Finals

Finals. . . aren't. If NSA has taught me one thing, it is that work is never done. Work is cyclical. I'm finished with that history paper, but I will be writing another history paper shortly. Then, I might be done with writing history papers (hopefully this sad state will never happen), but I will be writing more papers and taking more tests. Also, let it be known, I plan to teach a bit after college. What does this mean? I'll be assigning and grading papers. Where does it end? Not in academia.

The lawn does not stay mowed, the leaves don't stay off the lawn, and the dishes certainly don't stay clean. C.S. Lewis aptly described the sequence of life (in I think "Surprised by Joy"). Term, holidays, term, holidays, till we leave school, and then work, work, work till we die.

I can only think of two times in all of history when an act was justly declared completed; unique and never to be repeated. One was at the very beginning of history, one was right in the middle.

"And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made" Genesis 2:2 (KJV)

"When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished: and he bowed his head, and gave up the ghost." John 19:30 (KJV)

There it is. That is finality.

Practical Jokes

I have made a rather stunning discovery, which I would like to share. Someone showed me how holding down the shift key on a mac will make everything slow down. So what you can do is hold down the shift key and hit an expose button over and over. Then close down the computer and later you'll have to wait until the windows stop bouncing at their extra slow pace. He said you can do that to other people and it's a lot of fun. I am too lazy to attempt it on other people, I did it to myself. Then I had to e-mail something and was really mad at myself for doing that earlier.

As I was watching the windows bob up and down rhythmically I thought to myself: self, I was just the victim of a retroactive auto-practical joke. I could do this sort of thing all the time. Right before I drift off to sleep I could tie my legs together. If all goes according to plan (fall asleep within five minutes of the event), the memory of tying my legs would never make it past the very-very short-term memory phase. I would wake up the next morning with no idea of what I'd done the night before. What a pleasant way to start the day.

When you think about it, it isn't fair at all. You see, what makes a practical joke sort of alright is its tit-for-tat nature. If you play one, then you are asking for it. Not so if you play one on yourself. A self inflicted practical joke will always be past-self playing a trick on future-self. The future never gets its own back.

And this is the case with everything, not just practical jokes. Take politics. Clinton left behind a load of troubles for Bush, who left an even bigger mess for Obama to make worse. Leaving politics (I hate politics), just look at life in general. We are always doing things to ourselves now which we will regret later. What's a tattoo but a nasty trick a twenty year old is playing on a fifty year old? You can laugh at your past self but you can never give it a good talking to. Hm, I'm sure there's a moral in there somewhere.

Our "Where you people at"-map no longer looks like it has a nasty case of the chicken pox. Although I am happy that it's feeling better, I am a little sad that you can no longer see the various locations of our visitors on its diseased skin. It just shows a measly eight visits in the United States. Oh well. At least now we can see better where new blotches are going.

Also, you may have noticed that our hit counter is down. I know many of you are distraught right now with thoughts of all the hypothetical donuts you will miss out on (we were getting close to 7000 hits). It was about this time last year that Kaleb decided to not give out Krispy Kreme donuts on a monumentous hit count landmark. Alas, we are going to have to cancel that tradition.

The Romance of Language

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that rail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'

- T.S. Elliot excerpt from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

"It is impossible to say just what I mean. . ." Ironically, I know just what J. Alfred Prufrock means. Speech is a burden to my soul. I believe I accomplish it as well as the next man, and perhaps better on paper but it frustrates me just the same. I do not wish I were better at speaking or writing; I wish it were not necessary. And it is not the action of speech itself that galls me. I am not a lazy communicator. If anything, I am too much of a perfectionist. So what, then, do I mean? That if I had my way in the world (thank goodness I do not) you would never have to ask this question of anyone. Minds would meet in the absence of all things besides perfect being and its expression in perfect thought.

If you are reading this, then my wish has not been fulfilled. You still have the wonderful freedom to misinterpret me, and I have the privilege of writing ambiguous sentences. Praise be to God, for leaving the romance in our language.

Yes, there is romance in our language, and it is the romance that flusters. Every sentence flirts with a host of different meanings. Some words are associated with one another so that they can best be called friends. Others will court one another until they become synonymous, and then finally philander into entirely different meanings. This is the way of words and who am I to stop them?

I, like Big T, have a wise younger sister.

As has already been said by better men than I, my sister is smarter than me. And sweeter. Which, if you know me, you know isn't that hard, and if you know my sister, you know how much of an understatement that is.

Don't forget that sleep is not a sin. Please get some rest.

(from an email)

Purification in Delos

I was just reading in "T-Diddy" (our good friend Thucydides, Book 3.104 if you want to know) how the Athenians purified Delos.

"All the remains of those that died in Delos were removed, and for the future it was commanded that no one should be allowed either to die or to give birth to a child in the island; but that they should be carried over to Rhenea" which is near to Delos.

What I'm really concerned about is that part about people not being allowed to die or give birth on the island. This raises a few questions in my mind, and I'm sure it does the same in yours. The birthing part is pretty simple, it's weird but it's simple. They just put all their maternity wards on this island of Rhenea, problem solved. Also, people generally know when they're going to have a baby. There's a few signs to look out for (but keep your guesses to yourself). So, when those signs present themselves they send them over to that other island. But what if the signs were just missed? This happens you know.

Delos Purification Authority: Excuse me maam, you aren't about to have a baby here are you?

Woman in labor: I know, I know I saw the leaflets; I'm not supposed to give birth here. But I didn't know I was, and now I am.

DPA: I'm sorry maa'm but you are going to have to go to Rhenea for that. I can't allow you to have a baby here.

Dang, shucks for her. What a hassle.

And what about people dying? There had to have been more cases of ambiguity then. I mean, after a certain age I guess they just ferried the old people to Rhenea, and the same with the sick. I'm guessing there were no beds designated as "death beds" in Delos. But what about the odd person who started dying unexpectedly.

DPA: Um. . . Sir, you look like you could die any minute now. When did this start?

Dying man: About. . . ten minutes ago. . . I can hardly breathe.

DPA: Well dying's not allowed here, you're going to have to go to Rhenea. I shouldn't have to tell you this.

DM: Rhenea? I heard it's terrible, I want to die here.

DPA: Too bad, that's the law.

I make irrelevant comments because it's late.

Read somewhere between tonight and tomorrow morning:

The remaining cells die via apoptosis (programmed cell death).

Yeah, biology textbook. Point is this:

wouldn't Programmed Cell Death be the greatest name ever for a Techno Punk Rock Band?!

I know, right? Now you can return to what actually matters in your life.