Monday, February 23, 2009
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
On the literary merit of a book…
One sign that a book has literary value is that it can be read in a number of different ways. Vice versa, the proof that pornography has no literary value is that, if one attempts to read it in any other way than as a sexual stimulus, to read it, say, as a psychological case-history of the author’s sexual fantasies, one is bored to tears.
Though a work of literature can be read in a number of different ways, this number is finite and can be arranged in a hierarchical order; some readings are obviously “truer” than others, some doubtful, some obviously false, and some , like reading a novel backwards, absurd. That is why, for a desert island, one would choose a good dictionary than the greatest literary masterpiece imaginable, for, in relation to its readers, a dictionary is absolutely passive and may legitimately be read in an infinite number of ways.
Reading – An Essay by W.H. Auden
Though a work of literature can be read in a number of different ways, this number is finite and can be arranged in a hierarchical order; some readings are obviously “truer” than others, some doubtful, some obviously false, and some , like reading a novel backwards, absurd. That is why, for a desert island, one would choose a good dictionary than the greatest literary masterpiece imaginable, for, in relation to its readers, a dictionary is absolutely passive and may legitimately be read in an infinite number of ways.
Reading – An Essay by W.H. Auden
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Section Quotes from Christopher Moore's "Practical Demonkeeping"
Like one that on that lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And no more turns his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
All mystical experience is coincidence;
and vice versa, of course.
Tom Stoppard, Jumpers
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth.
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.
John Milton
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And no more turns his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
All mystical experience is coincidence;
and vice versa, of course.
Tom Stoppard, Jumpers
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth.
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.
John Milton
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Listening - David Mura
Listening – David mura
And from that village, steaming with mist, riddled with rain,
from the fisherman in the bay hauling up nets of silver flecks;
from the droning of the Buddhist priest in the morning,
incense thickening his voice, a bit other-worldly, almost sickly;
from the oysters ripped from the sea bottom by half-naked women,
their skin darker than the bark in the woods, their lungs
as endless as some cave where a demon dwells
(soon their harvest will be split open by a blade, moist
meaty flesh, drenched in the smell of sea bracken, the tidal winds);
from the torrii[1] halfway up the mountain
and the steps to the temple where the gong shimmers
with echoes of bright metallic sound;
from the waterfall streaming, hovering in the eye, and in illusion, rising;
from the cedars that have nothing to do with time;
from the small mud-cramped streets of rice shops and fish mongers;
from the pebbles on the riverbed, the aquamarine stream
floating pine-trunks, felled upstream
by men with hachimaki2 tied round their forehead
and grunts of o-sha3 I remember from my father in childhood;
from this mythical land of the empty sign and a thousand-thousand
manners,
on the tip of this peninsula, far from Kyoto, the Shogun’s palace,
in a house of shoji4 and clean cut pine, crawling onto a straw futon,
one of my ancestors lay his head as I do now on a woman’s belly
and felt an imperceptible bump like the bow of a boat hitting a swell
and wondered how anything could cause such rocking unbroken
joy.
[1] Gate of a Shinto shrine.
2 Headband.
3 Ruler or monarch.
4 Paper screen.
And from that village, steaming with mist, riddled with rain,
from the fisherman in the bay hauling up nets of silver flecks;
from the droning of the Buddhist priest in the morning,
incense thickening his voice, a bit other-worldly, almost sickly;
from the oysters ripped from the sea bottom by half-naked women,
their skin darker than the bark in the woods, their lungs
as endless as some cave where a demon dwells
(soon their harvest will be split open by a blade, moist
meaty flesh, drenched in the smell of sea bracken, the tidal winds);
from the torrii[1] halfway up the mountain
and the steps to the temple where the gong shimmers
with echoes of bright metallic sound;
from the waterfall streaming, hovering in the eye, and in illusion, rising;
from the cedars that have nothing to do with time;
from the small mud-cramped streets of rice shops and fish mongers;
from the pebbles on the riverbed, the aquamarine stream
floating pine-trunks, felled upstream
by men with hachimaki2 tied round their forehead
and grunts of o-sha3 I remember from my father in childhood;
from this mythical land of the empty sign and a thousand-thousand
manners,
on the tip of this peninsula, far from Kyoto, the Shogun’s palace,
in a house of shoji4 and clean cut pine, crawling onto a straw futon,
one of my ancestors lay his head as I do now on a woman’s belly
and felt an imperceptible bump like the bow of a boat hitting a swell
and wondered how anything could cause such rocking unbroken
joy.
[1] Gate of a Shinto shrine.
2 Headband.
3 Ruler or monarch.
4 Paper screen.
Haroun and the Sea of Stories
…the Water Genie told Haroun about the Ocean of the Streams of Story, and even though he was full of a sense of hopelessness and failure the magic of the Ocean began to have an effect on Haroun. He looked into the water and saw that it was made up of a thousand thousand thousand and one different currents, each one different currents, each one a different color, weaving in and out of one another like a liquid tapestry of breathtaking complexity: and [the Water Genie] explained that these were the Streams of Story, that each colored strand represented and contained a single tale. Different parts of the Ocean contained different sorts of stories, and as all the stories that had ever been told and many that were still in the process of being invented could be found here, the Ocean of the Streams of Story was in fact the biggest library in the universe. And because the stories were held here in fluid form, they retained the ability to change, to become new versions of themselves, to join up with other stories and so become yet other stories…
Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories (London, 1990), 71-72.
Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories (London, 1990), 71-72.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy, p. 146
“What is true of one man, said the judge, is true of many. The people who once lived here are called the Anasazi. The old ones. They quit these parts, routed by drought or disease or by wandering bands of marauders, quit these parts ages since and of them there is no memory. They are rumors and ghosts in this land and they are much revered. The tools, the art, the building- these things stand in judgment on the latter races. Yet there is nothing for them to grapple with. The old ones are gone like phantoms and the savages wander these canyons to the sound of ancient laughter. In their crude huts they crouch in darkness and listen to the fear seeping out of the rock. All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage. So. Here are the dead fathers. Their spirit is entombed in the stone. It lies upon the land with the same weight and the same ubiquity. For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides has joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he will subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works may seem to us.”
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Exotic Cuisines from a Living Room Rug
Children possess an uncanny ability to find the most disgusting things in the course of their development. What is even worst, a child will use their mouth to perform most of their examination of what they find. The other night, my wife and I had the television on, watching a movie we enjoy as well as watching our soon-to-one year old playing on the living room rug at our feet. At this time in our daughter’s life, it is hard to do anything else now that she is mobile and determined to touch and fondle every artifact likely to break. Even when I wave a plastic hanger in her face to deter her, she laughs at me and looks at me as if to say, “Oh that thing? Sheeiit. You are going to have to do better than that, dad. I already got that scar and the bloody tee shirt. ”
I stand reluctantly in the middle of the living room as a guard against anything she should not have. The television distracts me; her sounds and movements battle for my attention. Every five minutes we take turns to chase after her, refill her sippy cup, or change her dirty diaper. “What happened?” is always the first question from us once we return.
Harmless baby toys are strewn about the floor. She crawls and rolls around the brightly colored blocks, battery-operated toy cell phone, and various stuffed animals like a ninja avoiding a lethal training course. She pauses for a short moment and my subconscious speaks out, good, she isn’t moving and making noise, watch the TV, something good is going to happen any second. Out of my peripheral vision, I think I see Cori find an insect carcass. I cannot tear my eyes away from the plasma, mounted above the fireplace. The guy on TV has just found the wedding ring encased in a dog turd.
