Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Reason #138 I Love Physics

Plan II Physics has its reputation as one of those "rite of passage" classes that you hate while you're taking and remember nostalgically afterward. By this point, I don't see how the latter is possible.

Our midterm is tomorrow. We had our normal TA session today (which, by the way, was not announced in the course schedule, so that out of several options offered, the only one I can make is all the way across campus from the class I have right after it), so naturally, it was a review session for the test that was less than 24 hours away. The first question pretty much set the tone for the entire review:

Jordan Frisby: Can you explain the thought process we should be having when we're trying to do a double-slit problem?
TA: Uh...not off the top of my head, no.

...awesome. T-minus 15 hours, 19 minutes until death. Wish me luck.

Physical Jolt

I've finally been able to put into words that feeling that hits me sometimes, the one that comes out of nowhere, the one I've resigned myself to just waiting out. It's boredom, an intense, pervasive boredom that opens my eyes to the pointlessness of whatever I happen to be engaged in at the time. The kicker, though, is that it also makes anything else that I could be doing -- studying, reading, writing, talking with friends or strangers -- seem equally futile. In those moments, I feel like everything I'm doing, everything I could be doing, and everything I've ever done is just filler, a stimulus meant to keep me occupied in the absence of some greater pursuit that I'm not sure will ever come.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Joel

He called while I was in the shower. I didn’t listen to the message he’d left; I called him back immediately without even bothering to pull on a pair of boxers under the towel at my waist. While the phone was ringing, I checked the class schedule pinned to my roommate’s bulletin board. He was in lab for another forty-five minutes. Perfect. I pulled off my towel and slung it over the back of my desk chair. I relished these precious moments when I knew I had the room to myself, took advantage of them however I could. The line came to life. “Hello?”

“Joel, man, how’s it going?” I fell into a sitting position on my bed, back against the wall, feet crossed at the ankles over the edge.

“Pretty good, pretty good. Nothin’ special to report.” He spoke slowly with a heavy southern accent, voice deep and gravelly. “You?”

“About the same,” I said. “College life, I guess. You know. I got midterms next week, so that’s keeping me busy.”

“I bet. Any good classes this semester?”

“Yeah, actually.” I leaned forward and placed my pillow lengthwise between my back and the cold wall. “Philosophy, economics, art history. Just some prereqs.”

“Cool, man. I’m, uh…I’ve been readin’ some, uh, some Marx in my spare time. Made it through the Communist Manifesto. Good stuff.”

I laughed. “Yeah, definitely, good stuff. So, what’ve you been up to? I haven’t heard from you in a long time, I was starting to think you died or something.”

It was his turn to laugh. “Nah, dude, still goin’. I got a job as an electrician, it’s badass, I get to climb telephone poles ‘n’ shit. Fixed up a transformer this mornin’.”

“Nice.” Silence for a couple seconds. I rubbed my hair with my free hand, top, left side, around the back, right side, drying it a little more. “Where are you living these days, man?”

“I got myself a place in Round Rock a couple months ago. It’s pretty sweet.”

I sat up straight. “Round Rock? You’re kidding.”

“Nope. It was time to move outta the house, man. The parents were drivin’ me apeshit. I got my own apartment now.”

I grinned and punched the air. “Dude, I live half an hour away from you.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah, man, you’re like thirty minutes north, tops.”

He laughed. “Holy shit, that’s awesome. We’re gettin’ together. What’re you doing Saturday?”

“Actually, I think I’m busy on Saturday.” I scratched my stomach. “How’s Friday?”

“Friday’s no good, man,” he said. “I work a couple nights a week at Kroger to pull in some extra dough. What’s up on Saturday?”

I slid forward onto my feet, stood up, began to pace back and forth on the crappy green carpet I’d borrowed from our garage back home. “It’s nothing, it’s just…I promised this friend of mine, Trevor, I said I’d go to a thing he’s having at his apartment.”

“A thing? Like a party?”

“Yeah. I told him I’d go.” I added, after the briefest of hesitations, “You can come, if you want. It wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Nah, man, I don’t have a car. You got one?”

“Yeah, I do.” I drove a used BMW that I’d bought from my neighbor the previous summer and paid seven hundred dollars a year to park it in a garage halfway across campus.

“Then getcher ass up here, man. Get shit-faced here, get shit-faced there. What’s the difference?”

“Well—”

He cut me off. “Well, what? I haven’t seen you for three years, dick wrinkle.”

I smiled to myself. Another pause. Without realizing it, I had wandered over to my desk and was sifting through the spare change I kept in a plastic cup next to my laptop. “See, the thing is, there’s kinda this girl that’s gonna be there.”

Taryn. Shoulder-length brown hair, green eyes, good complexion, a smile that couldn’t make me not smile back. We’d met in my philosophy class when the kid in the front row had launched into another anecdote tangentially related to the topic at hand. Okay, stop talking now, I’d whispered, eyes shut, squeezing the bridge of my nose. She’d been sitting in front of me, had actually turned around, winked, smiled. We chatted every Tuesday and Thursday after that, before and after class, nothing substantial.

“Oh, okay, I see what’s goin’ on,” Joel said. “You wanna get yourself laid this weekend. It’s cool, man. Blow me off for some chick. Whatever. I can drink by myself and cry, it’s not a big deal.”

“Nah, it’s not like that,” I said. I’d lost count of how many college girls I’d met and fallen in love with only to lose interest once I got to know them. Maybe I had high standards, or maybe weekend keggers weren’t the best way to find a steady girlfriend. Either way, that hadn’t happened with Taryn (not yet, anyway), and I considered it notable. I almost felt an obligation to myself to pursue the possibility of her and me. Of us. I was hoping that with a couple beers in me, I’d be able to talk my way into buying her dinner.

“What, you like her or something?”

“Little bit. She’s…yeah. A little bit.”

“Aw, that’s cute. Just don’t blow it by doin’ somethin’ stupid like bein’ yourself.”

I sat down in bed again, pulled at loose threads in my blanket. “You’re just jealous ‘cause my date for this weekend doesn’t have pit hair.”

“What the hell’re you talkin’ about, man? I’m your date for this weekend. You’ll see her around campus, right?” Pause. “Right?”

“Yeah, probably. We’re in the same philosophy class.”

“See? Exactly. I haven’t seen you for three years, man. I miss you. It hurts sometimes.”

I smirked. “I love you, too, man. We’ll see what happens, I’ll let you know sooner than later.” My phone beeped once, twice, three times. “Hey, can I call you back? I’m getting another call, I think it’s my friend about this group project due next week.”

“Yeah, no worries. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“We’ll see.” I pulled the phone away from my ear to hang up and remembered something I’d meant to tell him. “Oh, and Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m naked right now.”

Silence, then a click as he hung up on me. I laughed and switched over. It was my mom, asking if I’d read the e-mail she’d sent that morning.

* * *

“That it?” Joel asked, finishing an overly complicated knot. He stepped across the chasm between the bow and solid ground.

