can use ethos, pathos, and logos up one side and down the other, but your method will detract from your meaning if you ignore the artful employment of language. Part of this comes simply from knowing your mechanics: say "there ain't no reason for babies to be aborted", and you've just lost your audience. There are two other extra tools, however, that people will not be able to positively identify in your arguments--unless they are trying purposefully--but which will leave a gaping hole if you don't employ them.
a) Schemes--schemes are types of artful syntax. Syntax is the way you lay out a sentence--should you try flipping your subject and verb around, should you add your modifying phrases before or after the key idea, should you ask a rhetorical question. All of these methods and more can really add to your argument. Shaking up your syntax is a lot better than saying "I am Mike. I oppose abortion. Abortion is evil. Voting for abortion is not Christian." Take for an example the conclusion to John McCain's acceptance speech. He utilized a string of hortative (exorting) sentences, which got everyone all excited and gave him a great ending.
b) Tropes--tropes are types of artful diction. Most poetic divices--simile, metaphor, hyperbole, alliteration, euphony, etc.--fall into this category. You can pack a lot more punch with a simile than with a simple statement; that's just the nature of people. Be careful, however, not to overuse these. Alliteration might sound lovely, but encouraging people to "alertly abolish an abominable act of abortion against all argument" will not go over particularly well.
Well, these some of the key rhetorical strategies, for now. Same time, same station, in a couple weeks, ladies and gentlemen.
1. METHODS OF ARGUMENT:
a) Ethos--this is an appeal to the identity of the speaker/writer. They are establishing "who they are" so that audiences will know that when the award-winning Russian history professor lectures on Russian history, they can probably rely on what he says. Ethos really should open an argument, because it will assure people that your later arguments are authoritative. You can also establish the ethos of people you quote. For example, in my paper on the public school system, I had almost no ethos of my own to present. I wasn't an authority. However, I balanced that by carefully noting the identity of who I was quoting. This wasn't just a quote from Bill the concerned parent, it was a quote from the Horace Mann, father of American public education.
b) Pathos--this is an appeal to emotion. Just because pathos is often used opposite of humor doesn't mean that rhetorical pathos has to relate to negative emotion--sadness, for example. It sometimes does--a politician telling stories of families whose sons have died in the war, for example. However, pathos could also appeal to emotions like patriotism or nostalgia. In a sense of strict rhetoric, pure pathos is a weak method of argument. However, when presented to ordinary people, it is often very effective.
c) Logos--this is an appeal to logic--citing facts or statistics, for example. If used truthfully, logos can be a very powerful argument. A startling statistic can stun people into listening, can make them rethink their presuppositions. However, one of the downfalls of logos appears if the speaker/writer forgets that he is addressing a crowd of emotional humans. Pure logos, lists of facts and numbers, will often cause people to blank out if they do not have an emotion, a personal connection, to tag it to. Therefore, logos and pathos work really well together if combined in the right fashion.
2. ARTFUL LANGUAGE:
You can use ethos, pathos, and logos up one side and down the other, but your method will detract from your meaning if you ignore the artful employment of language. Part of this comes simply from knowing your mechanics: say "there ain't no reason for babies to be aborted", and you've just lost your audience. There are two other extra tools, however, that people will not be able to positively identify in your arguments--unless they are trying purposefully--but which will leave a gaping hole if you don't employ them.
a) Schemes--schemes are types of artful syntax. Syntax is the way you lay out a sentence--should you try flipping your subject and verb around, should you add your modifying phrases before or after the key idea, should you ask a rhetorical question. All of these methods and more can really add to your argument. Shaking up your syntax is a lot better than saying "I am Mike. I oppose abortion. Abortion is evil. Voting for abortion is not Christian." Take for an example the conclusion to John McCain's acceptance speech. He utilized a string of hortative (exorting) sentences, which got everyone all excited and gave him a great ending.
b) Tropes--tropes are types of artful diction. Most poetic divices--simile, metaphor, hyperbole, alliteration, euphony, etc.--fall into this category. You can pack a lot more punch with a simile than with a simple statement; that's just the nature of people. Be careful, however, not to overuse these. Alliteration might sound lovely, but encouraging people to "alertly abolish an abominable act of abortion against all argument" will not go over particularly well.
Well, these some of the key rhetorical strategies, for now. Same time, same station, in a couple weeks, ladies and gentlemen.
Saturday, October 4
A Dialogue
Well, this has been quite a week, and I hadn't even realized how I was neglecting my little blog. So I thought I'd better get on here before he dies of malnourishment. Anyway, I've been working so much on my synthesis essay that I haven't really had time to formulate any original thoughts. I'm reading an interesting book that I'll probably post on when I'm done...and I have some interesting thoughts on life in general that are starting to formulate...but at the moment, I'm going to be quite unoriginal and post something I wrote several months ago, but which I still enjoy going back and reading sometimes. I guess it would be called a poem...I mean, that's what I've been calling it. But it really turned into something more like a dialogue between two imaginary people laid out in a strange way. Mainly because I can't write poetry worth anything. And no, it doesn't rhyme. It came out after I read Psalm 15, actually, so it makes more sense if you read that first. If you don't feel like going and getting your Bible out, here it is:
http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=psalm%2015&version=31
And here is the pseudo-poem-dialogue-thingamajigger...p.s. You've got to read the lines back and forth, not one column and then the other...