Our daughter sits up from her crawl and performs a victory wave with the desiccated corpse secured between her thumb and forefinger. She holds it high above her head just before she pops it into her mouth and begins to chew. Is she chewing on a bug? I think to myself as she looks up at me and begins to chew with a slobbery grin. I look at Sara. She is also watching Cori and instantly snatches her up off the rug, using her finger to fish for whatever is in her mouth. When she realizes it is a bug her daughter was chewing like bubble gum, the only emotion overcoming the heat of her anger, directed at me, is her revulsion of the slimy bug still sticking to her finger.
“Ah… Gross! An earwig.” She glares up at me as Cori slips back down from her lap and back onto the rug for more.
“I thought it was a piece of fuzz,” is my singular defense.
“Just get rid of it,” she growls.
“Okay, no problem.”
I skitter off happy to oblige her demand, thinking random thoughts about Cori’s momentary success. Well, that was fucking gross. I wonder if Cori has an aftertaste. At least she wouldn’t choke on it. Sara didn’t wash her finger. I flick the dead bug, which now looks like a wet coco rice crispy into the toilet and flush, eager to wash my hands.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He ate it.”
“Oh.” I stand there in the room, blocking Cori’s path into the hallway as I watch the lady on T.V. “Gross.”
I stand reluctantly in the middle of the living room as a guard against anything she should not have. The television distracts me; her sounds and movements battle for my attention. Every five minutes we take turns to chase after her, refill her sippy cup, or change her dirty diaper. “What happened?” is always the first question from us once we return.
Harmless baby toys are strewn about the floor. She crawls and rolls around the brightly colored blocks, battery-operated toy cell phone, and various stuffed animals like a ninja avoiding a lethal training course. She pauses for a short moment and my subconscious speaks out, good, she isn’t moving and making noise, watch the TV, something good is going to happen any second. Out of my peripheral vision, I think I see Cori find an insect carcass. I cannot tear my eyes away from the plasma, mounted above the fireplace. The guy on TV has just found the wedding ring encased in a dog turd.
Our daughter sits up from her crawl and performs a victory wave with the desiccated corpse secured between her thumb and forefinger. She holds it high above her head just before she pops it into her mouth and begins to chew. Is she chewing on a bug? I think to myself as she looks up at me and begins to chew with a slobbery grin. I look at Sara. She is also watching Cori and instantly snatches her up off the rug, using her finger to fish for whatever is in her mouth. When she realizes it is a bug her daughter was chewing like bubble gum, the only emotion overcoming the heat of her anger, directed at me, is her revulsion of the slimy bug still sticking to her finger.
“Ah… Gross! An earwig.” She glares up at me as Cori slips back down from her lap and back onto the rug for more.
“I thought it was a piece of fuzz,” is my singular defense.
“Just get rid of it,” she growls.
“Okay, no problem.”
I skitter off happy to oblige her demand, thinking random thoughts about Cori’s momentary success. Well, that was fucking gross. I wonder if Cori has an aftertaste. At least she wouldn’t choke on it. Sara didn’t wash her finger. I flick the dead bug, which now looks like a wet coco rice crispy into the toilet and flush, eager to wash my hands.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He ate it.”
“Oh.” I stand there in the room, blocking Cori’s path into the hallway as I watch the lady on T.V. “Gross.”
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Bald and Bug-eyed
Bald and Bug-Eyed
During our ten week training course, giving hair cuts to the horses was a skill we had to practice. As instructed in our training class, for each horse we had to clip its whiskers, mane, ear hair, and hooves. Our training NCO chose me to be the first to start clipping.
“You’re first. Go and get Bud from his stall and bring him over. We are going to clip the horses in this barn,” he said. “Everyone will have 30 minutes to clip their horses from head to toe. You all have seen it done earlier this week so there should be no problems. “
“Ok. No problem,” I replied and trotted off to the other barn, delighted it was Bud and not Reggie.
Bud was the oldest horse in the barn. At almost 25 years old, his skin looked like it was ready to slide off his boney frame. His skinny face made his eyes look fat and bulging. I always secretly thought that Bud’s face would resemble what a cantankerous alien would look like in a hairy brown suit.
While I went through the motions of preparing Bud for his walk over to the other barn, I started thinking about what the instructor said. Thirty minutes sounds like a pretty long time to clip a horse. Maybe he really meant “head to toe”. The damn horse is nothing but hair, a bit of skin and bones. I need to ask him again to be sure.
I tied Bud to a post in the second barn and collected the clipping kit.
“I just want to make sure, but you want me to cut everything,” I asked.
“Head to toe. Everything. You have 25 minutes now. Suggest you get going,” he responded.
“Okay,” I said.
That answer solved it and I trotted off trying to save time getting back to the horse. I was getting nervous. My time was ticking and I had the whole horse to clip. I started on Bud’s flank. I knew not to go too close to the skin, but it was hard to make measured strokes with the clippers. Bud would dance back and forth in the barn. His shoes would echo throughout the barn with every evading step he made.
The situation was getting stressful. I had sweat dripping down my face even though the interior of the barn was shaded. The industrial sized fans creating a breeze in the barn didn’t help lower the temperature outside. Clumps of Bud’s hair started to jam the clippers, which were already slightly dull. When the clippers pulled, the old horse would start maneuvering once again. What I thought to be an easy task, turned out to be a dancing nightmare. “Stay still,” I would grunt, jerking the harness attached to his head.
By the time the NCO came to see my progress, I couldn’t control much of anything with the horse. We were both exhausted. I stood there and turned off the clippers as he approached us. We stood there surrounded by a halo of Bud’s hair. Almost one whole rib cage was exposed and nearly hairless in some patches. It looked as if I took turns cutting his hair with shaving razor in some areas and a spoon in others. Not only did Bud look like a starved alien with bug eyes, he also looked retarded now.
Thirty minutes my ass. There is no way anyone can trim a whole horse up in thirty minutes, I thought to myself. I wasn’t too worried about missing my time. It would be like telling someone to make the whole day while only breathing once in a while.
“What the fuck are you doing,” cried the NCO. “What is all this. You were only supposed to trim the horse. I can’t believe this.”
“He kept moving I had no way to keep him steady. I tried some of the clipper guards, but they didn’t help,” I said.
The NCOs mouth was held ajar as he ran a hand over the area I cut. He turned to me and said, “Didn’t you watch what we cut the other day. Did you see that we only cut the hooves, mane, and the face? Where have you seen anyone cut the coat,” he asked.
I was starting to get a little frustrated. “Hey, I came back and even asked you what I had to cut in thirty minute. You told me twice, ‘head to toe’. I would have asked again for the third time, but I don’t think your answer would have changed”. By this time, Adams and Cooley had walked out of the classroom to see what was going on. They stood back, not saying much of anything, but they didn’t need to. They couldn’t contain their look of astonishment. Fuck ups like these only came around once in a while. Even though we were all still pretty green to the ways Caisson worked, they, me included at this point, knew this was bad.
“Hold on a second,” said the NCO. “I need to get someone.”
The training NCO was actually a specialist and didn’t truly have any authority outside of the three of us. He wasn’t too young, but we could all tell he got off on his authority for all of us to always address him as “Specialist”. In this case, he needed backup. What I had done needed a stronger assessment of exactly how bad I screwed up.
As soon as our training specialist left the barn, Cooley immediately rushed to my side, giving me a lopsided grin. “Kubicki, what did you do?”
Getting even more agitated by the second, all I could choke out was, “the bastard said head to toe about ten times. Both of you heard me in there ask him.”
Cooley empathized with me, where the two of us were cool with each other, Adams, was the outcast in our class. “Wow,” was all he could muster through his grin while he petted the horse I just finished abusing. I think his smile came more from the relief that it wasn’t him who screwed the horse up. He was already on the wire for being late for formation.
