Shoo Fly

Sitting in class on Thursday, engrossed in conversation about Michael Cunningham’s The Hours or Monica Ali’s Brick Lane or one of the other variously successful novels that is perhaps important for personal development, I noticed a fly.  It was a simple house fly, yet held within its tiny thorax an extraordinary talent for annoyance and distraction.  Immediately, I planned my attack.

First I would lure it into my domain (how does one attract a fly with no spoiled food on hand?).  Then, of course, comes the attack.  Rolled up newspaper?  Too cliché.  Fly poison?  Too inaccessible.  No…something better.  I’ll go all Karate Kid on that fly…grab it by the wing, mid-flight.  Then I’ll smash it into oblivion.  Dramatic?  Maybe.  Worth it?  Absolutely.

Then came my chance…the soon-to-be victim buzzed around my head, landed on the table in front of me.  Too easy.  I looked into its huge, insect eyes, wondering if he (or she) knew the fate which was inevitably approaching.  I was ready to move in for the kill…

…But I didn’t.  For some unclear reason, I couldn’t raise my hand in the air and destroy the inconsequential life of that fly.  Maybe I felt sorry for him.  Maybe I was suddenly possessed by a strong conviction toward pesky insect rights.  Maybe….I was a fly in another life, and I could therefore empathize with this pathetic creature.

But I think that really, in that moment, I just appreciated the fact that it was living.  It had worked its way through the hierarchy of life, avoiding the fate of those who had already moved on to that eternal nothingness (so it goes).  Sure, it spends its time in dung heaps.  And so it flies around the room, buzzing like an old and sickly refrigerator.  But above everything, it was alive.

Now I’m not telling anyone to go join PETA, or even to stop killing flies.  In another place, at a different moment, I would have killed that disease-infested bug.  I might kill one tomorrow.  But maybe next time, before you assert your position on the food chain, take a moment to appreciate the fact that something is alive.  Then, raise the newspaper to appreciate that it’s not.

Death by Carnival (and Other Adventures)

As I spin out of control in a small metal capsule, catapulted what seems like miles into the air, I wonder how long it took to put this carnival together.  Of course, it’s safe.  Yes.  Of course.  They wouldn’t have this every year if–that bolt looks a little loose.  I don’t know if this is–

Hundreds, thousands of conflicting thoughts.  Still, all I can muster is a terrified scream…and Talley is right there with me, shrieking with the voice she needs to audition with tomorrow.  I finally shout, in a moment of crazed excitement and prophetic wisdom, “It’s the impending death that makes it fun!”

We saw the merry-go-round as we were about to leave. Thank God.

Yes, the Late Nite Carnival was back in town this weekend,

complete with friendly (if somewhat unhygienic) carnies, mechanical rides with questionable safety, and the cardiovascular nightmares we lovingly call “elephant ears.”  And the warming sensation of grease crawling down my esophagus and into my bloodstream was just what I needed to combat the slightly rainy, 40 degree weather.

Talley's first elephant ear

When Talley and I decided to crash the carnival, we had our sights set on free food and Talley’s first taste (yes, I said first) of the fatty goodness described above.  It saddens me to say that the food was not, in fact, free.  Still, we made a party out of it.

Was it a bad idea to go outside in the cold rain for hours?  Probably.  Was it a bad idea to get our brains scrambled by the Gravitron immediately after eating loads of fried dough?  There’s a good chance.  Was it a bad idea to risk our lives on the Metal Contraption of Death?  No doubt.

But when you take a night and fill it to the brim with bad ideas, what comes out the other end isn’t a bad idea…it’s a really terrible idea.  And that’s what memories are made of.  At the end of the night, you go home with a severe cold, a couple clogged arteries, a new understanding of death, and a smile.  Oh, and a large poster of President Barack Obama (now placed strategically on the ceiling above Morgan’s bed).

Oh, the joy...and the fear.

