tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48141332308757110112024-03-19T06:07:40.173-04:00Doctor Jones - "This Happened"Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-77831536276541011352012-12-12T11:57:00.001-05:002012-12-12T11:58:25.536-05:00Grammar Nazis are Useless and Noisy<div>
Thanks to digital technology, inter-personal communication is now more text-based - and this is exciting. Ideas can be expressed more potently. Grammatical innovation can open new avenues of thought. Indeed, this is a fantastic era where everyone has the opportunity to project themselves through aether. This ability - this power - comes with a responsibility. Anyone and everyone can have an earth-shattering idea, but an inability to explain oneself through a competent use of grammar tragically nullifies that idea at the source. Grammar is more than adhering to man-made rules of spelling and punctuation; it is man's attempt to gain some kind of traction in understanding the language mechanism in the humanoid brain. And, by nature, it is flawed and incomplete - that is why language is so exciting and interesting! Specifically, English is one hot mess. Our methodology of verb use is to throw a bunch of words together and, essentially, hope for the best. Yes, because so much semantic meaning is derived from word order English has very little use for morphological inflection. And this is why confusion surfaces when, for example, a verb and a noun are spelled the same way or when pronouns work against themselves.</div>
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In this exciting era of open communication through use of text-based communication, some of the more arbitrary grammatical errors are being identified by so-called 'grammar nazis'. Through posts on message boards and feedback forums, these readers rub the error in the writer's face like a puppy that just plopped a steaming load on the living room carpet, and do so with a trite purpose that seems two-fold: 1) to demoralize the writer and 2) to assert their own piddly online presence. No other constructive input is given. Some of the more obvious errors pointed out are all those infamous homophones: There, their, they're, for example. Whoopde-fah-freaking-do. I'd be heard-pressed to believe that any of these grammar nazis would be able to point out a gerundive, or explain modality, or differentiate between active and passive sentences - the more constructive tools of grammar to effectively and convincingly express and argue ideas. Grammar nazis just add to the noise one must sift through to find true content.</div>
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The reason English majors may obviously have no jobs is because they.are.everywhere. Just because one cannot see oxygen does not mean the whole world is devoid of it. Likewise, look at how the name of the major and its related occupational title compares to other major and occupational titles: </div>
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- I'm a Business major so I can become a businessman</div>
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- I'm a Nursing major so I can become a nurse</div>
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- I'm a Chemistry major so I can become a chemist</div>
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- *I'm an English major so I can become an english </div>
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English - and I'll add Linguistic - majors are everywhere. That's the beauty of the study of language: There is no set mold, and, paradoxically, it takes a certain type of person to be one. They move deliberately. They cast a wide net. They can adapt. They are part of the foundation of constructive matters. This meme is misinformed: grammar nazis are not English majors because English majors have more important, constructive shit to do. Now, I recognize that this is a mere meme and it, like all other internet memes, hold little clout. And I shall not furthermore devote much more attention because doing otherwise would be exactly what these grammar nazis would want. </div>
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The question I have is this: Do other languages have grammar nazis? If English homophones are among the most damning offenses, what happens with errant gender use in German, or sloppy tense work in Arabic?</div>
Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-78039365275752440452012-09-27T14:10:00.001-04:002012-09-27T14:10:19.664-04:00Star-struck<div style="text-align: left;">
The following three individuals are the only three individuals whose presence I suspect, in a sudden chance meeting, would yield from me some sort of embarrassing yet mirthful case of being star-struck.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.solarnavigator.net/films_movies_actors/actors_films_images/Steve_Martin_famous_smirk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.solarnavigator.net/films_movies_actors/actors_films_images/Steve_Martin_famous_smirk.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I permit you to speak</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
More than anything Steve Martin's verve would would send me into an
embarrassing tailspin. Just the physical sight of him would send my
brain swirling as I recall the history of what this man has
accomplished, all done with panache and style. Were he to suddenly walk
into my living room I would first apologize for the Navin Johnson
shrine, and ask him to ignore the ostentatious display of LP covers of
his old standup gigs. And my silver-haired wig. I would then probably
start rambling about <i>Dirty Rotten Scoundrels</i> and <i>Three Amigos</i>
and his vignette about smokers, entitled "The Smokers", where smokers
are smoking; And then there's the one where he writes a fake news report
about a shortage of periods and how he doesn't use a single period in
the whole thing - oh man it's great. I'd just keep prattling on while
he'd stand there like royalty, refusing to make eye contact, and
maintaining that s#&$-eating grin of which he is so adept.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.publicradio.org/content/2012/02/28/20120228_ricksteves_33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://images.publicradio.org/content/2012/02/28/20120228_ricksteves_33.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rick Steves is so high right now</i></td></tr>
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Unlike Steve Martin, Rick Steves will not suddenly walk into my living room. Instead, we'll have a chance meeting in a town square somewhere in Istanbul or Oslo or Rhodes or Rome or Devonshire or not midwest USA. And like Steve Martin, Rick Steves has spent his life fully and with joy. Steves has done so by being a professional traveler of Europe. Our chance meeting would witness Steves being the first to extend a hand in cordial greeting; I would follow suit awkwardly because I would have just choked on my own sputum in excitement. My mind would be flashing through all those cataloged images of this man standing before fantastic sites during his travels, and in thinking of all the wisdom he's accumulated. I would stutter and spurt and making weird grunting noises because my brain would be short-circuiting, when all I'd really want to say is "Please tell me a story". <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4ryUWbYvTv6sMZJsPZCs2f6aG8lUPjnnF3ieNwE7Y4wFpZTiYzvppTEUFVfmvUPLwkCcUWiWP1wZcfWLimAEnFYm6rceAS8-dC_wNXTxKJgvWS4mb9cFGhfR5vZ4MBKrLldgyo2vFi8b/s1600/Triv.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4ryUWbYvTv6sMZJsPZCs2f6aG8lUPjnnF3ieNwE7Y4wFpZTiYzvppTEUFVfmvUPLwkCcUWiWP1wZcfWLimAEnFYm6rceAS8-dC_wNXTxKJgvWS4mb9cFGhfR5vZ4MBKrLldgyo2vFi8b/s320/Triv.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No, Triv, microphones are not for eating.</i></td></tr>
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Mike Trivisonno is a local drive-time radio personality who is Cleveland through and through. He's also a fat, greasy old man with a big mouth and a temper. No Frills. No Patience. And although he would be the first to agree with this personal assessment I would never say it to his face in a chance meeting because I am afraid of Mike Trivisonno. I'm like the freshman and he's like that 20-year old senior that just can't quite get over that last hump. I would care about what he thinks of me. I would want to be measured in my conduct and want to say only the correct things; to stand upright and assertive. His positive opinion of me would be like a divine blessing, which I would accept it with loyalty with the hopes that he'd let me kiss his pinky ring. <br />
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<br />Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-67704459876948844512012-09-21T22:56:00.000-04:002012-09-21T22:56:35.239-04:00Latin and Dark Souls: A Mosiac of Intellectual Tempering. Part 1 of n*<i>*This contains a few blatant C&Ps from <a href="http://buttonmashing.com/2012/06/27/shedding-light-on-dark-souls/" target="_blank">my post found over at ButtonMashing.com</a></i><br />