We didn’t say much as we watched one of the squad leaders make his way through the exercise lot with the training specialist in tow. It was one of those moments, where you know it can’t get much worse. I didn’t think I was going to get kicked out of the class, but I didn’t want to get my ass chewed either.
SSG Hildebrandt came into the barn looking for the damage I created. He slapped Bud on the his flank to get the horse to expose his other side. “Holy shit,” he laughed. “You did this,” he said. While he looked at me with a slight grin of disbelief.
“Yes Sergeant,” I replied. My anxiety began to subside.
“Good thing the specialist didn’t give you anymore time than thirty minutes,” he said.
The specialist hung back in the wings while SSG Hildebrandt counseled me on only what we trimmed on the horse. “Never cut anything else again. Do you hear me Kubicki,” he asked with a smile.
“Yes Sergeant,” I responded.
Word got around the barn quicker than a fire in a saw mill. Guys were making jokes even before the day was out. Soldiers who had been in the cemetery all day doing missions had known about my screw up even before they made it back to the barn. They were eager to check out Bud’s new haircut as soon as they cared of their horses. It was about four months before anyone could even ride Bud after his haircut. Any saddle would have caused a gall on his shaved side. It worked out well for the poor bastard in the end. I always thought he was too old to be ridden anyway.
During our ten week training course, giving hair cuts to the horses was a skill we had to practice. As instructed in our training class, for each horse we had to clip its whiskers, mane, ear hair, and hooves. Our training NCO chose me to be the first to start clipping.
“You’re first. Go and get Bud from his stall and bring him over. We are going to clip the horses in this barn,” he said. “Everyone will have 30 minutes to clip their horses from head to toe. You all have seen it done earlier this week so there should be no problems. “
“Ok. No problem,” I replied and trotted off to the other barn, delighted it was Bud and not Reggie.
Bud was the oldest horse in the barn. At almost 25 years old, his skin looked like it was ready to slide off his boney frame. His skinny face made his eyes look fat and bulging. I always secretly thought that Bud’s face would resemble what a cantankerous alien would look like in a hairy brown suit.
While I went through the motions of preparing Bud for his walk over to the other barn, I started thinking about what the instructor said. Thirty minutes sounds like a pretty long time to clip a horse. Maybe he really meant “head to toe”. The damn horse is nothing but hair, a bit of skin and bones. I need to ask him again to be sure.
I tied Bud to a post in the second barn and collected the clipping kit.
“I just want to make sure, but you want me to cut everything,” I asked.
“Head to toe. Everything. You have 25 minutes now. Suggest you get going,” he responded.
“Okay,” I said.
That answer solved it and I trotted off trying to save time getting back to the horse. I was getting nervous. My time was ticking and I had the whole horse to clip. I started on Bud’s flank. I knew not to go too close to the skin, but it was hard to make measured strokes with the clippers. Bud would dance back and forth in the barn. His shoes would echo throughout the barn with every evading step he made.
The situation was getting stressful. I had sweat dripping down my face even though the interior of the barn was shaded. The industrial sized fans creating a breeze in the barn didn’t help lower the temperature outside. Clumps of Bud’s hair started to jam the clippers, which were already slightly dull. When the clippers pulled, the old horse would start maneuvering once again. What I thought to be an easy task, turned out to be a dancing nightmare. “Stay still,” I would grunt, jerking the harness attached to his head.
By the time the NCO came to see my progress, I couldn’t control much of anything with the horse. We were both exhausted. I stood there and turned off the clippers as he approached us. We stood there surrounded by a halo of Bud’s hair. Almost one whole rib cage was exposed and nearly hairless in some patches. It looked as if I took turns cutting his hair with shaving razor in some areas and a spoon in others. Not only did Bud look like a starved alien with bug eyes, he also looked retarded now.
Thirty minutes my ass. There is no way anyone can trim a whole horse up in thirty minutes, I thought to myself. I wasn’t too worried about missing my time. It would be like telling someone to make the whole day while only breathing once in a while.
“What the fuck are you doing,” cried the NCO. “What is all this. You were only supposed to trim the horse. I can’t believe this.”
“He kept moving I had no way to keep him steady. I tried some of the clipper guards, but they didn’t help,” I said.
The NCOs mouth was held ajar as he ran a hand over the area I cut. He turned to me and said, “Didn’t you watch what we cut the other day. Did you see that we only cut the hooves, mane, and the face? Where have you seen anyone cut the coat,” he asked.
I was starting to get a little frustrated. “Hey, I came back and even asked you what I had to cut in thirty minute. You told me twice, ‘head to toe’. I would have asked again for the third time, but I don’t think your answer would have changed”. By this time, Adams and Cooley had walked out of the classroom to see what was going on. They stood back, not saying much of anything, but they didn’t need to. They couldn’t contain their look of astonishment. Fuck ups like these only came around once in a while. Even though we were all still pretty green to the ways Caisson worked, they, me included at this point, knew this was bad.
“Hold on a second,” said the NCO. “I need to get someone.”
The training NCO was actually a specialist and didn’t truly have any authority outside of the three of us. He wasn’t too young, but we could all tell he got off on his authority for all of us to always address him as “Specialist”. In this case, he needed backup. What I had done needed a stronger assessment of exactly how bad I screwed up.
As soon as our training specialist left the barn, Cooley immediately rushed to my side, giving me a lopsided grin. “Kubicki, what did you do?”
Getting even more agitated by the second, all I could choke out was, “the bastard said head to toe about ten times. Both of you heard me in there ask him.”
Cooley empathized with me, where the two of us were cool with each other, Adams, was the outcast in our class. “Wow,” was all he could muster through his grin while he petted the horse I just finished abusing. I think his smile came more from the relief that it wasn’t him who screwed the horse up. He was already on the wire for being late for formation.
We didn’t say much as we watched one of the squad leaders make his way through the exercise lot with the training specialist in tow. It was one of those moments, where you know it can’t get much worse. I didn’t think I was going to get kicked out of the class, but I didn’t want to get my ass chewed either.
SSG Hildebrandt came into the barn looking for the damage I created. He slapped Bud on the his flank to get the horse to expose his other side. “Holy shit,” he laughed. “You did this,” he said. While he looked at me with a slight grin of disbelief.
“Yes Sergeant,” I replied. My anxiety began to subside.
“Good thing the specialist didn’t give you anymore time than thirty minutes,” he said.
The specialist hung back in the wings while SSG Hildebrandt counseled me on only what we trimmed on the horse. “Never cut anything else again. Do you hear me Kubicki,” he asked with a smile.
“Yes Sergeant,” I responded.
Word got around the barn quicker than a fire in a saw mill. Guys were making jokes even before the day was out. Soldiers who had been in the cemetery all day doing missions had known about my screw up even before they made it back to the barn. They were eager to check out Bud’s new haircut as soon as they cared of their horses. It was about four months before anyone could even ride Bud after his haircut. Any saddle would have caused a gall on his shaved side. It worked out well for the poor bastard in the end. I always thought he was too old to be ridden anyway.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Third-Grade Accusations
One of the many vignettes I have created - some stand on their own, however, most don't. If you are looking for storyline and plot, you'll likely click away disappointed. Commentary, on the other hand, you might like it.
Third Grade Accusations
When I was in third-grade, I had my first experience with that particular humiliation that only seems to come from encounters with the opposite sex. We had a new girl from Wisconsin join our class. My friend Steve and I had an instant crush on her from the first day. We would share our daydreams of rescuing Jessica from whatever disaster our capricious minds could drum up while we walked home from school together.
Weeks later, as luck had it, when our teacher Mrs. Alanson made the seating roster, she sat Jessica directly behind me. I looked back at Steve with a smile, knowing that fortune and true love had fallen into my lap by a seating assignment. “Mrs. Alanson must know that Jessica likes me, else she wouldn’t sit her right next to me in class,” I taunted Steve on the way home.