On the Barricades of Freedom

I went up to Chicago a couple weeks ago to see Les Miserables at the Cadillac Palace Theatre, and the show was incredible.  The thing I love about Les Mis: During “Red and Black,” when I see Enjolras and the other students waving the flag of the revolution, when I see them filled with passion for their cause, I want to get up and fight.  At that moment, I want to fight for something.  I want to be filled with the passion that I see on stage.  Then, after the show, I go back to my comfortable suburban life in Middle America.

In Africa and the Middle East—Libya, Egypt, Tunisia, Yemen, Iran—people are fighting for freedom.  They sacrifice everything to fight for what they believe is right.  But while they march on the streets or take up arms, I sit on my couch reading Mrs. Dalloway.  I feel an enormous potential inside of me, waiting to break out, but I am trapped inside the comfort of my own life, a comfort that has ultimately bred inaction.

Many Americans (and those of other nationalities), I am sure, are plagued by the same sense of inaction.  Yet there is still injustice in our country.  There is still injustice in our world.  We know this, but we don’t fight.  We leave that to others.  Too many times, we discuss the injustice that plagues our world, but we do not act.

I feel an obligation as a human being—an obligation to fight against injustice.  Like the Libyans and Tunisians have done in their own countries, I want to take matters into my own hands and become a catalyst for change.  Society is not and cannot be static.  It must always change, as long as injustice exists.  Each person–including myself–must decide if he or she will take up the flag and join the revolution.  In the words of Enjolras:

“It is time for us all to decide who we are

Do we fight for the right to a night at the opera now?

Have you asked of yourselves what’s the price you might pay?

Is it simply a game for rich young boys to play?

The color the world is changing day by day.“

Ukulele Wisdom: Guidance from the Flying Spaghetti Monster

I recently started learning the ukulele. My brother bought it for me when he was down in Hawaii with his Air Force Academy squadron. I picked up on it quite a bit faster than I anticipated, and I had my first set of chords learned within an hour or so: C—G—Am—F.

For those who don’t know, this is a magical chord progression, especially when someone is just beginning to learn an instrument. First, it’s in the key of C major, one of the easiest keys to play. Second (and more important), with these four chords, you can play every popular song ever written. Okay…that isn’t true, but it seems like it. Here are just a few songs with these particular intervals:

“I’m Yours” –Jason Mraz

“Don’t Stop Believing” –Journey

“Drops of Jupiter” –Train

“Let It Be” –The Beatles

“Love Story” –Taylor Swift

“Where Is the Love” –Black Eyed Peas

“You’re Beautiful” –James Blunt

For a more complete list of songs with this chord progression (I—V—VI—IV), click here or try searching “4 chord song” on Youtube.

Anyway, this blog post isn’t about recurring musical themes in popular songs. It’s about something I heard over the weekend. While talking with one of my friends, we came upon the subject of future careers. He’s having a bit of a crisis, because he’s considering changing his major and doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life. He told me he wishes God would tell him what to do.

I considered his statement: the idea that God (or whatever power/entity you may believe in, including but not limited to, Allah, Zeus, Fate, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster) has a single plan for a person’s life; a single path through which he or she can do the most good.At the moment of the conversation, I couldn’t think of an acceptable answer, but the next day, while playing my ukulele, I thought of something:

Perhaps our lives are like a I-V-VI-IV chord progression. Perhaps there isn’t any set path for a person’s life, and like these chords, it has a hundred–maybe even a thousand–different branches. The melody we choose doesn’t matter  What matters is how we play it. If we put our soul into it and play our hearts out, it will be extraordinary…except “You’re Beautiful.” I hate that song.

72 hours

For the past 72 hours, I’ve been with the majority of the contributors of the blog. I even got to see Talley and be with her at midnight on New Years Eve through the Skype membrane.