Psalm 15 Response:
"Hail, my teacher."
http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=psalm%2015&version=31
And here is the pseudo-poem-dialogue-thingamajigger...p.s. You've got to read the lines back and forth, not one column and then the other...
Psalm 15 Response:
"Hail, my teacher."
"Who passes?"
"One who seeks truth."
"God's truth or man's?"
"Only one of those is true."
"Ask away."
"There is a Sanctuary."
"Yes."
"There is a Holy Hill."
"Yes."
"Why may reach them? Why may climb?"
"There is a plan for building foundations."
"A plan? A foundation?"
"Without a path, you will never climb the hill."
"I build the path?"
"According to the Lord's plan."
"Ok, I'm ready to begin."
"Brick 1: righteousness."
"Ah, righteous deeds. Alright."
"Brick 2: truth."
"In heart as in speech. I see."
"Brick 3: honesty."
"Alright, well. Not lying."
"Brick 4: kindness."
"Yes, to all my neighbors."
"Brick 5: courtesy."
"True, for we are all men together."
"Brick 6: purity."
"Hating evil, yes, and now I..."
"Brick 7: reverence."
"Oh...um, among Christians."
"Brick 8: reliability."
"Whew...even when it costs. Now I..."
"Brick 9: generosity."
"Yes...but...can we review the first..."
"Brick 10: integrity."
"No more! I can't keep up!"
"Or-"
"Or?"
"There is one other way."
"Besides building my own way?"
"Another can build it for you."
"Who? Who would--who could?"
"Christ alone."
"Teacher--tell me something."
"Hmmm?"
"Has anyone ever made it up the hill by any road other than Christ's?"
"No."
"Never? I thought so."
"You thought wisely. Never."
"Well, then there's only one thing to say."
"What?"
"Amen for Christ."
"Amen."
THE END
I repeat: amen for Christ! I never stop needing to be reminded of this...
Monday, September 22
Futures
Well, there's a certain conversation it seems I've had too many times lately. It goes something like this.
Someone: "So, what do you want to do for a career someday?"
Me: "Well, I'm thinking about going into film. I'd love to be a director."
Someone: "Ohhhh, well. [slight pause] Cool. [insert blank stare, laugh, or awkward silence]"
Me: "...Or maybe I'll just be a teacher..."
Someone: "[awkward silence suddenly over] Oh, that would be cool! What age group would you teach? Etc, etc."
People really don't seem to know what to make of me when I pull out the director thing. I don't know if it's because film directing is usually a male job, if it's because everyone under the age of 18 seems to want to work in film, if I just don't seem like the type, or if film directing isn't the traditional "Christian homeschooler" thing to do (although this last one is becoming more and more obsolete as hoards of homeschoolers are picking up cameras across the country). Whatever the reason, it's starting to get on my nerves. Why is it ok for me to want to be a nurse or a teacher but downright strange for me to want to direct films? Of course, not everyone responds negatively to me...my parents are supportive and encouraging, my Bible study teacher often prefaces her weekly phone calls with "Is this Stephen Spielberg speaking?", and some film people in the area are generously helping me out in any way possible. But I have to admit--sometimes those blank stares hurt a little bit...and sometimes I start to doubt myself.
So why do I want to be a movie director? Lots of kids want to be movie directors...what's my reason? When people pull this question on me, I often stammer a bit. It's really hard to explain. But that's the point of this post; I thought I'd give a try at articulating my reasons in writing.
To open my explanation: on a recent vacation to Yellowstone National Park I was reminded of what brought film directing into my head in the first place. If you've ever been to Yellowstone, you know that bears are a very real presence up there. Not only do they wander the forest, but the tourist gift shops are laden with books bearing encouraging titles like "Mark of the Grizzly". My brother actually read one of these books and was recounting some of the bear attack stories to us as we were driving around in the park. I just sat there, becoming more and more inwardly agitated with these gruesome tales, until I finally begged him to stop talking about it. My family, naturally, tried to encourage me by saying not to worry; we were safe in the car and no bears were going to attack us. But it was for no reason as logical as this that I was afraid of those stories. It was because they were coming alive in my head--every gory detail of them. I could see and hear and feel them in a very real sense. No...I wasn't going insane. I just have what might commonly be called a vivid imagination. Only sometimes a lot more vivid than I would like.
Visualizing things like this is not at all uncommon for me--the Yellowstone incident just reminded me of it. And when those visualizations are a little more pleasant than bear attacks, they are often followed with the strong desire to release them, to share them. I can see how a certain Bible story might have looked, for example, down to the person's features and their emotions and the lighting and all the sights and sounds. And I want to share it. Problem is: even my family gives me blank stares when I start pounding the sofa cushion in frustration because I cannot then and there make the story of Jonah (for example) into a movie... These are the times I like to tell myself that someday I will direct movies and bring all this stuff to life.
I don't remember where I first heard this question, but it set me thinking: "If you found out that you had only six months to live, what would you do in that time (assuming you had unlimited resources)?" There are certainly some personally important things I would do (spending time with family, etc.), but one of the first things that popped into my head was..."I'd start making a movie, of course!" It startled even me how important this seemed. I had no idea how firmly I was holding on to the idea of making movies someday.