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The better part of 2012 has witnessed a great tempering of my intellectual faculties. I feel more alert, confident, humble. Acute. I feel more in-tune with myself, aware of strengths and weaknesses. And I have the growing mental musculature to overcome many self-imposed obstacles and will myself to action - which is key. This maturity has been brought about not only by aging or an increase in domestic and ecclesiastical responsibility. Prior to the better part of 2012, I was still the same age and possessed the same amount of responsibility. I even graduated with honors, having successfully pulled my GPA up from the pits where I had left it years ago. All of these are but minor influences to my intellectual tempering. The true fire continues to come from my studies of Latin and spending some of my leisure time playing FromSoftware's 2011 title <i>Dark Souls</i> on PS3.<br />
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Do not furrow your brow. Perhaps one might have a knee-jerk reaction to the claim that a video game possess a tempering quality, to claim that a video game has been more of an impact than a college course. And this reaction is perfectly valid because many popular console 3rd person Role-Playing Games do deserve a furrowed brow. Despite the fantastic technical strides that developers have reached, gameplay has suffered. But developer FromSoftware created an exception with Dark Souls. This game is intricate, foreboding and purposefully constructed. It shares these qualities, and many others, with the gnarly, enduring linguistic system of Latin. Undertaking Dark Souls and Latin at the same time yields remarkable results.<br />
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As a primer, pop this sucker into full-screen. Give it due attention. <br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/U113SvH18pk" width="560"></iframe><br />
<i>Ne timeam; cum arte sapientiaque superbo</i><br />
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I first watched this video when I was well into my first playthrough of Dark Souls, and I have
watched it many times since. And every time - every.single.time - I watch with wonder and pride. The trailer is true to the game's immensity. Although its focus is Dark Souls the same sensations felt can also be applied to the study of Latin.<br />
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Similar to the general misplacement of Dark Souls, sharing my desire to learn Latin has witnessed many furrowed brows. "Who the hell speaks Latin anymore? It's a dead language." This post will not be the place for my in-depth reaction. But allow me - a blooming intermediate Latin student - to posit: Latin is not the official or national language spoken within any current geopolitical border, yes, but its prestige remains; its history is rich and vast. It is a fascinating and frightening linguistic jigsaw puzzle, and I have reaped only benefits from its study. One of which includes the realization that I am far more analytical than previously thought. It has given me a stronger command of my own natural language. Latin has altered the way that I see the world as I do not just read but cannot help but try to parse sentences, break them down to their grammatical components and intents. And in doing so I am more aware of the bedeviling nature of language. Indeed, I have glared down the rabbit hole after asking 'What is language?' and felt more than I saw, and saw more than I can say. These are not the effects of a dead language. <br />
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Dark Souls has also unjustly earned an antagonistic reaction, even from players who separated the game from the ever-growing blob of mediocre RPGs. Many feel that the game is too difficult, unfair - a pathos that may spook off interested players. But the perception here, as with Latin, is shallow and misaligned. Believe the hype that surrounds the game, but do not be mislead by those who have failed. Dark Souls is not notoriously, unmercifully difficult; it is demanding. Many players will not meet the game’s high level of expectation - and they fail, blaming everything and everyone but themselves. As for myself, the average gamer fairly inexperienced with HD 3rd person
RPG: I started in April 2012, flabby and proud (ignorant); I came out chiseled and
humbled. It is a transformation that is earned, and treasured with reverence. Advancement in Dark Souls requires grit, patience and forward-thinking. Until Dark Souls I gamed, and lived, far too passively.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90NTJ4JBJss1KNVzyHw-hPsfIAg92w1j-uOh0m-D-DWO2dVmQwZ6aHAsB6eV3k4ChD846GmUMDIjqCzTontBCreA26oQ8oMXbEUlUASwN4K7RTx31vEmel7sF0YTAVZ8Sp9Omht_ufkBD/s1600/AsylumDemon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90NTJ4JBJss1KNVzyHw-hPsfIAg92w1j-uOh0m-D-DWO2dVmQwZ6aHAsB6eV3k4ChD846GmUMDIjqCzTontBCreA26oQ8oMXbEUlUASwN4K7RTx31vEmel7sF0YTAVZ8Sp9Omht_ufkBD/s400/AsylumDemon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">tuus ferrum in ventrem mollem timoris treudete!</td></tr>
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Undertaking Latin and the gameplay of Dark Souls are behemoth situations in which I was suddenly thrust without a clue or a lifeline. Overtime, I began to see how their mechanics phased in and out of one another. Just as in the paragraphs above, certain adjectives, certain concepts, may be directly addressing one but can surely be applied to the other. Indeed, these are universal attributes that lend themselves to intense intellectual tempering. And so begins a series of posts about the parallel forges of Latin and Dark Souls, and how they are contributing to my transition into this stupidasscrap called adulthood.Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-23762178780787073202012-09-04T22:57:00.001-04:002012-09-04T23:42:24.391-04:00Neurosis - 'Cleanse' as a stage production<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/i9i8T14Eyig" width="480"></iframe><br />
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I've always had the vision of this track as a stage production. It would be a menacing exploration of what happens when definitions and limits dissolve at a very slow, sure rate. It would be highly amplified and stereophonic. The lighting would be earth tones, morphing, bleeding that gradually dim down to 30%. There would be a single array of standing drums and percussion mid stage. Flanking this would be two massive gyroscope frames with a mounted drum kit, and at certain parts of the program it will slowly follow the tracked loop. Other percussion and instruments will be tiered up and down stage: I want the performers - the motley forms of shadow and light - scurrying around. Vocal microphones will be either solo down stage right or shotgunned at specific locations of the drumline to capture the orchestration of voice and drum. The electronics will be helter skelter around the stage. No stage dressing; The cables should look like vines running across the deck. Ample DSP at FOH. The whole thing is meant to saturate. Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-42885336246335888862012-07-31T11:18:00.001-04:002012-07-31T11:18:41.923-04:00Kerri Walsh Gives Me Warm Fuzzies<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="194" src="http://www.thesportsbank.net/core/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/kerri-walsh-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">thesportsbank.net</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Kerri Walsh of the US Women's Beach Volleyball gives me warm fuzzies. She is all smiles and handshakes. I don't know her from Adam but I can tell that she's got the right attitude about life. I'm not a behaviorist but I can tell just by looking at Walsh, be it in interviews, photos, even when she's playing, that she's found (or made) her niche in the universe. And she's thrilled about it. You can see it in her smile. A smile is not just a complex system of varying muscle contractions around the mouth; it is also in the eyes - an unmistakable, unshakable glint that works with other facial muscles to denote someone who is truly at ease with him/herself. I believe that a smile can go a long way; that just a sincere grin,
direct eye contact and quick head nod to a passerby can resonate
positive energy.<br />
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Walsh kicks this method of shared resonance up notch, as can be witnessed at the end of each of her Volleyball matches in London. Walsh and teammate Misty May go through the obligatory sportsmanship routine of 'good game, good game' with opponents, reaching under the net to high-five, handshake. And then they continue on to shake hands with the officials, 'Thank you, Thank you'. While the losers sulk away and May returns to the sand and basks in the glory of attention and praises of the stands and cameras what's Walsh doing? She is darting around, corner to corner to corner to corner, thanking the ball handlers. Many times catching them off guard. They assume that since the game is over their business is done. But Walsh is not done. She recognizes their efforts and makes the effort, even after a physically demanding performance on the court, to sprint after these low-level volunteers to express her gratitude. That is positive resonance in action. And even in my living room on the other side of the pond I feel her televised vibe, and I can only hope that the millions of other viewers can feel those warm fuzzies too. Dig it.Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-71694483991070470392012-07-13T13:39:00.000-04:002012-07-13T13:39:22.104-04:00Time is Precious<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I recently canceled my Facebook and Tumblr accounts.
