tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55466284880534989012024-03-12T18:47:16.363-07:00PolymathophiliaUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-64944310021918539502018-05-21T19:43:00.000-07:002018-05-21T19:43:31.643-07:00blood bowl miniatures<br />
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<br />Scipio Africanushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10335193819627977761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-51541424767046241962018-02-11T07:21:00.000-08:002018-02-11T07:21:04.670-08:00Filled with the Spirit: The conclusion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you, dear reader, are of the artistically inclined approach to culinary adventures you will have, indubitably, attempted to separate an egg yolk from the egg white without using a plastic marvel of the egg separating art but instead have chosen to suss out the bimodal internals of the chicken seed by using simply the shell itself. Have you attempted this, as I am confident you have, you may have met with some startling early success. Eventually however, as is the case with all egg separators, there will come a time when shifting the egg white from the yolked half of shell you will become blindly over confident. You will reach for the stars in your haste and overtip the dominant hand to coax the belligerent globule of white into the waiting empty shell. In that moment of carefree nonchalance maybe you will cry over your shoulder, "Oh yeah I do it this way all the time." Or maybe shift your hips a bit to some smooth cooking jazz. You are indeed the master of the universe. Then your confident heart freezes in doubt and terror as the desperate eggwhite, clutching precariously to the yolk strikes out with its sinuous membranes and the egg yolk begins to slip. Your heart stops, time seems to freeze, you have lost all control of your hands as you helplessly watch the yolk slip into open air. Thankfully it is going to fall into the awaiting open shell already filled with separated egg white. You see it land unevenly on the edge of the shell, you attempt to tip the lower shell outward gently to preserve the yolk and your dignity. Then, as by some cruel machination of oological malice, the yolk slips, falls, and breaks amongst the food waste and sullied dishes of your less than meticulously maintained sink. The yolk seems almost whole but the streak of yellow racing towards the drain, old oatmeal like islands of mockery in the river of despair confirm to you that all hope is lost. The shells remain frozen in your hands as the white also falls unnoticed by your dead eyes staring mindlessly into the distance.<br />
<br />
The booking officer of the downtown police precinct was consulting with a sergeant when they both looked up to see Andromeda Crab enter the station under the cautious gaze of Officer Grizzly. <br />
<br />
"Public Intoxication for this one, was going to see the mayor," [guffaws all around], "Figured a few hours in the tank should clear things up for her." The Sergeant returned to looking at the stack of papers in his hands as the booking officer prepared for a new guest at the cinder block motel. "Going to save the world, she said, 'Extremely' important news for the Mayor's ears only." With that the Sergeant looked up, expectantly, and curiously deep into Andrea's eyes. This was the moment she had been waiting for, her one chance to let the truth out before wasting precious time in the drunk tank. And the egg hit the sink.<br />
<br />
The moment passed. The Sergeant took his papers and returned to his desk. The booking officer shuffled some papers. Andrea pulled the trinket out of her pocket. The shine and swirl was all gone. Just a cheap trinket from the dollar store. </div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-43053115653646180142018-02-09T04:50:00.002-08:002018-02-09T04:50:20.501-08:00Filled with the Spirit 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Most of us who have the benefit of having our High School days behind us look back and see that they were not, after all, the best days of our lives, though the lonely and overworked staff of the establishment continued to tout it as such. The past is, as the Greeks said, in front of us as we back into the unknown future. It is framed on the shelf, remembered poorly, and filled with sweet reminiscence and chest compressing regrets. It is static, safe, and preserved. To fly forward, as it were, back into the crystalline past is not something that the human mind is designed or acculturated for. It is a shock not only to the cardiovascular system; and in the case of Andromeda Crab the digestive system, it is also a debilitating jolt to the mind. Andromeda was full of carbs and pork fat, the caffeine beginning to coarse through her system and she strode confidently out of ShoeHorn's FlapJackStack, the brass bell on the door triumphantly announcing her arrival into a world that had just met its match.<br />
<br />
The warm sun shone on her griddle-food flushed face and she began to strut down the street, ready to save the world. She passed a few noble citizens, eyes cast down to the pavement, but she had bigger fish to fry and in our marvelous age of mass media telecommunication she knew she had to go straight to the top. After only a few steps however her strut degraded to a saunter which degraded into a shuffle. The bright morning sun pierced to the depths of her hung over mind with a cleaving pain that quickly expelled the authoritative posture of righteous justice and salvific fury. Her confident, bright eyes quickly turned into a one eyed squint as she edged sideways up the sidewalk. One hand on her throbbing temple she made her way, more slowly now, to save the world. She wanted so badly to lay down, to rest. She would have cried had she not been so afraid that sobs would bifurcate her brain into neat hemispheres. The TV station now seemed like a distant mirage, a dream of extraordinary distance 5 excruciating blocks away. As she leaned against the rough brick facade of a shoe repaireman's shop ("Save your sole with Jesus Peletero" Hours: T 10am-12pm TH 3pm-5pm) she saw an officer of the peace standing wide legged at the next intersection in the shadow of a giant Greek revival edifice. <br />
<br />
As she approached she saw the giant white marble structure before her was, indeed, City Hall. She had made it to A top, if not THE top she intended to go straight to. With the police office overwatching traffic it was as if she had her own escort, a personal entourage as she brought her treasure of revelation to the world. Grateful for the shade cast down from the huge government building, she stood up a little straighter and headed towards the granite steps across the street. The moment her booted foot stepped down on black asphalt she heard from behind her a confident, slow but sharp, "Excuse me, miss?"<br />
<br />
Andromeda turned around: one foot in the street, one foot on the sidewalk and saw the officer was looking at her with the casual curiosity of a bear waking up from hibernation. "Good morning ma'am. Where are you off to this morning." Suddenly Andrea was painfully aware of how this whole situation looked to the officer: A hard partying, partially inebriated woman was shambling towards city hall. Whatever her intentions, if City Hall was her destination something needed to be said.<br />
<br />
"I'm ssorry offfisser. I know what thiss looks like..." {suppressed burp] "...I have something very important for the mayor. We are all in danger, the whole worldsss in danger. I need to see him...right away. You can esscort me if you like." And with that Andromeda Crab turned and took a step across the street. And with that Andromeda Crab felt a hand upon her shoulder. And shortly after a stream of words in which "Public intoxication" were two and "Not seeing the mayor today" were a few more she finally received her police escort along with another change in destination.</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-11642793233506027932017-12-23T13:19:00.001-08:002017-12-23T13:22:56.535-08:00Generations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
**<br />
I wrote this a few days ago but I still think it is true so I'll post it. This is not a diary of my own family life, we avoided some of these trends, but it is a collection of observations from my own family and those individuals and communities that were around me as I grew<br />
**<br />
Yesterday I experienced the closest thing to prejudice that I probably ever will. Now I'm not in any way claiming to be a victim of prejudice. I'm a cis-gendered straight white male in his 30s, I'll be just fine. What I found interesting was observing the process and noticing how it made me feel. While talking with two baby boomers, "Millennials" come up. The one speaker was remarking on how a student of hers wanted to be given credit for a wrong answer because the student had put in the effort of answering. Then the other speaker told the joke, "You know how to confuse a Millennial? Show them a first place trophy." I get it, I even think it is funny, but I did think it was strange to tell Millennial jokes like a millennial wasn't standing right there. But I've also noticed this happen when someone tells a "Mexican" joke in front of a Mexican like they haven't heard it before. I've probably done the same thing when I was young, insensitive, stupid, and ignorant. I also thought it was funny that 2 boomers, the generation that handed out these participation trophies, are the ones having this discussion. But I'll come back to that later. I made a quick jest to try and change the topic before I stumbled onto my generational anthropology soap box. In response to this Speaker One said, "Oh I know, I know, but you are the exception, you have a work ethic."<br />
<br />
Now that hit me two ways. Way number one was that I felt a little proud after the pat on the head from my elder. I had somehow beat the odds and made something of myself in spite of my generational cultural baggage. This feeling quickly turned to being irked that I so quickly and easily allowed myself to glow after being patted on the head. But secondly I was a little peeved that making something of yourself was the exception to the rule. We live in a country where quite a few of the most powerful, most wealthy, most influential people are millennials. I would be interested to know if any other generation in the last 100 years was as involved in shaping their culture and economy in their 20s & 30ss as millennials have been.<br />
<br />
Afterwards I thought about how I have seen these backhanded compliments being used on people who suffer real consequences of prejudice and it got me a bit fired up. "It's great to see someone from your background become successful." "I'm so happy to see a black father engaged with his children." Now I know, being a white person of extraordinary privilege, that these people of extraordinary privilege are trying to say something positive and encouraging with these compliments. But these compliments, the racial "you look so pretty when you smile, you should smile more" statements serve to further re-enforce the systems and mindsets that create the inequalities that justify the statements in the first place.<br />
<br />
But this is not what I wanted to write about, what I was churning through my head as I went to bed last night. Talking about micro-aggressions and well intentioned prejudice seems to trigger too many people. So I wanted instead to provide what the world has been waiting with baited breath to hear, my view on Ustatian generational anthropology.<br />
<br />
Lets start at the turn of the century. You have a generation filled with tangible fear of the coming modern age. From J.R.R. Tolkien to the Spanish Modernists you see a growing fear of the world of smoke and machines. A steam punk dystopia grinding humanity between its gears of industry, cities wreathed in black smoke, and slick with oil. This is the generation of great disappointment. The marvel of the world's fair and the coming of a new age of humanity had given way to the fire, mud, and blood of industrialized warfare. Gone was the glorious empires and the next step for humanity. In its place was senseless slaughter, the desperate hedonism of the roaring 20s, and the bleak hunger of the Great Depression.<br />
<br />
Next we have the greatest generation. If not having actual memories of the Great Depression they were definitely shaped by parents who had raised them in hunger and hopelessness. World War II came in the blossom of their youth and they answered the call and died by the droves. It is good for us younger folks to keep in mind that as horrifying the losses of Vietnam or the terrors of the modern wars have been, about 3 times as many soldiers died in combat in WWII as Ustatians have died in combat in all the wars since. It was a huge blow to the population and the psyche of this country. And the Greatest Generation earned their title in that war. Serving with honor and bravery to stop the spread of genocidal fascism. That is undeniable. Was it a war filled with mistakes and senseless slaughter? Of course. But it was probably the last war that could be easily argued as being "good", maybe ever. Now the survivors of this war came home to factories emptied of man power and a broken world economy hungry for Ustatian goods. And so they worked and thrived. I saw a comic this last week of a man in 1950s garb saying, "It's pay day. I'll get some dinner and then buy a house or something." The ease at which a white man could get a good paying job, buy and pay off a house, and live debt free have not been seen since.<br />
<br />
But the Greatest Generation was not without their faults. Raised in the desperate straights of poverty their childhoods were not always happy. Child labor, alcoholic parents, abuse, and deprivation mark the stories of many of the early lives of that generation that I have talked to. They were not trained to be nurturing and loving parents, especially the men, and with many of them coming home from combat with what we would now call PTSD they didn't tend to grow into it. Something interesting to me is how many of this generation were pretty great grandparents though they struggled fiercely in the parenting department. Maybe a softening of age, maybe learning to do it better 30 years later, who knows. But the shock of hearing what my parents' experience with their parents was in comparison to my own experience with my grandparents I'm sure I share with many others. And so the WWII generation came home, worked, lived, drank beer and watched football. They bought sweet cars, houses with white picket fences, and saved tons of money because they hated to spend it in case the terror of '29 came back to haunt them.<br />
<br />
And they had sex. Lots of pent up, heal the internal wounds of combat sex and had children by the droves. And those children lived in wonderful Leave it to Beaver homes. Or not really. I haven't talked to many Boomers who had childhoods like the Andy Griffith show. Radio and Television were their escape from emotionally distant if not abusive alcoholic parents trying desperately to build their dream life and sooth the wounds of poverty, war, and abuse. And their parents built up comfort and security by big savings accounts, a nice car, and a nice house. But their children grew up seeing piles of wealth you couldn't touch and in the midst of an exploding materialistic culture they grew up resenting the comfort of their parent's generation. None of this is morally judgmental, just my observations. I don't think the Greatest Generation were horrible parents because they were horrible people. They just didn't have a lot of tools to deal with the lives they had lived and the 35 children now running around their feet. So Dad came home, turned on the TV, drank a beer, and looked forward to getting away and fishing on the weekend. Mother put on her pearls, snuck vodka neat from the liquor cabinet, and waited for that promised trip to Bora Bora. They were broken people surviving as best they knew how. But they raised a generation that was deeply unhappy with the lives they had been given. The 60s and 70s are the proof of a generation that was discontent with the current order. Some of those changes were good and needed to happen. But they were the chants and protests of an angry generation who had wanted something from their parents that their parents could not give. And as the Greatest Generation came into power and continued to horde resources and make war, which is what they were conditioned to do, their children despise them for it. And the Boomers were called lazy and transient and idealistic. Interesting.<br />