Maybe it's more practical to become something like a teacher. Maybe I don't have a chance of standing out in a generation of technology-savvy, creative, aspiring filmmakers. Maybe I don't have the leadership or social skills. Maybe. But I think that someday, as a teacher or something of that line, I would have to look back at everything inside of me--all the people, places, sights, sounds, and truths--and regret, very deeply, that I never got to express them.
So that's that. Not very well expressed, but very much something that has been on my heart. Sometimes I get frustrated because the equipment is difficult to learn, things don't turn out the way I wanted, and I have trouble staying motivated. And sometimes I struggle with figuring out what God's will for my future really is. However, I truly believe that God has given me the gifts I have for a reason and that he will make that reason clear someday.
Someone: "So, what do you want to do for a career someday?"
Me: "Well, I'm thinking about going into film. I'd love to be a director."
Someone: "Ohhhh, well. [slight pause] Cool. [insert blank stare, laugh, or awkward silence]"
Me: "...Or maybe I'll just be a teacher..."
Someone: "[awkward silence suddenly over] Oh, that would be cool! What age group would you teach? Etc, etc."
People really don't seem to know what to make of me when I pull out the director thing. I don't know if it's because film directing is usually a male job, if it's because everyone under the age of 18 seems to want to work in film, if I just don't seem like the type, or if film directing isn't the traditional "Christian homeschooler" thing to do (although this last one is becoming more and more obsolete as hoards of homeschoolers are picking up cameras across the country). Whatever the reason, it's starting to get on my nerves. Why is it ok for me to want to be a nurse or a teacher but downright strange for me to want to direct films? Of course, not everyone responds negatively to me...my parents are supportive and encouraging, my Bible study teacher often prefaces her weekly phone calls with "Is this Stephen Spielberg speaking?", and some film people in the area are generously helping me out in any way possible. But I have to admit--sometimes those blank stares hurt a little bit...and sometimes I start to doubt myself.
So why do I want to be a movie director? Lots of kids want to be movie directors...what's my reason? When people pull this question on me, I often stammer a bit. It's really hard to explain. But that's the point of this post; I thought I'd give a try at articulating my reasons in writing.
To open my explanation: on a recent vacation to Yellowstone National Park I was reminded of what brought film directing into my head in the first place. If you've ever been to Yellowstone, you know that bears are a very real presence up there. Not only do they wander the forest, but the tourist gift shops are laden with books bearing encouraging titles like "Mark of the Grizzly". My brother actually read one of these books and was recounting some of the bear attack stories to us as we were driving around in the park. I just sat there, becoming more and more inwardly agitated with these gruesome tales, until I finally begged him to stop talking about it. My family, naturally, tried to encourage me by saying not to worry; we were safe in the car and no bears were going to attack us. But it was for no reason as logical as this that I was afraid of those stories. It was because they were coming alive in my head--every gory detail of them. I could see and hear and feel them in a very real sense. No...I wasn't going insane. I just have what might commonly be called a vivid imagination. Only sometimes a lot more vivid than I would like.
Visualizing things like this is not at all uncommon for me--the Yellowstone incident just reminded me of it. And when those visualizations are a little more pleasant than bear attacks, they are often followed with the strong desire to release them, to share them. I can see how a certain Bible story might have looked, for example, down to the person's features and their emotions and the lighting and all the sights and sounds. And I want to share it. Problem is: even my family gives me blank stares when I start pounding the sofa cushion in frustration because I cannot then and there make the story of Jonah (for example) into a movie... These are the times I like to tell myself that someday I will direct movies and bring all this stuff to life.
I don't remember where I first heard this question, but it set me thinking: "If you found out that you had only six months to live, what would you do in that time (assuming you had unlimited resources)?" There are certainly some personally important things I would do (spending time with family, etc.), but one of the first things that popped into my head was..."I'd start making a movie, of course!" It startled even me how important this seemed. I had no idea how firmly I was holding on to the idea of making movies someday.
Maybe it's more practical to become something like a teacher. Maybe I don't have a chance of standing out in a generation of technology-savvy, creative, aspiring filmmakers. Maybe I don't have the leadership or social skills. Maybe. But I think that someday, as a teacher or something of that line, I would have to look back at everything inside of me--all the people, places, sights, sounds, and truths--and regret, very deeply, that I never got to express them.
So that's that. Not very well expressed, but very much something that has been on my heart. Sometimes I get frustrated because the equipment is difficult to learn, things don't turn out the way I wanted, and I have trouble staying motivated. And sometimes I struggle with figuring out what God's will for my future really is. However, I truly believe that God has given me the gifts I have for a reason and that he will make that reason clear someday.
Monday, September 15
A Wreck, A Catastrophe, A Mess
One of the reading assignments this week in "The Language of Composition" was an essay by writer Francine Prose, entitled "I Know Why the Caged Bird Cannot Read". This essay evoked such a violently negative response in me that I felt I must retreat to blogdom and vent a while.
To put it simply, I think the majority of Prose's essay is poorly-argued, egotistical nonsense. I probably shouldn't be saying this when Prose is a published, award-winning writer and I am an opinionated highschool English student--but hey, this is what I truly believe...and I will try to explain why.