“Whatever,” he would respond in a truculent fashion. My enthusiasm for the subject never wavered, even with his fierce attempts to change the subject. I never expected he had plans to retaliate.
Days later, I came down with chicken pox and missed a week of school. Any time when an ill classmate was going to be out for more a few days, Mrs. Alanson,- who looked very much like Ralphie’s teacher from the movie A Christmas Story- would have us all draw get-well cards for the lucky brat missing class. I still remember the cards my classmates drew for me.
Of the thirty cards delivered to me in a paper grocery bag, I tossed all but two aside. One was from my buddy Steve and the other was from Jessica- these were the only ones that mattered. Jessica’s card had a drawing of an eagle with a get-well message. In his card, Steve sent me news that Jessica said she missed me and liked me. I was ecstatic. For the first time, I couldn’t wait to go back to school. She’s going to be my girlfriend was all I could think about while I sat at home, my body crusty with pink Calamine lotion.
I was about to find out that Jessica wasn’t quite the angel I initially thought. The day I returned from school, I approached Jessica about her comments about missing me while I was gone. “Ha ha, Steve was playing with you. I never said that,” she snickered.
“Oh,” was all I could muster before I slinked away, red from embarrassment.
Later that afternoon, our class was making trees decked with autumn leaves made of construction paper. We collected our materials and went to work. I put a large, black hole in the center of the tree, imagining a squirrel nesting there. I was proud of my idea. I even drew the squirrel into the tree branches above. No one else thought about something like that.
When I turned around to show Jessica my idea, she gave me an evil look. Instantly, as if waiting for me, she sneered, “You copied off me.”
“No, I didn’t,” I retorted, shocked by her accusation.
My jaw dropped, and before I could muster anything else to say, the words, “I’m telling Teacher” echoed in my ears, sounding slurred and surreal. She bolted to the back of the class, where the teacher sat. I watched from my desk with a pale face, mortified at the little wretch’s exaggerated gestures and counted the severe glances my teacher sent in my direction. I was about to piss my pants. My world was over. In seconds, the girl of my dreams became a vicious and vindictive snake.
Jessica skipped back to her seat with a satisfied smirk on her face. The teacher stalked to the front of the class and demanded our attention.
“Children. I want to make sure you all understand that these art projects are to be your own ideas.” Mrs. Alanson was addressing the whole class, however, her eyes never left me. “There is someone who has been cheating. Let’s all do our own work from now on.” I sat there in shock while her intimidating eyes kept me silent. The class knew that Mrs. Alanson had just branded me with the scarlet letter. I was red with injustice. I could still hear the glee Jessica’s voice as she leaned forward and whispered, “ha ha” into my ear.
Third Grade Accusations
When I was in third-grade, I had my first experience with that particular humiliation that only seems to come from encounters with the opposite sex. We had a new girl from Wisconsin join our class. My friend Steve and I had an instant crush on her from the first day. We would share our daydreams of rescuing Jessica from whatever disaster our capricious minds could drum up while we walked home from school together.
Weeks later, as luck had it, when our teacher Mrs. Alanson made the seating roster, she sat Jessica directly behind me. I looked back at Steve with a smile, knowing that fortune and true love had fallen into my lap by a seating assignment. “Mrs. Alanson must know that Jessica likes me, else she wouldn’t sit her right next to me in class,” I taunted Steve on the way home.
“Whatever,” he would respond in a truculent fashion. My enthusiasm for the subject never wavered, even with his fierce attempts to change the subject. I never expected he had plans to retaliate.
Days later, I came down with chicken pox and missed a week of school. Any time when an ill classmate was going to be out for more a few days, Mrs. Alanson,- who looked very much like Ralphie’s teacher from the movie A Christmas Story- would have us all draw get-well cards for the lucky brat missing class. I still remember the cards my classmates drew for me.
Of the thirty cards delivered to me in a paper grocery bag, I tossed all but two aside. One was from my buddy Steve and the other was from Jessica- these were the only ones that mattered. Jessica’s card had a drawing of an eagle with a get-well message. In his card, Steve sent me news that Jessica said she missed me and liked me. I was ecstatic. For the first time, I couldn’t wait to go back to school. She’s going to be my girlfriend was all I could think about while I sat at home, my body crusty with pink Calamine lotion.
I was about to find out that Jessica wasn’t quite the angel I initially thought. The day I returned from school, I approached Jessica about her comments about missing me while I was gone. “Ha ha, Steve was playing with you. I never said that,” she snickered.
“Oh,” was all I could muster before I slinked away, red from embarrassment.
Later that afternoon, our class was making trees decked with autumn leaves made of construction paper. We collected our materials and went to work. I put a large, black hole in the center of the tree, imagining a squirrel nesting there. I was proud of my idea. I even drew the squirrel into the tree branches above. No one else thought about something like that.
When I turned around to show Jessica my idea, she gave me an evil look. Instantly, as if waiting for me, she sneered, “You copied off me.”
“No, I didn’t,” I retorted, shocked by her accusation.
My jaw dropped, and before I could muster anything else to say, the words, “I’m telling Teacher” echoed in my ears, sounding slurred and surreal. She bolted to the back of the class, where the teacher sat. I watched from my desk with a pale face, mortified at the little wretch’s exaggerated gestures and counted the severe glances my teacher sent in my direction. I was about to piss my pants. My world was over. In seconds, the girl of my dreams became a vicious and vindictive snake.
Jessica skipped back to her seat with a satisfied smirk on her face. The teacher stalked to the front of the class and demanded our attention.
“Children. I want to make sure you all understand that these art projects are to be your own ideas.” Mrs. Alanson was addressing the whole class, however, her eyes never left me. “There is someone who has been cheating. Let’s all do our own work from now on.” I sat there in shock while her intimidating eyes kept me silent. The class knew that Mrs. Alanson had just branded me with the scarlet letter. I was red with injustice. I could still hear the glee Jessica’s voice as she leaned forward and whispered, “ha ha” into my ear.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
The Pentagon's New Map - Thomas Barnett
P.22-23
I obsess instead about “rules,” or all the procedures, laws, treaties, rules of thumb, and conventional wisdom that seem to guide the actions of individuals, corporations, governments, and the international community at large. I focus on rules because wherever I find them in healthy abundance (read quality, not quantity), I know the U.S. Military’s role in enforcing them will be small, because once you have rules, you typically have rule enforcers built into the system (e.g., our very robust and distributed U.S. law enforcement network of federal, state, and local police). Likewise, wherever rules are clear because most players in that system agree they’re good, there’s not as much enforcement required, because most participants simply decide on their own that playing by the rules is the best course of action. But where you don’t find generally agreed-upon rules, or where rules are out of whack or misaligned across social sectors, then you’re talking about the future of instability, the potential for misperceptions leading to conflicts, and the clash of competing rule sets.
P.26
Simply put, when we see countries moving toward the acceptance of globalization’s economic rule sets, we should expect to see commensurate acceptance of an emerging global security rule set- in effect, agreement on why, and under what conditions, war makes sense.
P.29
…for I’m a huge believer in the free flow of mass media, ideas, capital, goods, technology, and people. Rather, we didn’t construct sufficient political and security rule sets to keep pace with all this growing connectivity. In some ways, we got lazy, counted a little too much on the market to sort it all out, and then woke up shocked and amazed on 9/11 to find ourselves apparently invited to a global war.
P.43
“It is an enduring conflict between those who want to see disconnected societies like Saddam’s Iraq join the global community defined by globalization’s Functioning Core and others societies from being – in their minds- assimilated into a “sacrilegious global economic empire” lorded over by the United States.”