<br />
Then the Boomers started to have kids and things changed quickly. The Utopian dreams of their youth were exchanged for the security and safety that they had so despised in their parents. But where the children of the depression saved their wealth the children of untouchable wealth splurged it. The Greatest Generation had given their children what they wanted most: safety and security. Their children, in turn, gave their offspring what they never had. Piles and piles of stuff. Where the Greatest Generation had an excellent factory job that turned 40 hours a week into all the comfort they had ever imagined, the Boomers in the slinking economies of the 70s and 80s had to work themselves to the bone with long hours to buy the toys they wanted for themselves and their children. And so they were gone. Children grew up with keys around their necks on a strand of yarn and came home to empty, pristine houses filled with toys and comfortable abandonment. Parents showed up to chew out teachers and host extravagant vacations so that their children would not know the rigors of their childhood. They protected their children from the cruel world but were never home to show them how to live in it.<br />
<br />
Where the previous generation had been present but emotionally absent the boomers were emotionally more available but physically out of the picture. They came home with their good intentions to eat a quick dinner at their desk to wrap up their finance reports. Their boats spent all summer in the driveway because they never had the time to enjoy them. And surrounded with everything they ever wanted they tended to spend most of their evenings, like their fathers: exhausted and depressed in front of the TV.<br />
<br />
Now the Millennials come on the scene. The factory jobs of their grandfathers are gone, the cheap college of their parents a dream, and the thriving job market moved overseas. I had many friends who were promised lucrative careers that were almost completed outsourced in the 4 years it took them to finish college. And without the promised 6 figures they had been guaranteed, the gamble of a significantly more expensive education sent them back home to their mother's basement. Yes our generation has a reputation for being low in grit and tenacity. But this is not without its causes. A plush comfortable life filled with video games instead of parents. Participation awards from coaches who were never quite good enough themselves in their own father's eyes and couldn't bear to see the same sadness in ours. We were promised a life of luxury and then handed an economy that was stripped of its jobs but still carrying the weight of the highest college cost in recent history on our backs. Raised without having to fight for anything we were then thrown into the Colosseum of life. We were told to fight our way out by the very ones who had, in the best intentions, protected us from the rigors of training for it. Who had only ever fought for stuff and not for us. They did exactly what they wanted from their parents. Stay at work so you hit me less and come home to only give me toys. But that dream was empty and left children just as empty as the generation that had dreamt them.<br />
<br />
And just as each generation resents the dreams of their parents we as Millennials resent the material thirsts of our parents. We want to actually live our life instead of dreaming of using a boat we never have time to play in because the payments are too high. We want to have families and spend times with them because ours never did. Our the pain of family is too fresh and we don't want them at all. And we don't know how to fight and work and suffer because we never had a chance at it before. Are we still responsible for our lives and decisions, absolutely. Are we still responsible for our failures? 100%. Just don't be quick to blame the cookies for not turning out if there is flour on your hands. And don't forget that the culture is changing, just like it did when you were in your 20s and 30s. The values are shifting, once again. Some for the good and some for the bad. Give us a chance to learn to fight and you might just be surprised at what we can do.</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-34874289878244475602017-12-15T09:21:00.000-08:002017-12-23T13:19:56.335-08:00Filled with the Spirit: Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Andromeda Crab stumbled out of the alley into the blinding light of the morning sun. She was still hungover, still being torn apart inside, and insatiably hungry. These three driving forces were pushing her into divergent directions: To lay down, to shout from the mountaintops, and to eat the largest breakfast the nearest diner could serve her. She didn't know which way to proceed so she looked around her for the easiest goal to accomplish. In front of her stood an old brick building which read ShoeHorn's FlapJackStack and she knew which of her three pressing needs would be addressed first. The small bell on the door rang as she pushed through the door and smelled the comforting aroma of a hot griddle, potatoes, and fat. The place was small with a line of booths against the wall to the right and the bar running down the middle facing the kitchen against the left wall. The 5 or so diners were face down in their meals and the air was filled with sizzle, clink, and chew. Andrea was frozen, standing in the doorway, in a dream of comforting satiation when the smell of roasted coffee beans filled her nostrils and she sat down at the farthest booth and opened up a menu.<br />
<br />
"Coffee will do the trick nicely", mumbled Andrea under her breath and started riffling through the listing of local fare.<br />
<br />
A note for travelers wondering this great nation. Consuming breakfast at a local establishment is a treasured tradition among all classes of Ustations. Depending on your geographical location and the desire for the local denizens to live in safety and comfort will generally dictate at what sort of establishment they will break their morning fast. In high-falooting circles this meal is often referred to as brunch. Brunch is generally considered a wonderful opportunity to not only eat very small portions of artistically arranged food but, more importantly, an excuse to drink alcohol with breakfast. Since Brunch is a combination of two separate meals there is a premium for this convenience and eating your breakfast and lunch together will usually cost you 3 times what it would have cost you to eat them separately, but again...alcohol. The working class will usually opt for establishments which can be described as holes-in-the-walls, local joints, and greasy spoons. These, like the one Andromeda is currently eating at, tend to be smaller operations and tend to have, in fact, greasy spoons. They are not places where one "watches one's cholesterol" but tend to avail the customer of an opportunity to consume massive amounts of calories for a low price. Some of these are exactly what you pay for. Simply because it has the allure and questionable food hygiene of a diamond in the rough does not mean that it is, in fact, a diamond. It may just be the rough. But occasionally a traveler will stumble upon a true treasure where the price of the food does not justify the quality of the meal. Not everything will be good but something will be excellent. For example the breakfast sausages served at Rubin's on Loraine Ave in Cleveland, Ohio (although this tends to be the very top crust limit of the greasy spoon sphere as the tables are clean, there is no duct tape on any of the upholstery, and none of the waiting staff seem to billow cigarette smoke from their clothes). Finally we have the suburban classes. These breakfast eaters tend to sit in 2 separate categories. Living in the suburbs generally assumes that one is attempting to cast an illusion of one variety or another over their life and this is reflected in their breakfast choices. The first grouping will pretend that they are in deed high-falooting themselves and will eat at a suburban brunch location that offers the high prices of a real brunch provider but the convenience of not having to "go to the valley" as it were. The food quality is not as high but one hardly needs to drive on the freeway to get there. The second category of suburban diners eats at locations that offer the allure of a local joint without the health and safety violations. Although one will tend to not stain one's clothing by sitting in a booth at these establishments, the prices will be higher and the food cookie cutter. The real prize, if you are in one of these chain driven economies, is to find a location that used to be a greasy spoon but has grown into a respectable establishment but is not franchised in any way. A prime example being The Way Station Coffee Shop in Newhall, California. At any of these establishments if you are hungry, hungover, tired, and possibly have just completed a journey through both space and time always order something with the word "farmer" in the title and a coffee.<br />
<br />
"What do you want, hun?"<br />
<br />
"I'll have the Uncle Homer's Farmer's Breakfast...and a coffee." <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-20090135580164421422017-11-09T06:10:00.001-08:002017-12-23T13:20:09.792-08:00Filled With The Spirit: Part I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On October 3rd, 2017 KTWO: Montana reported the story of Bryant Johnson. Bryant claimed that aliens had filled his body with alchohol to send him 1 year back in time to warn that the end of the world was near and the aliens would arrive shortly. Humans should leave the planet as soon as possible.<br />
<br />
This is not his story, but he was not the first to be sent.<br />
<br />
Andromeda Crab woke up this morning like she woke up many mornings: in an alley, leaning against a dumpster, completely unaware of where or who she was. Not knowing who she was tended to pass. With a name like Andromeda Crab your self identity tends to have some sticking power. But the where, that was always tricky. She covered her sleep squinty eyes as the alley filled with the blaring red and blue of a passing emergency vehicle before fading back to the dull yellow of an old sulpher lamp reflecting off of the pools and puddles around her. The buzz of the lamps, the dripping of last night's rain, and the distant noise of the city gave Andrea few clues to her geographical location. Even with the clear indications of recent rain she was completely dry besides her back and the part of her denims that were touching the ground, those were soaked through.<br />
<br />
"Wherever I am, I haven't been here long," was the thought that tried to pry its way out of her mind and mouth. But the claws of her hungover brain kept the thought from fulling forming while a sound halfway between a mumble and a growl was the only thing that left her lips. As she staggered to her feet, leaning against the rusty blue dumpster she saw something shiny fall from her pocket and clatter onto the broken asphault. Staring at it quizickly she tried leaning over to pick it up but only succeeded in vomiting. Thankfully for her, and for you dear reader, she completely missed the shiny object with her exuberant reminiscence and after a few moments resting her sweat sodden head against the cold dumpster she was able to focus again on the object at her feet. It was silver, almost like a locket you would find at the dollar store, filled with a swirl of peacock green & blue. The center had a pearlescent shimmer like wet paint. She was almost afraid to pick it up and even quickly glanced at her jacket pocket to see if it had left a trail of wet pigment where it had fallen. But her jacket was clean, of paint anyway, and with puffed out cheeks, blowing lips, and bulging eyes she reached down to pick up the shiny trinket.<br />
<br />
It is a more strange aspect of the human condition that drives us to pick up whatever we have dropped, even if we don't know what it is. That one sock from the armfull of laundry which we will sacrifice an entire load of clean clothes for in our naive confidence to be able to maintain the load in our arms and somehow, holding the clothes with our chin, using our feet and one free hand, to try and get the thing which we have dropped. We will go through a box of junk from an old lady's house. We will confirm the contents are nothing of value and carry it to the dumpster waiting outside. If one trinket falls out the bottom we will stop, put down the box of trash, and pick up the thing that got away and, more likely than not, put that one piece of trash into our pocket. Maybe it was an old screw, the stem from a broken wine glass, or a shredded piece of newspaper but we will keep that piece of litter. Do we keep it because of its defiant will to live? Did we like the ring it made when it hit the ground? Maybe it is a momento of the hard work of cleaning out a dead lady's house. But I believe that it stems from a deep, ancient, evolutionary drive to pick up anything that fell, because... well... you never know when you might need it.<br />
<br />
Many times in the coming days, weeks, years did Andromeda wish that she had not, in a her drunken haze driven by an ancient compulsion, pick up that shiny bob lying on the grimy, rain soaked alley. That moment she wished he could have back. But instead of just straightening up and shambling out of the alley into the approaching dawn light, she reached down to pick it up. And the moment her finger touched it, everything changed.<br />
<br />
Adrea's mind swirled and raced. If you have ever seen an old science fiction movie's depiction of hyperspace travel, or watched any old movie where the main character had a trippy flashback of memories, you will know what Andrea saw. Outside her mind everything was blurry, distorted, and hazy. But inside her mind, the moment her finger contacted the peacock tricket, there was terrifying clarity. The images that swirled she new were real memories. The fear that filled her was measurable, sharp, and the thing she feared almost tangible. It was like waking up from a dream into a nightmare and Andrea did not like it one bit. Her body reacted to a mind full of memory and panic by emptying her stomach once again. The dischordant state between her drunken body and her vibrant mind seemed to want to biforcate the two part of her. There was a tearing sensation deep inside her brain and her body froze in that alley, all alone, like a hare spotting a child with a slingshot in the snow. She looked like she was about to run down the alley screaming. She looked like she was a marble edifice never to move again. She felt like the fiery boned prophets of old. Then again, thankfully, everything went dark.<br />
<br />
Waking up in the same alley on the same day forces the mind to experience a particularly strong sensation of deja vu. But the smell of her own vomit and the dumpster's contents warming in the morning sun brought a confirmation of the reality of her memories of the wee hours of that morning. Worse she saw the peackock colored trinket there by her feet. That part most of all she wished was a dream. She strained her mind to convince herself it had never happened, it was false, but her mind held the reality of it close like a child clutching her charred teadybear, standing on the lawn, watching her house burn down. And although Adromeda Crab had lied to herself most of her life she was unable to lie to herself now.<br />
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Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-83388875178876290862017-10-09T12:46:00.001-07:002017-10-09T12:46:41.849-07:00Hyderbadia: The Conquering Stillness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The fog hung over the city with a damp & smothering presence as Sruti ran through the tight alleys and passageways. The sweat poured freely from her face dripping with the dew as she darted between cover through the warren of the Hind quarter. She smiled as she heard the curses behind her as the hulking officers of Peace and Justice Corp battled through the detritus of poverty that lined these narrow passages. She grinned as she heard a particularly colorful aphorism as she turned into a dark passage and ran, full sprint, up a flight of stairs towards the top of an old prefab. Once she had gained the rooftop she leapt over the gap between where she ran and the adjoining building before the Korpers would have a line of sight between the buildings to the dark lit night sky illuminated through the soup by the gleaming towers of New City beyond.