Browsing both had lost its dazzle long ago and had turned into an activity
bordering compulsive. I would not spend hours upon hours on Facebook but I did
find myself logging in frequently for short bursts of times. And because I was
extremely selective about who I friended my list was under 100 people; Maybe 10
of those people updated regularly, 5 of which updated the same type of crap. As
for Tumblr: They saw a deluge of activity from me for about 4 weeks. It was fun
to browse pictures and lose time searching tags and creating a personal tumblr
page that I thought defined me through a selection of redirected pictures. Over
time I again recognized that I lacked self-control for moderate browsing times
and pursuing a meaningless and shallow endeavor. </div>
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Time is precious. I value my use of it. Facebook and Tumblr (Hereafter
referred to as ‘they’) were not effective uses of my time. And upon retrospect
deleting them was a smart move because my thoughts have naturally drifted back
to thinking about content for this blog. They were damaging to my intellectual
capacity because it was too easy to blurt out in status updates stuff that I
like, think is cool, worthwhile, post links, youtubes. Etc. etc. The problem is
that the content of the status update was severed after the initial statement
was posted. Sometimes there was a little banter back and forth between friends,
but these ideas and opinions never really developed because I would quickly
move on to something else.</div>
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Example: I was listening to Yawning Man two or so weeks
after deleting facebook. I love Yawning Man, and listening to it that day
affirmed this opinion. Had I still been on Facebook I would have logged in and
posted: “YAWNING MAN IS GREAT!” And then left it at that. But as I was sitting
there two or so weeks after deleting Facebook and listening to the magnificence
that is Yawning Man I realized that I did myself a favor for deleting them
because now I shall take the time to develop my thoughts, ideas, and opinions…
and share them here on Doctor Jones where brevity may not always been a course
of action. And this is the perfect place to hone in on my resolve to improve my
compositional and writing skills. Plus, I just graduated (why I've been so inactive here) so I’m gonna have more
time on my hands.</div>
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Coming soon: A thorough post about why Yawning Man is great</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4mosYiIDdkQ" width="480"></iframe></div>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-18298887756577803612011-12-22T13:53:00.005-05:002011-12-22T13:57:56.637-05:00Stuff That Falls Out of Books I Flip Through at Half-Priced Books<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1AZgtDJX42_-EzXyP8nWHZZ_Tdb7St3OOeUMl6Utsk8bebdHeunF0PSdwKDHQt_ACpMB9HVBfyEF-n6UiPzuWFhhJ9D5MnpHE1Oc_msarNbhnGcl5kY3m47jSCN1FIkCvlKpWk7R69b8E/s1600/Menu.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1AZgtDJX42_-EzXyP8nWHZZ_Tdb7St3OOeUMl6Utsk8bebdHeunF0PSdwKDHQt_ACpMB9HVBfyEF-n6UiPzuWFhhJ9D5MnpHE1Oc_msarNbhnGcl5kY3m47jSCN1FIkCvlKpWk7R69b8E/s400/Menu.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689028433708338370" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW_LtD-mFi-_OfU4Y8Ox61gkDOjWRTX0nEZw0W5acVNjnfrhbzAZIePg-npFIORHo37EVUuFHFsm-ZsG2pikRwc8xulkQFWQG15YfdY-KxyDryxIYy4A1-mVwz3A6vCEoU0v_YQXP_6tCL/s1600/MenuFron.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW_LtD-mFi-_OfU4Y8Ox61gkDOjWRTX0nEZw0W5acVNjnfrhbzAZIePg-npFIORHo37EVUuFHFsm-ZsG2pikRwc8xulkQFWQG15YfdY-KxyDryxIYy4A1-mVwz3A6vCEoU0v_YQXP_6tCL/s400/MenuFron.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689028209603155346" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">More often than not I am finding these makeshift bookmarks placed somewhere in beginning one-third of the books they respectively reside. This is an interesting observation, one that is fertile ground for speculation of all sorts; speculation in which many variables must be considered. Let us examine the facts that surround our current find. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This, let us call it a Tiki Menu, was found in between pages 156 and 157 of The Birth of the Modern: World Society 1830-1850 by Paul Johnson. Relevant to the general observation mentioned above, it is worth noting that the total page count of this book (apparently an older edition) is 1,095 – indeed, placing the tiki menu well within the range of the first third of this tome. After reading the inside flaps and doing a brief thumb-through it is obvious that this is a layman’s history book, albeit a thorough one; cat nip for anyone with a burning curiosity about this period in history. Now, let us examine the tiki menu: Bi-folded, color print, limited selection, price listings for alcohol only, United Airlines logo on the back. Here’s the story:A man of middle-age is taking a respite from his job in the accounting department and taking his wife for a week’s jaunt in Hawaii. They have reservations at a sea-side resort but no tentative schedule for anything. This is to be a relaxing, low-key getaway; sit-on-the-beach-and-read kind of thing. In anticipation for the trip our friend visits the local bookstore. He deliberately walks up and down the isles, carefully pulling books off the shelf to preview what is in store. Ultimately, he comes to Johnson’s book. It’s a hefty one, very dense, but so very alluring. This could be the greatest beach read ever! </p><p class="MsoNormal">Now, allow me to pontificate. It is devastatingly easy to convince oneself to purchase a book of this type while standing there in the History aisle of the non-fiction section deep in the embrace of a bookstore. Indeed, a bookstore is a place where the air of intellectual ambition is potent; where the sincere desire to dive headfirst into a 1,100-page history book, for example, seems easy and rewarding. I have found myself in similar situations that have witnessed me walking out with, for example, a 700-page biography of Jorge Luis Borges and a book that is a comparative study about social revolutions throughout the ages of civilization. The ambition to chew upon and digest these works was honest and fervid. I may even stop someplace for lunch to begin the endeavor – yes, I can – Nay – I will do this, and it will better me! </p><p class="MsoNormal"> … and then I get home: the apartment is suddenly too muggy; the ceiling fan is suddenly too rhythmic; my attention span is suddenly cut short. I am fatigued and the environment of this place is not conducive to reading this elaborate biography. I will take a nap and then try to pick up where I left off. The momentum is then lost, and the rest is history. </p><p class="MsoNormal">This, I fear, is what I suspect happened to our accountant friend. A history book may have perhaps seemed like an excellent choice to lose oneself in while on vacation. Why wait until we get to Hawaii? We’ve got a long plane ride ahead of us. Thank you, stewardess, for this tiki menu. I’ll have the pupu and the ono beef slice entrée! Wow this book is really great. I love that we’re going on vacation. This beach is beautiful. Come let us frolic and order sea-side drinks. Wait, I have to go back to the room, I forgot to bring my book. This is so interesting, honey; check it out, In 1832… </p><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: georgia;">And so it continued. The tiki menu marked his progress all through the vacation. However, 156 pages later, our accountant friend finds himself returned home, back in the rat race of life. And Johnson’s book just sits there, clutter accumulating around it. The desire to learn about the onset of the modern era just doesn’t have the same appeal that it did in the bookstore. Too much time has passed since the vacation and the book is just so damn big!