Welcome

Hello, and welcome to SCRIBERE: A Writer’s Blog. I must admit that I have no idea as to who you are. But your identity is no issue here. Perhaps your personal identity will play a role, but this is a place where given names are forgotten. The entries on this blog appear here in order from new to old, so the further back you go, the younger I was when I wrote them. This message will always remain first in line to let you get your bearings. To reach older entries, simply use the tab labeled as such at the bottom of the page. You can see what’s been published recently on the right hand side panel. Also, if you are looking for specific entry or form of writing, a list of categories has been placed below the recent posts, for your convenience. To return to this page, click the word ‘SCRIBERE’ at the top. I have a second confession as well. When writing this blog I am anything but the guide. Instead, a combination of inspiration, determination, luck and maybe even insanity will drive this carriage through the uncharted woods of the unknown. Never fear though, for I’m sure wherever we’ll find ourselves will be interesting.

- The Writer

Musings on American Comfort Food

On Wednesday, the makers of the film “King Corn” spoke to a nearby school about taking off our blinders when it comes to what we eat. Doubtless, some were cringing in their seats as the speakers described the horrific conditions of egg collecting facilities, and cow-meat farms. Disgusting? Yes. But the ultimate confrontation was when the students left the chapel only to find burger patties waiting for them in the noonday sun. Ironic to be sure, but also an excellent example of the conflict that plagues Americans today. Take a risk, and indulge in comfort food, or change your whole lifestyle just to play it safe?

Like other strong habits, it can be very difficult to choose the latter option, even if people know it to be better for them. The comfort in comfort food might be used to describe both the deliciousness and consistency of things like Big Macs and Flurries. Change can be unsettling. Advocates of healthier diets may shield their actions with a shield of righteousness, but some of the plans they propose to better the way American’s live are too radical to be seriously considered feasible. Yes, change is beginning to gather steam. People are starting to look for better alternatives to the things they eat, but companies like McDonald’s still make billions of dollars annually. If the advocates of health food are to be successful, they need to find a more gradual way to win support.

And companies like McDonald’s should not be forgotten either. They provide jobs for millions of individuals who need the money. They keep the flow of cash moving in a country that is in the midst of a great recession. Most of all, they have worked hard to carve a niche for themselves, and are not about to give up that easily. So perhaps the way to a more healthful America is through such corporations. After all, in addition to providing food for people across the world, the level of influence they carry is tremendous. In writing this article, I recently conducted a survey where I asked people what they thought of such corporations. Most of the participants commented negatively, saying things like “Those companies are heartless and cruel. They exemplify the worst
of our society.” And yet, 12 out of the 20 people also said they enjoyed eating at fast food restaurants, or at least were not completely adverse to it. Despite all the negative aspects of the companies, most of the participants are still paying customers. This kind of acceptance is not confined to the U.S. For heaven’s sakes, the big yellow M is practically a symbol of this country, and McDonald’s now has locations around the globe. Instead of asking customers to take their business elsewhere, perhaps leaders of the food revolution should be appealing to the businesses to alter their food.

Right now, food activists use shocking facts to change the public’s views. Obesity rates are higher than ever before. This generation will be the first one to have shorter life spans than their parents. And, my personal favorite, things like ground up insects are what make the food look so good. Is this an effective strategy? Sometimes it is. Sometimes people are so disgusted by what they hear that they immediately search for an alternative source of nutrition. Other times people simply do not care about what they are eating, or even relish the news. Eating bugs makes for a pretty good dare. Finally there is the category of people who deny it all. I remember when I was in elementary school, I heard that the red coloring used to make certain corn chips orange comes from ground up bugs. (This was in fact false. The coloring actually came from something called Red 40, which originally contained a bi-product of the carbonization of coal called “coal tar,” but is now created from petroleum. Either way, it doesn’t seem very appetizing.) Being in that second category of people who don’t care about the color origin, I was eager to share the interesting fact with my friends. But when I told them what I’d heard, some of them dismissed it right away. “Are you SURE about that? You should make sure you heard right.” Even, “it’s dangerous to say things like that out loud!” Did the shocking fact I presented to everyone ultimately change the class’s feelings about the food? No. At first some kids refused to eat anything that looked orange (including, an ORANGE) but in the end even they caved to the popularity of the chips. Right up until graduation, the orange foods remained the favorite snack.