Once across she doubled back home, passing silently above the officers’ heads on the rooftop above. She entered her home as quietly as she could, flushed with excitement and the adrenaline of the race but her efforts were in vain as the click of the flat’s locks rang through the apartment and a stern, “Sruti?” echoed through the hall.
Sruti sighed and leaned against the wall as she slipped of her boots and pulled off her rain soaked dupatta & jacket.
“Tali?” she said as she entered the small kitchen. “How was your day mama?”
“Don’t ‘How was your day’ to me, wilful girl! Where have you been? It is nearly midnight & your placements are tomorrow!”
Sruti tried to hide a groan under her troublemaker’s grin but she wasn’t sure if she was entirely successful. Being the 4th child and second daughter there was not nearly as much pressure on her to do well on the placement exam. Even if she did well her family wouldn’t be able to afford the cost of apprenticeship of school that a placement could earn her. She knew she would do well enough on the test to not bring shame on the family without placing the burden of added family expense that comes with a high ranking. But she usually was able to make a show of studying for her concerned mother who stubbornly held on to the notion that enough high marks among her children was all that was needed to secure them a brighter future than they had had. Ignoring all evidence from baba’s life to the contrary.
“Shopping.” Replied Sruti as she focused on removing the items from her bag.
“Shopping?! I sent you shopping 5 hours ago!" Her mother was not happy. The kind of anger that spouted from a marriage of frustration and concern. “What is his name?”
“Jeera.” Sruti replied as she continued to empty the bag of its contents.
“Jeera? What kind of name is that? You know how important your studdies are and to waste your day before placement exams with some ganj shooting punk named ‘Jeera’ the night before the biggest day of your life in totally unacceptable, Sruti, you need to take this more seriously.”
“Don’t worry mama, I’ll be fine,” said Sruti as she gave her mom a meaningful gaze.
“What do you mean you will be fine? Why are you looking at me like that?” And then just as she was drawing breath for the tirade she saw it. There on top of the pile of rice, atta, and onions was a small bag of jeera seeds and a few thin green chillies.
“Where did you get that?” said her mother, filled with fear and hope.
“It was on sale,” Sruti lied. She hadn’t thought through this part. This is where she had just planned to slip away.
“Sale?” her mother questioned, her fear mixing now with rage at being lied to. “For sale only? Jeera is never for sale. What did you agree to do for this? I’m sure if we just returned it without taking any seed then and explain maybe they would take it back. We can ask Sri Rao to help us.”
Sruti hardly even remembered what jeera tasted like but that didn’t matter. Three years ago baba had brought home 1 g of jeera for tali’s birthday. He must have been hiding away precious credits for months, maybe even years. Instead of cooking with it Mama would just sit in her chair and suck on one seed after the children had gone to bed. Once each of the children had been given one as well as mama reminisced dreamily about having jars of jeera and other spices and dumping them copiously into every meal. Eating food that was so full of flavor and heat that the Hind restaurants down town had to tone down the flavors for the citizens to even be able to eat it.
She spoke of meals Sruti had never even tasted and Mama had last had as a girl: fragrant Dum Biryani, creamy Dal Makhani, spicy chicken Tikka. Jeera become the taste and smell of better times long gone for the family. Invoking Masala lemonade the dream of better things to come.
“Mama, I didn’t promise anything. I found it okay.”
“Where?”
“...on the counter at the spice market…”
“The spice market counter? You stole this? My daughter is a thief? Have things become so bad that you would bring dishonor on your father, your whole family, for this...this luxury?”
“No one saw me okay? The korpies didn’t even get close to catching me. There’s no chance anyone could ID me.” Sruti knew she may have spoke too much, too soon.
“Korpies were chasing you? Peace and Justice Corp knows about this? Beti, what have you done?”
“Peace and Justice Corp knows about nothing. All they know was a girl was in the market district and they wanted to know why I was there. I couldn’t well interview with them with a bag of jeera in my pocket and no cred rec to account for it. THAT would have brought dishonor on father.” She was losing her patience, Tali was not nearly so grateful as she had been in Sruti’s mind when she had hatched this now obviously mad plan.
“Oh, okay my wise daughter. I see now. Instead of shaming just our family, you decided to bring Peace and Justice Corp onto our whole community. On the elders and our friends. What if Peace and Justice Corp decides to investigate our homes and communications? Do you think these homes all follow regulations if the whole block is turned over? Event the chilies in the window are not licensed. How many such unregulated crops and goods are here in the prefab? We could afford the fines for the infractions. Could the Komanapalis? Could the Reddys? Go to bed, study, but get out of my sight.”
And with that Mama began weeping into her dupatta and Sruti slipped into her room she shared with her sisters. Dragging the boulders that filled her stomach the whole way.
Sruti didn’t study much that night or the next morning. She quietly got dressed and after quickly snagging 2 vada she headed out the door. She kept her head down and covered as she headed into the main street to head through the crowds on the big day. She expected the students to have the bedraggled look of a nervous child with the weight of their entire future resting upon their shoulders but she did not expect the same fidgety weight on the faces of the adults as well. Her instincts went on high alert that she realized everyone looked like jungle rats when Tenduaji was on the prowl. The people were scared and she had rushed out the door without listening to the news, which is not a good survival strategy for the prey.
Outside it became immediately apparent what was causing the concern. The streets were lined with Peace and Justice Corp officers and they did not look like they were given “community building” orders this morning. Of course the Peace and Justice Corp officers didn’t usually have CB orders in the Hind quarter. Sruti started studying the ground she walked on as she made her way to school Weaving through the silent populous was strange on this street. Normally so filled with people calling greetings and hawkers promoting their wares. A young girl of about 4 was walking with her mother just ahead of Sruti and the tangible tension was making this young one jittery. She began to speak loudly and start rushing ahead and her mother quickly hushed her with a grip that Sruti felt on her own wrist several paces behind. The child began to whimper and the mother hurried her steps to get the young girl into the safety of indoors before a full scale meltdown occurred. Moments later a yellow striped Korpie transport came rumbling down the street blaring it’s loud speakers.
“Congratulations students on this beautiful placement day. Peace and Justice Corp has increased its presence in this community to ensure the safety of young scholars on this most auspicious day. Good luck! Study is the path to success.”
She could hear this looping message fade away in the distance as the the once pristine vehicle rumbled down the dusty street.
A block away from the school building Sruti saw a crowd of Korpies gathered staring menacingly out into the street just ahead of her. She quietly crossed the street and began perusing a fruit market stall to try and convince her that she was looking for jack fruit instead of simply crossing the street out of fear. Very quickly she heard a commotion and she turned to see Kiran’s father being lead out of the prefab by several officers. She saw Kiran looking on from the doorway to the prefab, his face filled with worry and terror.
“Go ahead on to school Kiran,” his father called over his shoulder, “I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. Do well today Kiran, I’ll be home before you are finished with your placement.” Kiran just stared at his father with wide eyes brimming with uncontrollable tears. Kiran was the top scorer in Sruit’s class and his father an upstanding member of the community. His Chai shop was a center of Hind quarter life and discussion.
Out of the gathering crowd Sri Rao pushed through to the front. “Please officers, what are the charges here? I am sure that we can discuss the cause of this disturbance,” stated the ancient elder. His voice, though tremulous with age was still strong and direct. He approached the Peace and Justice Corp Liaison who was overseeing the arrest. “Liaison Williams, so good to see you this morning. What is the meaning of this commotion on this of all days?” Liaison Williams ignored the old man as though a stranger, even though they met almost daily to discuss the happenings of the quarter. “Liaison Williams, please, let us discuss what is happening here. The people are nervous and clearly agitated.”
“Please step back citizen, it is a criminal offense to prevent a lawful arrest under the section 277 of the municipal code,” was Liaison Williams’ only response.
“Sir, thank you sir for being so dedicated to the preservance of peace in this community but what are the charges that Mr. Bodhu is facing for this arrest?” Again no response as the officers looked past the elder into the gathering throng. As Mr. Bodhu was brought to the front of the crowd to be loaded into an arriving transport Elder Rao placed his aged hand on the officer leading the detainee and turned to him and said, “Please one moment officer, let me discuss this one moment with the Liaison before you continue.”
With Robotic efficiency the Liaison pulled out his pistol from its holster and said, “Please step back citizen, it is a criminal offense to prevent a lawful arrest under the section 277 of the municipal code.”
“Please Liaison let us discuss this.” Instead of removing his hand the Elder seemingly unconsciously positioned his body in front of the arresting officer while looking at the Liaison with gentle eyes, pleading for some kind of dialogue to prevent the arrest.
Mr. Bodhu cried out, with more desperation in his voice now, “Kiran, please hurry to school, we do not want you to be late on placement day, beta.” As Sruity watched Kiran slowly make his way down the sidewalk constantly glancing back towards his father with deliberate and failing steps she heard a loud crack and looked back to see Elder Rao’s body crumbled on the ground. She froze, silence descended on the crowd as her pulse pounded in her ears. She forgot all caution and decorum as she sprinted down the road towards home as a wail erupted from the crowd and the sound of energizing shock clubs erased the momentary silence. The angry sounds of screaming and pain faded behind her as she raced down the road.
Sruti burst into her apartment weeping. She paced about the entry way clutching her shirt to herself, wiping her hands on her pant leg, only to discover that she had wet herself at some point in her escape.
“Hello?” called her mother’s voice from the kitchen.
“It was….It Was….” was all Sruti could make out in a hollow voice before falling to the ground into a pile of tears and anguish.
Once Sruti had calmed down enough to the point where she could communicate with her mother she explained in fits and spurts what she had witnessed in the street. Her mother’s face went pale and her eyes began to dart around the room, the room that had felt so safe this morning brought little comfort now. Their community which was their refuge in this giant city no longer a sanctuary but a ghetto. A trap.
But placements were too important and now Sruti was already running late. She must go to school and take her test. She must get back to life as usual. She must find her way back to yesterday. But the path to school did not lead to yesterday’s happier memories. It passed by a piece of blood stained dirt that was far too much to have been caused by the dying elder’s body alone. Her path lead her to a future instead of a past.
News travels fast in a community like the Hind Quarter. There was not a single individual in that city walking under Peace and Justice Corp’s omnipresent gaze that didn’t feel like a hunted animal. Like a mouse reaching for that piece of cheese because they were starving but knew either the hunger or the trap would kill them eventually. Maybe that eventually was today. Even Sruti, normally so carefree and casual couldn’t help thinking that this year’s placements were simply a way to collect the students for their extermination. This was supposed to be a student’s most important day in their scholastic journey but for Sruti, who had not given much weight to the testing 24 hours ago, now positively did not care about it at all. It was simply an even more unsafe feeling situation than she felt like she would have in the streets and warrens of the prefabs. This once well manicured government building in the middle of the quarter had an even more imposing prison aire today than it did on most days.
Sruti made her way to the auditorium where testing would be taking place. She took a seat in the already crowded room, she was one of the last students to trickle in. Usually students who are taking a major, life altering exam have the green faces of nervous and anxiety. Today it was replaced by blanched and wide eyed fear.
After logging into her terminal she waited while the "Please Wait" animation danced in the air directly above her terminal station. She cautiously glanced around the room to see who had made it. She saw the girls from her prefab whispering nervously a few rows down from where she sat. She didn’t really get along with that click and didn’t really care for them at all but she couldn’t help feel a bit of pity that their normal high pitch bird-song gossip was replaced by darting glances and harsh whispers. Then, on the other side of the auditorium she saw Kiran. Having grown up with Kiran she had often noticed that while waiting to take a major exam he would sit with his legs shaking with energy as he stared intensely at his station, moving his mouth to memorized facts that he had been studying the night before. Slightly rocking, inaudible mumbling to himself, preparing himself once more to take top honors in every scholastic activity he applied himself to. Today of course was different for everyone but for Sruti, carefully watching Kiran was the most terrifying thing she had seen on this horrible day. He sat at a station halfway up the auditorium instead of his normal seat front and center. There was no nervous energy bouncing his legs under his station. There was only a death-like stillness. His eyes staring into the throng of students across from him but seeing nothing. His mouth hung slightly open and his skin was pale and sallow. His station did not have the animation shaking disembodied pixels in the air in front of him. He had not even logged in.