I looked around. Life jackets were all hung up on their posts. Fishing poles leaned against the wooden railing, spaced carefully so the lines wouldn’t get tangled. Three ropes secured the sleek Malibu to the dock, one in the front to anchor it, one each on the port and starboard sides to keep it from bumping the edges and scratching the paint. We’d refilled the gas tank so the next guy who took it out wouldn’t get stranded and have to use the walkies we carried around for emergencies. “I think so, man,” I said. “Let’s head back.”

“You on break now?”

I checked my watch. “As of seven minutes ago. I got noon to two off today.”

“Same here, dude. Movie in the staff lounge?”

“Sure, sounds good,” I said. “Let’s drop by the dining hall first to grab lunch, though.”

“Good call.”

Joel and I stepped into our flip-flops and walked side by side down the pier. The cabin area, the closest of them about thirty feet back from the water line, was more or less empty; everyone was already at the dining hall except for the kids who had to change out of wet swimsuits. The sun beat down on us from directly above, making even the shortest of treks around the grounds a formidable task. The breeze coming off the lake did little to mitigate the July heat. As much as we encouraged the kids to wear sunscreen every day, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement among the rest of us that to take this precaution was, in Joel’s own words, to “pussy out.” Our red faces and peeling arms were marks of our small act of obstinate rebellion.

The dining hall came within view as we crested a sloping, dusty hill. Everyone should have been inside already, but campers and counselors alike were crammed underneath the front porch area, vying to stay in the shade. We took the steps two at a time and found ourselves face to face with Charlie. “What’s goin’ on?” Joel asked.

“Cabin One was supposed to be doing KP, only they just got here a couple minutes ago. Mark forgot about it,” Charlie answered. Kitchen Prep – folding out the tables, setting them, filling water jugs, nothing a group of nine-year-olds couldn’t handle with a little supervision. The duty belonged to a different cabin each meal. It figured that Mark, of all people, wouldn’t bother to check the schedule at breakfast. Forgetting to lock the archery shed or showing up a couple minutes late to chapel was one thing, but if there was one job it was unspoken to never mess up, it was KP. Dropping the ball meant keeping ninety hungry kids and fifteen hungrier counselors out of the air-conditioned dining hall just that much longer.

“Son of a—” A passing kid (Sam? Sean?) grinned up at Joel, eyes wide, anticipating the swear. Joel glanced at him. “What’re you lookin’ at, little dude?”

“Nothing.” The kid feigned innocence, broke Joel’s gaze and looked out across the lake.

“That’s right, nothin’. Keep movin’, man.” Joel clapped the kid on the shoulder. He pulled off his backwards ball cap and ran his fingers through his long, unwashed hair. “Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna go in there and help Mark out. Charlie, keep the kids entertained, play guitar or something. Do a repeat song. They love those. Chris, grab lunch for the two of us outta the kitchen, then ask Rich if we can borrow one of his videos. You know he gets pissy when people use ‘em without asking, even though he keeps them in the fu—” He caught himself, looked around. “—in the lounge. Meet you there in ten.”

“I’ll help you and Mark out, I don’t mind,” I said.

“Nah, you covered my rear couple days ago, ‘member? I owe ya. Gettin’ lunch is more important, anyway. You screw it up, that’s on you.”

The staff lounge was just an extra cabin, the one furthest out from the main office and the dining hall. We’d pushed all the bunks up against one wall to make room for a foosball table with a broken leg, a fourteen-inch TV with a built-in VHS player set up on an extra chair, and the removable backseat of Charlie’s truck that we called our couch. Piles of forgotten belongings, towels, t-shirts, books, empty packs of cigarettes, candy bar wrappers, old issues of Maxim, shampoo bottles, littered the room. One of the light bulbs was burned out. The AC was finicky at best. Ants had appropriated the windowsill for themselves and were ready to launch an assault on the top bunk adjacent to it. It was a shithole, not half as nice as even our normal cabins, except for the trumping factor that no campers were allowed in, period, no exceptions. I was splashing lukewarm water on my face when Joel ripped the door open.

“Fuckin’ Mark!” he shouted.

“I know,” I said.

“That’s the fourth fuckin’ time this term, asshole. People gotta cover his ass ‘cause he’s prob’ly jackin’ off when he’s s’posed to be checkin’ the fuckin’ schedule!”

“I know.”

He paced around the cabin, seeking out pieces of trash to kick viciously as he went. “I was with him in a cabin a couple weeks ago, he got sick and took two days off. Two fuckin’ days, loungin’ in the nurse’s clinic while I’m dealin’ with ten fuckin’ kids by myself. He comes back when he’s better, takes over for like ten minutes, and then, get this, goes on his two-hour break. If the kids hadn’t been watchin’, I woulda punched him in the fuckin’ face.”

“Dude, chill,” I said. “We’re so close, man. Three more days this week, kids go home, we clean up, and then we’re outta here. Summer’s over, you never have to see him again. Just…just don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m gonna punch him in the fuckin’ face right before we leave, that’s what I’m gonna do. He deserves it, you know he does.” He jumped up onto the couch, holding his arms out for balance as it rocked back and forth.

“So what’re you doin’ after camp ends?” I asked loudly. “Headin’ home?”

“Nah, Eric asked if I wanted to live out here for a while. Cigarette?” He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of the cargo pocket of his shorts.

I nodded. “Let’s head around back.”

“Nah, just smoke on the front porch. Kids’re all at lunch, no one’ll see.”

“Fair enough.”

We went outside and sat on the front steps of the cabin, underneath the shade of the awning, where the concrete was just bearable enough to touch to bare skin. Joel lit my cigarette first, then his. I inhaled, pulled it away, breathed the rest of the way in, closed my eyes, felt my head and fingers and toes tingle. All I’d had that morning was two cups of coffee and a Pop-Tart. No wonder it was hitting so well.

“So you’re living on camp for a while?” I asked.

“Yeah, at least through December. Groups come out every weekend, churches, schools, stuff like that. I’m gonna run programs for ‘em. Prob’ly do maintenance stuff during the week.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, I’m lookin’ forward to it. How ‘bout you? What’re you up to when you get outta here?”

I tapped the ash off the end of my cigarette. “Shit, man, I got two weeks left of summer, then senior year. AP classes, SAT, ACT, college apps, writing for the paper, editing for the yearbook. You’re a lucky bastard, you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dude, you’re gonna have it so easy here. Look at all this.” Waves lapped up against the lakeshore. A passing skier about a hundred feet out waved at us. We waved back. I shook my head and took a drag. “You have no idea.”

“I’m gonna be studyin’ too, actually, now that you mention it.”

I looked over at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I figger with all the free time I’m havin’, I’m gonna try and study for the GED. I turn eighteen next April, I’ll probably take the test then, go to a community college in the fall. Can’t do jack shit that makes money without some kinda degree. I’m thinkin’ environmental science, that’d be cool.”

“Think you can do it?”

Joel displayed his goofy, dog-like grin. “Just ‘cause I been home-schooled since first grade doesn’t mean I’m a dumbass, man. I can read. I can count. I don’t need to go to a fuckin’ fancy private school like you to get into college.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the step and tossed it into the barbecue pit. “Movie time?”