Another survey question I asked was what people thought about the use of insects to color their foods. Out of the 20 people involved, 16 said they weren’t really bothered by it, and a different 16 said they still enjoyed foods that use the coloring. Clearly the tactic of revealing a potentially disgusting fact about unhealthy foods was not successful.

One might then wonder why it matters to know what we eat at all. As long as it doesn’t harm you and you don’t eat it in excess, why bother to find out? Even if someone is truly disgusted by the information, there is a chance they will continue to eat the substance anyway. But as it turns out, sometimes the effects of the supposedly harmless food coloring can be negative. It was recently discovered that “Carmine,” a red food coloring derived from the ground up paste of cochineal beetles and used in everything from ice cream to lipstick, can cause allergic reactions in a small percentage of consumers. Recently, customers learned that Starbucks uses Carmine to color its strawberry flavored items. Or rather it used to. An angry blogger began a petition in March to stop the practice, and the company finally conceded. Carmine is also on the list of ingredients required to appear on packaged goods by the Food and Drug Administration. Another issue that is becoming more well-known is the use of “pink slime” in some hamburgers. It is a ground up combination of extra meat, parts not usually ingested by humans, added to the patties to make them seem thicker. Pink slime is revolting to be sure, but may not seem very dangerous. However, certain disease-causing bacteria, like E-Coli, can travel through contaminated meat, or in some cases are found only in regions of meat that humans do not usually eat. So in fact, pink slime could raise the risk of infection by a dangerous infectious agent that a consumer might otherwise be safe from.

In the end it DOES matter what we put in our bodies. And a change of dietary choices IS necessary for some consumers. But it is also possible to make such a transition possible. Yes, the fast food companies America holds so dear are promoting unhealthy (and sometimes secretly disgusting) choices. But if change is really the true goal, then these companies need to be made allies instead of enemies. Their influence means they control a great deal of people, and therefore, what people eat.

Geese

Canadian geese are the con artists of the bird world. The human mind has largely accepted them as a charming part of nature. When people see that familiar V in the sky they might be reminded of sitting by a roaring fire, or eating a hearty Thanksgiving dinner. Oh how we have been deceived! Canadian geese can be some of the foulest fowl you will ever come across. Not only that, they aren’t even Canadian! You may look into those dark little eyes, but beware! Turn for a moment and risk being attacked by a creature of darkness, where the last thing you hear is the deceptively mournful honk of something beyond what any sane person can hope to understand.

I was walking to class one day on a tranquil day in mid-October. The air was beginning to acquire the biting chill of the coming northern winds, and I huddled within my jacket whilst hastening my already brisk step. Coming from a few hundred meters away was the soft rush of cars on the street, but otherwise the day was largely quiet. The peace was not to last. From nowhere, a flock of geese materialized above my head, moaning like a pack of provoked senior smokers with a craving for jello. They swooped past me and continued on their merry way, while I stood, saturated with shock, on the pavement. About five seconds later, another pack flew in from a completely different direction, croaking easily as loud as the first group. After that, a third flock came in from the East. All three gaggles flew off in separate directions, crowing unashamedly as they did so. Within ten minutes they were all gone. I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed.

In third grade I nearly made even closer contact with the beasts. It was time for recess, so the students began to jog towards the hallway with the doors that led to the playground outside. But before we could escape, we were stopped by another crowd of students that was blocking the exit. Making my way to the front, I asked someone what was going on. “It’s a flock of geese,” he said, “they’re out on the field.” The teachers were whispering excitedly. “Geese?” “What do we do for geese?” I strained to see through the glass to try and see the field, but a wall of the school was in the way. Still, I was able to see a few birds milling around on the grass. “How big is this group of geese?” barked the gym teacher to my left. “Gaggle,” I wanted to respond. “GAGGLE of geese.” I held my tongue. A murmur coming from the back of the crowd of kids made me turn, and I saw the principal walking towards the door. Apparently he had been informed of the situation because he didn’t ask why everyone was just standing in front of the doors. Instead, he looked outside for a moment, looked to the teachers, and said “Everyone go in the gym for recess today.” Although the majority of us were somewhat disappointed, it was soon realized that the gym wasn’t a bad second choice. The teachers ushered us away from the exit, with the principal bringing up the rear. Walking with the others, I could pick up faint snippets of conversation from the adults, like “a danger to the children,” and “lawsuit.”