Suddenly a large face hung over the audience as the New City Minister of Education and Thought Ways began a pre-recorded message.
“Welcome students. We at City Hall would like to congratulate you on your hard work on reaching such a momentous day. We want to congratulate you on your hard work so far but to also remind you that your future and the future of this quarter relies on your work today in helping to become a valuable, productive, and safe citizen of our great city. We know that you have all overcome such tremendous hardships to reach this point in your lives and we are so proud of everyone of you who has overcome the negative influences in the Hind Quarter and risen above the limitations of Hind culture. We commend you and urge you to continue to grow and bring peace and prosperity to your communities. Study is the path to success.”
Sruti had first heard that message 7 years ago when her oldest brother, who had a near perfect memory, came home from his placement exam and proudly recited it to the waiting family. Now the recording, with it’s slightly out of fashion clothing, helped to remind Sruti of what an afterthought the Hind quarter was to the rest of the city. During the message she looked over at Kiran, who continued to stare into the distance. Not even noticing that the animation had begun and still obviously not logged into his station. He would be marked truant if he did not log on and several students were cautiously whispering to him, urging him to log on before it was too late.
The buzzer made its shrill cry through the auditorium and the terminals lit up with the first problems of the exam. Still Kiran sat in his seat, still and silent. It was no wonder that he took today hard. Harder than anyone else. The unknown fear of having one’s father arrested and the embarrassing shame that would have caused anyone, especially on such an important day as this, was almost measurable in the community. But for Elder Rao to have died in the process of that arrest. To have died because his father was arrested, that deep pain was totally unknown. Who in the community was directly responsible for the quarter losing one of its most revered and valued leaders. A man who would often spend time in Kiran’s father’s shop. A man Kiran had orbited around most of his life. Like a moon without its planet.
Sruti began working through the problems that were displaying on her station. She looked around and although a few students were attacking their stations with the usual zeal of hard trained adolescence, the others seemed to lack their youthful enthusiasm. Many had gazes that wandered off to the corners of the auditorium or, like Sruti, spent a lot of time watching the other students. It was impossible to cheat in the placements and so she could see everyone working on their own individual problems. The testing program was highly intuitive and the test evolved and adapted to each student’s known and measured aptitudes and interests. Kiran would normally be starting off with problems that Sruti couldn’t hope to answer even at the end of her exam if his terminal were on, but it was not and he sat there like a tree in a field. She could see the other student's furtive, darting glances at the renowned scholar wondering if he would ever move again.
The testing lasted for hours and Sruti was finally starting to get caught up into the normalizing rhythm of testing, working on some physics problems, when a terrified shriek shook the whole room out of their scholastic meditations. Sruti looked at the source of the scream and it was a girl, 3 rows down and slightly to her left who she did not know very well. It was difficult to understand what had caused the commotion and she sat, pale as a ghost, pointing across the room. Sruti followed her hand to the other side and quickly saw the only source of motion in the whole room. Kiran sat at his desk repeatedly jamming his thumb into his already bloody eye sockets.
Even the students sitting next to him had become so enthralled in their exam they had not noticed that this was taking place at first but one by one they followed the horrified fingers of their fellow students across the room and one by one they also began to scream in incomprehending horror. Almost instantly several Peace and Justice Corp officers came down the steps in the auditorium and grabbing Kiran by the arms hauled him back up the stairs and out of the room. His eyeless gaze still fixed on a distant vision.
A slightly overweight office worker came down the stairs as soon as the guards had cleared the doorway. She made her way down the stairs nervously but stopped when her high heels started slipping in Kiran’s blood on the steps. She looked down at her feet and blanched, as though she had not realized what it was she must have slipped in. She stopped instantly and dry washing her hands called out in a shaky voice, “Due to unforeseen security events your placement tests have been rescheduled. You will be alerted via SMS as to the new time and location of your placement tests. We...are..sorry..about any inconvenience this may cause.” Her speech began to stumble as her mind began to process what it was exactly that her white high heels were slipping in underneath her and so with a quick and short cry she turned and quickly, although obviously unsteadily, made her way up the stairs and out of the room.</span></span></div>
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Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-57116074780680657772017-10-09T12:20:00.002-07:002017-10-09T12:20:11.621-07:00Teachers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Teachers. We have all had them even if we didn't attend school. Many of us have been shaped tremendously by them. Some of my best qualities and some of my worst have come from their time in my life.<br />
<br />
My first great teacher was in 6th grade. Which really is a travesty. After speaking to other people I have found that I have been incredibly lucky in my wide assortment of great teachers. Unfortunately none of those were in the first 5 years of my education. I wonder what kind of lasting damage could have been assuaged had I had a great instructor before then. I wonder what kind of life I would have lead had Mrs. Blackwell not taught me in 6th grade at all. <br />
<br />
By the time I reached the 6th grade I had gone through a few major transitions that didn't do me any great favors except for the fact that they lead to me a group of astonishingly great friends. I attended a private school in Kindergarten and first grade as I lived in a "tough" neighborhood at the time. I don't really know what that meant. Many of my friends say I live in a "tough" neighborhood now. The cynic in me says that this probably just meant that many of my peers had I gone to public school would have been brown more than I would have been in physical danger going to public school. The private school I attended was, I imagine, a more psychically and spiritually dangerous environment but it did, from an early age, teach me the religious cynicism which has served me well over the years and what I consider one of my defining traits. I also had to actually read and communicate what I read starting in kindergarten, which also stood me in great stead through my life.<br />
<br />
After moving to the suburbs in the second grade it became quickly apparent that the high academic standards of the atrocious private school and the year I was held back to meet them meant that I was a head taller and a grade ahead of my fellow scholars. So about halfway through the year I skipped up to third grade. Many people would think that this was a significant honorary advancement for the young student but it had really just taken a very insecure, and now obese, nerd from one new environment to another. I had gone from just starting to make friends to be all alone in an environment where the peer groups were already established. It is not entirely coincidental that this was the year that I started consuming volumes of the World Book Encyclopedia like other kids consume twinkies and read The Hobbit for the first time. Books show much more compassion than children tend to. So although I cemented my social position in this strange year as never being the popular kid, it also ensured that I was the most well read. I stumbled into learning cursive halfway through the alphabet and my penmanship, never something to write home about in the first place, didn't fully recover until I re-taught myself to write in college. Both of my teachers this year were not bad teachers, and I really think my 2nd grade teacher cared about me and my academic success, which is why she initiated me skipping grades in the first place, but very little of that year do I remember except for the books and the constant feeling of embarrassment and isolation.<br />
<br />
Fourth and Fifth grade I met Kurt and Cory who were better friends than I deserved and helped me to make many less and much less severely bad life choices than had I not met them. What I forsook in quantity of friendships I more than made up for in quality. I had the same teacher both years in a split classroom. In the crystal clear hindsight of adulthood I can see that the elderly teacher had trouble maintaining two distinct lesson plans and a large class of malcontents. Those two years primarily left me with a seething bitterness towards that woman who could never see anything good in me that took years to dissipate.<br />
<br />
Then Mrs. Blackwell came on the scene. Mrs. Blackwell rode rodeo and would come into class with the rattlesnake she had decapitated with a .45 revolver while feeding her animals at night. What really made Mrs. Blackwell stand apart from the teachers I had up to that point was the fact that she made a shocking number of her students care, in large part because she did. Instead of relegating me to the trouble makers corner as most of the school staff at this point had done, she put me in the advanced mathematics and reading groups. I wrote the first thing that ever made me cry as I wrote it in her class, and saw the tears in her eyes when I was made to read it to the class. She was the first teacher I took risks for. Not because I wanted to be one of the great authors that I spent so much time reading, I was going to be a heart surgeon after all, but because I wanted to give her back material that cost me something. Reading that story now it is utter garbage and I can't for the life of me see why it made her cry but <a href="http://polymathophilia.blogspot.com/2014/06/june-3-winters-walk.html">the story</a>, like her influence, never left me.<br />
<br />
Most of my jr high teachers I hardly remember. In large part because I was too busy feeling that strange uncomfortable anxiety that is the burden of so many in those years. But I had a few standouts. Mr. Tracy, my 7th grade English teacher, I think actually liked the things I wrote, even if they tended to be simply be mediocre sword buckling adventures. He made me memorize a poem for the first time, Poe's Annabel Lee. I have Poe's complete written works on my bookshelf today because of that poem. My 7th Grade history teacher, though I don't recall his name, told my parents I marched to the beat of my own drummer which simultaneously reinforced my incredible feelings of isolation as well as soared my heart with a strange pride. <br />
<br />
Some of my teachers through those years were not so great. My 7th grade math teacher wouldn't allow me to take algebra because I was bored in her class and had a C because I never did the homework, even though my test grades were among the highest in the school. She lacked Mrs. Blackwell's insight and I lacked the tenacity to make that happen anyway. My 8th grade history teacher encouraged my class to make fun of me when I naively tried to correct what I thought was her misspeaking in front of the class. She was just wrong, however, and allowed the class to laugh at me teaching me a valuable lesson in keeping my mouth shut. A lesson I have actively practiced nearly as much as I should have.<br />
<br />
I had an assortment of very good teachers in High School who were able to look past the awkward smart ass in me and see something else. For them I am eternally grateful. They afforded me all sorts of privileges and opportunities that I would have completely bypassed had I had more of the ordinary sort of instructor. The good ones almost, but not entirely, erased the damage of the bad.<br />
<br />
It amazes me now at how much those moments, those few memories which have survived the years, have shaped me. The only reason I try to write at all are those times that the Blackwells, Tracys, and Kilmers out-scream the voices my less wonderful teachers left in my head. Now as a dad I am all too aware of the things I say in a heated moment that I know no apology will erase the stain of. Those great teachers have instilled in me a desire to help those smart ass kids who are simply bored, not bad. But all the while those other voices try to argue for my shortcomings, my laziness, and my insecurities. Luckily for me (on top of some pretty seriously helpings of privilege and means) I have come to the place where I have a decent job that gives me the time to sit down and write these thoughts down. My only challenge now is to point my children and others down a path that will hopefully surpass my own. Hopefully I can provide a few voices that will someday argue for their greatness, their courage, their kindness. <br />
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Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-22360925576124288652017-08-18T20:44:00.001-07:002017-08-18T20:44:32.165-07:00Tales From BookFace: Speech-ing Freely<i>This post was borne from a Facebook thread, and is essentially an annotated cross-post. I've ranted elsewhere about how Facebook and most social medias (Twitter, Reddit, et al.) are just "voids" where thought, discussion and time goes in but then is lost into the abyss of "Now", never to return.
To try and save me from repeating myself in the future, I am posting this here so I can simply point to it later when/if this issue comes up again.</i><br />
<br />
First, some temporal context: There's been a lot of hubbub going in the US lately regarding the clashes between the ctrl-alt-left and the ctrl-alt-right. Lotsa violence from both sides, some death and destruction. There are a good number of racists in the alt-right, pretending to be "Nazis", causing a ruckus at various rallies. Not many people like racists, so this is currently a hot-topic for the various medias, social and otherwise.<br />
<br />
I was replying to someone posting <a href="http://archive.is/4gqyn">a link to this graphic</a> by some guy calling himself Karl Popper (alleged Philosopher). Popper's argument is essentially that we ought to make hate speech <b>outright illegal</b>, because to do otherwise would be inviting all the racist boogeymen to power.