I stood up and stretched. “Yeah, sure.”

“What’d they have for lunch?”

“Corn dogs. I grabbed like ten of ‘em.”

“Sweet.”

* * *

After hanging up with my mom, I decided to lie down for a quick catnap before dinner. I didn’t sleep. I thought about the last real conversation I’d had with Joel – some random break during the last week of camp when we chilled in the staff lounge and fell asleep during a movie. We didn’t have much free time after that between our daily responsibilities and the chaos of closing down, and the end-of-camp banquet had been more of an occasion for back-slapping and bellowed inside jokes than quiet reflection. I’d think about him from time to time, remind myself to call him or shoot him an e-mail, but I’d inevitably forget.

Just go. You know you want to see Joel. It’s been three years.

This is my chance to talk to Taryn about something other than David Hume’s design argument for the existence of God. I can’t pass this up.

He really wants to see you. Don’t let him down just so you can talk to some girl you may or may not pursue some kind of relationship with over the next two months.

If she hooks up with some other guy while I’m getting piss-drunk with an electrician, I’m gonna regret it.

That’s not fair. He’s not an electrician, he’s your friend. He’s Joel. You saying you don’t want to slum with someone whose life plan doesn’t include a seven-figure salary?

I’m not slumming.

You go to Trevor’s party, you’re gonna put way too much pressure on yourself to try and win her over. You’re gonna get all nervous and awkward, like always, and you’re gonna scare her off. Don’t set yourself up to get let down. Be a man, ask her to coffee after class next week. Just leave your college life behind for a night, get away, clear your head, relax, catch up with an old friend. That’s exactly what you need this weekend.

“Screw it,” I muttered. I rolled over, picked my phone up from the bedside table, and called Joel. I told him I’d be there on Saturday, wouldn’t miss it for anything.

* * *

Joel’s apartment was in a pretty seedy part of town. The streetlights were all out, so I occasionally had to swerve my car one way or the other to illuminate the numbers painted on the curb with my headlights. The sidewalks, where there were sidewalks, were stained and littered with broken glass, weeds growing about ankle-high between cracks in the pavement. Loud hip-hop and shouting echoed down the street from a house up ahead. A shirtless man who had to be in his thirties, sitting by himself on a front porch, silver flask by his side, stared me down as I cruised by.

I pulled into the parking lot and turned the engine off. As I was getting out of the car, almost as an afterthought, I peeled the GPS I’d gotten for Christmas off the far corner of the windshield and tucked it inside an empty fast food bag under the passenger’s seat. I double-clicked the lock button on my key ring, tried the door handle to make sure it had worked. The crumpled post-it note in my pocket said to take the stairs up to the third floor.

The complex was built motel-style, with an uncovered walkway on each floor leading to individual apartments. Dead leaves, dried mud, cigarette butts had accumulated along the edges of every landing in the stairwell. I reached the third floor and strode down the porch, squinting to read the faded numbers on each door. My left shoe squelched in something wet. I turned around and walked backwards to see what it was. Yep. That’s vomit. Awesome. I knocked on the door. While I was waiting, I felt like a bullfighter as I stamped and slid my foot on the doormat to clean my shoe off. The mat was filthy enough already that I didn’t feel bad about it.
The door opened. Joel looked exactly as I remembered him – shirtless, tan, scruff along his jaw and down his neck, greasy hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “Chris, man!” He pulled me into a bear hug. “Holy shit, it’s good to see ya. C’mon in.”

I stepped in and looked around. Bed in the far corner, a chest of drawers, a couch with a tear traversing one of the cushions, a basic kitchen, a circular wooden table with two mismatched chairs pulled in close, a door that presumably led to the bathroom.

“It’s nothin’ fancy, but it’s home,” said Joel. “Can I grab you a beer?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

He grabbed a Shiner off the counter. He twisted the cap off and handed the bottle to me. Classy, compared to the Keystone and Natty Lite that most college parties offered; Joel didn’t mess around, apparently. He pulled cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, offered them to me.

I shook my head. “No thanks, man, I quit. Dunno if you’ve heard, that shit’s bad for you.”

He wiggled the pack. “C’mon, Christine, just take one.”

“Maybe later.”

“Whatever.” He tossed the pack onto the table. “Take a seat, man. Kick yer shoes off and stay a while.”

I laid out on the couch, Joel took his bed, and we reminisced. We joked about the problem kids from each term, pranks we’d pulled on each other, pranks the kids had pulled on us. We dredged up inside jokes I hadn’t thought about in years, quoting funny (whether inadvertently or purposefully) exchanges and one-liners, complete with voices and exaggerated gestures. The stories got louder and more dynamic, overlapped each other as we indulged ourselves in the past. Joel had kept in touch with everyone from camp more than I had, so he filled me in on what they were doing these days – Charlie had a B.A. in English and was teaching high school. Rich was married with a kid on the way. Eric, our boss, had left the camp and was starting his own business.

“Christ, everyone’s so grown up,” I said, setting my drink on the coffee table. “That just leaves you and me, I guess. The young’uns. Not ready for the real world quite yet.”

“Speak for yourself, man,” said Joel. “I’m the one with the nine-to-five, ‘member? Work sucks.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Yeah, well. College isn’t exactly a picnic, either. I got midterms next week, two tests, two papers, a group project we haven’t even started on. I’m just not gonna sleep, I already know it.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“Dude.” He took a swig. “I’d rather work than deal with all that shit.”

I looked over at him. “You just said that work sucks.”

“Yeah, but at least with work, I don’t hafta keep screwin’ with wiring when I get home.” He laughed. “Work’s not that bad, I guess. Better than school.”

Something clicked. “Hey, so, whatever happened to that GED you were telling me about?”

“Huh?”

“Remember? Last week of camp, you said you were gonna study for the GED, take the test, go to college?”

He thought for a moment. “Oh, yeah, that. I bought the book, never really looked at it. There’s a lot of stuff in there I don’t give a shit about. Fuck algebra, man. I don’t want to do algebra.”

“You ever gonna come back to it?”

He shrugged. “Eh, maybe. I don’t see why I need to any time soon.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Look around, man. I’m doin’ pretty well. I work all day, come home, pop open a beer, maybe do some readin’, maybe watch some TV. Paycheck covers rent and utilities with plenty left over for food ‘n’ shit. I’m set.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, what’s up? You look like you got somethin’ to say.”

“It’s just…it’s nothing. Forget it.” Joel just looked at me. I thought for a moment before I spoke. “You’re really content with this?”

“Of course, man. Why shouldn’t I be?” He leaned back, put his bare feet up on the table, laced his fingers behind his head. Sitting there on his couch, in his shitty apartment, puke drying in the crevasses of my loafers, my BMW parked outside, I realized that Joel and I were two friends with nothing in common but the past. There was no point in arguing this one.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said. “You are doing pretty well for yourself.”