By the next day, the gaggle of geese had moved on, and we were once again allowed onto our beloved playground. I walked out to the field where the birds had been, and started to look around to see if there was any trace of the visitors. It wasn’t long before I found a several smelly traces. Suddenly something else caught my eye. Bending down, I picked up a large white feather with brown stripes. This was so cool! I hurried back to my friends to show them my discovery. Unfortunately, they turned out to be less than enthusiastic. “Eww, why are you touching that?” “There’s probably millions of bugs crawling on that thing. Get rid of it.” “Don’t come near me with that disease spreader!” I thought the teachers might be a bit more supportive. “Oh honey, put that down. Now go inside and wash your hands with WARM water and LOTS of soap.” C’est la vie.

My most recent encounter with geese was when I was filming a project. I was working in the woods, near a stone bridge that ran over a stream that fed a peaceful pond. While my camera was rolling, a pair of Canadian geese flapped into the pond, and I was able to film them from behind a wall of branches without them noticing. One of them swam in figure eights, while the other stood and starting looking for food in the water. It was a nice moment, a rare occasion for me to see the geese in a less disturbing light. I wondered if they might fly away, or better yet call to others hidden from my view. That sound might be just the thing to complete the atmosphere in my movie. But it was not to be. The geese kept swimming and hunting, so having finished the rest of my work, I eventually gave up and started walking back to the wood’s entrance.

The path I was using looped around the pond, but only near the stone bridge was the vegetation thin enough to see the water. I had walked about 100 degrees around the circular pond when I heard it. That mournful honk. It kept repeating like the fighting beat of a heart. But transfixed as I was I knew I had to make a quick decision. Should I sprint back around the pond with the hopes of catching the geese in the act with my camera, or continue going the other way. On the one hand, maybe nature was trying to help me out here, giving me the perfect touch for my movie. Maybe the trees were gesturing for me to go back to the bridge, and photograph the geese calling while I still had the chance. On the other hand, it was a long way back to the bridge, and it was getting dark. I would have to run if I wanted even a chance, and even then I might miss my opportunity. But hell, it was an opportunity wasn’t it? I might as well try. I started jogging back towards the stream, and then after a few feet broke into a run. Suddenly I stopped cold. Silence. I stood for a moment, listening. Nothing. Well this was just great. I had managed to cover about half the distance, and now I had to decide once more which way to go. The light was fading fast. I quickly chose the way out of the woods.

Maybe mother nature was mocking me that day. As soon as I had reached the other side of the pond again, those blasted geese began calling again! Not even stopping this time, I covered my ears and refused to look back. But with my palms distorting the sound, the muffled honks sounded very much like laughter.

Sittin’ on a Plane (to the tune of “Singin’ in the Rain”)

I’m sittin’ on a plane

Just sitting on a plane

These seats are all lumpy

My back is in pain

My kids are in a fight

This seatbelt’s too tight

I’ll need alcohol to get past this flight

 

Is the stewardess near?

I’d really like a beer

Just pour me some Budweiser, and I’ll be in the clear

My sinuses feel pain

Why didn’t we take the train?

I’m sittin’, just sittin’ on a plane!

 

The Unanswerable Question, and the Unquestionable Answer

For any philosopher, religious person, or someone with an active curiosity, problem questions are bound to come up. Things like “who are we?” “What is the meaning of life?” and “What is the meaning of thinking about the meaning of life?” Often such ideas are posed to the reader in writing, as if we are to assume that the author has all the answers. After reading one’s fair share of books and articles, it becomes obvious that every writer who asks such questions always employs some tactic to escape from answering them. No one ever has the ultimate answer. True they can speculate, coming up with things like “Death is just mother Earth calling us home again,” but have you honestly ever read such a piece and walked away thinking, “I now know what no one else can know”? No! We the readers, the learners, the listeners are always promised something we can’t have. Still, every time a scholar poses an unanswerable question, a part of me wants to believe that they are about to answer it once and for all. Unfortunately I am always bitterly disappointed.