Now, all disdain for racism aside, I hope you understand why that very notion is both inane and dangerous.<br />
<br />
If you don't readily get why, here is my cross-post from BookFace:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span><span> <span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>To
clarify my point: this isn't about giving racists a voice or not, but
it is about preventing abuse of the *legal precedent* that would be set
if a certain classification of speech were made illegal; or rather if
the First Amendment was de facto voided in this manner.</span><br /><br /><span>Let me paint a hypothetical:</span><br /><br /><span>Let's
say that Karl Popper's idea was reality; that hate speech was literally
illegal. Can you not imagine someone like, say, Trump getting elected,
getting majority control of the legislative branch AS WELL as control of
the judicial branch, and then ABUSING this legal precedent? Let's say
he comes up with some B.S. reasoning to outlaw, say, media criticism
against the presidency (sound plausible??). Now in this hypothetical,
the First Amendment has been severely de-fanged in the name of
"intolerance of intolerance" remember. So he would have a MUCH easier
time getting something like that passed with complete control of all
three branches of government AND no constitutional restrictions.</span><br /><br /><span>Lo and behold, what started out as looking rational on paper has turned into a BIG problem in practice.</span><br /><br /><span>This
is my point: I think we have more to fear giving the government that
much power than we do from a few angry and ignorant racists hopped up on
Mountain Dew...</span></span></span></span></span> </blockquote>
<br />
And that hypothetical is just the very tip of the iceberg of what could happen if a government is allowed to prosecute someone for speech alone. It opens the floodgates to much, much worse things than some derps causing trouble at some gathering. The police can (or should) handle violent outbreaks from any group, regardless of supposed intent, but there IS NO protection against a government that is unrestrained from assaulting someone's (and if not careful, YOUR) personal sovereignty. The only option from there is to leave.<br />
<br />
Which is why I must underline this point, once again: <u>Legally letting derps shout racist things is not about protecting <b>their</b> liberty to speak freely, it is about protecting <b>THE</b> liberty of speaking freely.</u> Magnetic Bran Flakeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16574939535039923295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-80201041878587918682016-09-18T16:19:00.000-07:002016-09-18T16:19:12.650-07:00Something something heroes never stop never stoppingRylie had of course heard that the world was hollow and that devils, trolls, and the occasional politician lived in the depths far below normal people's feet. Some empty headed bozo had been peddling that sad story his entire life. Being a rational man, he had ignored or openly mocked any one who actually believed such dumb children's stories. But now, as he looked out over what could only be described as a cavern. As cavernous. It extended endlessly beyond his sight, disappearing into the distant shadows cast from the dim glow of what appeared to be a lumious lichen that clung to the shores of what he suspected to be a massive underground ocean. There were boats out there for crying out loud. They all had a skull, spider, or something oh so melodramatic painted on the sails. Whatever. They were still boats on an underground ocean!<br />
<br />
Into this underground world of darkness he had crept following the trail of the false elves. They had descended into the darkness to a poorly defended camp. Clearly they felt little danger here. Why would they, any army from the surface faced with this unreality would break and run if they weren't busy begging their gods for mercy. Thobis the burnt out wizard and Nealo the priest of Alilili had been dumped unceremoniously in what could only be described as a pen. A slave pen. They were chained and left on their own. After a time they had finally stirred. Thobis, the great genius that he was, had immediately tried to cast some sort of spell. This had just alerted the guards that he needed "special" treatment. He'd been summarily beaten, hog tied, and gagged. Nealo priest of Alilili was as useful as always, and reminded Thobis that Alilili didn't help those who couldn't help themselves. Thobis responded with suitably aggressive wiggles and gagged voice noises. Nealo busied herself with staring at nothing. Neither of them seemed to notice the absense of Rylie from the bondage they found themselves in. Perhaps they thought him a coward. Perhaps he thought, he wasn't the one in chains needing rescue.<br />
<br />
Next to them in the slave pen was a large pile of hair. Suddenly it blinked and deep set eyes full of a lifetime of misery and remorse peered around. It shifted and fixated upon the new comers. "So, uh what are ya in for?" He looked at them as if he wasn't stripped to his under shorts, afixed to the floor with chains, or in a slave pen miles beneath the surface. "Adventurers huh?" He continued without waiting for a response through a moustache that completely hid his mouth and quivered with each word. "You know adventurering is a noble profession, first practiced by the anciet Humbuaeites." He nodded to himself as if he was agreeing with his own comment. "They didn't invent the word though. Oh no," he shook his head causing the great flaps of skin that passed for his ears to flop well past the point when his head otherwise stopped moving, "That was the Othamotiradins in distant Kool'Zoo of course. Their head Uoozith was said to be the first cousin twice removed of the one of the greatest Adventurers. Of course that was years before the Ix and their heresy machine set all the Othamotira temples to the holy cleansing fire of M'dekfaoe, but that was only on account of the price of a good Onqaovneowav in those days. Why I could tell you some stories about the..." In mid speech a rock cracked into his temple. He stopped talking and regarded them with the same woebegone expression he'd maintained during the entire speech, except now blood trickled down his face. <br />
<br />
One of the evil elfin guards slithered and strutted into the pen and loomed angelically over him, "You have been warned to cease your prattling or we will remove your fat tongue one hair width at a time until your only story is an endless poem of pain and suffering." The content of the warning was dire, but one couldn't help but admire the dulcet tones of the slaver's voice. Rylie pinched his arm to remind himself that this cherubic being had just threatened slow and deliberate torture for the heinous crime of talking too much. The impish horror reached down and trailled one of its fingers across the hairy man's scalp. The softness of his touch was matched only by the casual elegance of his movements. Without warning there was a blur of movement, and then a sharp crack of skin and bone hitting skin and bone. The waifish cherub struck with such velocity and violence that it sent the hairy man to the ground groaning amidst a sea of wild hair.<br />
<br />
And there standing above the prone form, with a grin of such satisfaction and pleasure, was the very image of innocence. Then with perfectly pointed fangs glimmering in the dim light, the smile twisted. The illusion suddenly faded. All of the beauty and grace that had surrounded this hell spawn beast like a second skin was gone and only the twisted, spite filled embodiment of cruelty and sadism stood there over the prone man. Everything seemed darker in that instant as if the light itself was afraid. The twisted creature purred in a newly thin and shrill voice, "If you forget again, I will wield the knife personally."<br />
<br />
Then, just as switfly as the illusion had left, it was back and the elf stood and twirled a stylish pirouet. Once again it became near impossible to see anything except utter sophistication as it skipped out of sight whistling a happy tune that would have made children smile and caper in delight.Scipio Africanushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10335193819627977761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-18209481045752524392016-09-13T16:11:00.002-07:002016-09-13T16:14:08.662-07:00Something Something Heros part whateversvilleSweat dripped from Rylie's nose and the overwhelming humidity caused his clothes to cling to his body until he felt like he was swimming through the sunless tunnels. The maddening silence in the lonely all-compassing darkness had stretched on for hours as he followed the unconscious forms of his former adventuring party. Well, them and the party of vicious, and heavily armed, underworld elves that carried them to Alilili knew where. Rylie used his full training in the stealthy arts to keep his damp clothing from swishing and his sodden boots from squeaking. All the while remaining, somehow, out of sight of the supernaturally lithe and unearthly beautiful creatures, that would have to be covered in pots and pans and tied to a screaming cat to make any noise as they traipsed with an indifferent ease through the stone corridors.<br />
<br />
At one point he had put his hand in some unidentified slime causing an involuntary weak sigh to escape from his weary lips. A slight soft exhalation of breath that even he had struggled to hear. The pointy eared villains had stopped immediately and drawn wicked blades covered in an oily black substance that could only be a deadly poison. Rylie froze like a deer in headlights, whatever those were. Their teeth were perfect. They were perfectly pointed and razor sharp. There gorgeous faces turned to murderous masks in seconds. The bodies of Thorbis the burnt out wizard and Nealo the priest of Alilili were on the ground in an blink. Somehow silence still echoed through the corridor. If Rylie could have moved or spoken in that instant, he would have cursed their unending perfection. Like a stalking spider they crept with demoralizing speed down the halls toward Rylie's hiding place. <br />
<br />
This was it. Rylie felt an emptiness in his stomach. Thorbis and Nealo were going to be sacrificed to some nubile demon god. He wouldn't be so lucky.
Visions of his death danced with a cold clarity through his mind. The cruel kiss of a dagger. The passionate torture of a poison running its course. Beauteous features filling his vision, while vile claws cradled his face, as he coughed up the last of once vital fluids. A shiver would have run up his spine, but he held as still as stone.
Somehow, someway they stopped short. The sound of a elf's dismissive sniff echoed like thunder through Rylie's head.<br />
<br />
Then, with the unconcerned nonchalance only an apex predator can muster, they scooped up the prone forms of Thorbis and Nealo and padded away into the creeping gloom with a grace and beauty that would have made a ballerina cry. If the fear of losing the trail hadn't been so paramount Rylie would have curled up into a ball and had a long and cleansing cry. But, now more than ever the others needed him. Why he felt such loyalty to them he didn't know. No one deserved whatever fate awaited the prisoners of these fay fiends he reasoned. With a quiet yet ragged breath he pushed off from the wall and set off into the damp and gloom. Come what may, he would see this through.Scipio Africanushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10335193819627977761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-59309289764841842352016-05-18T17:10:00.000-07:002016-05-18T17:10:35.762-07:00I'm backBoth parties are imploding, everyone is saber-rattling, and Budweiser is now America. But as long as we can kick back and have a non-shite beer, I think we are okay.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-90006709029241949102016-04-20T20:28:00.000-07:002016-04-20T20:28:07.570-07:00The Fear of the Hustle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I spent a lot of time today listening to podcasts. Podcasts about passive income, life coaching, canned chili, and productivity. I listened about blogs, vlogs, and slogs. The dream of starting a multimedia internet empire quickened my pulse and spiked my attention. The dream of videos like Casey, Podcasts like Merlin, and Blogs like M. John Fayhee. Being all of my favorites in one. But I am not my favorites. I am me. In high school I remember I played Chopin for some friends and afterwards diddled away on the keys for a time and the one fellow remarked that he enjoyed the second piece much more so than the first. When I told my piano teacher, somewhat proud of the fact that I had out done the genius Chopin, she replied in her usual dry manner, "I'm sure Chopin played Chopin better than Bach." <br />
<br />
I'm sure Chopin played Chopin better than Back. But do I, the brave and daring Khusrow, play Khusrow better than Casey? I for one know that my 3 attempts at video making do not compare to the compelling daily videos that Casey Neistat composes after years of perfecting his craft with laser focus. I have always felt, and maybe this is showing my privilege, that money was easy so long as that was all you wanted. If your only care in the world was to collect money than collecting money would be easy. The trick for most people is that money is just the tool to do what they want to do and so money seems so elusive. The thing that has been holding me back from writing, playing music, making videos, building webpages, building passive income streams; is that I am not convinced that that is what I really want. Do I want a flexible schedule that earns money without me doing much to make that money? Yes. But is that flexible time and easy money just a tool for me to do what I really want to do? Yes. And am I going to keep pursuing what I really want to do instead of building my multimedia empire that empowers me to do the things I want to do? Yes. <br />
<br />
This is the great problem. Am I willing to not work on motorcycles now so that I have piles of cash and calendars of free time to work on motorcycles later? Am I willing to work hard and miss time with my kids now in the hopes that I would have gobs of free time to spend with them later? Am I willing to not spend time with people now so that I could be generous with my time and money with those same people later?<br />
<br />
These are all questions I struggle to answer. What is the cost to the success that I want? Am I willing to pay that price? The price in hours and stress and lack of sleep. The cost of building a business that I think I would be good at in the after hours of a job that I am also good at, but consumes so much of my time?<br />
<br />
In January Lindsey and I discussed having May be a month of hustle. To see what a side business would look like for 1 month if I threw it all in, In January I thought that business was pipe making, which is something I really enjoy doing. But I have a strong feeling that this is a saturated market with a narrow audience. So I've been thinking of creating many things with a larger breadth and a larger audience. I don't know what that would look like and I don't think May is my month to dive into those things but major changes feel like they are swirling in my mind and I do not know where they will go. </div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-44014709321457066532015-09-08T09:34:00.000-07:002015-09-08T09:34:22.457-07:00Is anyone still on here?I remembered that this blog was a thing. Who all still reads this?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-29025207148984042282015-04-16T06:00:00.000-07:002015-04-16T06:00:13.973-07:00Training Day II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've been hesitant to write about my spiritual journey on this blog. The original purpose of this blog was to collect people from different political, religious, and geographical backgrounds and discuss the great issues of our day, sprinkled with our literary attempts at greatness. I have primarily been very open about some of the things I have been learning about myself emotionally but I usually refrain from presenting that understanding from the spiritual lens through which I see the world. <br />
<br />
I <a href="http://polymathophilia.blogspot.com/2015/04/training-day-part-i.html">wrote earlier</a> about my struggle with finishing tasks and how Training for the Cleveland Marathon has forced some of those underlying identifying factors in my life to come to the surface and be confronted. I wrote about the physical and emotional side of my being in that post but the biggest impact it has had recently is on the spiritual side and I wanted to talk about that as well.<br />
<br />
