The Person in a Place in a World

I've always been a fan of authors like Robert Munch and Dr.Seuss and Shel Silverstein. When I was a kid and only just learning how to read, it was those authors, among others, that really taught me the beauty of words. They also taught me how to look at the world; they taught me how to keep my head up, my eyes open, and to always look at what's around me. And so, I wanted to try and do that myself. I wanted to try to teach a lesson. Here's my attempt at a children's story.

The Person in a Place in a World

Once there was a person. And the person lived in a place. And the place existed in
a world.

And the person was a curious person. And the place was a curious place. And the world was a curious world.

Since the person was curious, he wanted to know. And since the place was curious, and the world was curious, they wanted to know. And so the curious world asked the curious place,

“Where is that curious person going?”

And the curious place didn’t know. And so the curious place asked the curious person,

“Where are you going?”

And the curious person didn’t know. And so the curious person asked its self,

“Where am I going?”

And since the curious person didn’t know, he went.

The curious person went into the curious place that existed in the curious world until a thing came across the path.

And this thing was a curious thing that met a curious person that lived in a curious place that existed in a curious world. And since the thing was curious, it asked the person,

“Where are you going?”

And the curious person answered,

“I don’t know. Would like you to join me?”

And the curious thing answered,

“Yes.”

And then the curious thing and the curious person went into the curious place in the curious world until they came across a hard-thing.

And this hard-thing was a not a curious hard-thing, but still it asked the curious thing and the curious person,

“What are you doing?”

And the curious thing and the curious person answered,

“We’re going.”

“Going where?”

“Well, we don’t know.”

“Then why are you going?”

“Well, just to go.”

“And why?”

“Well, we suppose it’s because we wouldn’t be doing anything else otherwise.”

And the curious thing and the curious person went some more into the curious place that existed in the curious world while the hard-thing just stayed and was not curious.

Eventually, they came to know where they were going.

Blackmail

This is me avoiding our final project. These are also your classmates. This was fun.









I expect you all there next time (May?)

Songs and Habits

Everybody has habits; those things that people do in their everyday life that they do absolutely every day. I can’t leave my house without all my little bangles and bits; my friend can’t go to school without going to the bar and having a beer with his friends. In fact, it’s not just my buddy who has his watering hole; everybody has a place where they can feel at ease outside of work or school or their house; the home isn’t always the most stress free of places. Me, I have two places: my campus bar, and Nanta. At the Liberty Lounge at school I always have a great time mingling with the other students who go there. Admittedly, that place is one of higher learning and so, typically the people who go there have something meaningful and interesting to say; it’s just so much fun to have a conversation with them.

But at Nanta…oh Nanta. I’ve never seen a place where so many cultures criss and cross and mingle in such a complete and alcohol induced way; it’s a beautiful thing. At Nanta, a person could sing, if they so choose, in Chinese, Japanese, Korean, English; in almost any language they could want to. As a consequence Chinese people, Japanese people, Korean and English people among others all go there on Friday night and pack the place with all kinds of revelry. From the table three ways down you’ll hear a group cheers, “Kanpai!” and at the group just a few seats down from your own you’ll hear some others cheers , “Kanpei!” You’ll hear people yell, “Ganbatte!” and “Do your best!” and “Salute!” And when you go up to sing, all those different kinds of cheers will be yelled at you, almost teasing you to let just a little looser. It’s one of the most fun places in the world; at Nanta, there are no borders between countries.

That’s the problem with the world. In high school students all break off into cliques, and then they stick with those cliques throughout most of their life. Emos, punks, metal-heads, preps, chachs, nerds, Christians, Catholics, Asians; the list goes on and on, and none of it makes sense; borders are put up during what’s “supposed” to be the most fun times of our lives, and then fights start, and people get hurt all because they think that they’re so different. I remember reading once that between the races there’s a genetic difference of less than .0009%. I’m not even sure if that’s the real number, but I know that whatever the number is, it sure is pretty small. If there were someone out there who could figure out the real difference between people and give it a name, I think they would call it something like ‘genetic personality difference disorder’. It’s an innate thing, and it’s a damn shame that it’s just so ingrained into people. Personally, I think people might get a long a lot better if they just went up on stage once in a while and sang a song in French to cheers of “Kanpai!” “Kanpei!” “Ganbatte!” and “Do your best!”

Tennis courts and a chain-linked fence

The road to my house is very plain and uninteresting. At the first corner of my community and across the plain and uninteresting road, there is a community center. The grounds of that center are well kept; there’s a fountain during the summer that turns into a skating rink during the winter; there are tennis courts, surrounded by high, black, chain-linked fences. I almost never see anybody there. When I do see them, they’re walking around, hunched, looking at the ground in the same way I do, when the weight of the world sits high on my shoulders.