Barnett, Thomas P.M. 2004. The Pentagon’s New Map: War and Peace in the Twenty-First Century. Berkley Books: New York.
I obsess instead about “rules,” or all the procedures, laws, treaties, rules of thumb, and conventional wisdom that seem to guide the actions of individuals, corporations, governments, and the international community at large. I focus on rules because wherever I find them in healthy abundance (read quality, not quantity), I know the U.S. Military’s role in enforcing them will be small, because once you have rules, you typically have rule enforcers built into the system (e.g., our very robust and distributed U.S. law enforcement network of federal, state, and local police). Likewise, wherever rules are clear because most players in that system agree they’re good, there’s not as much enforcement required, because most participants simply decide on their own that playing by the rules is the best course of action. But where you don’t find generally agreed-upon rules, or where rules are out of whack or misaligned across social sectors, then you’re talking about the future of instability, the potential for misperceptions leading to conflicts, and the clash of competing rule sets.
P.26
Simply put, when we see countries moving toward the acceptance of globalization’s economic rule sets, we should expect to see commensurate acceptance of an emerging global security rule set- in effect, agreement on why, and under what conditions, war makes sense.
P.29
…for I’m a huge believer in the free flow of mass media, ideas, capital, goods, technology, and people. Rather, we didn’t construct sufficient political and security rule sets to keep pace with all this growing connectivity. In some ways, we got lazy, counted a little too much on the market to sort it all out, and then woke up shocked and amazed on 9/11 to find ourselves apparently invited to a global war.
P.43
“It is an enduring conflict between those who want to see disconnected societies like Saddam’s Iraq join the global community defined by globalization’s Functioning Core and others societies from being – in their minds- assimilated into a “sacrilegious global economic empire” lorded over by the United States.”
Barnett, Thomas P.M. 2004. The Pentagon’s New Map: War and Peace in the Twenty-First Century. Berkley Books: New York.
On Creativity
One man’s creative leap can be the same for another, so long as the next man was unaware of the last man’s actions. As Nozick put it:
“It is trite to say that everything is like everything else in some respects, perhaps highly artificial ones, and different in others. Whether we call something new and different will depend in part on what pigeonholes of classification we actually have. Does it fall into the same category as previously known things or require a new category of its own?”
“It is trite to say that everything is like everything else in some respects, perhaps highly artificial ones, and different in others. Whether we call something new and different will depend in part on what pigeonholes of classification we actually have. Does it fall into the same category as previously known things or require a new category of its own?”
On Terrorists
“We have seen their kind before. They are the heirs of all the murderous ideologies of the 20th century. By sacrificing human life to serve their radical visions—be abandoning every value except the will to power—they follow in the path of fascism, and Nazism, and Totalitarianism. And they will follow that path all the way, to where it ends: in history’s unmarked grave of discarded lies.”
-George W. Bush
9.20.2001 Address to a Joint Session of Congress and the American People
-George W. Bush
9.20.2001 Address to a Joint Session of Congress and the American People
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Three Minute Management Course
Lesson 1:
A man is getting into the shower just as his wife is finishing up her shower, when the doorbell rings. The wife quickly wraps herself in a towel and runs downstairs. When she opens the door, there stands Bob, the next-door neighbor.
Before she says a word, Bob says, "I'll give you $800 to drop that towel." After thinking for a moment, the woman drops her towel and stands naked in front of Bob. After a few seconds, Bob hands her $800 and leaves.
The woman wraps back up in the towel and goes back upstairs. When shegets to the bathroom, her husband asks, "Who was that?"
"It was Bob the next door neighbor," she replies.
"Great!" the husband says, "did he say anything about the $800 he owes me?"
Moral of the story : If you share critical information pertaining to credit and risk with your shareholders in time, you may be in a position to preventavoidable exposure.
Lesson 2:
A priest offered a Nun a lift. She got in and crossed her legs, forcing hergown to reveal a leg. The priest nearly had an accident. After controlling the car, he stealthily slid his hand up her leg. The nun said, "Father, remember Psalm 129?"
The priest removed his hand. But, changing gears, he let his hand slide up her leg again. The nun once again said, "Father, remember Psalm 129?" The priest apologized "Sorry sister but the flesh is weak." Arriving at the convent, the nun sighed heavily and went on her way .
On his arrival at the church, the priest rushed to look up Psalm 129. It said, "Go forth and seek, further up, you will find glory."
Moral of the story: If you are not well informed in your job, you might miss a great opportunity.
Lesson 3:
A sales rep, an administration clerk, and the manager are walking to lunch when they find an antique oil lamp. They rub it and a Genie comes out. The Genie says, "I'll give each of you just one wish."
"Me first! Me first!" says the admin clerk. "I want to be in the Bahamas , driving a speedboat, without a care in the world." Puff! She's gone.
"Me next! Me next!" says the sales rep. "I want to be in Hawaii , relaxing on the beach with my personal masseuse, an endless supply of Pina Coladas and the love of my life." Puff! He's gone.
"OK, you're up," the Genie says to the manager. The manager says, "I want those two back in the office after lunch."
Moral of the story: Always let your boss have the first say.
Lesson 4:
An eagle was sitting on a tree resting, doing nothing. A small rabbit sawthe eagle and asked him, "Can I also sit like you and do nothing?" The eagle answered: "Sure, why not." So, the rabbit sat on the ground below the eagle and rested. All of a sudden, a fox appeared, jumped on the rabbit and ate it.
Moral of the story: To be sitting and doing nothing, you must be sitting very, very high up.
Lesson 5:
A turkey was chatting with a bull. "I would love to be able to get to the top of that tree," sighed the turkey, "but I haven't got the energy."
"Well, why don't you nibble on some of my droppings?" replied the bull. "They're packed with nutrients."
The turkey pecked at a lump of dung, and found it actually gave him enough strength to reach the lowest branch of the tree. The next day, after eating some more dung, he reached the second branch. Finally after a fourth night, the turkey was proudly perched at the top of the tree. He was promptly spotted by a farmer, who shot him out of the tree."
Moral of the story: Bull shit might get you to the top, but it won't keep you there.
Lesson 6:
A little bird was flying south for the winter. It was so cold the bird froze and fell to the ground into a large field. While he was lying there, a cow came by and dropped some dung on him. As the frozen bird lay there in the pile of cow dung, he began to realize how warm he was. The dung was actually thawing him out! He lay there all warm and happy, and soon began to sing for joy. A passing cat heard the bird singing and came to investigate Followingthe sound, the cat discovered the bird under the pile of cow dung, and promptly dug him out and ate him.
Moral of the story:
(1) Not everyone who shits on you is your enemy.
(2) Not everyone who gets you out of shit is your friend.
(3) When you're warm & happy in deep shit, it's best to keep your mouth shut!
A man is getting into the shower just as his wife is finishing up her shower, when the doorbell rings. The wife quickly wraps herself in a towel and runs downstairs. When she opens the door, there stands Bob, the next-door neighbor.
Before she says a word, Bob says, "I'll give you $800 to drop that towel." After thinking for a moment, the woman drops her towel and stands naked in front of Bob. After a few seconds, Bob hands her $800 and leaves.
The woman wraps back up in the towel and goes back upstairs. When shegets to the bathroom, her husband asks, "Who was that?"
"It was Bob the next door neighbor," she replies.
"Great!" the husband says, "did he say anything about the $800 he owes me?"
Moral of the story : If you share critical information pertaining to credit and risk with your shareholders in time, you may be in a position to preventavoidable exposure.
Lesson 2:
A priest offered a Nun a lift. She got in and crossed her legs, forcing hergown to reveal a leg. The priest nearly had an accident. After controlling the car, he stealthily slid his hand up her leg. The nun said, "Father, remember Psalm 129?"