Monday, September 15, 2008

Busy Busy Busy

I’ve decided that I like being busy. Sure, I’ll complain about it in conversation, talk about how many papers I don’t want to write or how many meetings I don’t want to go to, but the truth is, I like it when I have things to do. The alternative to having things to do is…well, not having anything to do, which is fun in very small doses. I’m always excited when the semester ends and I get to go home because it means no responsibilities, complete freedom, well deserved vegging. It’s great for about twenty-four hours. I’ll lounge around the house, watch TV, put on a movie, maybe head over to Starbucks, and then I’ll realize, “This sucks.”

We define our lives by how we occupy our time. I’m a student – I go to class, I write papers, I study for tests. I’m an RA – I work the desk, go on rounds, chat with residents. I used to be an actor – I’ve spent more hours in the UCPA and in Parlin than I could even begin to count. I’m a musician (an aspiring one, anyway) – I write songs in my spare time, put them to music on my keyboard, even record them occasionally down at DJ’s studio. I’m a reader – I read. I’m a writer – I write. You get the idea.

My problem is that I’m a very bad self-motivator; I always have been. The more time I have to do something, the less likely I am to do it. I keep telling myself, “I have plenty of time, I’ll do it later. It’s only one chapter. That’ll take like thirty minutes, tops. I’ll do it after lunch.” Three guesses on whether I ever get around to it. My productivity (and, correlatively, my grades) spikes during hell week of whatever show I happen to be in because I just don’t have the time to procrastinate. I get everything done on time, sometimes early, because I can’t do it later. Go figure. I feel worthwhile, I feel like I’m getting things accomplished. Obviously, weeks like these come at the expense of both sleep and sanity, but man, am I productive.

And yeah, when it’s all over, I’m burnt out and exhausted, but thinking about it, that’s no worse than the excruciating boredom that occurs during June and July and random Thursday afternoons when I’m done with homework but no one else is. It’s amazing how much effort the smallest things seem to take when there’s nothing else to do. “I finally have time to check out that book, but that means walking all the way over to the library. Meh.” “I can see that new movie, but that means looking up times, wrangling people to go, driving to the theater, paying eight bucks, etc.” “I could turn on the TV, but the remote’s all the way over there. Not quite worth it.” The boredom is so pervasive that it makes even these minute attempts at entertainment seem insurmountable, let alone anything legitimately exciting like catching a bus downtown to go exploring.

I think that last semester was as horrible as it was due to all my free time and my lack of activities to fill it with. Outwardly, I bragged about my one class on Tuesday/Thursday and how it was over at 11:00 a.m., but in reality, I dreaded going back to the dorm because I knew the rest of the day was going to go downhill from there. I read a lot, I slept a lot, I talked with Sean and Rey a lot, but in retrospect, I feel like I don’t have anything to show, tangible or otherwise, for that entire five-month period. When I have free time, I don’t do anything, when I don’t do anything, I don’t know how I define myself, and when I don’t know how I define myself, that’s a slippery slope that took me a while to come back from.

But anyway, in the same vein as my original point, I’m extraordinarily busy this semester, and I like it. With the combination of RA stuff, maintaining a social life, and Plan II Physics, I barely have time to crap. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays are all eight-hour days before I even get to homework. Thursdays are a little better, only five hours. Friday and Saturday are my chilling-out days, and Sunday is my homework day. There are random nooks and crannies of spare time to amble around the Quad or hang out with an off-campus friend (late nights, right after my last class of the day, etc.), but for the most part, my time is booked, and I couldn’t be happier.

Tonight, for example, I still have to write my weekly RA report and read a chapter of my Comm textbook. I can stay up as late as I need to because my first class isn’t till noon tomorrow, but I’ve spent all day working the desk, reading for my Holocaust class (crazy interesting, crazy depressing), reading for Physics, and attempting the new problem set with Aubrey and Saul over dinner. I keep wanting to call someone at 1:00 a.m. for an impromptu Kerbey Lane run, but it might get to the point where I have to make time for such a spontaneous event in my schedule. Bummer.

But at least I don’t define myself as a Lostpedia fact-checker anymore.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

I get by with a little help from my friends.

So on the last night of last semester, I walk into the Blobby at about one in the morning and sit down in an armchair in the middle of the room. I immediately stand up and relocate to one of the couches along the wall. I don’t like having my back to anyone in a lobby like that; I like seeing who comes and who goes. It’s something I’ve always done. Anyway, since I got a couple weird looks, by way of explanation, I go, “So my enemies can’t sneak up behind me and strangle me with piano wire or something.”

A couple people laugh, but Evan Kornacki looks over at me and says, “Enemies? Matt Jones doesn’t have any enemies. You’re one of the most diplomatically kind people I’ve ever met.”

I had a realization then, something that didn’t really surprise me but that I had never consciously thought about before. My biggest fear is being hated. As such, I make it a point to be nice to everyone. I’m nice to my friends. I’m nice to strangers. I’m nice to cashiers. I’m even nice to people that I don’t like because I don’t want them to not like me back. I want to be a good friend, the nice guy, the dependable one that everyone can smile at and say hi to and talk to. I don’t like the idea of people talking bad about me behind my back or leaving a room as soon as I enter it. I just don’t.

This conception of myself was further realized during the Rome trip. The fifteen of us quickly divided into two groups, not because people didn’t like each other, but just because of different interests and personality types. Not liking the idea of being left out of anything, I made it a point to be a solid member of both groups. My Organizational Communications professor from last semester would have called me a “bridge” or a “liaison.” I was careful to get in a good amount of face time with each group, see what each was up to on any given night, and go from there. Everyone else came to recognize my status over the course of the trip, and people from each group would ask me about the other one. “What do they say about us?” a girl from one group asked me once. “Why don’t they ever hang out with us?” asked a guy from the other. I provided diplomatic answers, not disrespecting anyone or putting words in anyone’s mouth (I hope). I was a different person depending on whom I was hanging out with, varying my topics of conversation and even, on occasion, my personality to fit the tastes of my present company.

Instead of making twice as many great friends, though, I came to feel that I was stretching myself too thin. I was so busy playing politics that no one in either group got a chance to really know me. I was a peripheral friend, in limbo, not fully integrating myself into any group at all. Not that I really care (and I’m not just saying this, it really doesn’t keep me up at night), but I was kind of, sort of, semi-halfway hoping that I’d walk into my surprise 21st birthday party on the last day of the trip. It didn’t happen, probably because each group figured they didn’t know me well enough and thought the other group would do it. I continued to kind of, sort of, semi-halfway hope that someone would throw me a party within a couple weeks of me getting back home (‘cause you can’t plan your own birthday party, that’s just depressing), but again, no dice, I’d guess for the same reason.

I know that there’s a place for a guy like me, especially in a dorm setting, where rubbing someone the wrong way once results in an entire year of awkward situations and drama. But in my need to be universally liked (or, at least, not despised), I find myself with too many casual acquaintances and not enough good friends. There aren’t many people that I feel I know well enough, or that know me well enough, that I can show up at their door without calling first or call on a random weekday afternoon just because, you know, I’m bored.