I will start off this work by stating the obvious. I do not have the answers to ANY of the big questions, so do not get your hopes up. I have thought long and hard about a few of them, but so have others throughout the ages and still there is not a single comprehensive theory of everything. Even science has failed in that respect. In the end, how do we know we are even capable of unlocking such mysteries? What if such concepts are too far beyond the potential of our highly glorified minds? According to Plato this is not the case. His argument is especially evident in his famous “Allegory of the Cave.” As the story goes, a group of humans are chained inside a cave, unable to move in any way. Their eyes are fixed upon shadows on the cave wall, created by a fire out of their range of vision. Since all they have ever known are the shadows, they are their reality. That is until one of them is suddenly unchained and dragged out of the cave to see the daylight for the very first time. When the prisoner has learned the true nature of the world, he returns to the cave to teach his comrades. Alas, they are unwilling to believe his radical rants, and dismiss his ideas as unrealistic. Quite a conundrum to say the least.

A friend of mine and I were discussing how the enlightened human might make the truth clearer to the others. According to Plato, this is almost impossible. In time, perhaps the general public will learn to understand the teachings of an enlightened being as fact, but they will do so kicking and screaming all the way. My friend was adamant that this was in itself the truth. I claimed otherwise. I believe that what is necessary is a proof that is undeniable. Something that ignorance cannot refute. The returning cave person made a grave mistake when trying to teach the others. He (or she) tried to explain what lay outside the cave when everyone else was unaware that there even was a cave, or perhaps what a cave even was. The only way to truly gain their acceptance would be to drag them all out so they could see for themselves. But this is not what happens. Instead, the enlightened being is shunned from the group, and life continues more or less as before. This is hardly surprising. After years of conditioning to a certain view of life, people will not give it up so easily. To do so, they must either be hounded until they do (in which case, the acceptance is more to escape the unpleasantness than actual belief), or they must be presented with that undeniable proof. In this case, they needed to see the outside world.

Around this point, my friend rebutted that there is no such thing as an undeniable proof. Even if one was presented to us, we would likely dismiss it as some form of illusion, and thus show that it was not undeniable. As an example, she told me about her father, who had gone in for extensive surgery. While unconscious, he had an out-of-body experience. For an instant, it made him see the world with a completely different perspective. But when he woke up and told others about it, they dismissed it as merely a hallucination, effects from the anesthesia. After listening to this tale, I asked my friend if her father had believed himself that the occurrence was real. She said that he had. Voilá! A man presented with a defined image of the world for his entire life had dropped it after being out cold for a few hours. Why? Because he was presented with an undeniable proof. It doesn’t matter that the rest of his family didn’t believe him. After all, how could anyone else but one who had gone through a similar experience have the authority to deem the event true or false? None of the others in the family had gone through such an event, and so it is hardly a shock that they chose the sensible choice. Like the teacher from the cave, the man could explain the event all he wanted to the family, and they would probably never truly believe it. Only by experiencing it themselves, by being dragged out of the cave, could they ever hope to understand his perspective.

It is in the nature of the human race to seek out answers, even if they may not exist. Scientists continue to dissect the galaxies (with the Hadron Collider this isn’t a metaphorical statement), philosophers continue to speculate on God, and curious people continue to wonder. Can any of these unanswerable questions ever be answered? Perhaps. But if they are, it must be with their opposite, the unquestionable answer. An answer that undeniably shows that something is so. With the elevated level of the topics involved, how can the answer be anything less? Proving it to yourself is only part of the task. Do not declare wisdom and expect ignorance to bow down. But do not leave your comrades in the cave. Take their arms and pull with all your might, no matter how hard they try to fight. Because at the end, they will see the light.

Particle Collision

Wonseh Telbuod!

Well maybe the cold snow wasn’t so bad, because now I feel sad that it’s gone for a whole year, I might just shed a real tear it’s clear.

Grass is a growin’, but no winds are blowin’, and I miss moanin’

Which of the luck charms should I blame?

It’s not the same

No snow

Woe!

Double the Snow

No

Not snow

It really came?!

Which of the omens should I blame?

We’re trapped tonight in a sea of white, now we’ll all contract frost bite!

Please let it melt quick so the grass can start growin’ and please no more snowin’ from Tuesday the 1st of November to next September!

[Hint: Look at the number of syllables]

June 23rd

The other night I was bored and out of ideas for what to do. Not a pleasant combination. My usual entertainments had lost their charms, and I needed something to kill time. So I clicked on Google and on a whim began to search for a composer I liked. (This is the sort of thing I’ve been known to do, learn random but interesting information, and then spring it on people when they least expect and most need it.) Up popped the familiar name of Wikipedia, and I moved to the article. As I started to read I noticed with shock that the artist had been born on the same day as I had: June 23rd. (It was a different year of course.) My eyes kept scanning the page, but the surprising and delightful coincidence had side-tracked my focus entirely. What were the chances? Well, one in 365 actually. Still, it was impressive.