The priest removed his hand. But, changing gears, he let his hand slide up her leg again. The nun once again said, "Father, remember Psalm 129?" The priest apologized "Sorry sister but the flesh is weak." Arriving at the convent, the nun sighed heavily and went on her way .
On his arrival at the church, the priest rushed to look up Psalm 129. It said, "Go forth and seek, further up, you will find glory."
Moral of the story: If you are not well informed in your job, you might miss a great opportunity.
Lesson 3:
A sales rep, an administration clerk, and the manager are walking to lunch when they find an antique oil lamp. They rub it and a Genie comes out. The Genie says, "I'll give each of you just one wish."
"Me first! Me first!" says the admin clerk. "I want to be in the Bahamas , driving a speedboat, without a care in the world." Puff! She's gone.
"Me next! Me next!" says the sales rep. "I want to be in Hawaii , relaxing on the beach with my personal masseuse, an endless supply of Pina Coladas and the love of my life." Puff! He's gone.
"OK, you're up," the Genie says to the manager. The manager says, "I want those two back in the office after lunch."
Moral of the story: Always let your boss have the first say.
Lesson 4:
An eagle was sitting on a tree resting, doing nothing. A small rabbit sawthe eagle and asked him, "Can I also sit like you and do nothing?" The eagle answered: "Sure, why not." So, the rabbit sat on the ground below the eagle and rested. All of a sudden, a fox appeared, jumped on the rabbit and ate it.
Moral of the story: To be sitting and doing nothing, you must be sitting very, very high up.
Lesson 5:
A turkey was chatting with a bull. "I would love to be able to get to the top of that tree," sighed the turkey, "but I haven't got the energy."
"Well, why don't you nibble on some of my droppings?" replied the bull. "They're packed with nutrients."
The turkey pecked at a lump of dung, and found it actually gave him enough strength to reach the lowest branch of the tree. The next day, after eating some more dung, he reached the second branch. Finally after a fourth night, the turkey was proudly perched at the top of the tree. He was promptly spotted by a farmer, who shot him out of the tree."
Moral of the story: Bull shit might get you to the top, but it won't keep you there.
Lesson 6:
A little bird was flying south for the winter. It was so cold the bird froze and fell to the ground into a large field. While he was lying there, a cow came by and dropped some dung on him. As the frozen bird lay there in the pile of cow dung, he began to realize how warm he was. The dung was actually thawing him out! He lay there all warm and happy, and soon began to sing for joy. A passing cat heard the bird singing and came to investigate Followingthe sound, the cat discovered the bird under the pile of cow dung, and promptly dug him out and ate him.
Moral of the story:
(1) Not everyone who shits on you is your enemy.
(2) Not everyone who gets you out of shit is your friend.
(3) When you're warm & happy in deep shit, it's best to keep your mouth shut!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
How to Live on 24 Hours a Day - Arnold Bennett Quotes
“The chances are that you have already come to believe that happiness in unattainable. But men have attained it. And they have attained it by realizing that happiness does not spring from the procuring of physical or mental pleasure, but from the development of reason and the adjustment of conduct to principles.”
“My contention is that the full use of those seven-and-a-half hours will quicken the whole life of the week, add zest to it, and increase the interest which you feel in even themost banal occupations. You practise physical exercises for a mere ten minutes morning and evening, and yet you are not astonished when your physical health and strength are beneficially affected every hour of the day, and your whole physical outlook changed. Why should you be astonished that an average of over an hour a day given to the mind should permanently and completely enliven the whole activity of the mind?”
“Art is a great thing. But it is not the greatest. The most important of all perceptions is the continual perception of cause and effect--in other words, the perception of the continuous development of the universe--in still other words, the perception of the course of evolution.
When one has thoroughly got imbued into one's head the leading truth that nothing happens without a cause, one grows not only large-minded, but large-hearted.”
“I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would be futile in the space of my command. But I have two general suggestions of a certain importance. The first is to define the direction and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, or a limited subject, or a single author. Say to yourself: "I will know something about the French Revolution, or the rise of railways, or the works of John Keats." And during a given period, to be settled beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much pleasure to be derived from being a specialist.”
“Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguing reflection (it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading, your ninety minutes of a night are chiefly wasted. This means that your pace will be slow.”
“My contention is that the full use of those seven-and-a-half hours will quicken the whole life of the week, add zest to it, and increase the interest which you feel in even themost banal occupations. You practise physical exercises for a mere ten minutes morning and evening, and yet you are not astonished when your physical health and strength are beneficially affected every hour of the day, and your whole physical outlook changed. Why should you be astonished that an average of over an hour a day given to the mind should permanently and completely enliven the whole activity of the mind?”
“Art is a great thing. But it is not the greatest. The most important of all perceptions is the continual perception of cause and effect--in other words, the perception of the continuous development of the universe--in still other words, the perception of the course of evolution.
When one has thoroughly got imbued into one's head the leading truth that nothing happens without a cause, one grows not only large-minded, but large-hearted.”
“I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would be futile in the space of my command. But I have two general suggestions of a certain importance. The first is to define the direction and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, or a limited subject, or a single author. Say to yourself: "I will know something about the French Revolution, or the rise of railways, or the works of John Keats." And during a given period, to be settled beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much pleasure to be derived from being a specialist.”
“Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguing reflection (it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading, your ninety minutes of a night are chiefly wasted. This means that your pace will be slow.”
Endurance
Viii
The timing of this later voyage could not have been worse. The world was plunged into war at midnight on August 8, 1914, the same day the Endurance sailed from Plymouth.
P. 13
Fortitudine vincimus – “By endurance we conquer”
P. 17
*Though Shackleton bought the Endurance for $67,000, the Framnaes shipyard today (1959) would not undertake to build a similar vessel for less than $700,000 – and the cost might well run to $ 1 million, they estimate.
P. 51
Late in the evening, the men on deck saw a band of about ten emperor penguins; they waddled slowly up toward the ship, then stopped a short distance away. Emperors, singly or in pairs, were a common sight, but nobody had ever seen so large a group before. The penguins stood for a moment watching the tortured ship, then raised their heads and uttered a series of weird, mournful, dirgelike cries. It was all the more eerie because none of the men – not even the Antarctic veterans among them – had ever before heard penguins voice anything except the most elemental, croaking sorts of noises.
The sailors stopped what they were doing, and old Ton McLeod turned to Macklin. “Do you hear that?” he asked. “We’ll none of us get back to our homes again.”
P. 55
May the Lord help you to do your duty and guide you through all the dangers by land and sea.
May you see the works of the Lord and all His wonders in the deep.
P. 56
Nevertheless, there was a remarkable absence of discouragement. All the men were in a dazed state of fatigue, and nobody paused to reflect on the terrible consequences of losing their ship. Nor were they upset by the fact that they were now camped on a piece of ice perhaps six feet thick. It was a haven compared with the nightmare of labor and uncertainty of the last days on the Endurance. It was quite enough to be alive – and they were merely doing what they had to do to stay that way.
There was even a trace of mild exhilaration in their attitude. At least they had a clear-cut task ahead of them. The nine months of indecision, of speculation about what might happen, of aimless drifting with the pack over. Now they simply had to get themselves out, however appallingly difficult that might be.
P. 57
After he had spoken, he reached under his parka and took out a gold cigarette case and several gold sovereigns and threw them into the snow at his feet.
Then he opened the Bible Queen Alexandra had given them and ripped out the flyleaf and the page containing the Twenty-third Psalm. He also tore out the page from the book of Job with this verse on it:
Out of whose womb came the ice?
And the hoary frost of Heaven, who hath gendered it?
The waters are hid as with a stone.
And the face of the deep is frozen.