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The clutter continues. Then our accountant spontaneously combusts and his wife sells back all of his stuff the end</span><br /></p>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-63568653259822890122011-10-29T14:06:00.005-04:002011-12-30T11:01:15.349-05:00One Foot in Babylon - Doctor Jones Mix Sequence #23<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.megaupload.com/?d=N953KFDZ"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxRCNSS1x1Jnixu2Dqo-nkmUM8G-R2vwqdGFMvSMyPiZZdU2GBDwLv2lxU670r6KVb0ajnWvCktpWmiShGbK1vPCezj4jcGTCAKZvpxsZA_6Ib1b7ehFh3T-n3mjYD27ydZgml17P2WEh/s400/Babylon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668977177802614978" border="0" /></a><br />http://www.megaupload.com/?d=N953KFDZ<br /><br />This mix is the closest of any that have come to being a kind of narrative. As I general approach to sequence construction I aim for some kind of overall character with the hope that each stands apart from the others. With One Foot In Babylon, I hear a story; a gritty one with a promising start and a bleak outcome; a future society, streaming technology, information. Gradually, these wonders are abused. Then there are giant sentient mechanical chugging perversions; borderline steampunk, though just as garish but not as, y'know, lame. An end brings a new dark and twisted dawn.Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-53414622710150655742011-09-24T20:47:00.000-04:002011-09-24T20:47:08.474-04:00This Happened<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulWqqvEWXLPWda54Qn2WN8IgtKO4-_sw5Z0HoVhiAoHbtJO_7TUPS2nu00hImxuAxfeAdwnKMhw-PMfLhiktILPqioI_jw4dSBzK4M-6Gp5bsRHLduDeDiAMMIDa5f0AjDvFTTYkbG7Yy/s1600/Commence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulWqqvEWXLPWda54Qn2WN8IgtKO4-_sw5Z0HoVhiAoHbtJO_7TUPS2nu00hImxuAxfeAdwnKMhw-PMfLhiktILPqioI_jw4dSBzK4M-6Gp5bsRHLduDeDiAMMIDa5f0AjDvFTTYkbG7Yy/s640/Commence.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-90302218442964766852011-09-20T15:00:00.001-04:002011-09-20T15:07:41.632-04:00My Kids in Essence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGppn1TC6DYGrwnb8puwEjOS4t3LFSCAppSb_DuWfH5gM8-ZejMLWvD1vzAEYAAPqxiAwIA6bQMqpwhzhG-WnfKgk49zNPfI6Zxqi6Bd8X28j_EOsTgld-amAHhfooRkCVqaR8rSORYOS1/s1600/KidsInEssenceSMALLER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGppn1TC6DYGrwnb8puwEjOS4t3LFSCAppSb_DuWfH5gM8-ZejMLWvD1vzAEYAAPqxiAwIA6bQMqpwhzhG-WnfKgk49zNPfI6Zxqi6Bd8X28j_EOsTgld-amAHhfooRkCVqaR8rSORYOS1/s640/KidsInEssenceSMALLER.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Presented herein is a series of snapshots attempting to get my kids to hold still and formally pose for an informal text message to gramma and grampa; or would it be designated a text message with an image attachment? It is interesting how "text(-ing)" is now a predicating verb that denotes the action of transmitting quick spats of communication, be it actual text, or of image files, or even both. "txt me a pic" does not sound queer.<br />
<br />
Like trying to photograph fuzzy kittens, my kids have proven to be just as tricky to capture on film - I mean, memory card. Notice the ever-present motion blurs.<br />
Take #1: Ok, wait. no wait. Quiet! Sit next to your sister and... *SNAP*<br />
Take #2: *SNAP* Ok, that was a good one. Babes, your face is betraying your flatulence so... Let's try again<br />
Take #3: Ok, says cheese for gramma and grampa. Say Che...-Noo, sit back up. You're only encouraging him! Ah screw it *Snap* <br />
<br />
The true moment, you could call it, is observed when these three snapshots are considered as one; a moment far more sincere than some stressed and unnatural pose; the moment when the empirical evidence is enough to confidently declare: My kids like each other. And as a parent still mucking my way through learning by experience, their relationship is a welcomed relief. They have their own special brother-sister dynamic, tightly-knit. When I hear them cooperatively playing in the other room, I dare not infringe because there is no place for me. Even when things get dicey, I keep an attentive distance and let the matter sort itself out. Siblings need their own time, their own methods of interaction and resolution - even if the resolution may be a deliberate shriek that sends your big brother scampering off like a spooked weasel. So, if it gets worse as they get older, do me a favor and keep quiet about it. Let me be an ignorant parent by savoring these moments.Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-72639963361713364762011-09-18T21:32:00.005-04:002011-09-18T22:07:32.468-04:00Opeth - "The Devil's Orchard"If this new track is any indication of a shift in musical approach then I welcome the new album with open arms. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Opeth's last two albums are far too contrived. The tracks are way too expansive, leaving precious little to sink ones teeth into. I couldn't even finish <span style="font-style: italic;">Ghost Reveries; </span>instead I switched over to <span style="font-style: italic;">Blackwater Park</span> and everything was alright. And with <span style="font-style: italic;">Watershed... </span>I became acutely aware that something was amiss; that under the threat of become overly-bloated Opeth needed to do something, anything . And with this video below, we hear the favorable results of such a corrective maneuver. It's musical, colorful, spacious, and does not have a running time over the 11-minute mark. Opeth reached deep for this one, rescuing themselves from certain stagnation. Now, with the experience of self-resuscitation we just need to get these guys to slap some sense into Clutch.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/G1pi7Dn87mY" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" width="480"></iframe>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-56897642414611050892011-09-16T21:36:00.002-04:002011-09-16T21:41:39.469-04:00Yesterday's Corn<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">The sign board outside the general purpose room reads<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> Pity Party</i>. This is where they squeeze in to commend each other for their lives of strain and struggle. Yes. This is where they seek the praise needed to push forward; where they discuss their common enemy, and evaluate new ways of existing. Yes, hard times, yes. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The beginning, at the top of the hour; this is when they pair off. By either pre-destiny or calculated maneuver, the general lump of pity is divided and each person selects another, the pair then forming their own precious sphere of pity. Blushed faces are cupped in angel soft hands. Strained, sympathetic gazes are matched. Tears squirt forth onto four dollar beaded necklaces, and collars and shoulder pads are smeared with sobbing mascara. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> - Oh, me, oh, my: I know, I know. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">- My life has more meaning than most people because I’ve struggled: I know, I know.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">- I learned the old fashioned way, not because I was old fashioned but because I was poor: I know, I know.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">- I grew up in a rough spot in town; therefore, this gives me the innate right to chime in at inappropriate times during class discussion to tell a story or share a bit of my wisdom even if it <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>has no relevance to the subject matter, because people know I’ve had it hard and want to hear what I have to say: I know, I know.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The love-energy from these communions grows so intense that gravity is soon defied. Pairs will eventually levitate in their own pity bubbles. The harder they grip, the harder they sob, the higher they float. Soon after, their bowels glow with an aura of righteous light. Yes, a golden light that beams upward and bursts forth from upturned eye sockets and open mouths. The room quakes at the power. The ceiling lights flicker out and there the pity party hang, drowning in the drone of pity, awash in the light of each other’s bubble guts - flushing away all that bad juju.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eventually things will calm down. The metaphysical power of pity abates and the ceiling lights timidly come back to life. Feet are returned to this raw and tyrannical reality. Folding chairs are placed; they moan under the under the pressure of usage. Accompanied by the scattered sniffles and delicate sobs left over from the ascension, the Pity Party president goes to the lectern: Welcome, sisters. Any visitors? Please stand and introduce yourself. Usually more than a couple will stand and wipe, swabbing tears from their faces as they say how thrilled they are to be here and what a release it has been so far. Sometimes others opt to remain seated on their thrones, either by choice or physical infirmity (more commonly a dramatic approach to the latter) and lean to either side to ensure being witnessed. As always, the newcomers are warmly welcomed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Pity Party president will then usually read from the announcement sheet which is usually extensive. They are usually of benign importance, just an opportunity to hear her own voice. At length, she can tell that she’s been there for too long because her legs become tingly; the Pity Party must proceed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Most meetings will have a special speaker, usually one of the regulars who invited herself ahead of time to do so. She is received warmly. Topics usually involve oppression and the ever-present common enemy. One speech was given the stirring title ‘The Emotional Woman Trying to Define Herself’; another was ‘Breaking the Masculine Mold”. The speaker chronicles her hardships, usually beginning in childhood, and usually involves the saintly presence of mothers and how they worked fingers to the bone and never complained and how that way of life has always been an influence. The listeners will bob their heads in agreement, a perpetual zen pool of pity. Afterwards, the microphone is made available to anyone who seeks praise from the entire group. This… This is the real happening. Immediately, a line forms and snakes through the oval room, double-backing on itself, <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>eventually peeping out the door a little bit - and even from this distant place, praise is still shouted; the potency from which emanates through the entire building. A profound thought from the lectern quivers its way through the ranks of pity until the very end of the line. Yes, through all the churning, these gems come out unscathed. They are all alike. Once a member is finished with her oratory, she leaves. Life must continue onwards, y’see. The party abandons a multi-purpose room littered with used tissue and program outlines whose corners are fold over and held fast with wads of chewing gum. A maintenance man comes in, contorts his face, waves the air before his nose, and opens a window. “Lord, have mercy!”</p>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-87423863814769396072011-09-01T21:38:00.004-04:002011-09-01T21:46:38.275-04:00The Killingfields of Parenthood; or, How I Cope - Part 1 of n<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">I was ignorant before parenthood; completely oblivious to the psychological prowess of – where it stands now – a three and a half year old, and how this child has the subtle and devastating ability to cripple me down to a blubbering sociopath, only to then strut off like it was business as usual. It is amazing what one word can do to a man.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Up until the birth of our first child I fancied myself an individual with confidence, surety, self-control – Iron-will, if you will. I was able to walk away from confrontation; my fuse was long and tightly-woven. But oh, how quickly these assumptions – for assumptions they were – failed to withstand the might of one Mitchell Robert. Within two weeks, these falsities of character were stripped away, leaving behind a raw, quivering thing. And then, in this condition I found myself on the frontlines of an ongoing battle of wits. Indeed, it goes without saying that children have the ability to push grownups - fully maturated and intelligent sentient beings - to limits he/she didn’t even know existed… And then the kid enters the game-changing toddler phase. Before Toddlerdom, parenthood was merely an endurance contest. Like pushing your hand into a piece of stretched rubber, so too is your mental strength extended to agonizing proportions. But, this is just an elementary strategy of attrition and resistance; your kid pushes, you push back – at length someone will give out.</p><p class="MsoNormal">But then the child’s cognition develops further, character becomes defined. Yes. At three and a half years old the child has added a new devastating tactic. Moving beyond the tactic of resistance, moving beyond sleep deprivation, things will then get psychological – he starts messing with you. And this… this is where things get perilous. He confidently maneuvers himself with tactical precision, constantly on the lookout for a positional advantage. Oh my.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">While I am under no illusion that the universal characteristic of toddlers is that of stubbornness and antagonism, it has always been my belief that my kid is wired different: not abnormally, not incorrectly – Just different; that there is some quirk in his neural circuitry that elevates him to something higher, something apart, from the other children. I’ll see your 3 year old, and raise you one diabolical genius. This is the story of a man - a father - broken and under the boot of his three year old son. </p>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-61228861784242935922011-08-31T20:57:00.004-04:002011-08-31T21:06:45.111-04:00Bad Dream - "Black Blizzard", Yawining Man - "Digital Smoke Signal"Music posts have not been as prevalent these past couple of months - if ever, in retrospect - here at Doctor Jones. This will change.