Anyway, almost all of my friends from last year have moved off-campus, and I’m still here. I can’t just run into them in the hallway and hang out with them because they’re there anymore; I have to make it a point to get in touch with them and see what their schedules are or what they’re doing this weekend. It seems that, over the coming weeks, I’ll quickly discover who I actually liked and who were just friends of convenience. There are a lot of people I saw every day for the past two years that I might never talk to again, something that I’m not necessarily happy about but can live with. Again, just like in my previous post, that’s life, I guess. It happens.

This year, as an RA, I can’t be everyone’s friend anymore. Since I’m ostensibly in a position of authority, I have to start telling people to not do stuff, write people up, yell at them, etc. Stuff that I tolerated, partook in, laughed at during freshman and sophomore years, I now have to bust up with a stern look on my face so they know that I’m serious. More than one freshman (and, who knows, maybe a couple sophomores) might think I’m a douche. The easiest way to deal with it is to separate myself from them, not make friends with people I’m in charge of, but I honestly don’t know if I can do that. I think that’s going to be the hardest part of this job for me. We’ll see how it goes.

Seperately, as a side note, I can’t help but notice that the only three comments I’ve ever gotten on here are from a random girl gushing over a passing reference to Idina Menzel, DJ responding to that comment, and a spambot. This blog is for me, it’s always been for me, but I’d like to think that I’m not the only one who’s ever read anything I’ve written. I’m not asking for a detailed critique or anything, but if you happen to read this, I was wondering if you’d post a comment with your name or something. I just want to know who my audience is, if I have one at all.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Improved Specimen

I’ve been indulging myself in nostalgia over the last couple of nights. I’ve been reading the blogs of a few high school friends – I won’t say who, I’ll just say that none of them are people I kept in touch with. The blogs haven’t been updated in years, so I’m not reading about what they’re doing now, but about their sophomore, junior, senior years of high school. I’m mentioned in a few entries, if only in passing, and the anecdotes spark memories that I haven’t thought about in years. It bums me out to know that I might as well be a stranger to people that used to be some of my best friends. That’s life, it happens, I can’t say I’m surprised, but I’m allowed to say that I miss them, right?

Whenever I tell someone that high school sucked, what I really mean is that senior year sucked. I hated senior year for a number of reasons. I was on Accutane, an acne medication with side effects of depression and irritation that probably played a bigger part in my general dissatisfaction with life than I would have admitted at the time. I spent an hour in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic before school every day, enough to put anyone on edge. My social life was a bit lacking due to circumstances beyond my control (long story for another day). I let that one bad year taint my memory of high school as a whole, but I always forget that I genuinely enjoyed freshman year and sophomore year, at least. I’m remembering friends in the years above me that I haven’t talked to since they graduated because the whole MySpace/Facebook thing hadn’t hit yet. I think I liked looking up to people more than being the top dog myself.

In a further bit of nostalgia, last night I read a bunch of old documents on our home computer. Some are old essays from school, some are brainstorms or outlines for movie scripts that I whipped out in bursts of inspiration and never looked at again, some are short stories that I actually finished, and one in particular was a one-act that I abandoned in favor of the one I ended up putting on as my senior project. It’s good, but it’s really personal and a little bit emo. There’s a monologue (that I actually copied and pasted from my now-defunct Xanga) about “this kid” who thinks his purpose in life is to help others because he’s given up on the possibility of happiness for himself. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea for one of the major characters to die in a car accident and then deliver a posthumous monologue that, in retrospect, reads eerily like a suicide note. The writing is good enough and I like the general premise that I had, but there’s no way I could have put that onstage.

I’m realizing, not for the first time but more strongly than ever before, that I’m a completely different person than I was two years ago. The biggest change probably came during my first semester of college (living on Blanton 2nd, for example, helped me grow a pair of balls), but lessons that I learned as early as my first weekend in Austin and as recently as last semester continue to shape who I am. I read stuff that I wrote during junior and senior year of high school, and I don’t even recognize myself as the author – the words are familiar, but the mindset behind them isn’t. When I say (and I think I’ve said it on here at some point) that I can’t believe I did a lot of the stuff that I did in high school, I say it because I can’t in a million years imagine doing those things now. I’m not gonna lie – for a while, I was a little bit of a creeper. I stalked a girl on the Spain trip (at the time, I thought I was being “outgoing” and “friendly”), I followed people around at play practice, my primary method of communication was AIM, little stuff like that. I learned more social skills in my first two weeks on B2 than I did at every high school dance combined.

This mindset bled over into college, of course, and as such, I think I made some bad first impressions (besides the obvious). We got back from a party on some random Friday night, and upon seeing a guy and a girl disappear into his room, I spent the next half hour trying to convince people that “she was probably being raped.” My friend Kate basically lived on our floor; she only slept and kept her stuff at her room in the Castillian. She made a passing comment one night about how she didn’t want to walk all the way back there, and I tripped over myself offering her my bed, our extra mattress, etc, even after she said no several times. I write these anecdotes with a smile on my face, out of embarrassment as much as reminiscence. Shortly after that, within the first month, I learned that one can, in fact, be too much of a nice guy, and that when that happens, he’s seen as a pushover, as pathetic, as someone who’s trying way too hard to be liked. I’m still not perfect, but I’m definitely an improved specimen.

I wish I could do high school over, I guess. Not the classes and the living at home stuff, just the social part. There were a lot of people, older and younger, guys and girls, that I really liked, but because of how I behaved around them, they probably didn’t like me back quite as much. I feel like I’ve finally realized some obvious truth that everyone else already knew, and now that I’ve grasped it, I wish I could start over with some people.

Monday, July 21, 2008

A Roman Summer

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. For details on the last month of my life, check out http://bonjurno.blogspot.com.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Nine Lives

Mike Reynolds was on his lunch break. He was heading to the deli two blocks over from the office when he was struck by a bus and killed instantly.

Next thing he knew, he was in The Lounge. Nothing fancy, just two simple armchairs separated by a small wooden table. Gray carpet, blank walls, a bare light bulb in the ceiling. He looked around for a moment, disoriented, then it came to him. He was dead. He exhaled slowly, exasperatedly, and ran his hands through his hair. “Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hey, watch the language,” said God. Mike looked up. God was seated in one of the armchairs, hands folded in His lap, looking plaintively up at Mike. He’d been there the whole time, or had He? He always seemed to make His presence known while Mike was looking somewhere else.

“Sorry,” said Mike. “It’s just kind of, uh, jarring. You know. The whole death thing. That one caught me kinda off guard. What…what happened, exactly?”

“Bus,” said God. “That one’s pretty common. You people need to learn to look both ways before you cross the street. Rookie mistake. You of all people should know better by now.”

Mike smiled sheepishly. “I’m getting better,” he said. “It’s been a couple of years, right? At least a year and a half.”

“Five months, Mike. You choked on a carrot last October, remember?”

“Right, right, the carrot thing. Totally forgot about that.”

“Take a seat. You’re gonna be here a while.”

Mike pulled out the open chair and sat down across from God. “How long?”