And he laid the Bible in the snow and walked away.
It was a dramatic gesture, but that was the way Shackleton wanted it. From studying the outcome of past expeditions, he believed that those who burdened themselves with equipment to meet every contingency had fared much worse than those who had sacrificed total preparedness for speed.
P. 64
Though he was virtually fearless in the physical sense, he suffered an almost pathological dread of losing control of the situation. In part, this attitude grew out of a consuming sense of responsibility. He felt he had gotten them into their situation, and it was his responsibility to get them out. As a consequence, he was intensely watchful for potential trouble-makers who might nibble away at the unity of the group. Shackleton felt that if dissention arose, the party as a whole might not put forth that added ounce of energy which could mean, at a time of crisis, the difference between survival and defeat. Thus, he was prepared to go to almost any length to keep the party close-knit and under his control.
P. 65
Hudson was just as had always been, simple and a little irritating. His attempts at humor were often more foolish than funny because he lacked perception. He was a young dandy, a little impressed with his own good looks but really not too sure of himself. As a result of this fundamental insecurity, he was quite self-centered and a poor listener. He could be counted on to interrupt any conversation to inject something about himself—even though what he said bore no relation to the subject being discussed. And his self-centeredness made it difficult for him to tell when his leg was being pulled, as was the case in the practical joke from which he got his nickname, Buddha. Strangely, he seemed to enjoy a joke on himself—at least it gave him the chance to occupy center stage. Shackleton was not fond at all of Hudson, but he preferred putting up with him to inflicting him on others.
P.104
A sense of mounting desperation began to infect them. James wrote on the following day: “Something decisive must occur soon, and whatever it may be will be preferable to continued inactivity. This is our fifth month since our shipwreck. When we left, we were going to be ashore in a month! ‘Man proposes—‘ * applies here with a vengeance.”
* For some reason, James omitted the last portion of the quotation: “Man proposes, God disposes.”
P.106
There were some intrepid attempts to make jokes about cannibalism. “Greenstreet and I,” wrote Worsley, “amuse ourselves at Marston’s expense. Marston is the plumpest man in the camp, and we become very solicitous about his welfare and condition, making a great show of generosity by offering him old penguin bones that we have gnawed till there is nothing left. We implore him not to get too thin and even go as far as to select chops, etc., off him and quarrel about who shall have the tenderest part. Finally, he gets so disgusted with us that whenever he sees us approaching he turns and walks away.”
P.118
Throughout the night, the hoarse croaking of the penguins, punctuated by the explosive sound of schools of whales blowing, created almost a din. When dawn finally came, the weather was clear and bright, with a moderate westerly wind blowing. Once again the men could see Clarence Island, and to the left of it, very faintly, the chain of peaks on Elephant Island. Worsley counted ten of them.
P. 123
The James Caird was in the lead with Shackleton at the tiller. So far as the ice permitted he set a course for the northwest. Next came Worsley steering the Dudley Docker, then Hudson in the Stancomb Wills. The sound of their voices chanting, “stroke…stroke…stroke…”mingled with the cries of the birds overhead and the surge of the swell through the pack. With each stroke, the oarsman fell more into the rhythm of their task.
P. 150
“Blackboro,” he shouted in the darkness.
“Here, sir,” Blackboro replied.
“We shall be on Elephant Island tomorrow,” Shackleton yelled. “no one has ever landed there before, and you will be the first ashore.”
Blackboro did not answer.
P. 200
Then, too, there were the reindeer hairs. They moulted from the insides of the sleeping bags, and at first they had been only a petty annoyance. But no matter how much hair was shed, the supply seemed inexhaustible. And they were everywhere—the sides of the boat, the seats, the ballast. They clung set in clumps to faces and hands. The men breathed them as they slept and occasionally woke up choking on them. The hairs ran down in the bottom and clogged the pump, and little clusters of them were turning up more and more frequently in the food.
Part of the Afterword:
On the earth, nations will be in anguish and perplexity at the roaring and tossing of the sea. Men will faint from terror, apprehensive of what is coming on the world, for the heavenly bodies will be shaken. At that time they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near. Luke 21:25-28, NIV
Lansing, Alfred. 1959. Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage. First Tyndale House edition (1999). United States.
The timing of this later voyage could not have been worse. The world was plunged into war at midnight on August 8, 1914, the same day the Endurance sailed from Plymouth.
P. 13
Fortitudine vincimus – “By endurance we conquer”
P. 17
*Though Shackleton bought the Endurance for $67,000, the Framnaes shipyard today (1959) would not undertake to build a similar vessel for less than $700,000 – and the cost might well run to $ 1 million, they estimate.
P. 51
Late in the evening, the men on deck saw a band of about ten emperor penguins; they waddled slowly up toward the ship, then stopped a short distance away. Emperors, singly or in pairs, were a common sight, but nobody had ever seen so large a group before. The penguins stood for a moment watching the tortured ship, then raised their heads and uttered a series of weird, mournful, dirgelike cries. It was all the more eerie because none of the men – not even the Antarctic veterans among them – had ever before heard penguins voice anything except the most elemental, croaking sorts of noises.
The sailors stopped what they were doing, and old Ton McLeod turned to Macklin. “Do you hear that?” he asked. “We’ll none of us get back to our homes again.”
P. 55
May the Lord help you to do your duty and guide you through all the dangers by land and sea.
May you see the works of the Lord and all His wonders in the deep.
P. 56
Nevertheless, there was a remarkable absence of discouragement. All the men were in a dazed state of fatigue, and nobody paused to reflect on the terrible consequences of losing their ship. Nor were they upset by the fact that they were now camped on a piece of ice perhaps six feet thick. It was a haven compared with the nightmare of labor and uncertainty of the last days on the Endurance. It was quite enough to be alive – and they were merely doing what they had to do to stay that way.
There was even a trace of mild exhilaration in their attitude. At least they had a clear-cut task ahead of them. The nine months of indecision, of speculation about what might happen, of aimless drifting with the pack over. Now they simply had to get themselves out, however appallingly difficult that might be.
P. 57
After he had spoken, he reached under his parka and took out a gold cigarette case and several gold sovereigns and threw them into the snow at his feet.
Then he opened the Bible Queen Alexandra had given them and ripped out the flyleaf and the page containing the Twenty-third Psalm. He also tore out the page from the book of Job with this verse on it:
Out of whose womb came the ice?
And the hoary frost of Heaven, who hath gendered it?
The waters are hid as with a stone.
And the face of the deep is frozen.
And he laid the Bible in the snow and walked away.
It was a dramatic gesture, but that was the way Shackleton wanted it. From studying the outcome of past expeditions, he believed that those who burdened themselves with equipment to meet every contingency had fared much worse than those who had sacrificed total preparedness for speed.
P. 64
Though he was virtually fearless in the physical sense, he suffered an almost pathological dread of losing control of the situation. In part, this attitude grew out of a consuming sense of responsibility. He felt he had gotten them into their situation, and it was his responsibility to get them out. As a consequence, he was intensely watchful for potential trouble-makers who might nibble away at the unity of the group. Shackleton felt that if dissention arose, the party as a whole might not put forth that added ounce of energy which could mean, at a time of crisis, the difference between survival and defeat. Thus, he was prepared to go to almost any length to keep the party close-knit and under his control.
P. 65
Hudson was just as had always been, simple and a little irritating. His attempts at humor were often more foolish than funny because he lacked perception. He was a young dandy, a little impressed with his own good looks but really not too sure of himself. As a result of this fundamental insecurity, he was quite self-centered and a poor listener. He could be counted on to interrupt any conversation to inject something about himself—even though what he said bore no relation to the subject being discussed. And his self-centeredness made it difficult for him to tell when his leg was being pulled, as was the case in the practical joke from which he got his nickname, Buddha. Strangely, he seemed to enjoy a joke on himself—at least it gave him the chance to occupy center stage. Shackleton was not fond at all of Hudson, but he preferred putting up with him to inflicting him on others.