<br />This will change, now.
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<br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lmMy1X6-BEc" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="640"></iframe>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-47420354789001840982011-08-29T20:28:00.002-04:002011-08-29T20:39:58.045-04:00The Calvin Paradox<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfmfsvrS7Ha8LpygY7Q3H71QEIB5g1H-KViYJIjnI4c05x96PWWhKlo6k7ZSJSPVHt0d3yb83KVsmPNKyzeXkmMpbQFEHmN6ZZR3WG5YsJO9gKDrEBadBkbOcYKoQuyh7CMk-x1CjiEpd/s1600/CalvinParadox.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfmfsvrS7Ha8LpygY7Q3H71QEIB5g1H-KViYJIjnI4c05x96PWWhKlo6k7ZSJSPVHt0d3yb83KVsmPNKyzeXkmMpbQFEHmN6ZZR3WG5YsJO9gKDrEBadBkbOcYKoQuyh7CMk-x1CjiEpd/s400/CalvinParadox.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646439539723352786" border="0" /></a>
<br />Go on 'till you come to the end; then stop.
<br />- Lewis Carroll
<br />Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-64620018464049656982011-08-24T15:47:00.002-04:002011-08-31T21:07:53.768-04:00I'm Already There<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UN2VNFpiGWo" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-12914994638577151882011-08-16T16:21:00.007-04:002011-08-16T16:34:20.166-04:00Oddments-Turned-Bookmarks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipNCeRdgmwIGCFXqPNJHL3K6xdBW-X19vv80fCjK-Ik55J37AH7V7jS0YXoELt3nT7Xe3YHGV6GwFuSzJS9E63bMzk8mlM0QiWcUsNaqak1dkTPQFVG3S_Ueb7gX82fu5v_Zz3D7t3_Gr/s1600/EyeRxMOD.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipNCeRdgmwIGCFXqPNJHL3K6xdBW-X19vv80fCjK-Ik55J37AH7V7jS0YXoELt3nT7Xe3YHGV6GwFuSzJS9E63bMzk8mlM0QiWcUsNaqak1dkTPQFVG3S_Ueb7gX82fu5v_Zz3D7t3_Gr/s400/EyeRxMOD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641551795201164546" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">This find is a bit of a coincidence since I too am in the process of being retrofitted for new lenses. According to Eye Masters, my current prescription is a step too strong for my precious far-sighted eyes, resulting in inconvenient eye aches after reading for an extended period of time. These aches first came to my attention several weeks ago while reading Saul Bellow’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Herzog</i>. At first I thought Bellow’s narrative too advanced, too dense, too mind-blowingly awesome for my pwecious wittle bwain to handle. But, in all, it turned out that I’ve been walking around wearing the wrong Rx for the past four years, culminating into the irksome headaches of the past couple of weeks. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps Allison *…*’s case was different. Poor Allison. There she was, afflicted with Amblyopia, completely devoid of depth perception: Shouting at the dinner table when a 12-inch voice would suffice; grasping for a slice of pizza seven feet away; gazing through binoculars at the pages of a book fifteen inches away. Something had to be done.</p><p class="MsoNormal">So she went to visit Dr. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaXZaZQXMQ1qibBJqCV1teGK1yrUtRR4Vm6fkUgrTCtLNvvt50887FAuu0BT_-Paimv9EfbTWcPdr_nQC_Rpv6tvIXf2TvVot4WmbVkum_tNNoglUasq1-jMhIOZkaHaRo7PUVv2dlrqv/s1600/DrRx.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 47px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaXZaZQXMQ1qibBJqCV1teGK1yrUtRR4Vm6fkUgrTCtLNvvt50887FAuu0BT_-Paimv9EfbTWcPdr_nQC_Rpv6tvIXf2TvVot4WmbVkum_tNNoglUasq1-jMhIOZkaHaRo7PUVv2dlrqv/s400/DrRx.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641551998175584818" border="0" /></a> at <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJo254B7Mpb4m_83Zi_kHKxcDqPx7EVjfLX6QhT1cn0UWmjU1of5NQvO3fPuFvGyU0aNshgheC0I5lyrFUy3jWZVfLGrbwMrNII5XSSfVTKRn_HhI85x0H0RR-_mGhV6V3MrnQII_Vi1J4/s1600/EyeRxCenter.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 85px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJo254B7Mpb4m_83Zi_kHKxcDqPx7EVjfLX6QhT1cn0UWmjU1of5NQvO3fPuFvGyU0aNshgheC0I5lyrFUy3jWZVfLGrbwMrNII5XSSfVTKRn_HhI85x0H0RR-_mGhV6V3MrnQII_Vi1J4/s400/EyeRxCenter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641552063701001794" border="0" /></a> Vision Center<span style="text-decoration: underline;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal">There she received a professional assessment and departed with this new prescription. Success! The new lenses and lovely turtle-shell frames marked a turning point in Allison’s life. She was so excited that she immediately made way to the store and bought the very first item on her wishlist: Saul Bellow’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Ravelstein</i>. But modern medical practices cannot anticipate human error. In her rush of excitement, Allison slipped the Rx just inside of the front cover, instead of the bookstore’s receipt – putting the later in an envelope of important documents secured to her hip. Suddenly, on the way back to her car, a pack of Kodiak bears rush Allison. But she’s able to fight them off because she’s a ninja, dropping <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Ravelstein</i> in the process. The bears run off, Allison flees, and then some bystander finds the book – and the Rx – and sells it to the Half-Priced bookstore on the other side of town. He made $.17, the bears ate from a honey pot, and Allison was robbed of reading Saul Bellow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-28839206864669757592011-08-06T19:24:00.002-04:002011-08-06T19:25:08.353-04:00This Happened<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLQVKjUqOq36YqBQLVPwZuhohj6EJqIjbkAbTw_DuWJyf1WoBrNzC8WdHV85OG-zgGYY6DRQqUTJENsUIAPjaHvE5bDwTr1TZ7k1NmgLDy8QveS69uEOAVKOGhT1HazBRvrT5YYuoFg4Z/s1600/EnduranceCrew.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLQVKjUqOq36YqBQLVPwZuhohj6EJqIjbkAbTw_DuWJyf1WoBrNzC8WdHV85OG-zgGYY6DRQqUTJENsUIAPjaHvE5bDwTr1TZ7k1NmgLDy8QveS69uEOAVKOGhT1HazBRvrT5YYuoFg4Z/s400/EnduranceCrew.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637888048803037986" border="0" /></a>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-12097703430167480762011-07-23T11:29:00.005-04:002011-08-16T16:41:09.875-04:00One-Thousand Gospels - Doctor Jones Mix Sequence #23<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.megaupload.com/?d=HMJ8YWWR"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmrkCO9KHn4A49k2wu-Rk_-8A3FGuewwDyp_dUFjM3OYZm6DLgJSAL7rVObeJCHzmIF_QbYRE8yypHfr3DmVNSMr060Qdwn2fJbw1ZLXfvcHeEHM8N7Rn_g9_Ui2Pri9Gd6tdM3ndCTl3/s400/1TGospels.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632570549348395378" border="0" /></a>
<br /><a href="http://www.megaupload.com/?d=HMJ8YWWR">http://www.megaupload.com/?d=HMJ8YWWR</a>
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<br />Nature has many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finitiy, - the ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of the storm, the shock of the earthquake, the long roll of heaven's artillery, - but the most tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the White Silence. All movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass... Strange thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things strives for utterance. And the fear of death, of God, of the universe comes over him, - the hope of the Resurrection and the Life, the yearning for immortality, the vain striving of imprisoned essence, - it is then, if ever, man walks alone with God.