“You got hit by a bus, Mike. Shattered your pelvis, four cracked ribs, a cracked skull, a broken arm. That won’t regenerate right away.”

“I’m supposed to pick Will up from school at three. Think I’ll make it?”

“Yeah, you should be back by then. You’re gonna be sore for a few days, though. You know the drill.”

Mike was about to mention how hungry he was; he’d skipped breakfast that morning because his alarm hadn’t gone off. He realized then that the hunger was gone. So was the headache he’d had on and off since Tuesday and the throbbing of that bruise on his thigh he’d gotten playing backyard soccer with Peter. He felt his cheek. His shaving cut was gone. Dying had its perks, however minor.

“Mike, we need to talk,” said God. “I’m worried about you. That was your sixth life. You’re only forty. It takes most people till at least their fifties to make it that far. Good number of people in their sixties. Look at me.”

Mike reluctantly pulled his gaze from his left knee and looked up at His face. God’s luminescent green eyes, the only feature that Mike could ever remember clearly once he hit dirtside, stared into his. His tone was light enough, almost pleasant, but Mike could hear gravity in every word He spoke.

“What concerns me isn’t just your death count. Six deaths at your age isn’t exactly normal, but it’s not by any means unheard of. I saw a kid recently who was on death number seven before he hit puberty. Of course, he had a bunch of birth problems, so a number of those aren’t his fault. That’s why you all start with nine, to make up for circumstances beyond your control.

"None of your deaths, though, have been anyone’s fault but your own. When you were three, your mom told you not to put that paperclip in the electrical outlet, but you did anyway. In high school, you picked up drag racing. I don’t think either of us needs a recap of that incident. In college, you fell off the roof of a frat house when you were, according to your own explanation, ‘piss drunk.’”

“I’m sorry,” said Mike. “I’m trying. You know I’m trying. I’ve been getting better.”

“Have you?” asked God. “You choked on a carrot and got hit by a bus, Mike. That doesn’t sound like trying to me. It’s recklessness, is what it is.”

Mike said nothing.

“I talked to a woman last week, she’s about your age, it was her first death. Her first, Mike. It was incredible. She died trying to get herself and her eight-month-old baby out of a burning hotel. When she got here, I asked her how she’d gone forty years without dying. I knew the answer, of course, but I wanted to hear her say it. She said she’d made a habit of living, and she didn’t intend on breaking that habit any time soon by doing something stupid.

That’s why I put this whole system into effect, Mike. To negate the permanence of little accidents here and there, yes, but even more, to reward heroism and self-sacrifice with life. I can’t tell her this, of course, but that woman’s going to die twice in the next year and a half, once getting T-boned by a lady running a red light, the other trying to talk a teenager with a gun out of robbing a convenience store.”

“I get it,” said Mike.

“Three deaths in just over eighteen months. If that happens to you, that’s it. Game over, thanks for playing.”

“I get it.”

“Imagine if you only had one, Mike. One life. Imagine how careful you’d have to be, every day, all the time. One false step, one moment of inattention, and you’d be gone forever. One drink too many. Pushing the gas pedal instead of the brake.” God smiled. “Eating a carrot too fast.”

Mike grinned in spite of himself. “Yeah. That…that’d be tough.”

God leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on the table. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a little harsh on you. But once someone hits the two-thirds mark, I have to take the gloves off, talk some sense into them. There was a guy last week, he broke his arm when he fell off a ladder. He shot himself in the head so he wouldn’t have to wear a cast for two months. He went back fully healed, just like everyone else, but it’s people like that that sometimes make me rethink My whole nine-life policy. You’re not that bad. You said you’re trying. I know you are, I believe you. Just…try harder.”

Mike nodded. “I will.”

“I know you will. You’re a good guy, Mike.”

“Thanks.”

“Ready to go back?”

“Already?”

God chuckled. “I might’ve exaggerated your injuries a little bit. I was trying to scare you. It work?”

“Yes, sir, it definitely did.”

They both stood up. God extended His hand and Mike shook it.

“Until we meet again, Mike. No matter how careful you are, you know we’ll meet again.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell your wife and kids I love them.”

“They don’t know?”

God looked him in the eye again. “A little reminder every now and then can’t hurt.”

“Right.” Mike closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was lying in a hospital bed.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

My Philosophy Paper

John Locke explains his view of the purpose of government in Chapter IX of his Second Treatise of Government. In the preceding chapters, he has set up his thesis by describing the state of mankind in the state of nature, outside of any kind of established law. Man possesses a liberty that allows him to perform any action that is in accordance with the natural law. This natural law has been given to him by his Creator, and as such, he knows it without having to be taught. Those who live according to the natural law “may not, unless it be to do justice on an offender, take away, or impair the life, or what tends to the preservation of the life, the liberty, health, limb, or goods of another” (9). In other words, if every man abides by this law, then his livelihood is safe, and he will never come into conflict with his neighbors.

However, there exist men who purposely violate the natural law for their own benefit. One who attempts to take the life or property of another without his permission has entered into a state of war with that person. Being in a state of war requires someone to constantly be on his guard, taking active measures to protect himself and his loved ones from those out to get him. Since the transgressor poses a threat to everyone in the state of nature, everyone has the power to punish him. The state of war is undesirable for obvious reasons; it requires substantial time and effort that keeps a man from pursuing his own ends. Thus, men establish ruling bodies to which they give their power of punishment in order to avoid this inconvenience.

Locke’s system of government, then, is an institution established with the full consent of the people, and its only purpose is to protect the private property of its citizens. He describes the full extent of governmental authority – first, the state has an established, settled, known law. Second, the state has at its disposal a neutral judge to resolve conflicts between citizens. Third, a government can only use its power to enforce these known laws. Finally, the government cannot pass laws whose end is anything other than the “peace, safety, and public good” (68) of the people.

Under Locke’s so-called “nightwatchman state,” the two greatest advantages that the people at large hold over the government are their stash of private property and the power of their consent. Both of these are indispensable towards maintaining their liberty by keeping the government in check. Some argue that Locke’s government is too limited, but his is a government that serves the people. As citizens hand more of their personal authority over to it, they begin to serve it more than it serves them. The result is a society of slaves.

The first part of Locke’s Theory of Private Property is relevant here. Regarding self-ownership, he asserts in Chapter V that a man owns himself and anything to which he has put his hand. If he tills a piece of land, then he ought to be the proper owner of whatever grows. Just as God created man and therefore owns him, man too can justifiably own anything that he creates. The final product of a man’s labor, then, be it food, clothing, intellectual property, or the money he receives for any of these, belongs to him and him alone. Private property is a God-given right, and government has no authority to commandeer it without its owner’s express consent. The loss of it leads to an increased reliance on the state.

The right of consent follows logically enough from the right of private property. The term “consent” is generally used with regard to two parties of unequal status – a higher power grants consent to lower power. A professor consents to let a student miss a day of class. A manager consents to let his employees wear jeans on Fridays. The people consent to let their government punish wrongdoers among them. This relationship works because the dominant party has something that the submissive party needs. A student relies on his professor for knowledge, an employee relies on his manager for money, and a government relies on the people for land, money, equipment, etc.