First of all, what is Prose's essay about? Well, her essay is subtitled "How American High School Students Learn to Loath Literature". And that about sums it up. Her essay is an attack on current highschool literature programs and how she believes they are failing to teach a love of literature. What exactly is the problem with them? Ummm...on second thought, Prose doesn't seem to know. Sure, she offers lots of extreme complaints and claims, but when framed with "What exactly is the problem?", her essay draws a blank. If you don't believe me, let's take a closer look.
First, Prose attacks the books which modern high schools choose for their reading lists. She flames everyone from James Conrad to John Steinbeck, Ray Bradbury to Harper Lee, Maya Angelou to John Knowles, Aldous Huxley to William Golding. She then hones in on I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (Angelou) and To Kill a Mockingbird (Lee) and proceeds to grind them into the dirt, leaving them for dead only after more than a page of sarcastic jibes, mocking descriptions, and cruelly under-handed methods. Then, she mourns the disappearance of Homer and Dante. So, after this first section, Prose has established her argument, right? High school literature courses are bad because of the books they select for study. But wait a minute...Prose isn't finished.
Next, she launches off on a tirade about how students have been ruined for deep literary study. She complains that her students are "nearly incapable of doing the close line-by-line reading necessary to disclose the most basic information in a story by Henry James...". She complains that literature courses are so focused on teaching tolerance, identity, and values that they have ceased to teach about aesthetic beauty in the writing itself (imagery, wit, rhythm, language). Every book, she states, is being weighed down by cheesy self-examination, values-oriented study questions, and inane creative writing assignments. Besides the fact that I thoroughly enjoy the goofy creative writing assignments in literature class--which must make me a literary fool in Prose's eyes--I understand Prose's point about how literature study has become more focused on self-examination than on the use of language. But her sarcastic method totally alienates the reader, and we observe in utter bewilderment as she multifariously bashes various literature curriculums, works of literature, student responses to literature, literature discussion questions, and Freud. Ok, so maybe Prose's point is that literature is not being taught and discussed with the right focus.
But now Prose starts complaining about how books for high school literature are chosen simply to represent diversity and values and some worthy books are ignored because of their complex worldviews and difficult subjects. According to Prose, teachers lazily select books with simple messages and ideal characters instead of difficult books with confusing worldviews that are hard to discuss. Let's learn how to handle "ambiguity and contradiction" in literature, Prose exhorts, instead of sticking with books "with banal, simple-minded moral equations". And guess which examples get dragged out again? To Kill a Mockingbird and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. She points to stories that contain "realistic" characters, unadmirable characters with issues and complexities, as the ideal stories to study. So does Prose want literature classes to tackle tougher topics?
Well, now, Prose wraps everything up with a rant about how education is dumbing everyone down and turning them into future McDonald's employees. And then she aims one final hit at the books she attacked at the beginning, calling them "lightweight, mediocre hich school favorites".
So what on earth is Prose trying to say? Is a high school literature class bad because they study To Kill A Mockingbird? Is To Kill A Mockingbird a bad book because it is overly sentimental, or poorly written, or idealistic, or what? Or is studying To Kill A Mockingbird alright as long as you study it correctly and avoid values-based questions? If I do obscure creative writing assignments about To Kill A Mockingbird instead of circling all the extended metaphors in The Odyssey, does that mean I will end up working at McDonald's? One minute Prose is attacking the literature, the next minute she is saying the literature is ok as long as it is studied right, and so on and so on.
Besides Prose's total lack of a concrete premise and total faliure to present a convincing and cohesive argument, she writes her material in such a belligerent, sarcastic, exaggerated, superiour way that she serves only to aggravate. She slams more and more major authors of modern literature; is she prepared to offer anything better? I don't hear about any of her writings surpassing the enduring greatness and popularity of To Kill a Mockingbird, A Separate Peace, Of Mice and Men, or Fahrenheit 451. She tags Maya Angelou's memoir as "murky, turgid, convoluted language". She dismisses Elie Weisel's Night as "overwrought". Both of these are memoirs of unimaginable circumstances--racism, rape, concentration camps, death, a loss of faith--through which these authors passed...but Prose offers them no respect for this. She rolls her eyes at the nobility of Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird because it is not realistic. Of course, readers will gain much more from reading about crude, rude, sinful characters that swear at one another every time they open their mouths. Forbid the thought that we might find inspiration greater than ourselves in a book...instead, we must be confronted with ugliness and confusion so that we can become great readers of literature.
In this essay, Prose sets her self up as the omniscient author/reader who is free to scorn everyone else's offerings to the literary world. Because she once went through, circled all the references to sight in King Lear, and found revelation in this act, she has some kind of divine understanding of the only way literature can possibly be experienced. All poor students who are deluded enough to enjoy To Kill A Mockingbird or some similar work are incapable of understanding higher literature and are doomed to live as unenlightened cashiers at McDonalds...
And while you're at it, she says, buy my latest novel...
Ok, she didn't exactly say that last part...but, to summarize, I found Prose's essay to be highly irritating because she couldn't stick to a premise, she took a highly insulting tone towards other authors, and she arrogently set herself up as all-knowing.
And there's my two cents.
To put it simply, I think the majority of Prose's essay is poorly-argued, egotistical nonsense. I probably shouldn't be saying this when Prose is a published, award-winning writer and I am an opinionated highschool English student--but hey, this is what I truly believe...and I will try to explain why.