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<br />"The White Silence"
<br />- Jack LondonDoctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-50909767898737525642011-07-13T22:49:00.000-04:002011-07-13T22:50:13.590-04:00From the Hills<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Kalkrut slowed himself to a halt. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ankle deep in bubbling sludge, he drew a desperate wheezing breath, filling his giant lungs with the miasmal swamp air. He straightened from a stoop and adjusted the harness that came over his bare shoulders. Arcing backwards – as far as the oblong crag would allow – sounded out a rapid sequence of hollow pops. Barrel-chested and reaching out to either side, Kalkrut grabbed hold of Cyprus trees. They moaned and bowed to his strength, the intertwining root system holding fast. Veins throbbed from his blushed temples, flanking his empty, intense glare. After a few moments his mind began to gasp. Swollen bubbles of thought segregated and distanced themselves ever upward from the core. Each passing second carried a new, fancier, deeper microcosm of veiled meaning. Muted shades then heaved and warped, soon threatening to sprawl out and smother his consciousness. Instinctively, he let up and exhaled with great resolve, boring a hole through the dense fog. With another breath his better judgment swirled to unity. The weight returned. Kalkrut’s glazed eyes witnessed the fog fill in and once again become homogenous with the stifling blur that was all around. The omni-drone of insects intensified. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He sensed there was still a great distance to go. This notion weighed on his mind while the cellophane air was sapping his strength and the gunk in his lungs churned ever hotter and the limestone mocked continually and sadness jerked his face taut. His hands clenched in frustration at the ends of his trembling arms. Feelings of rebellion sizzled through every criss-crossed fiber of his hulking physique. Kalkrut’s mind flashed with scenes of rallying cries and gory retribution; when might shall overcome intellect in hoary conflict; when the united roar of triumph will mask the dwindling screams of terror. And just then he blinked, quickly recalling the super-charged slave band locked around his neck - a band that could easily encircle two or three of his puny captors. Even if Kalkrut had had the strength to remove the rock and hurl it far into the swamp he would still have no choice but to continue following the setting sun – the smeared mirage that it is, hovering above the dark sketches of tree branches – to the building site. Once there, he’d have to fumble through explaining why he arrived with an empty harness; an offense whose consequences are far more callous than trudging through a bog with a two ton chunk of limestone strapped to your back. Likewise, at this thought, Kalkrut’s static condition caused the slave band to sound a curt warning. Likewise, his static condition made it that much easier for the swamp to claim his weakening and impressive weight. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He ran a hand down his bald head and flicked globs of sweat into the murk. He slowly closed his eyes, took another deep breath, strained, pulled a bare foot out of the bog’s stubborn suction and took a stride forward, chasing away the swamp’s hungry ripples. </p>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-14306739520030009592011-06-26T22:06:00.004-04:002011-06-26T22:08:11.067-04:00A Pictoral Preview of Next Month's Mixtape<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioO_ZTYdMuJPWYiA4ao_hDWH9ekMwhthWB6pDnDOe9oVDz_A_2aWWF-gvPuZJnaEHny-LeAqwoIT4kilh2KRBJo2KNMYJyXXEzNwAMmBCYp80CQRS6CF2Uti_I0aOHd5FTgP3HPYk0PHZp/s1600/MixPrev3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" 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{parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildYYjwAujFN7_VNIds7OK3h3fiqIW_tVU2qLT_q5OiVJmXG_WXF5yn2-BK_hRvWlC0ZS3_TEviAzo6Sms1yETSekFi2sDZoVobZtJyJ_fCUoFXOmcUIaB_f31Uzbd-qE9RjwEOFpPzemd/s1600/MixPrev1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildYYjwAujFN7_VNIds7OK3h3fiqIW_tVU2qLT_q5OiVJmXG_WXF5yn2-BK_hRvWlC0ZS3_TEviAzo6Sms1yETSekFi2sDZoVobZtJyJ_fCUoFXOmcUIaB_f31Uzbd-qE9RjwEOFpPzemd/s400/MixPrev1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622715449707546754" border="0" /></a>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-89556713592049074492011-06-10T11:31:00.001-04:002011-06-10T11:34:12.057-04:00An Absurdly Over-Ambitious-and-Lofty Term Paper Prospectus<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> 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mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Wakefield”, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short piece – or how we’ll refer to it at this juncture – is as engaging as it is confounding. It is a psychological piece that utilizes adroit narrative power to prompt the reader to elevated thinking. It is a systematic sequence of words that maneuvers itself on many planes, blurring the lines between sketch and tale and beyond. Within deterministic and labyrinth-like boundaries of “Wakefield” there also lies the enigmatic presence of free will – a setting that we all, at some point or another, feel apart of in this crazy thing called life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It has been suggested by some that “Wakefield” can be considered an “Illustrated Idea”; A structure composed of an essay-like statement of concept followed by dramatized illustration – and, I like this. It has also been posited that the piece can be considered another one of Hawthorne’s allegories. But, at an extreme level, and considering the text itself, seeing “Wakefield” as an allegory seems too pithy: Solitude makes a person an “Outcast of the Universe”. I propose that there are greater, more significant things at work here - fundamental, philosophical ideas that effect our interactions with the world. Yes. This is about thinking, reasoning, our essence, what separates mankind from dumb beasts. “Wakefield” is Hawthorne embracing the concept of the written word to elevate man’s awareness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Using the news story of a man abandoning his wife for 20 years (only to return as if from a days absence), Hawthorne’s narrator summarizes the story and then imagines it in detail, hoping to appeal to the “general sympathies of man.” The narrator invites us, the readers, to consider the summary of the news story and come to our own conclusions right there in the piece’s second paragraph; or, we can tag along with the narrator as he imagines the story of Wakefield and together we can work out a moral. Naturally, we continue onward through the narrator’s imagination. But he details with a skillful, seductive, ambiguous and sometimes flat-out contradictory manner that some readers of “Wakefield” may find themselves no better off - no more enlightened - than the title character was during his thoughtlessly executed “whim-wham”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It is in the examination of the narrator’s treatment of the subject matter – of the dramatized illustration – that we can glimpse the magnitude of what Hawthorne is doing with “Wakefield.” The piece’s technical merit is what elevates and inspires the reader. In researching, it will be necessary to branch out and consult fellow-thinkers in other disciplines such as logic and even epistemology. Likewise, visiting other artisans of narrative structure would help inform this developing argument of text and the necessity of awareness. In a critical approach, we can, perhaps, join beside the many scholarly articles of interpretation of “Wakefield”. The majority of these view different symbolic aspects of the story, touching on themes like Solitude, and Mid-life journeys. While these are worthwhile approaches and useful to filling in details, I suggest that we take a step back and look at the text itself – to see it as a suspended multi-colored Spirograph design, a perpetual work that has no ending nor beginning, but arcs out and returns back to its center.