 

photo by Liz Valpatic

 

 

After New Years Eve at Morgan’s, we went to my house for a few days and Chris met us there. We had many adventures, like hide and go seek in (and on) the barn…

…tours of the exciting and cosmopolitan Pendleton…

photo by Matt Smith

Photo by Matt Smith

… antiquing for hours…

…forming a band… and getting our first gig…

All band photos by Matt Smith

… and last, but certainly not least of our adventures, was breaking into Matt’s car…

all car photos by Liz Valpatic

success!

 

In between all of these adventures there were parmesan potatoes, story times, ukulele and mandolin jam sessions over skype, and the re-invention of the ice cream sandwich. This weekend was just upside-down.

The American Name Game

I don’t mean to sound cynical, but has anyone ever noticed how arrogant we are as Americans?  Wait—right there.  Did you catch it?  Americans.  We say the word every day without even thinking about it.  We call ourselves Americans and the country we live in America.  On Google, an image search for “America” yields this as one of the top results:

But let’s take a look at what “America” really looks like:

Contrary to popular belief, there exist in the world two full continents of “America,” both North and South, which makes it a bit silly, in my opinion, to shorten the “United States of America” to a simple “America.”  It does not even comprise the entire continent of one America, let alone both of them.

So what’s the solution?  Do we call ourselves United States-ians?  No…that sounds ridiculous.  I prefer the alternative: changing our country’s name entirely.  Let’s start a revolution.  Our name is rather unoriginal anyway.  I think the founders just got lazy, and it’s time we correct their mistake.

Unfortunately, I’m just as creatively challenged as the founders, so I have no suggestions for a new identity.  But let’s start brainstorming.  Until then, I suppose we all must continue our lives as arrogant Americans.  Happy Boxing Day!

French Hats and Philosophy

I went to Barnes & Noble yesterday for some last minute Christmas shopping, and I got a bit distracted by the “religion and philosophy” section of the store.  As I browsed, I felt like one of those artsy, slightly rebellious individuals who wears berets, grows a shaggy goatee, and sips wine with his friends while talking about Warhol or Buddhism or existentialism.  Sure enough, not five minutes into my skimming of various Islamic texts, along came a young man with a backwards-facing beret and mounds of unkempt facial hair.  We didn’t talk about Warhol, but if we had, I’m sure it would have been an invigorating conversation.

So I eventually decided on a book called The Ego and His Own by a 19^th century philosopher named Max Stirner.  I got it mostly because it was 50% off and I’m a cheap piece of crap (much like the multitude of old women who come to Barnes & Noble just to sit and read—not to buy anything—just to read for hours, put the book back on the shelf, and walk out the door).

Once I fought the 3-days-before-Christmas traffic and got home, I started to read the book (only during commercial breaks of John Stuart and Stephen Colbert, of course).  One line in particular caught my eye.  It isn’t the main point of the book by any shot, but it was interesting nonetheless.  Within the first few pages, Stirner talks about the transformation from a boy, to a youth, and eventually into a man.  Here is what he says about the first transformation:

“The youth takes up an intellectual position, while the boy, who did not yet feel himself as mind, grew up on mindless learning.”

At first glance, this seemed like a simple enough concept—a natural step that everyone takes in his or her life.  But when I began thinking about it, I realized that far too few people make the transition from childhood into the next phase.  Many never escape the “mindless learning” that Stirner talks about.  People refuse to question the ideals that familiy, friends, government, and society have instilled in them.

Too often, the people of our society (me included) follow every institution, whether it be religious, social, economic, or governmental, simply because that’s what has always been.  It is the status quo.  Why challenge an idea that makes us comfortable, one that our parents have hammered into us since birth?

I know, this is kind of deep for a first post, but I think it’s an important point to think about.  Perhaps we should all be a bit more like the beret-wearing young man I met in Barnes & Noble.  No, we don’t all have to grow shaggy goatees, but just maybe, every once in a while, we should talk about Buddhism.  Or if you want to get really crazy, maybe even Warhol.