The balance of power shifts when the lower power no longer needs what the higher power has to offer. A student who has (or thinks he has) sufficient knowledge no longer cares about skipping class. An employee with enough money to retire doesn’t give much thought to the dress code anymore. A government with enough property to sustain itself no longer requires the consent of the people to pass and enforce laws that the people are still obliged to follow. In this case, in fact, an individual no longer has any consent to really provide – if he gives the government his land and his weekly earnings, then he has no means to support himself if he wants to break away. Since the government started off with no property at all, it must have acquired it consensually, little by little.

Locke’s minimalist government, then, ensures that as long as people hold private property and keep tabs on how much of their authority they give away, they won’t find themselves at the mercy of an all-powerful regime. At this point, as a bit of a side note, it seems appropriate to mention that Locke’s minimalist government has more authority than one might think. Take, for example, substances like heroin and cocaine. It seems that under Locke’s system, a person has the right to choose what he puts into his own body; government is powerless to stop him.

However, it is no small secret that many longtime users of such addicting drugs will end up killing themselves through an overdose. Locke previously posited that since every man is the property of his Creator, he does not possess the authority to take his own life. By endangering his life with a cocaine habit, a man is, in a sense, in a state of war with himself. Therefore, the government has every right to intervene. Locke’s supporters might also respond to the drug argument by introducing the addict’s wife and children into the picture. They are probably just as affected by their loved one’s habit as he is, and a government has the responsibility to care for every single one of its citizens. Government intervention benefits them, as well.

Let’s return now to Locke’s critics, those who consider his form of government to be too limited. From Locke’s perspective, society exists to remove the distractions that might prevent a person’s life from taking its natural course. A government should not actively benefit its citizens as much as remove the prospect of harm from their daily lives. The merits of this system have been demonstrated, but the alternate point of view deserves some consideration. Locke’s critics believe that government should not be a passive entity that protects its citizens from harm that may or may not come in the state of nature. Rather, it should be a progressive, proactive institution whose function is to better the lives of those who have put it into power. If a man gives up his state of absolute freedom to take part in society, should he not receive more than protection against only the most basic of worries? His government should satisfy his every need, not just remove inconvenience.

To get a clear picture of the opposite view, of a state in which the governing body holds absolute authority over its citizens, examine the society proposed by Socrates in Book V of Plato’s Republic. Let’s examine his government’s position on a single issue, a man’s freedom to marry and procreate. In Socrates’ society, the government has enacted a breeding policy to ensure optimal results for each generation. Breeding “festivals” held at certain intervals throughout the year pronounce random pairings, chosen by drawing lots, as married couples for the duration of sexual intercourse. Certain males viewed by the ruling committee as the most admirable may have four or five partners during the festival so that their genes are more widely disseminated.

The resultant children are taken away from their birth mothers and raised together so that neither parent nor child knows who their blood relatives are. Children born within seven to ten months of each other are raised together and prohibited from copulating with each other in the future to prevent incest. A certain number of guardians are appointed to each group of children to educate them and make them into model citizens. Locke’s opponents would perhaps be more comfortable with this government that takes the arduous responsibility of rearing a child out of an everyday citizen’s hands.

Now, granted, Socrates’ society has taken the role of government to the opposite extreme. Proponents of a more involved government, especially in modern times, would still probably consider a federal breeding program to be a bit on the radical side. However, examining such an absurd example allows one to more easily assess the flaws of models with similar bases. The more power a person gives to the government, the less power he holds for himself, for better or for worse. Individual choice and personal liberty decrease as the government’s power increases. Locke has already described the states of nature and war, states without government that leave individuals to fend for themselves. This state is equally undesirable; Locke’s opponents would surely prefer even Locke’s minimalist government to anarchy.

At the end of the day, the basic issue is how much personal liberty someone is willing to sacrifice for the sake of safety, security, and, yes, convenience. A person has fewer responsibilities and, thus, fewer concerns as he gives his government more authority, but are not the choices men make and the rationale behind them the distinguishing characteristic of human beings? From a Lockian perspective, one could argue that God placed mankind on the earth without any kind of government, implying that He intended for him to live entirely without one. Unfortunately, dissidents from the natural law make some form of government necessary so that a man’s concerns can extend beyond his most basic needs.

Even without the invocation of God, though, a person’s free will and personal liberties are indispensable. The purpose of Locke’s government extends no further than, again, “peace, safety, and public good” (68) with its adherents’ complete consent. This seems more logical and fulfilling than an overbearing, interfering regime bent on self-optimization.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Why I Write

I feel like I’ve been going through a bout of writer’s block lately. I’ll sit down to write a short story or a blog entry or something and end up discarding it after half a page or so. To combat this, I’ve set a goal for myself – every day this week, I’m going to sit down and whip out 650-700 words, one single-spaced page. Call it a way to get the creative juices flowing again. I’m not expecting brilliance, but maybe I’ll come up with a seed that I can turn into something worthwhile later on.

A logical question is why I feel this need to get myself back on track, writing-wise. Long story short, I enjoy it. I like putting my thoughts down on paper, organizing them, giving them eloquence. It always takes me a while to get started (the first page of an essay usually takes about three times as long to write as any of the succeeding ones), but once I fall into a groove, I just plain lose track of time. I become absorbed in the words I’ve written, whether what I’ve just written is any good, how I can make it better, where, if anywhere, I’m going with it, etc.

Example: I had to write a short story for my creative writing class a few weeks ago. I started and abandoned two stories in the week leading up to the due date because I just wasn’t feeling them. The story was due at two p.m. on a Wednesday; my third attempt, the one I ended up turning in, I started late Monday night. I only have one class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which basically gave me the entire day to produce and proofread a fifteen-pager. That Tuesday, I wrote from about 11:30 in the morning to midnight solid, minus two short breaks for lunch and dinner. Not only did I not begrudge the amount of time I spent on this thing, I actively enjoyed it – finishing, I wished I had more to say and more time to say it. There are very few activities that I can just fall into like this without getting restless or distracted. I almost feel an obligation to myself to pursue it as much as possible.

The last time I felt prolific as a writer was when I had a Xanga during my sophomore and junior years of high school. I updated it pretty consistently, at least once a week, usually more. My material, however, left something to be desired – it didn’t really hit me until about a year after I gave it up what an unmitigated clusterfuck it was. Everything that a normal person would write in a private diary, I published on the Internet, blissfully unaware of the hole I dug deeper with each entry. I cursed people out by name, I bitched about my acne, about how I didn’t have a girlfriend, about how lonely I was because no one ever called me, etc. I can’t believe anyone could write so naively about such personal subject matter, let alone me, but then, I can’t believe I did a lot of the stuff that I did during high school.