Since the artist had lost my interest, and the birthday coincidence had gained it, I began looking for things related to that date in history. Apparently the Roman emperor Vespasian died on that day. Hitler had conquered Paris by that day. As I kept going down the list I noticed that the entries were increasingly about wars, deaths, and other unpleasant affairs. This was depressing. Maybe the births would be more cheerful. Scrolling down, I suddenly stopped when I noticed a single name next to a year. It was the year in which I was born. This person was the same age as me. Almost exactly the same age. For a reason I cannot explain, I suddenly felt very connected with the person, like we shared a unique bond in that when one of us had just been released screaming from the womb into the world, the other, miles away, had just gone through the same experience. Who WAS this person? I found out they were an actor, but the article didn’t say much else. Switching over to Google Images, I ran the name through again, but with no luck. There were pictures alright, but none of them seemed to fit the person’s age or nationality. Finally I found him. It was not what I had expected. Instead of a handsome confident figure, as the pictures of actors often are, he had plain straight hair and glasses. His eyes were slightly too far apart, and he had a goofy look on his face. This was HIM? Now the connection lost some of its charm. I guess he wasn’t much like me after all. I hoped.

Now what? I decided to switch tactics, and began an image search for June 23rd. Well, the images didn’t have the same unpleasantness as the deaths and wars, but that was just because they were so random and unrelated that it was hard to make any sense out of them. For example, next to a Manga picture of girl was a boxer and a picture of fireworks. This was getting me nowhere. Clicking once again on the search bar, I added my birth year to the date. More pictures sprouted from the page, like a colony of mushrooms, but these were of a different species than those I had just seen. Instead of pop culture trash, I found images of everyday people. Over here was a someone with an American flag, over there was a couple getting married. Who were they all? What had happened to them in the time since that fateful date? Or was it fateful at all? I know it’s completely illogical, but the back of my mind had always had this idea that when I was born everything changed for 24 hours. The birds weren’t singing for their mates, they were serenading my arrival into the world. People everywhere had stopped in their tracks to look around themselves and perhaps comment on how beautiful the day was. No other events had happened that day, at least not important ones. Of course I knew that this could not be the case. Logic had conquered that territory of my mind long ago. But I had still always had that little voice of resistance leading me on.

Now that voice was crushed. It looked like it had just been an ordinary day for everyone on June 23rd of that year. Well, maybe not for everyone. The married couple for example. But by and large, on that day people went to work, people relaxed, people drove, people sang, people died, and people, yes other people, were born. No matter what happened, there would be no stopping. Don’t we all know it? Every day we muddle through our lives when out there somewhere someone is taking a breath for the first time. Or perhaps the last. But life won’t wait for them, nor will it ever wait for others in the future. On it will press, and all we can do it ride it like a train to infinity. But we hope that when we come to our last stop, a part of the world: the friends we’ve made, the people we love, will slow the pace of life for us, even if just for a moment.

The Explosion

She was sitting quietly in an office chair where plastic had met fabric and decided just to be friends, when it happened. From the deep recesses of her very being it arose like a terrible two-headed leviathan. She could feel the surge of power coming, uncontrollable, unstoppable, and knew what was about to happen, but still she tried to stop it, repress it like she had been doing all morning. This time however, the strain proved just too much. With a loud cry of release, she forced the wind through her nostrils and sneezed with the ferocity of a jet engine, the force of a pounding locomotive, and she knew she had gone where no sneezer had dared go before. She felt her nose explode in a shower of pale green, and clutched her face tighter, hoping against hope that no one would notice. Her embarrassment soon turned to despair, when she found the tissue box seated in front of her to be empty, but surrounded in a puffy cloud of crumpled up white.