First of all, what is Prose's essay about? Well, her essay is subtitled "How American High School Students Learn to Loath Literature". And that about sums it up. Her essay is an attack on current highschool literature programs and how she believes they are failing to teach a love of literature. What exactly is the problem with them? Ummm...on second thought, Prose doesn't seem to know. Sure, she offers lots of extreme complaints and claims, but when framed with "What exactly is the problem?", her essay draws a blank. If you don't believe me, let's take a closer look.
First, Prose attacks the books which modern high schools choose for their reading lists. She flames everyone from James Conrad to John Steinbeck, Ray Bradbury to Harper Lee, Maya Angelou to John Knowles, Aldous Huxley to William Golding. She then hones in on I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (Angelou) and To Kill a Mockingbird (Lee) and proceeds to grind them into the dirt, leaving them for dead only after more than a page of sarcastic jibes, mocking descriptions, and cruelly under-handed methods. Then, she mourns the disappearance of Homer and Dante. So, after this first section, Prose has established her argument, right? High school literature courses are bad because of the books they select for study. But wait a minute...Prose isn't finished.
Next, she launches off on a tirade about how students have been ruined for deep literary study. She complains that her students are "nearly incapable of doing the close line-by-line reading necessary to disclose the most basic information in a story by Henry James...". She complains that literature courses are so focused on teaching tolerance, identity, and values that they have ceased to teach about aesthetic beauty in the writing itself (imagery, wit, rhythm, language). Every book, she states, is being weighed down by cheesy self-examination, values-oriented study questions, and inane creative writing assignments. Besides the fact that I thoroughly enjoy the goofy creative writing assignments in literature class--which must make me a literary fool in Prose's eyes--I understand Prose's point about how literature study has become more focused on self-examination than on the use of language. But her sarcastic method totally alienates the reader, and we observe in utter bewilderment as she multifariously bashes various literature curriculums, works of literature, student responses to literature, literature discussion questions, and Freud. Ok, so maybe Prose's point is that literature is not being taught and discussed with the right focus.
But now Prose starts complaining about how books for high school literature are chosen simply to represent diversity and values and some worthy books are ignored because of their complex worldviews and difficult subjects. According to Prose, teachers lazily select books with simple messages and ideal characters instead of difficult books with confusing worldviews that are hard to discuss. Let's learn how to handle "ambiguity and contradiction" in literature, Prose exhorts, instead of sticking with books "with banal, simple-minded moral equations". And guess which examples get dragged out again? To Kill a Mockingbird and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. She points to stories that contain "realistic" characters, unadmirable characters with issues and complexities, as the ideal stories to study. So does Prose want literature classes to tackle tougher topics?
Well, now, Prose wraps everything up with a rant about how education is dumbing everyone down and turning them into future McDonald's employees. And then she aims one final hit at the books she attacked at the beginning, calling them "lightweight, mediocre hich school favorites".
So what on earth is Prose trying to say? Is a high school literature class bad because they study To Kill A Mockingbird? Is To Kill A Mockingbird a bad book because it is overly sentimental, or poorly written, or idealistic, or what? Or is studying To Kill A Mockingbird alright as long as you study it correctly and avoid values-based questions? If I do obscure creative writing assignments about To Kill A Mockingbird instead of circling all the extended metaphors in The Odyssey, does that mean I will end up working at McDonald's? One minute Prose is attacking the literature, the next minute she is saying the literature is ok as long as it is studied right, and so on and so on.
Besides Prose's total lack of a concrete premise and total faliure to present a convincing and cohesive argument, she writes her material in such a belligerent, sarcastic, exaggerated, superiour way that she serves only to aggravate. She slams more and more major authors of modern literature; is she prepared to offer anything better? I don't hear about any of her writings surpassing the enduring greatness and popularity of To Kill a Mockingbird, A Separate Peace, Of Mice and Men, or Fahrenheit 451. She tags Maya Angelou's memoir as "murky, turgid, convoluted language". She dismisses Elie Weisel's Night as "overwrought". Both of these are memoirs of unimaginable circumstances--racism, rape, concentration camps, death, a loss of faith--through which these authors passed...but Prose offers them no respect for this. She rolls her eyes at the nobility of Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird because it is not realistic. Of course, readers will gain much more from reading about crude, rude, sinful characters that swear at one another every time they open their mouths. Forbid the thought that we might find inspiration greater than ourselves in a book...instead, we must be confronted with ugliness and confusion so that we can become great readers of literature.
In this essay, Prose sets her self up as the omniscient author/reader who is free to scorn everyone else's offerings to the literary world. Because she once went through, circled all the references to sight in King Lear, and found revelation in this act, she has some kind of divine understanding of the only way literature can possibly be experienced. All poor students who are deluded enough to enjoy To Kill A Mockingbird or some similar work are incapable of understanding higher literature and are doomed to live as unenlightened cashiers at McDonalds...
And while you're at it, she says, buy my latest novel...
Ok, she didn't exactly say that last part...but, to summarize, I found Prose's essay to be highly irritating because she couldn't stick to a premise, she took a highly insulting tone towards other authors, and she arrogently set herself up as all-knowing.
And there's my two cents.
Some Vocabulary...
Here are some unfamiliar words I have found in "Language of Composition" these last few weeks.