G.K. Chesterton wrote that, "Christianity has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult and not tried at all." The past few years of my life have really embedded a similar understanding in me as well. Hypocrisy and a lack of taking the teachings of Jesus seriously feel to me to be so rampant that I grew very critical of organized christianity. The awkward side-effect of being critical about hypocrisy is that if one has any level of intellectual fairness and introspection then one must examine one's own hypocrisy and make certain changes to one's life when and where it is discovered. <br />
<br />
I began working on a book in India that was going to go through the teachings of Jesus through the gospels and start to ask questions about how and if we were living those teachings out. One of the common themes of the gospels is found in John 14:15 "If you love me, you will keep my commandments." If we, as people who claim to be followers of Jesus, are not obeying him then we are not really followers at all. I stopped that project because I realized that if taken in a different spirit then I was intending it, and the spirit in which most "religious" texts tend to be read, then it would by a handbook for legalism and open the door to a whole new level of hypocrisy of those who read it. Which is obviously not what I want.<br />
<br />
But if we are to be disciples of Jesus, ones who discipline themselves to follow him in his teachings and his way of life, then we must know what he said and obey it. I'm not going to try here to make the argument of "what is a REAL Christian" and what is not. I don't really like the word Christian because it defines a culture and a set of practices and history that I am not really talking about at all. I also don't really know what would define a REAL Christian. There are texts, however, in the Bible that if taken more seriously then they tend to be, can be downright scary when applied to our complacent and impotent group of people known as American Christians. If anyone were to read the gospels, or the whole New Testament, or the whole Bible, they would not find what they expected to find when they thought about followers of Jesus. They would find a lot of which they would never expect. <br />
<br />
J. C. Ryle in his book <u>Holiness</u> makes several illusions to the fact that if people don't like Church they may be unpleasantly surprised that they don't like heaven. I'm not completely convinced that a High Episcopal liturgy (which I do enjoy) is going to really be all that much like heaven. But I can agree with the spirit of the question. If godliness isn't something you want in this life, why would it be something you would want for everlasting after everlasting? Because it is better than the alternative? In a dichotemistic eternity heaven seems a better choice then hell, even if it is slightly less appealing than earth. If one begins to mention sacrifice and freeing oneself from the chains of the great suburban lie then one is open to attacks with a vehemence that would not be matched if one had spouted the most damnable of heresies. <br />
<br />
I constantly hear christians complaining about the attacks on their belief by "the Media." I don't wonder why more christians haven't realized that their beliefs are worth attacking. First of all we believe that a zombie god has, with his death and re-animation, cleansed us from the invisible taint called "sin" that is merely a bi-product of being human and acting so. And in doing so has saved us from a place of judgement that we disagree on the reality of to be placed into an equally controversial after life. If that isn't crazy enough, as a community christians have argued that other people should follow a moral code to which they; arguably more than any other religious, philosophical, or political group; have failed themselves in living up to. <br />
<br />
I do think there is a lot of biblical evidence that the American church has, since before its founding on these shores, had it backwards. We should hold ourselves to the highest standard and hold everyone outside to none at all. Unfortunately the common label of bigotry and judgmentalism (which I believe is rightfully earned in most places) belies our failure on that point.<br />
<br />
But this is not really what this post is about. What this post is meant to be about is training ourselves for heaven. Developing an affinity and taste for holiness. When I began my marathon I did not enjoy running the 1/3 of a mile which I could run. Now I enjoy running 6-7 miles, at which point my enthusiasm begins to diminish. Similarly, as believers in Jesus Christ we are so unpracticed in following him that we have failed to enjoy living like him. Mere tastes of the life of Jesus are uncomfortable, painful, and make us not want to repeat the performance. An honest man would either acknowledge a need for training or a reason for the race not being worth running. Unfortunately, christianity has beat Facebook to the punch in posting pictures of us running the marathon but sitting at home eating a bag of Potato Chips while feasting our eyes on the bachelor. Since we've been doing this for several hundred years it has become the established tradition.<br />
<br />
It has become unfortunately true that to practice the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount are as radically counter-cultural inside a church, if not more so, than outside of one. I am attempting to be purposefully vague here because I think the Holy Spirit can have far greater impact with his convictions than I ever should. I'm also not trying to create an argument on what the life of a disciple should look like or should not look like, although I am definitely forming my own opinions. <br />
<br />
I guess really I'm trying to say 2 things to the readers of this post. If you claim to be a follower of Jesus then what are your credentials for doing so. Do you have true love that inspires obedience? If you do not claim to be a follower of Jesus then I'm sorry for not giving you a reason to.</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-54832519227724423222015-04-15T08:10:00.002-07:002015-04-15T08:10:51.732-07:00Training Day Part I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been an exceptionally long time since I last blogged. This is partially due to the difficulty of the last few months and partially due to the fact that I was in the midst of things. I don't tend to be able to write coherently about anything until I've digested it a bit and I was having a full 7 course meal over the past few months with little time for digestion between. We are looking at relocating again, changing school districts, making major lifestyle adjustments. We have had to try to build relationships from scratch in a new place, dive into live here, and face the disappointments that come with other people not necessarily diving into life with you or worse yet mad that when you did so you splashed on them in their lounge chair. <br />
<br />
This year I recommitted to run a marathon. I didn't last year due to a knee injury that stopped me from running a few weeks while training and that training hiatus was prolonged by debilitating depression that came after my soul searching trip into the Himalayas. Thankfully I was down with Typhoid when the Marathon actually occurred so I could bow out with a little more grace then, I got hurt, got sad, and gave up. <br />
<br />
Round 2 has been more difficult. I don't have a training partner to run with. Running a race in May in Cleveland means that the weather is not your friend during most of the training period. It is hard to run 10 miles when your option is treadmill in a basement or snow. I've had more blisters than I can count in trying to re-learn how to run and I hobble around like an old cavalry officer most of the time now. The past month or so my knee started acting up again, I had to travel to California for my grandmother's funeral, and work got crazy. This all means that I ran less and ate worse for about 2 weeks. When I got back into it I tried a 12 miler where I pushed too hard and was out for almost another week as my legs and soul recovered. I barely made 12 miles (the last 4 were an award loping walknjog). I didn't even get to a half marathon and I was falling apart. <br />
<br />
I was talking through my struggles with someone I love and respect and he told me that a half marathon is still a win and I could try the marathon later that year or the next. I boldly decried with bluff & gusto that I would rather be carried out of the Marathon on an ambulance than settle for the half. Within 2 hours I was seriously considering the downgrade. I broke the subject with my young hot wife the next day and she made it very clear that not running the full marathon was simply not an option. She knew I would not be happy with that decision and she had the courage to push me forward when I no longer wanted to go. So with her small hand-prints on my back as she pushed me out the door I started to run again. <br />
<br />
One crystalline thought entered my consciousness on the run that completely changed my attitude and my perception of what was currently going on in my running life. <br />
<br />
I was training for a marathon.<br />
<br />
"What?" you say, "how is that any different than the above statement, "This year I recommitted to run a Marathon?" I have been telling people "I Will run the marathon in May." And when I catch myself saying "I'm going to try to run the marathon in May," I am quick to correct my internal doubt. Unfortunately though my commitment was high my understanding was low. In order for a slightly round 30 year old to run the marathon, in order for his commitment to mean anything, he must train for a marathon. Training for a marathon means that he must push his body beyond what it and he think are possible so that the distances and intensities grow and so the commitment of running a marathon moves from the plane of hopefully goal setting to a realistic prospect. To move from brave words to even more courageous action. <br />
<br />
One of the great lies I have allowed to define me is that I never finish anything. There are a lot of things I have finished but that is never really the point. I hear many people in my generation as well as other echo this sentiment. We are a culture of non-finishers. Of starters and someday-completers. We have forgotten the ideals of training and long suffering. I read a great <a href="http://www.artofmanliness.com/2015/02/23/viking-mythology-odin/">Blog Post</a> the other day about Odin and one of the quotes from it was:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The lesson from both of these tales is that gaining wisdom often comes with sacrifice. In our modern age, it seems people have come to believe that if something is hard, or sacrificial, it’s not worth doing. Odin, and his Viking followers, believed in just the opposite. If something is worth having, it absolutely requires sacrifice, and it’s always worth it, no matter how great the cost.</blockquote>
<br />
Even re-reading this my eyes mist up. It rings a deeper truth inside my soul. I have been afraid of completion and so use the training as an excuse. I have not had the chutzpah for long suffering and justify my incompletion. I re-value a desired goal as not being important because I am unwilling to do what it takes to achieve it. I pursue things that are not worth having because they are obtainable. In my dreaming I have champagne tastes on a beer budget. In practice I convince myself that Busch Lite satisfies me because they sell it at the corner store. Only being back in this country for 6 months and already my desire for comfort threatens to fill my life with cheap ambitions and easily obtainable goals. A glittering, bedazzled husk of life.<br />
<br />
I wish I did not need hard things in my life to keep me growing and learning. I wish I could somehow become the man I want to be, the father I want to be, the husband I want to be. I wish my insecurities would fade from more positive thinking and less pain and sweating. I dream of the day when I pint of ale, a briar full of latakia, a fireplace, and a good book will sculpt the inner man into who I want him to be and that would sculpt the outer-man into the chiseled man of wax I see in my mind. Times like that are fruitful. Yesterday morning was spent with a bowl of Westminster, Dunkin Donuts Coffee, and a long chat with G.K. Chesterton that rested my mind more than 3 hours of sleep could have done. I had new thoughts and new energies. But if those new thoughts and new energies are not applied in an aggressive way to my life they quickly fade and I can in only a few hours be back to where I was before. The physical nature of the training reminds me of the other herculean tasks that lay before me and give me a similar feeling. I have to train to overcome them. I have to start working on them or they will never happen. I need to start typing or I won't write. I have to start making phone calls or we won't have a home to live in. I have to go out my door or my community will not be altered by my presence. <br />
<br /></div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-83675359563714855262015-01-28T22:15:00.000-08:002015-01-28T22:32:34.062-08:00Why You Shouldn't Be Buying Bitcoin, but Certainly be Paying AttentionFor the past two years, I have been immersing myself in the intriguing world that is Bitcoin. I had bought one for $20 back in February of 2013; that one Bitcoin quickly shot to $200, then $300, then all the way up to $1000 in the summer of that year. Nowadays, the price is hovering around $200 again. I never sold (except bits here and there to cover bills), and never really bought much more. Really, this is besides the point. Bitcoin is not an 'investment' per se. <br />
<br />
Bitcoin is also not, contrary to what Reddit and every other 'Bitcoin News' source will tell you, a payment system. It will not revolutionize the world in the way 99% of bitvangelists preach. People get excited when big companies like Microsoft and Overstock.com decide to accept it as a payment. This will never amount to anything. You will never see the day when the 'average joe' runs down to Starbucks and buys his latte with BTC.<br />
<br />
Bitcoin is, simply, a <b>store of value</b>. It will never be anything more than that. However, you should not underestimate the importance of this fact. It is perhaps the best store of value this world will ever see. This is because of the magic of cryptography, and the fact that if you take the time to understand the technology behind it you can be sure that you, and only you, can touch your money. You just can't say that about any other store of value, be it a bank, gold or the USD cash in your wallet.<br />
<br />
Sadly, the 'Core Bitcoin Developers' have been slowly driving this technology into the ground. The beauty of this is that it really doesn't matter. The 'protocol' is open-source, which means that people who do know what they are doing will pick up the slack and carry the torch. You just need to really be aware of who those people are and what 'version' you should be using. This is why I say not to be buying right now. It is near impossible for a 'newbie' to cut through this layer of obscurity. Hell, I barely know what I'm talking about now.<br />
<br />
Keep your eyes on this though. I'm off to bed, but I've been meaning to make this post for a while now (months). I will try to write more on this in detail in the future.<br />
<br />
In the next decade, I think we will see some interesting developments in this space. Keep your eyes to the skies.<br />
<br />
<br />
- Magnetic Bran FlakesMagnetic Bran Flakeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16574939535039923295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-89519694212714582342015-01-09T05:01:00.001-08:002018-01-26T08:04:36.469-08:00Rat Boy and the Story of Long Regrets<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometime in 6th grade I was walking with my best friend, Little Bird, behind a grocery store near our home. We had just finished a trip to the quick y mart and quiet possibly the Goodwill and had decided to take the decidedly more edgy route home, the dangerous alley behind the grocery stores where the employees park and deliveries are made. If you grew up in a town with half as many signs as the town I grew up in had then you would realize this was restricted access territory. You would know how courageous and slick we were to walk that way instead of the safe path in the front of the stores with the manicured parking lot and pedestrian protecting sidewalk.<br />