Turning the corner all you’ll see lining the road are houses. Those houses sit almost exactly but not quite 5 feet apart from each other; rows of houses where every third one down looks exactly the same as the third one down. A little farther down that road is a park to the right that’s painted in bright dull hues of blue, red, and yellow. I never see kids playing in that park. This makes me worry about a lot of things, and has made me make decisions about the direction of my own life.

Communities like the one I live in are boring. I see no people, and those people see no people, and those people that aren’t seen also see no people. It’s a dull way to live, and I don’t want it. I’ve noticed that in my own life it’s only away from home where I can mingle and enjoy the company of others, and I don’t think it should be this way. Nothing exciting ever happens in that community.

And people are content. Or so it seems. I would say that they’re more comfortable than anything else. They live in their box, and do nothing interesting outside of taking care of that box. At the place I work at I rent out tools to those comfortable people, and when I ask them what’s new and exciting, they have nothing to say. Typically the conversation ends, with a shrug of the shoulders, a tilt of the head, and a “Nothing really.”

You know, I can only speculate so much. I realise that what I’m saying is a bit biased and unfounded, but I can’t help but think those plain people in their plain houses on their plain road have helped me in a way. Being as young as I am, I don’t really have a direction in life and it’s really easy for people as young as me to become complacent in the environment around us. I remember these two guys who went to high school with me who still have the same job they had when they were fifteen years old. They go to work every day, they have weekends off, they have a car, a house, a girlfriend; they don’t wish for anything much more exciting than that.

Maybe it’s just me who thinks this, but being young is not taken advantage of all too often; I see it happening all the time all around me. If this is how the world’s next generation of leaders are going to be, well, I can’t say I expect much. There’s a time and place for everything, and when you’re twenty one and able, it’s time to see everything the world has to offer, rather than being happy in a community where the center has a fountain that turns into a skating rink during the winter, and tennis courts typically surrounded by high, black, chain-linked fences.

Silly Moth

The silly moth drives itself toward the flame of a night exhaustively. Drawn by unknowable forces, it endlessly drives toward the heat and the light. The moth completely disregards safety, it is completely oblivious to the flames harsh bite. Even after it is burned, it continues the tireless race toward the uncatchable attraction hidden somewhere within light. These poor moths play the same game every night, uncontrollably, inexplicably, irrepressibly. This pathetic dance of death with light, when observed from the human eye, is perceived as humorous, a bit puzzling, perhaps with a tinge of annoyance. But, is it beautiful? Hardly, the poor moth is looked on with contempt and amusement. Its passionate pact of dance unto death with fire just exemplifies the little insect’s insect brain, doing what it has been programmed to do. Stupid little moth! Thank you for showing us your clear inferiority, your helpless efforts cause me a small degree of satisfaction. It is not beautiful, no.

But what if the moth knew what the fire would bring? What if the moth, clearly conscious of the injuries awaiting him, does it anyway? The moth’s determination to capture the fire’s essence propels him forward, always to be burned by the fire’s cold heat. Still, the moth urges on, hazard falls to the wayside; though you shall burn me, the chase is worth it! The thrill of being in pursuit of that what seems unattainable, it’s worth it! There is nothing else on this world of more value than the fire’s cruel temptation. I shall solve your riddle fire, I shall share your essence. Beautiful.

Shlalta

Last year I took a philosophy class and used this notepad to record some of my thoughts on the topic. On the top of one of its pages, resting next to an abstract doodle, stood the word Shlalta. Shlalta, what could it mean? What could it possibly signify? I had no idea. If it were intended as an acronym to remember some philosophical concept it certainly didn’t work. It wasn’t an English word either, it had more of an aura of Aramaic. Hmm, Shlalta.

It begins with a soft but commanding sh. This sh is than immediately followed by an l. This awkward l brings your whole tongue to the front, jamming up the revolving door of the mouth. The awkwardness gets extended, elongated, exacerbated by the A that follows and the painful knowledge that there’s another l just around the corner. Shlal, like an old comedy routine, these five letters all try to get through the door first and fail miserably. But, not to worry! These bungling fools do get the release they so desperately seek. The Ta. Ah the Ta! It expands the doorway and springs the shlal and all the tension it created. The way of the Ta frees the words from their awkward bindings and allows it to romp happily through the conversational landscape. It becomes a word to congratulate with: “It’s a girl? Shlalta!”. Or the name of a ritualistic ceremony: “I’d love to come but my nephew’s Shlalta is next Tuesday and I can’t miss it”. Conversely, it could be a place to put things. “It’s over there, on the Shlalta” or something your Grandmother makes when you’re down. “Don’t worry my dear, Grandma is going to make you some nice baked Shlalta!” Mmm, baked Shlalta. You prefer fried Shlalta, but are you going to say that to your Grandmother? Of course not! You will say “Grandma, it’s the best Shlalta I’ve ever had”.

And it will be.

A