~ Confute - to refute; to confound
~ Polemical - of or related to a controversy or argument
~ Medial - situated in the middle; average
~ Martinet - a strict disciplinarian; one who demands strict adherence to forms and rules
~ Confute - to refute; to confound
~ Polemical - of or related to a controversy or argument
~ Medial - situated in the middle; average
~ Martinet - a strict disciplinarian; one who demands strict adherence to forms and rules
Monday, September 8
Two Ways to Say It
I came across something interesting the other day while shuffling around in my music library, and considering what we are learning about rhetoric it seemed particularly applicable. A certain element of rhetoric seems to involve a very purposeful choice of words to evoke a certain response in the audience. Two people can talk about the same thing and present it in two completely different ways.
With that in mind, I paused for thought when I stumbled across two songs that approached a similar subject with a similar worldview and presented two completely different emotions. Christian singer Mark Schultz starts his newest album off with a catchy, upbeat tune called "40 Days". The band Jars of Clay--also Christian--pads out their "Eleventh Hour" album with a raw, mournful song called "Silence". These songs could not be more different, technically, lyrically, or emotionally. However, they both cover the exact same topic: feeling abandoned by God. Check out the lyrics, and you'll see what I mean.
40 Days:
Lord, I came to the mountaintop/To be with You/I felt Your grace falling down like rain/And I was made new/But there are times like now when I’m all dried out
(Chorus)And it’s like 40 days out in the desert/Feeling like I’m lost forever/And crying out for You/But in these 40 days I’m going to seek You/With my heart because I believe You/Have brought me to this place/These 40 days
Lord, Your ways are not my own/But I trust You/Lord, You say, “You are not alone,/For I am with you”/But there are times like now when You can’t be found
Cause You are with me/You never leave me/Even when my world turns upside down/‘Cause there are times like now when I will/Trust somehow/Well, there is a light at the end of the tunnel…I know
Silence:
Take/Take till there's nothing/Nothing to turn to/Nothing when you get through/Won't you break/Scatter pieces of all I've been/Bowing to all I've been/Running to/Where are you?
Did you leave me unbreakable?/Did you leave me frozen?/I've never felt so cold/I thought you were silent/And I thought you left me/For the wreckage and the waste/On an empty beach of faith/Was it true?
Cuz I...I got a question/I got a question/Where are you?
I want you to hear me/I want you to find me/Cuz I...I want to believe/But all I pray is wrong/And all I claim is gone
And I...I got a question/I got a question/Where are you?
So, both of these songs are powerful pictures of what happens when we can't seem to find God. But their messages seem totally different. One is bright and hopeful. The other is desperate and raw. When you listen to the music to go with the words, the contrast becomes even more staggering. So is one of these a "right" picture and the other "wrong"? Or are they both right and the difference is simply a matter of clever rhetoric? In my view, the first song offers more hope, while the second song is more authentic. I believe they are both heartfelt and true. All of this simply offered, for me, a fascinating picture of how--when one becomes aware of the English language as a tool--a single subject can be represented many different ways.
With that in mind, I paused for thought when I stumbled across two songs that approached a similar subject with a similar worldview and presented two completely different emotions. Christian singer Mark Schultz starts his newest album off with a catchy, upbeat tune called "40 Days". The band Jars of Clay--also Christian--pads out their "Eleventh Hour" album with a raw, mournful song called "Silence". These songs could not be more different, technically, lyrically, or emotionally. However, they both cover the exact same topic: feeling abandoned by God. Check out the lyrics, and you'll see what I mean.
40 Days:
Lord, I came to the mountaintop/To be with You/I felt Your grace falling down like rain/And I was made new/But there are times like now when I’m all dried out
(Chorus)And it’s like 40 days out in the desert/Feeling like I’m lost forever/And crying out for You/But in these 40 days I’m going to seek You/With my heart because I believe You/Have brought me to this place/These 40 days
Lord, Your ways are not my own/But I trust You/Lord, You say, “You are not alone,/For I am with you”/But there are times like now when You can’t be found
Cause You are with me/You never leave me/Even when my world turns upside down/‘Cause there are times like now when I will/Trust somehow/Well, there is a light at the end of the tunnel…I know
Silence:
Take/Take till there's nothing/Nothing to turn to/Nothing when you get through/Won't you break/Scatter pieces of all I've been/Bowing to all I've been/Running to/Where are you?
Did you leave me unbreakable?/Did you leave me frozen?/I've never felt so cold/I thought you were silent/And I thought you left me/For the wreckage and the waste/On an empty beach of faith/Was it true?
Cuz I...I got a question/I got a question/Where are you?
I want you to hear me/I want you to find me/Cuz I...I want to believe/But all I pray is wrong/And all I claim is gone
And I...I got a question/I got a question/Where are you?
So, both of these songs are powerful pictures of what happens when we can't seem to find God. But their messages seem totally different. One is bright and hopeful. The other is desperate and raw. When you listen to the music to go with the words, the contrast becomes even more staggering. So is one of these a "right" picture and the other "wrong"? Or are they both right and the difference is simply a matter of clever rhetoric? In my view, the first song offers more hope, while the second song is more authentic. I believe they are both heartfelt and true. All of this simply offered, for me, a fascinating picture of how--when one becomes aware of the English language as a tool--a single subject can be represented many different ways.
Thursday, August 28
The Holy Grail as a pencil holder...