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We were within sight of the exit of the utility alley and I was secretly relieved to have made it out alive. My heart was already racing, I was a little sick to my stomach, and I was really looking forward to reaching our favoured big gulp consumption point across the street as my hand was getting cold. We had almost made it when a shape materialized out of the shadows. Little Bird and I were both on the tall side of the scale his lanky frame contrasting to my morbidly obese one. We were the late 90's awkwardly pubescent Laurel and Hardy. This small shape that emerged from the shadows was not a rat, which would have been pretty exiting in our sanitized suburban life. No this was a boy of similar age but only about half of Little Bird's height. Little Bird was several yards in front of me when rat-boy walked up to him and asked if he could hit him. Now Little Bird's face read the same kind of strange confusion that you, dear reader, are feeling as you read this. It was a bit of, "Did I hear that right?" mixed with, "Hell no." Little Bird, being the quiet fellow that he was said a simple, "aaahh....no." When the little terror lashed out and punched him in the face and ran towards me. I was in shock. My hammy right hand was already sweaty from the stress of traversing this unwelcoming place and here we were being straight up mugged. My already nervous heart rate was now running at a smooth hum and the nervous feeling in my stomach was edging dangerously close to nausea. <br />
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Rat boy now races towards me and I reach out my right leg to try and trip him and he jumps over the slow moving obstacle with ease and races past. I think about hitting him with my big gulp but A) I've never hit a stationary target much less a moving one with anything I had ever thrown in my entire life...ever and B) That was a dear 75 cents to get that Big Gulp. I thought about chasing him but again was confronted with 2 doses of harsh reality. A) There is no way that 15 minute mile me could catch this spry rodent child that was speeding away from me and B) what would I do if I could catch him. What if he hit me in the face? <br />
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Now Little Bird and I had been in several tussles at this stage in life both with each other and almost every other boy we knew and some girls we didn't. We had cooperatively beat up enough kids to know we could do it but this shocking assault was something totally new to me. If this kid had the guts to hit a complete stranger in an alley what else was he willing to do. Here was a kid who was severely more dangerous than our daring saunter past the loading docks of Thrifty's. In all my ruffian antics and bullying fisticuffs I had never bare knuckle punched another kid in the face. We would allow head shots with boxing gloves but it felt wrong in my strange set of life rules to do things this way. For one it doesn't make sense as a bully to punch a kid in the face. In the gentle art of bullying the trick is to mix intimidation with a lack of convicting evidence. You don't punch someone in the face. Body shots hurt as bad if placed properly but you send a kid home with a bloody nose and you know you've got it coming. It just wasn't done. <br />
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Frozen in this cultural quagmire and moral quandary I simply watched this kid run away. We walked to the light and waited for it to turn green and the guilt of betrayal burned in me. The sickening feeling of failure that I should have done something to stick up for my friend who just experienced a drive by socking. Looking back at my life in those days despite being a pretty bad person as a whole I was an even worse friend. Little Bird on the other hand was the kind of loyal best friend that always considered what you were going through with his reactions to you and is always there to support you no matter what. Good friends like that don't understand bad friends like me. You could see a new confusion and hurt on his face that ate away at me far worse than my fear of rat boy or my failure to be a man of action. I had failed to be a friend. <br />
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Our relationship changed that day and although we were still best friends for several years we ended up going to different High Schools and we grew more and more apart. Not because Little Bird avoided me but because I grew to avoid him. We still hung out at least once a week but my failure in that alley had been the first of several situations where I was not the friend I should have been and I was ashamed of myself. I don't think he could trust me to be there for him like he had before his nose was numb from some strange pugilistic force.<br />
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It's strange that as a 30 year old man one of those memories that bothers me most is a time I didn't hit someone. I wish I knew what I know now and that at the very least I should have chased that kid till I threw up or he punched me in the face. I wished I would have written back to Little Bird when he was deployed instead of being too busy with my freshman year of college to find the time or buy a stamp. I wish I would have hung out with him instead of positioning myself around girls I didn't have the guts to ask out. I wish when I went home hanging out with him wasn't so awkward as it is now. I sometimes wish I was that fat kid clutching onto that big gulp with my sweaty hand and that we had just stayed on the sidewalk.</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-4033073452616385062014-12-09T08:53:00.002-08:002014-12-09T08:53:33.122-08:00Exfoliating<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The dirt tasted like gritty, dusty pennies. Kiran did not generally eat dirt as a rule but it was hard to avoid the taste when you get your face ground into it with a dirty boot. He couldn't tell if the metallic penny flavour came from the iron-rich martian dust which covered everything here or if it was the blood streaming from the various places in his mouth and nose that had been unceremoniously bashed. <br />
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It's hard to say how Kiran got into this situation, or if he got into it at all. All he really know, and all that we know, is that his face was being roughly ground into the rough martian gravel and that there was a long list of experiences which Kiran enjoyed more than this one.</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-49834625704965686062014-11-01T06:30:00.000-07:002014-11-20T12:28:01.389-08:00After hearing "The Green Fields of the Mind " by Bart Giamatti<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-92091737756520666242014-09-20T22:01:00.001-07:002014-09-20T22:01:39.857-07:00Chef<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Living in India one of the shows that is most universally enjoyable for the whole family is MasterChef Australia. At the 8 o'clock hour as the kids are getting ready for bed we will turn it on unless something else is better or if the kids are distracted in their rooms or asleep. It is a safe show for everyone and the kids love cooking and I enjoy thinking that by watching a TV show I will start producing wonderful dishes at home.<br />
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This week has been different. This week I have watched every episode and have gone into a slight panic whenever we have a power cut in the 30 minutes proceeding 8 o'clock as I don't want to miss it. What was the change? What made this week different from every other week? <br />
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<a href="http://resources1.news.com.au/images/2013/02/12/1226555/450453-marco-pierre-white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://resources1.news.com.au/images/2013/02/12/1226555/450453-marco-pierre-white.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
Marco Pierre White.<br />
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Now I am not an epicure that would know that name in text, sorry Marco. But I recognized his face and new he was one of the great chefs of our age, even if I didn't know anything about him personally or professionally. So when they announced on Monday that he would be on MasterChef all week I was intrigued. I always enjoy learning something that I know I didn't know. <br />
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Marco Pierre White was introduced as one of the primary forces in defining modern food as well as the man who made Gordon Ramsey cry. The contestants obviously knew who he was and were immediately intimidated in a way that they often were not when other chefs are on the show, even chefs that one can see from the interviews are well respected. This intrigued me even more. In the midst of this thick haze of intimidation and fear Marco began his welcome speech with, "I am Marco Pierre White, I do not assume you know who I am." And yet very clearly he did. "I am here to give you the confidence to cook great food." My quotes through this blog will all be approximations as I cannot find a transcript from the episodes easily.<br />
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What struck me about his opening statement was the strange juxtaposition between making focused efforts to intimidate the cooks but saying he was there to give them confidence. It was easy to see the not only was Marco a great chef but he had great skill with people. He is known for being a terror, a bully in the kitchen but he also mentored many of today's great chefs. I was glued from his opening line. In the middle of the speech he stopped, stepped up to face a chef in the back row, ignoring the rest of the contestants and leaned into the recipient and asked, "Tell me about yourself." The contestant said, "I'm a bobcat operator and I'm here because I want cooking to change my life." You could tell he was scared stiff but Marco demanded honesty and he got it. His intro was carefully sculpted to terrify and establish a strict hierarchy. <br />
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Describing his opening speech to my wife I teared up. Sure I was emotionally and physically exhausted from my recent battle with Typhoid but it was emotional to see a gifted leader at work. I was glued. Every day I have watched him not only master of a skilled craft, an art, but a gifted leader and communicator who was raising up other people to levels in the trade which they did not expect of themselves. The powerful mix of private and public praise and humiliation let people know when they succeeded and when they failed. He propped them up when they were at the breaking point but was brutal when they were below his expectations. It seemed he could care less about their expectations of themselves. <br />
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What really interested me was that he did not focus on the strongest personalities but the frailest ones. He told one contestant who was trying to put on a strong face for him when he approached her bench, "Never hide your tears." He then bent the rules a bit when he asked to try her dish even though it was not one of the top 5 dishes to be tried, simply so that he could tell her that her dish was very good and that she should be proud of it. She went on into the next challenge to take a huge risk which none of the judges, including Marco, thought she could pull off in the time given and blew them away with an excellent dish. Stuffed turkey neck sausage. Marco said few professional chefs could even make the dish and that if she could do it in an hour she would be a "Houdini." She took a risk she would never have taken without him taking the time in the previous challenge to point out to her skill in the midst of her insecurity and it propelled her to unprecedented success. <br />
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It is hard for me to express how powerful this week has been for me. In the last year I have had an official management position at work. I have been overly cautious, primarily to fearing certain cultural undertones, to set the expectations for my team as high as I hold them for myself. Much higher than the expectations they have for themselves in a lot of cases. Unfortunately they have lived up to the expectations I set. My job as a leader was to raise the standard and I felt that I have failed to do that to the degree that I could have and was met with frustration and disappointment in myself throughout. My high standards for myself have helped to propel me to the point where I am professionally and I did my team a disservice by not holding them to that same level and helping them to succeed to the same standard. <br />
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I know not everyone will rise to the occasion. I have had several times where I gave people the opportunity to grow and they did not take it, did not grow and excel to the point where they could have. Watching Marco gave me incredible insight into not only how to better do that in the future but more importantly the benefits that that high level of expectation can produce for those around me. In my own insecurity this past year I have not been a good Indian manager nor an American one. Moving forward, though, I have the unique opportunity to learn from this mistake and improve not only my own work but the work of those around me. There is no B side. In my code, motorcycles, camping equipment, parenting, husbanding, there is no more "good enough for government work." One of the most powerful lessons I have learned from India is the damage that "Chalta hai" can produce. How doing something with minimal effort ALWAYS costs more effort in the long run, and usually when you can least afford to do the work a second or third time. May I always abhor the consequences of not following my own mother's advice that I habitually ignored as a child. "Do it right the first time and you only do it once."</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-79799021349834325852014-08-12T02:15:00.001-07:002014-08-12T02:15:03.887-07:00An Empty Brain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have, on rare occasion, had the benefit of an empty brain. Where due to life circumstances or conscious decision I had removed some of the regular inputs into my life. The last few days I have been thinking of this more regularly and realized that again I need to empty my brain. A great interview with Trevor Talbert by Brian Levine's Pipes Magazine Radio Show really set me on this train of thought. He was talking about his various artistic endeavours and that for him to be best able to create something he needed to fill his brain less with the things that others have created. Empty Brain. While I am writing about Empty Brain I got pretty distracted but I did stumble across <a href="http://talbertpipes.blogspot.in/2013/10/make-billiard.html">this article</a> from Trevor Talbert which fits in with many of my blogs quite well. <br />
<br />When I read that it struck a terrifying cord in me. I stumbled across something similar just before going to the Himalyas and so decided to not bring the kindle or any music but to simply take in my surroundings and write if I could. Unfortunately the hiking kicked my butt and very little writing was written. I did fill 44 pages of a moleskin with various musings but mostly it is a chronicle of the trip, incomplete and not nearly as introspective as imagined. And so I returned home thinking the newly awoken commitment to write due to the <a href="http://polymathophilia.blogspot.in/search/label/Morning%20Pages">Morning Pages</a> Experiment and the fresh beauty of the mountains would combine to create post after post of humbling beauty and biting prose. <br />
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Then the thing that I was afraid of happened. My Empty Brain began to fill itself. At first this was wonderful, I was imaginative and creative again. I could day dream like I did when I was younger. My mind was a fertile place once again. Life and stress and a few major family decisions came up and, like the Tar from Fern Gully, began to infiltrate and pollute the inner recesses of my grey matter. I began to very quickly lean very heavily on YouTube as my drug of choice to chase away the voices in my mind. I know that there are probably those brave souls in our wonderful world who are not haunted by self loathing, depression, and suicidal tendencies. Unfortunately I am not one of those brave souls. I can understand a life without darkness as little as they can understand a life punctuated by it. And so my Empty Brain became a weapon against myself and so I filled it. Motorcycle repair, BBC's Farm series of videos, the Tested Channel with Adam Savage building super cool stuff. All of these things filled my mind so that I was not free to fill it. <br />