What now?! she wondered, desperately seeking an escape route to her predicament. Her colleagues were already eyeing her with concern, and she quickly turned away. Standing, she crossed the room to the door, silently begging that her boss would not interrupt his talking to ask her where she was going. Fortunately, he did not, and she disappeared through the doorway. Now she stood in a hall, painted that horrible shade of yellow cream that all such buildings display in some way or another. It was supposed to be soothing, but now it just reminded her that she was vulnerable, exposed to the prying eyes of anyone she might run into. Like a cat burglar, she pushed onward keeping to the wall with her head down. Up ahead was the door to the adjacent office. She darted inside and tried to avoid the automatic glances of those already in the room, as they looked up to see who had just entered. There, placed conveniently on the nearby coffee table next to a glass dish filled with brightly colored jelly beans was another tissue box. Relief flooding her every fiber, she picked up the container and…she couldn’t believe this. She shook the empty box in frustration and set it back down rather harshly. Was there no where she could go? Was there no one she could turn to? In a world so complex and advanced, how could such a simple inconvenience become such a drastic issue? Turning on her heel, she whisked herself out the door of the office and back into the hallway.

And then it came to her. The answer to all her problems. She could see it in the distance next to the roguish elevator that always opened and closed when you least expected it. The bathroom. Drawing closer, she saw to her frustration a little icon of a man embossed on a blue sign over the door. Once again, the rules of her supposed utopia had foiled her actions. Suddenly she heard the soft padding of leather upon carpet that told her someone was coming around the bend at the end of the corridor. Shaking her head as if to fling aside the societal notions that had been drilled into her since childhood, she tried the handle of the men’s room and found it to be unlocked. Throwing her weight against the door, she pushed herself inside.

All she could see was darkness, broken only by the sliver of yellow cream light coming from the bottom of the door. Feeling around the wall, she found the light switch and flicked it on. At once, a calming pale light spread from the ceiling, leaving the far corners in dark shadow. She noticed the only differences between this bathroom and the one meant for her own gender were that the objects were reversed in their positions, and the lid of the toilet was up. Next to the toilet was, thank the Lord, a full roll of toilet paper. She stepped over to it, and ripped off a piece for herself. As she applied the thin scratchy paper to her face, she again looked around and realized how lovely it was in the bathroom. What an odd statement, she thought to herself. It certainly wasn’t designed for such a purpose. It’s only goal was to provide clean practicality. But here in the quiet light and the solitude, she felt more at home than in the glaring rooms outside. Here she could be alone. Here she could be at peace. Pulling up her skirt a bit, she gently eased herself to the ground, and sat listening to the hum of the ventilation. On the other side of the door, the footsteps passed her by without pause. Now she was truly left to her own thoughts, but found she didn’t want them. All she wanted was to listen to the hum, and think about how lucky she was to have found a sanctuary.

Crossing the Street

Crossing the street is what defines the big city from just a little town. In the city, the cars rule the streets but are constantly being challenged by the hoards of wandering people. Any time they get an opportunity, there they are flooding across the street, blocking all means of escape for the drivers. But as soon as there’s a break in the fence, on zoom the cars. It is a constant struggle for time, space, and speed. Meanwhile, the annoying crosswalk lights beep incessantly, as if telling everyone to hurry even more.

In the town, away from some of the noise, the cars still dominate, but here the fewer people have to acknowledge the drivers’ authority. Standing at the edge of the crosswalk with no traffic light, the walker waits by the road, hoping a merciful car will be generous enough to stop and let them pass. And when inevitably one does, the walker must scurry across the road, head bowed in submission. Perhaps they give a pathetic little wave of gratefulness, thanking the kindly driver for waiting five seconds.

Sometimes the walker is so awed by the presence of the royalty of the car driver that they remain stock still on the curb of the sidewalk, gaping at the magnificient vehicle that has suddenly slowed to let them pass. “For ME?” And then the driver must weaken themselves by raising a lofty hand, and gesturing across their windshield. “Go ahead…yes YOU. NOW, before I change my mind!” And then the ashamed walker hastens to follow the orders of the higher authority, bowed down and giving the apologetic little hand wave. No sooner are they across then the car roars to life, and blasts down the road in a puff of exhaust.

For the really courageous, there are ways to stop the cars before they can decide whether or not they want to. First, and my favorite, is the stare-down. Stand by the very edge of the curb, and gaze in the direction of the approaching cars, careful to make eye contact with the drivers. Now lift your head slightly, and incline the front of your eyebrows to give the impression of a dignified victim. All you want is to cross the street, that measly strip of gray that separates you from your true destiny. Who is the mere driver to stand in your way?