In a scene from a story I heard once, an archeologist was searching for a valuable chalice (cup) that supposedly possessed miraculous powers--something like the Holy Grail, but not quite on the same level. Hearing that a certain church had owned the chalice for a long time, he went to the church and asked the pastor about it. The pastor said he had never seen or heard of the chalice. Finally, the archeologist described the chalice in detail to the pastor. "Oh!" cried the pastor, "That chalice! It's in my office; I've been keeping pencils in it."
It turned out that the pastor was only joking, but that scene always makes me smile. How impossible it is that anyone could miss the value of something like the Holy Grail...but this last week, as I read about complicated rhetoric strategies, this story returned to my mind. So, I reasoned: If the English language is the Holy Grail, then the vast majority of the population is keeping pencils in it. Huh? Allow me to explain.
To most people--including myself--the English language is what you use to get fries at McDonald's, to argue with your siblings, or to answer the questions on the history exam. The English language used on the street and in homes is a highly fluid creature that morphs into whatever it needs to be for the occasion, whether correct or not. But--as evidenced by the rhetoric reading for this week--our language posesses a vast power that often remains untapped. Can you use the English language powerfully without knowing terms like "ethos", "pathos", and "logos"? Sure. It comes naturally to us. Think of a new mother who is trying to convince her husband that the crying baby really does need its diaper changed. She could perfectly naturally appeal to any of the three kinds of rhetoric, without knowing anything about them.
Logos: "Why, just yesterday I read Harvard's newest scientific poll, which found out that babies who didn't get their diapers changed regularly had a 75% higher chance of getting put in jail before the age of twenty-five!"
Pathos: "Honey, look at his poor little red face! Think how awful it must feel to have a wet diaper with no one to change it. I wish he would grow up with happier memories of his father..."
Ethos: "Look, I'm the one who spends all day every day with him. You would think I would know when his diaper needs changing by now--and it needs changing."
Our fictional mother has just employed all three tools of rhetoric to try to build a convincing argument. Even without any knowledge of rhetoric, humans are smart enough to instinctively use good rhetoric strategies when they want to convince someone of something. It's truly amazing.
So how important is it to really learn the language of rhetoric? Imagine what happens when someone is made aware of logos, pathos, and ethos and how each can be used. Imagine if we took our pencils out of the Grail, polished it, and put it in the place of honor it deserves. Wow.
It turned out that the pastor was only joking, but that scene always makes me smile. How impossible it is that anyone could miss the value of something like the Holy Grail...but this last week, as I read about complicated rhetoric strategies, this story returned to my mind. So, I reasoned: If the English language is the Holy Grail, then the vast majority of the population is keeping pencils in it. Huh? Allow me to explain.
To most people--including myself--the English language is what you use to get fries at McDonald's, to argue with your siblings, or to answer the questions on the history exam. The English language used on the street and in homes is a highly fluid creature that morphs into whatever it needs to be for the occasion, whether correct or not. But--as evidenced by the rhetoric reading for this week--our language posesses a vast power that often remains untapped. Can you use the English language powerfully without knowing terms like "ethos", "pathos", and "logos"? Sure. It comes naturally to us. Think of a new mother who is trying to convince her husband that the crying baby really does need its diaper changed. She could perfectly naturally appeal to any of the three kinds of rhetoric, without knowing anything about them.
Logos: "Why, just yesterday I read Harvard's newest scientific poll, which found out that babies who didn't get their diapers changed regularly had a 75% higher chance of getting put in jail before the age of twenty-five!"
Pathos: "Honey, look at his poor little red face! Think how awful it must feel to have a wet diaper with no one to change it. I wish he would grow up with happier memories of his father..."
Ethos: "Look, I'm the one who spends all day every day with him. You would think I would know when his diaper needs changing by now--and it needs changing."
Our fictional mother has just employed all three tools of rhetoric to try to build a convincing argument. Even without any knowledge of rhetoric, humans are smart enough to instinctively use good rhetoric strategies when they want to convince someone of something. It's truly amazing.
So how important is it to really learn the language of rhetoric? Imagine what happens when someone is made aware of logos, pathos, and ethos and how each can be used. Imagine if we took our pencils out of the Grail, polished it, and put it in the place of honor it deserves. Wow.
Tuesday, August 26
Mom? Is that you?
So as I've wallowed in blog construction the past few days, a certain peculiarity has come to my notice.
Each day, I've been building my blog. Whenever I have to stop that, I've been thinking about my blog. Agonizing over names, color choices, graphics, descriptions, gadgets, etc. My mom left me sitting in front of my blog at 10:00 last night, and when she came down at 7:30 the next morning she found me in the exact same spot. (Yes, I had gone to bed in the middle, but not to all appearances) So why all the time, all the effort, for something as abstract as a blog? And this phenomenon is not limited to myself and my blog. Almost everyone has some kind of Internet presence, be it through forums, blogs, facebooks, myspaces, emailing...you get the idea. Most of these presences are meticulously constructed combinations of words, music, graphics, and ideas. Think about it: our Internet presence is us as is defined by thousands of people who will never meet us. This thought seems either scary or cool. Scary, because you must give a complete picture of yourself through a few pictures and words. Cool--admit it--because you don't actually have to give a picture of yourself.