My point is that I enjoy writing, but I equally enjoy people reading what I write. George Orwell was right – the number one reason that writers do what they do is sheer egoism. I could have just vented my problems into some secret Microsoft Word file and never looked at them again, but at the time, I felt that everything I had to say was worth sharing with the world. I’d say I’m better now, but I’m not. I’m just wiser. I’m more discerning about what I can post here and what I should probably keep private. My egoism is probably best evidenced by my project for this week. It’d be easier to just blather about some issues that have been on my mind lately in a spiral notebook or something, but it seems like a waste to let a week’s worth of work go unseen by anyone except me.

I already have some topics in mind for my next couple self-mandated assignments, which itself is half the battle. The fact that I’m looking forward to sitting down tomorrow and starting my next “column,” if you want to call it that, gives me hope that I might actually stick with it. I’m a very bad self-motivator, as anyone who knows me can attest. I’m well past my quota for the day, so I’m off to start a philosophy essay about how Communism is a worthy ideal in theory if not in practice. Reference number five in my previous post. Wish me luck.

Things That Make Me Feel Like a College Student

Things that make me feel like a college student:

1. Buying milk from CVS and carrying it home in a plastic shopping bag
2. Drinking non-coffee liquids out of a coffee mug
3. Taking a shower at two in the morning
4. Riding the bus with my backpack in my lap
5. Reading the Communist Manifesto
6. Eating in restaurants back home and wondering for a split second why no one else in there is my age
7. Sleeping for four hours when I meant to sleep for one. One and a half, tops.
8. Wearing a fedora
9. Taking my shirt off upon entering my dorm room for no particular reason

...and more as I happen to think of them.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

The Night I Met You

To practice fiction writing, I had the idea to take snippets from movies or TV shows and turn them into short stories. I already have dialogue and characters, all I have to do is make it read well. My first project is one of my all-time favorite scenes from LOST. This comes from the Season 3 episode "Greatest Hits." The clip is here: http://youtube.com/watch?v=5bGiJ-9DwWk

I was walking through the wreckage. Groups huddled here and there around makeshift campfires. Everyone’s adrenaline had finally worn off, and people just looked tired more than anything else. Scanning their faces, I saw no fear, no pain, not even apprehension, just fatigue. Some of these people probably knew each other. Husbands were probably reassuring their wives that rescue was on the way, holding them close, thanking God for their own survival. It would have been nice to have someone to curl up to like that, but I wasn’t jealous. Settling down with someone had never been my style. Anyway, I wasn’t the only loner; there were plenty of people sitting by themselves, staring into the fire, rubbing cuts and bruises absentmindedly. I was looking around to confirm that I wasn’t alone in being alone when I saw her.

She was beautiful. Blonde, about my height, probably three times as wide due to the almost perfect semicircle that arched from below her breasts to her waist. The pregnancy was important because it reassured me that my attraction to her wasn’t sexual. She was also alone, looking for a place to turn in for the night. I watched her select a patch of sand sheltered by part of the wall of the main cabin and suddenly realized that I was walking towards her. It didn’t hit me until that moment how much I wanted to talk to someone. I hesitated for a moment, pulled back the hood of my jacket, ran my hand through my hair, picked up an airplane blanket at my feet. I smiled and raised my hand in a half wave as I reached her.

“Hiya,” I said. I held out my opening line. “Do you want a blanket?”

She looked up at me and smiled. “Oh, thanks. I got one.” There it was, on her other side. Of course. Stupid.

I kept my arms extended, though. “Well, you’re warming for two. Take mine.”

She kept looking at me for a second, then down at her feet, a gesture of concession. “Thank you.” She reached out to take it. Our fingers brushed.

I sat down beside her and rubbed my hands together, to stall for time as much as to warm my fingers. Humor. Go with humor. “So, first plane crash?”

“What gave it away?”

“Ah, you can always spot the newbies.” She laughed, and because she laughed, I did, too. Whatever initial awkwardness or tension she might have felt had dissipated into the night. We were together, had survived a colossally rare event together, and we were able to laugh about it. It seemed to me that that was all that mattered. “We’re gonna be okay, you know.”

Her smile faded. “Are we?” An honest question.

“We’re alive,” I told her. “We’re on a beautiful island. We’ll sleep under the stars, and before you know it, the helicopters’ll come and take us home.”

“You really think they’ll find us?”

It was something that had to be on everyone’s mind, at least subconsciously. Of course I had no way of knowing if they were on their way, if they even knew where to look, but I’m sure no one believed that we wouldn’t be rescued immediately. Rescue was an expectation, not a hope. “Well, yeah, why wouldn’t they?”

I could tell by her expression that we shared the same optimism, that she had been looking for someone to confirm it. She made eye contact with me. “Thanks.”

“I’m Charlie.” I held out my hand.

“I’m Claire.” She shook it. My hands were calloused from decades of guitar playing. Hers were soft. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”

We pulled our hands back but I kept looking at her. She had blue eyes. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

The Loner

Whenever I see people sitting by themselves, at lunch, in coffee shops, in the Quad, whatever, I don’t think twice about it. Sometimes they have a book – they’re studying, I shouldn’t bother them. Even if they don’t, if they’re just sitting there, it’s not really notable. Everyone needs some alone time now and then. When I’m by myself in public, though, I feel like people are watching me. “Why doesn’t he have friends?” they must be thinking. “What a freak.” They think I’m sad and lonely, even if I’m not.

Part of it could be my neutral facial expression. I’ve noticed it when I look in the mirror in the morning. When I’m not smiling or laughing, I look pretty serious. Grim, even. My eyes are narrow and slit, my mouth a tight line. I’m looking at it now in the mirror over the couch. Nothing’s wrong; I’m in a pretty good mood, actually, truth be told. It’s gorgeous out, I’m done with homework (minus some preliminaries for an open-book Spanish quiz tomorrow), I just had an impromptu reminiscence session about last year’s B2 in the Quad with some friends, and there’s a new episode of Lost (!!!) on tonight. Doesn’t get much better than that. My face has no business looking like it does. Maybe if I widened my eyes and parted my lips a little. Then it wouldn’t look like someone just died while I’m just enjoying a cup of coffee. Call it a project to work on.

Still, there’s something about that guy sitting by himself in a room full of different groups of friends. People talking probably don’t give it a second thought, but that guy feels like he’s in the spotlight. The solo artist in a room full of cliques. I don’t like feeling that way, so I try to surround myself with friends wherever I go. It’s just dinner, my body needs sustenance. It’s science. For the longest time, though, I wouldn’t go anywhere in Austin by myself. I’d call three, four people without success before resigning myself to going to Wendy’s alone. It’s chicken nuggets at 1 a.m., not the social event of the season. I didn’t get that till last semester.

It’s not what I think or what other people think; it’s what I think other people are thinking as I plop down in a booth by myself. They must think that I look lonely, they must think I wish I had friends to enjoy my bagel and coffee with. Do I? Sure. I think everyone prefers company to solitude. Whenever I see someone glance over at me, I want to explain that I’m just looking for a quiet place to read, that I’m grabbing a snack before a meeting, that Danny and Sean and Tim are all in class right now. I don’t care, and they don’t care, but I think they care, and that makes all the difference. That’s why I feel as awkward as I do.

No worries. I’ll learn to deal with it.