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And then the last few weeks I have worked myself close to health again. I didn't run during this period so the Marathon is no longer an obtainable goal. I didn't write for weeks and lost the progress I had made towards building a writing habit. I had again left scars of uncertainty in my precious children. But I will not focus on what was lost. So I began starting to write again. And this week is a week free of YouTube to allow my brain space to think and to give me time to get my spiritual house in order. So again I enter into the unknown, that place where I let my brain lead me down terrifyingly wonderful paths. H.P. Lovecraft terrifies me that much more as I recognize the wanderlust of his characters down the paths of the mind. To allow the mind to stretch and grow until it breaks. Maybe some people are not afraid that there senses will snap and they will loose their mind. Maybe I've read too many Victorian novels. But down the rabbit hole we go, once more my friends. I still doubt the great American Novel will begin to appear on these pages but at least something will.</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-63577102117905975032014-08-06T21:45:00.000-07:002014-08-06T21:45:03.304-07:00Maths<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
2 days ago I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep when I suddenly thought about what I would do differently if I had my teenage days to do over, knowing what I know now. The first thing to cross my mind was girls. I probably hold the record for spending the most time talking and thinking about dating girls and not actually doing so. Waste of time. The other, complimentary thought, was to buy a motorcycle and waste my time and money thinking about that instead. The thought that hit me hard out of the thought cloud and surprised me with its intensity was that I should have worked hard and where I didn't work hard, the consequence was actually my own damn fault.<div>
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I was one of those annoying kids who didn't have to do much of anything to succeed in school. When one is in school and you can't succeed in physical activities, making money, or getting girls doing well in school seems like a pretty crappy super power. It is, I see now, a pretty rocking superpower second only to the pig's ability to turn vegetables into bacon. But I digress. Every superhero has their weakness. Their kryptonite. Their instant kill. For the easy-schoolers, as I will call them, it tends to be work. I was not the only easy-schooler to have this problem. When you don't have to do the basic work day in and day out that those around you are doing, noticeably school work, you get a very weak work muscle. I am not saying that easy-schoolers get the best grades. I don't think they generally do. I also am not saying that I am brilliant. Even in my limited classic-rock/hackisack peer group I would say I was in the middle of the pack in terms of shear intelligence & brilliance. Some of my friends were genuinely bright dudes. I don't think that the easy-schoolers tend to get the best grades primarily due to the fact that their work ethic is about as strong as twisty-tie holding up the golden gate bridge. As long as no work is required, easy-schoolers excel. As soon as something needs to be done that takes some work, it doesn't happen and grades drop as a result. They often still tend to be in the upper percentiles but I am convinced that easy-schoolers make up very few of the valedictions, especially at the high school level. Intelligence does not equal wisdom and a lot of easy-schoolers, myself included, didn't do the work necessary to be at the top of our class, though it would have taken a lot less work than it would have taken other folks. The people that did the work, spent the hours studying and completing assignments, they were the valedictions. Gumption and hard work blew natural intelligence out of the water. The unscientific fact that a lot of the brightest high-school kids question the shallow system, see no value in it, and tend to smoke a lot of pot instead only serves to bolster my hypothesis. </div>
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Unfortunately I was stuck in the middle with you. Not quite bright enough to realize the weaknesses in modern society and watch it all go up in smoke; coupled with my real fear that if I ever touched a joint to my lips Mr. Vogeley would immediately walk into the room and give me a disappointed look and crush my dreams of being a man forever; I didn't quite make it that far. On the other hand my crippling lack of work ethic prevented me from truly succeeding in the scholastic realm. One particular experience marked this enigma with the kind of memory-force that I have never been able to shake. With the kind of lasting consequences that weren't enough to really alter my life path but seriously altered the way I thought about myself and would handle situations in the future.</div>
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The year was Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Seven. The Grade was 7th. The teacher: Mrs. Thayer. I saw a re-run episode of <u>7 Rules</u> the other day which has a teacher saying, "I don't make the rules, I just enforce them to the letter." That was Mrs. Thayer. It was in the 7th grade at my particular educational establishment that the students take a test to see if they were prepared to enter into algebra in the 8th grade or if they were to pass onto pre-algebra and take algebra in the 9th grade, their first year of High School. The educational establishment in question divided the students of each grade into "teams" of about 60 - 80 students. I was called up to Mrs. Thayer's desk one day to be informed that although I had the 2nd highest algebra readiness score in my team I would not be entering into algebra the next year because I had a grade of a C and I needed a B, maybe an A, to get into algebra. I remember saying, "But I got the 2nd highest score in the team." And she replied, "But you have a C." </div>
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By the time I had returned to my desk I had written off math. It was really a shame because I enjoyed math, I still to this day am one of those strange people that stand in awe of math. 10 X 10 = 100. Have you ever thought of that? Amazing. I'm mystified by civilizations that had a base 7 number system and how they did calculations that way. I am bowled over by formulas that work every time. There is a wonderful trustworthiness in normal math. I also understand math. I understand how the numbers work and interact with each other. But by the time I had awkwardly squeezed my pubescent bulk into the desk I was a devoted English/History guy. That was it. It was an easy transition. I had already tested with a post college reading level and I loved history. From that day forward I averaged C's in math because it wasn't my thing. The only year I earned an A was in Geometry during 10th grade when my teacher allowed me to do the homework while she lectured. In the 11th grade I actually cheated on homework to not fail, sorry mom. I was caught and never cheated again but my repugnant behaviour just shows the level to which I had given up on my own success and integrity. Cheating is a horrible mixture of deceit, laziness, and theft. But I remember standing there at the desk of one of the greatest teachers that I decided to not grow under, sweating profusely on the verge of creating vomit being told that I would fail his class if this ever happened again. So after 3 days of reformed homework completion I simply stopped turning in the assignments. </div>
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I was a year behind all of my friends in math and therefore science. I missed out some of the great fun I had with them in English & History, the great discussions & learning. I missed out on that because I had a flawed view of work as well as a weak will to fight. Homework, up until college, was merely practice so you could pass the tests. I didn't understand getting graded down for not doing homework if you aced the tests, which I was doing in 7th grade. I could finish the multiplication tables fastest, I knew the concepts, homework was (and I still believe for the most part is today) a waste of time. Mrs. Thayer apparently did not espouse this theory of education. I didn't fight for it. I felt like I had earned it, I felt like I had deserved it but instead of fighting for it, instead of arguing that if I raise my grade by the end of the year could I attend, instead of making a case and bring it to the top of the educational hierarchy I turned around and said fuck it. Sorry mom. </div>
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My family culture at the time was also very victim based. When things happened they always happened to us. When things happened to us we would get angry, grumble in defiance at the injustice, say fuck it, and walk away. I gloried in this mindset because I had enough responsibility and guilt that weighed upon me at the time and I wasn't going to be at fault for the system. It has been almost 2 decades since this event and I think about it on a monthly basis. 18 years and me sitting down and being robbed of math has haunted me. It comes up in conversations where it doesn't really apply, it haunts me in the midst of my depressive slumps, it has been a major defining moment. And I kid you not, in 18 years only the past 6 months have I begun to stop blaming Mrs. Thayer for my failure in math. For 18 years I had the audacity to blame someone who was following policy for my failure to keep my grades up and do the work expected of me. For 18 years I held an old shrivelled lady responsible for my failure to not fight for something that I wanted and deserved. For my entire adult life I have failed to acknowledge my own shortfall and that has haunted me, tainted me, and I'm ready to exercise the ghost and be done with it. </div>
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Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-70614235982506902352014-08-05T01:49:00.002-07:002014-08-05T01:49:40.022-07:00To Do or Not To Do<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I haven't written in sometime. I was hoping that the crisp & clear mountain air would clear my mind and clarify my future. Coming home I had more questions & less answers. It was a few weeks battling with major doubts and depression that my family decided that our season here in India is at an end. So over the next few months we will begin to close this chapter of our life and figure out what our future holds. Part of why my writing has stopped as you can see the 30 day exercise has concluded for the other contributors and unfortunately it didn't develop into a habit. Scipio's work I dearly loved and now I'm not sure if any of the story lines will have a conclusion. Maybe once we get into the same time zone we can work out at the very least some game-able clash between our forces to dictate the story line's conclusion. <br />
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The decision to stay or go in India was very difficult as it was one of those decisions that had to be made. By not deciding we were deciding to stay. Not deciding and staying by default robbed us of some of the intentionality that we had once had and we needed to stay for a reason or leave for a reason. I've always had the habit of not making decisions to make decisions. Whenever we were in a class and the teacher told the community to find a partner or a group I usually lingered until someone else chose me or I was assigned into the group that was still missing members. This almost always did not work in my favour. When one does well scholastically and doesn't aggressively make sure to work one's way into a group of students with similar standards the socially adepts underachievers will very quickly recruit you. Unfortunately I couldn't wait this time around for someone to choose for us and we chose to return home.<br />
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It is interesting that one of my repeated messages in this blog to myself has been to get up and go do something. That has been very hard since I got back from the trip. Debilitating depression coupled with a lack of knowing what my future held severely demotivated me from doing much of anything. It is hard to invest around you and spend time making things, both concrete and abstract, if you are going to leave those things behind anyway. Now that we are leaving there are a few things I'd like to make before we go but a lot of my attention has shifted to the going and getting there, which I am attempting to curtail as much as possible, but it is hard.<br />
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I am going to continue to attempt to do some writing here as it has been writing here that really helped me before my Himalayan trip, which was fantastic & brutal by the way. I do think, however, that on top of this outlet there is a book which I titled and never really wrote several years ago and I feel as though the nebulous idea finally has a few legs to stand on and so I'm going to see if we can't find some more legs in the strange place where thoughts become words. Some of you know that I was working on a book earlier this year which probably will go no further simply because in my research I could not prove my thesis. Though the thesis was not necessarily wrong, it did not have the scope that I thought it would have and so I decided it would be literary dishonesty to try and make it work. I'm glad I didn't try to fake it but I was a bit disappointed that a ball that finally had began to roll hit a stump and stopped rolling. Onward and upward. I've been doing a bit of daydreaming recently as a major family shift in my position at work as well as my geographical location allows a certain width to re-invent oneself. To stop doing things that have developed into bad habits and start focusing on things that I should have been doing all along.<br />
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In the midst of the whirlwind of what I wish I was doing one of the things that stood out to me was that I would really enjoy writing and I shouldn't stop. I will not become an author by just writing in an obscure blog everyday but I definitely won't become an author if I don't. But I guess author is like musician. I am an author because I am authoring right now. Musician is not a title strictly reserved for those who sell platinum records nor to child prodigies but simply to those who music and so I will continue to auth. The other swirling ideas were commune handyperson/pipesmith/bike customizer. As hard as I try to be a craftsman in the code I write for a living, the lack of tangible art is difficult for me to quantify in that way. I would love to be a craftsperson for a living. I probably wouldn't like the lack of consistent income, the ups and downs that go with living that way, but I love creating things with my hands. I love motorcycles but though that is a wide market it is flooded and I don't know if I'm actually very good at it. Pipe creation I think I have the beginnings for a skill there but that market is a narrow market that may also be flooded with people of my level. Until I publish that book that allows me some way to smooth out the financial highs and lows of the craftsperson's life it will probably remain a simple dream of mine.<br />
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My parents in their self-confessed "fruit & nuts days" attempted a communal life, living off the land. There short time attempting that with friends convinced them that it was not for them. Apparently I am genetically predisposed to the same folly. I love the idea of feeding my family directly with the work of my hands and building/fixing. But those who have the freedom to do that tend to start out from a pretty strong financial situation that gives the flexibility to not earn a living in the normalized sense. If I were to spring for a few acres I would have that pesky mortgage of said acrage to deal with that would require some normalized income. I don't think most banks consider vegetables legal tender. I also might possibly hate it. Who knows. I sure don't. But until that sweet book deal gives me some plush bank account that lets me buy those acres with cash, I'll keep trucking along hoping to find that bit of peace between who I am and what I do.</div>
Khusrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13858612495156635186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546628488053498901.post-61244514283797730842014-06-23T10:00:00.000-07:002014-06-23T10:00:03.460-07:00Remember to Flush<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<br />Magnetic Bran Flakeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16574939535039923295noreply@blogger.com0