Second tactic is force-across. Sick of waiting for someone to care? Just dash across the street and HOPE the cars will stop! (Don’t worry they will. Usually.) At least if you get hit you may end up making some money from the experience. If not, well then at least you made it across. That was your ultimate goal anyway, right? Right?

Where I live there is such a crosswalk with no light. Unfortunately, the road has cars going in either direction with a wall of sorts splitting the road down the center. At the crosswalk there is a break in the wall, and two crosswalks banded on either side. Meaning I have to go through the humiliating ritual of sprinting across the busy street twice in a row! Sometimes, the cars only stop on one side, so you’re stuck in the center waiting for another generous driver to liberate you from your dismal confinement. Sometimes this doesn’t happen for quite a while. I’ve noticed this is especially true when it’s raining or snowing. There you are, stranded between the rushing automobiles, with your measly sweatshirt and armful of books, trying not to get completely covered in the cold blanket of white falling from the sky. Even more infuriating is that your house is right on the other side. You can see it! “Just let me pass. Please? PLEASE?!” Finally a car stops for you. You are just starting across the road when the idiot behind the wheel honks the horn, telling you to move faster. So you try to hurry, but the book on the bottom of the stack suddenly slips, and everything comes crashing down onto the filthy wet ground. And as you’re bending to sort out the mess, you hear the soft clink that tells you your keys have just fallen out of your pocket too. Meanwhile, the driver is gunning the engine,  and behind the car, others are starting to honk their horns too. And now of course the snow begins to increase in density. At last you have collected your last paper, and returned the keys back to the relative safety of your pocket. You waste no time in leaping across the remainder of the road, and jog swiftly back to your house, where you’ve no doubt the radiator will be acting up again, and the open windows are letting in the cold water, but you don’t care because your home is home. And besides, all you want to do is get away from the horror that is the crosswalk. The crossroads of reality where man faces machine, and bends before the blaze of the frowning headlights.

Beautiful Truth

Once upon a time, I was talking to a friend about the big picture of the universe. Surrounding us were waves of atheism, and I asked him a simple question with a complicated answer. Do you believe in God?

I wasn’t really sure what I expected to hear. This person was clearly a scholar, and had expressed no hints of a pious lifestyle. But faith, as I found out, comes in many forms. “Yes,” he said “because it’s a beautiful idea.” I stared at him for a moment before realizing he was finished. Beautiful? That’s it? I understand it when people have a genuine faith that drives them to believe in the illogical ideas. But here was something completely different. How could you trust your life, your existence, the existence of everyone and everything, to BEAUTY?

No one can deny the attractiveness of beauty. But when it comes to the big questions it’s not beauty I want, it’s TRUTH. I’m not someone who wants to be deceived by false notions. People die for their beliefs. How terrible to die for something incorrect. Complex nonetheless, but nothing more than a well constructed lie. Was it a lie of God I was trying to escape, or a lie of a Godless world? I will admit that I had no idea, but I did know that I wanted to discard one of them in favor of reality.

But how? How can someone possibly succeed by going down this path? For thousands of years at least, humans have struggled with the age-old question. And yet, what was the result of their efforts? No conclusive proof of any one belief, and massive amounts of bloodshed. How can a single life hope to accomplish anything more?

I was still trying to solve this monumental problem when a piece of news altered my course. I was reading Google News when I saw an article about a car bomb in Iraq that killed several people. I thought about what kind of person would do such a terrible act, and I realized that they must have been either driven by fear or love. Fear of eternal punishment in the depths of all darkness, whether as a general unease or as based upon an event earlier in one’s life. Love, as a result of a wonderful relationship this person had with a beautiful supreme being, or at the very least a beautiful religion. Why else would he (or she) sacrifice themselves so violently?

And then I began rethinking the problem. Beauty. Could that really be the answer? Perhaps beauty is an indicator of fact, a signpost of reality. Many theoretical physicists champion the notion that String Theory is the ultimate theory of the universe because of its elegance. Could they be right? Certainly in some cases, the way the world perceives beauty is not the correct answer. For example beauty in humans does not dictate worth. (Although that is an entirely different discussion, and if you wish to read about it further, see “Musings on Value”) But then again, perhaps there is more to beauty than meets the eye. (Excuse the pun) Perhaps beauty is enough to devote oneself to. Why? Because beauty is without a doubt beautiful, and maybe that is all we need to guide us to something greater.