This gives rise to the key question I started pondering yesterday. If someone met a friend or family member on the Internet, would they even recognize them? A seemingly quiet person might retreat to the web to shout at and insult others without consequence. A seemingly aggressive person might become kind and encouraging to those they cannot see face to face. Nerds can become cool, or failing students can become geniuses. Old people become young, young people grow up. People often strike a strange self-contradiction in which they hide some aspects of their character and at the same time reveal their dreams and hopes with a startling vulnerability.
It's strange to think, surfing the web, about what sort of people you really meet. Sure, your cyber classmates or the other aficionados on that unicycling forum are your best friends...but what do you really know about them? If I met my dad or mom, my siblings, my best friend, my teacher, on a blog, forum, or facebook, would I even recognize them? Would they recognize me?
I find this thought to be fascinating...and a little troubling. It has certainly made me aware of how I present myself in cyberspace. I'm ashamed to say that I have taken advantage of facelessness in the past, and strict honesty has loosened its bounds somewhat. After all, no one will ever know or care... Or will they?
Each day, I've been building my blog. Whenever I have to stop that, I've been thinking about my blog. Agonizing over names, color choices, graphics, descriptions, gadgets, etc. My mom left me sitting in front of my blog at 10:00 last night, and when she came down at 7:30 the next morning she found me in the exact same spot. (Yes, I had gone to bed in the middle, but not to all appearances) So why all the time, all the effort, for something as abstract as a blog? And this phenomenon is not limited to myself and my blog. Almost everyone has some kind of Internet presence, be it through forums, blogs, facebooks, myspaces, emailing...you get the idea. Most of these presences are meticulously constructed combinations of words, music, graphics, and ideas. Think about it: our Internet presence is us as is defined by thousands of people who will never meet us. This thought seems either scary or cool. Scary, because you must give a complete picture of yourself through a few pictures and words. Cool--admit it--because you don't actually have to give a picture of yourself.
This gives rise to the key question I started pondering yesterday. If someone met a friend or family member on the Internet, would they even recognize them? A seemingly quiet person might retreat to the web to shout at and insult others without consequence. A seemingly aggressive person might become kind and encouraging to those they cannot see face to face. Nerds can become cool, or failing students can become geniuses. Old people become young, young people grow up. People often strike a strange self-contradiction in which they hide some aspects of their character and at the same time reveal their dreams and hopes with a startling vulnerability.
It's strange to think, surfing the web, about what sort of people you really meet. Sure, your cyber classmates or the other aficionados on that unicycling forum are your best friends...but what do you really know about them? If I met my dad or mom, my siblings, my best friend, my teacher, on a blog, forum, or facebook, would I even recognize them? Would they recognize me?
I find this thought to be fascinating...and a little troubling. It has certainly made me aware of how I present myself in cyberspace. I'm ashamed to say that I have taken advantage of facelessness in the past, and strict honesty has loosened its bounds somewhat. After all, no one will ever know or care... Or will they?
Monday, August 25
Here I am...
Funny...here I am, standing (figuratively speaking) in a place I never planned to be: the world of blogdom. If it weren't for the prompting of a certain AP English class, I wouldn't be here at all. But I'm starting to like it already.
Blogging has always appeared to me to be rather a waste of time. People who don't have anything else to do sit and meticulously record every detail of their lives. They hopefully cast post after post into cyberspace, hoping that someday, someone might actually read what they write. Thousands upon thousands of bloggers do this every day...and who reads them all? If you looked hard enough--or even not that hard--you could find billions of souls laid to bare, billions of lives dissected, before nothing but an empty circuit-riddled world. And maybe one of those million rushing lives will pause for a moment to glance into someone else's quiet construction of identity. So, I had always rolled my eyes at the blog world. And yet look at me now, bouncing up and down in front of my computer, trying to imagine all the great stuff I can post. My thoughts are rushing up and down, going "I can post about that song I heard last week, and that other thing I read in philosophy the other day, and oh, I can't forget to post that poem I wrote, and I've got to send this link to everyone I know, and...and..."
Perhaps I should have kept my cynicism to myself. Or I can just have a good laugh at myself and dive in.
So, welcome to my blog. Keep an eye out for new pictures, quotes, features, and so forth, along with a steady trickle of posts. And I can always hope that someone besides the back of my computer is reading this...
Blogging has always appeared to me to be rather a waste of time. People who don't have anything else to do sit and meticulously record every detail of their lives. They hopefully cast post after post into cyberspace, hoping that someday, someone might actually read what they write. Thousands upon thousands of bloggers do this every day...and who reads them all? If you looked hard enough--or even not that hard--you could find billions of souls laid to bare, billions of lives dissected, before nothing but an empty circuit-riddled world. And maybe one of those million rushing lives will pause for a moment to glance into someone else's quiet construction of identity. So, I had always rolled my eyes at the blog world. And yet look at me now, bouncing up and down in front of my computer, trying to imagine all the great stuff I can post. My thoughts are rushing up and down, going "I can post about that song I heard last week, and that other thing I read in philosophy the other day, and oh, I can't forget to post that poem I wrote, and I've got to send this link to everyone I know, and...and..."
Perhaps I should have kept my cynicism to myself. Or I can just have a good laugh at myself and dive in.
So, welcome to my blog. Keep an eye out for new pictures, quotes, features, and so forth, along with a steady trickle of posts. And I can always hope that someone besides the back of my computer is reading this...
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