</p>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-85988691928354648912011-06-06T16:22:00.007-04:002011-06-10T11:36:13.812-04:00A Plethora of Pesky Mr. Popper's Penguins Poster<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If one has been out and about lately then it shall become quickly apparent, and delightful to assume, that a new motion picture is set to open on June 17, though the release year is not presented. As if at every turn we are goaded with giddiness by the ever-presence of advertisements for the film called </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mr. Popper's Penguins</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Mr. Popper will be portrayed by, I trust, one Jim Carrey; in which reasoning brings us to the conclusion that this pictorial display is, in fact, one that represents a motion picture and not, say, one for a culinary seminar about the exquisite and delectable penguin. </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I reckon that Mr. Popper will find himself in a lighthearted 80-to-90-minute situation where, sitting on a bar stool and in front of a white backdrop, he shall be accompanied by many penguins (as signified by their cluttering presence in the posters) that will nuzzle and nip at his face while he looks on into the camera with a mild quizzical expression - as if wondering just what am I to do with all these pesky penguins?</span></span>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-289830182388674262011-06-04T17:55:00.001-04:002011-06-04T17:57:00.407-04:00...exerpt of a High School graduation speechand as we look forward with the memories of the past still fresh in our minds and the emotions and enthusiasm still fueling our passion, it's important to remember that this not the end but rather the beginning - the true initiation - to each of our diverging paths of our lives in which all that we've learned in this High School and the outstanding practices developed herein will help guide us each toward achievement and success and fulfillment and all the highs and lows that come with the journey of life and then you'll die and poop yourself afterward because our bodies do stuff like that.Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4814133230875711011.post-66120455308270493372011-06-03T23:29:00.014-04:002011-08-16T16:41:37.288-04:00Blood and Whispers and the Balance ThereinStirring thought processes going on here...<i style="">
<br />
<br />The Name of the Rose </i>is Umberto Eco’s first novel, published in 1980. It is, essentially, a whodunnit set in an abbey in 13<sup>th</sup> century northern Italy. Eco is part historian – part architect – part literary theorist – all awesome. Therefore, one can assume and trust that the material for this book has been meticulously researched and creatively presented. Yes. Truly, a great read – one of those quintessential “hard-to-put-down”-ers - Very appealing. It has been a fantastic way to celebrate the beginning of summer. However, with great resolve I am abandoning <i style="">The Name of the Rose</i>, and I’m doing it for several reasons. First, reading a novel of this magnitude requires utmost dedication and consistency. This I upheld for two weeks, making my way to the book’s 550-page half-way point. But I have since been distracted by other matters. Days have now gone by since revisiting my friends at that certain medieval Italian abbey. There are heavy things on my mind and I am unable to allot my faculties to these deserving logician monks. They are now strangers of whom I have been removed emotionally, however little. Momentum has been lost. The second reason being that I’m taking the “Studies in American Literature: American Gothic” course this summer, and I will not attempt to mingle these reading duties. It’s one or the other at this point. The likes of Hawthorne, Poe, Melville, James are priority. Plus, it may be a disservice to my precious – oh so precious – intellect to be sloshing together the grounded logical methods of Brother William with the internal dialog of Poe’s characters – characters driven by the logic of madness. Being a parent of a 3 y/o and 5 m/o churns my brain into cream corn enough as it is. <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next reason is that I am stirred by this following excerpt, which just so happens to be the conclusion of the last chapter I’ve read of <i style="">The Name of the Rose</i>, and therefore a good place to end: </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold;">“True,” I said, amazed. Until then I had thought each book spoke of things, human or divine, that lie outside of books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold;">“But then, “ I said, “what is the use of hiding books, if from the books not hidden you can arrive at the concealed ones?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold;">“Over the centuries it is no use at all. In the space of years or days it has some use. You see, in fact, how bewildered we are.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold;">“And is a library, then, an instrument not for distributing truth but for delaying its appearance?” I asked, dumbfounded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold;">“Not always and not necessarily. In this case it is.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Indeed. My thoughts turn to my own personal library; imagining that the occupants of these bookshelves whisper and murmur, but do so against me. Here are all these newly-acquired books, purchased at Half-Price or at even greater discount from what the dust jacket or back cover suggests, covering subjects and ideas that I’m interested in. Others are long standing members, authors whose style and content fuel my own personal endeavors into the written word. All of these parchments stand side by side and look out at their owner. What do they observe? The results of which Nibley whispers to Borges who relays to Hawthorne who motions to Hesse who romanticizes to Thompson who contorts to Aristotle, and back again, criss-crossing between upper and lower shelf. Yes, these books murmur. And they do so, in part, against all of those library books that fill my school bag – <i style="">The Name of the Rose</i> included. Why spend the cash on books only to turn around and sign out others? Illogical. For this reason, I shall return all library materials and give attention to my own humble, mini-library. <i style="">
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Rose </i>is good stuff - It has perked my curiosity in, among other things, medieval heresy and into an overall survey of this history of Northern Italy. It was gratifying to recognize the times when Eco incorporate his theories of semiotics into the plot. But where my interest in these subjects are now just light-hearted whims of fancy, there are other topics, now more concrete, that occupy my mind. Style, rhetoric, semantics, logic, critical theory, self-discipline: These books know this, and they are eager for their owner to web together the knowledge therein – perhaps, even, make a graduate career out of whatever the process of such a webbing may entail. And also for this reason do they grumble. I must appease them.
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But, as attractive as books may seem, one mustn’t let them clutter his or her conscience. Consider, then, one of my favorite quotes; a personal law by Hermann Hesse, one whose message is far more critical in application than anything any book may suggest or whisper in advice to another.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books. I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; It has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams—like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves.”
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p>Doctor Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903148233716730503noreply@blogger.com0