P.104
A sense of mounting desperation began to infect them. James wrote on the following day: “Something decisive must occur soon, and whatever it may be will be preferable to continued inactivity. This is our fifth month since our shipwreck. When we left, we were going to be ashore in a month! ‘Man proposes—‘ * applies here with a vengeance.”
* For some reason, James omitted the last portion of the quotation: “Man proposes, God disposes.”
P.106
There were some intrepid attempts to make jokes about cannibalism. “Greenstreet and I,” wrote Worsley, “amuse ourselves at Marston’s expense. Marston is the plumpest man in the camp, and we become very solicitous about his welfare and condition, making a great show of generosity by offering him old penguin bones that we have gnawed till there is nothing left. We implore him not to get too thin and even go as far as to select chops, etc., off him and quarrel about who shall have the tenderest part. Finally, he gets so disgusted with us that whenever he sees us approaching he turns and walks away.”
P.118
Throughout the night, the hoarse croaking of the penguins, punctuated by the explosive sound of schools of whales blowing, created almost a din. When dawn finally came, the weather was clear and bright, with a moderate westerly wind blowing. Once again the men could see Clarence Island, and to the left of it, very faintly, the chain of peaks on Elephant Island. Worsley counted ten of them.
P. 123
The James Caird was in the lead with Shackleton at the tiller. So far as the ice permitted he set a course for the northwest. Next came Worsley steering the Dudley Docker, then Hudson in the Stancomb Wills. The sound of their voices chanting, “stroke…stroke…stroke…”mingled with the cries of the birds overhead and the surge of the swell through the pack. With each stroke, the oarsman fell more into the rhythm of their task.
P. 150
“Blackboro,” he shouted in the darkness.
“Here, sir,” Blackboro replied.
“We shall be on Elephant Island tomorrow,” Shackleton yelled. “no one has ever landed there before, and you will be the first ashore.”
Blackboro did not answer.
P. 200
Then, too, there were the reindeer hairs. They moulted from the insides of the sleeping bags, and at first they had been only a petty annoyance. But no matter how much hair was shed, the supply seemed inexhaustible. And they were everywhere—the sides of the boat, the seats, the ballast. They clung set in clumps to faces and hands. The men breathed them as they slept and occasionally woke up choking on them. The hairs ran down in the bottom and clogged the pump, and little clusters of them were turning up more and more frequently in the food.
Part of the Afterword:
On the earth, nations will be in anguish and perplexity at the roaring and tossing of the sea. Men will faint from terror, apprehensive of what is coming on the world, for the heavenly bodies will be shaken. At that time they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near. Luke 21:25-28, NIV
Lansing, Alfred. 1959. Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage. First Tyndale House edition (1999). United States.
Quotes from a Wise man - Jack Handey
If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is "God is crying." and if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is "probably because of something you did".
If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down? We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason.
To me, clowns aren't funny. In fact, they're kinda scary. I've wondered where this started, and I think it goes back to the time I went to the circus and a clown killed my dad.
As I bit into the nectarine, it had a crisp, juiciness about it that was very pleasurable -- until I realized it wasn't a nectarine at all, but a HUMAN HEAD!!
If you're in a war, instead of throwing a hand grenade at the enemy, throw one of those small pumpkins. Maybe it'll make everyone think how stupid war is, and while they are thinking, you can throw a real grenade at them.
It's true that every time you hear a bell, an angel gets its wings. But what they don't tell you is that every time you hear a mouse trap snap, an Angel gets set on fire.
Contrary to popular belief, the most dangerous animal in the world is not the lion or the tiger or even the elephant. The most dangerous animal is a shark riding on an elephant, just trampling and eating everything they see.
Quotes from Robert Nozick's - The Examined Life
A Portrait vs. a Photograph
Why is it that no photograph of a person has a depth a painted portrait can have? The two embody different quantities of time. A photograph is a “snapshot,” whether or not it was posed; it shows one particular moment of time and what the person looked like right then, what his surface showed. During the extended hours a painting is sat for, though, its subject shows a range of traits, emotions, and thoughts, all revealed in differing lights. P.13
Focus
Still, when all other things are equal, the more concentrated thought goes into making something, the more it is shaped, enriched, and laden with significance. So too with living a life. P.14
The Purpose of Behaving Ethically
The philosophical tradition since Plato has sought to ground ethics by showing that our own well-being is served or enhanced by behaving ethically. P.16
What is our Purpose?
Does the desire somehow to survive physical death stem from the desire to have a larger purpose than we can find for ourselves on earth, another task we are to perform in another realm? We might think we each have the task here of making a soul for ourselves – souls might not be things we are born with – a task made more difficult by not knowing exactly what that soul is for. Perhaps it is more than our own individual souls we are to make, more even than a mosaic of souls together. P.25
Nozick, Robert. The Examined Life: Philosophical Meditations. 1989. First Simon & Schuster Paperbacks: United States.
Why is it that no photograph of a person has a depth a painted portrait can have? The two embody different quantities of time. A photograph is a “snapshot,” whether or not it was posed; it shows one particular moment of time and what the person looked like right then, what his surface showed. During the extended hours a painting is sat for, though, its subject shows a range of traits, emotions, and thoughts, all revealed in differing lights. P.13
Focus
Still, when all other things are equal, the more concentrated thought goes into making something, the more it is shaped, enriched, and laden with significance. So too with living a life. P.14
The Purpose of Behaving Ethically
The philosophical tradition since Plato has sought to ground ethics by showing that our own well-being is served or enhanced by behaving ethically. P.16
What is our Purpose?
Does the desire somehow to survive physical death stem from the desire to have a larger purpose than we can find for ourselves on earth, another task we are to perform in another realm? We might think we each have the task here of making a soul for ourselves – souls might not be things we are born with – a task made more difficult by not knowing exactly what that soul is for. Perhaps it is more than our own individual souls we are to make, more even than a mosaic of souls together. P.25
Nozick, Robert. The Examined Life: Philosophical Meditations. 1989. First Simon & Schuster Paperbacks: United States.
My Mission Statement
My mission is to improve and enhance the abilities, relationships, welfare, and well-being of myself and others around me, while providing service to my country and those in need.
What Makes a Leader
From the article, “What Makes a Leader?”, Daniel Goleman reveals particular qualities associated with what he calls “self-regulation” (Goleman, 1998.). Qualities such as: trustworthiness and integrity, comfort with ambiguity, and openness to change” (Goleman, 1998), all stem from having a system or set of standards to rely upon. Having the confidence in making decisions come almost naturally once the results are established. The faith in this system allows one to exhibit behavior associated with leaders without having to think about them. Of the last two qualities mentioned above, both have the common anxiety many feel with change and ambiguity; it is the fear of the unknown. In each case, this new situation can lead to the thought that one may not be able to handle and overcome the obstacle. By keeping one’s set of principles at heart offers a stable platform and handrail to follow and assist: thus, the confidence in a new situation next time is present from the knowledge that the same method will work again.
Write a personal Mission Statement
Write a mission statement for yourself. Typically, businesses use a mission statement to determine what their goals are as a business entity. A good mission statement receives input from company employees that comprise the organization. Try doing one for yourself; seriously try to articulate a defined goal for what you want to do with your life. It is a bit more intensive than what you would initially think. I had to do one for one of my graduate courses and it was worth the effort. Compare it to your actions after you have defined your statement and see if it still rings true. It’s a way to get a better look at who you are. I have learned a few things from the one I created a few years back.
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