I suddenly feel like the world's worst blogger again after reading this.
"The Good Stuff"
I feel better actually- all my overeager fears and latent pessimism are for not. That's an important lesson. For all of us.
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A Day At Berkeley
Monday, July 26, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
ADAB Revisited, Addendum: Postscript
I'm overly fond of the picture now headlining my blog. I loved the previous jumbo-sepia panoramas that also sat up top, watching over my blog and opening the gates for all that enter. I liked them because they were grand, like epic landscapes I tried to emulate in my writing. Experiences as vast as the landscape photographed.
At first when I put up this new picture, I thought it meant a discontinuation of that panoramic pattern, kind of like I was losing that scope and focusing in on the specific. A friend of mine once said, perhaps looking up from reading one of my poems, "Surprisingly, adding specifics helps a general audience connect with you more. I guess I just want to feel your frustration or disgust or whatever you want me to feel...more." I like that, I really do. I think specifics are the bread and butter of life. They are the commonalities we share, linking each of us together, link by link.
And I mean, come on: look at the individuality of this man: the outbursts of color (imagine them) on his overalls, the little patch that reads "hate free zone," the peace sign, the seemingly unimpressive cardboard sign that overflows with importance and emotion, the world experience etched into his face, hidden by his hat and his clothing (if you aren't looking closely you will certainly miss it). He embodies the specific and vanquishes the vagueness; he is the destroyer of the broad. He stands out. He won't be overlooked. You just feel inextricably linked to the man.
Then I took a second look at what was going on in this photograph. The depth of focus. The distinction between the older man and the students. Experience against a backdrop of youth. A sense of timelessness in the idea that he is battling for a solution to a problem that has always existed, spanning his youth and theirs. Man against a backdrop of nature. The need to set oneself apart; the need to fit in. Every known conflict is embodied in one image.
So that same sense of panorama is there. It is in every sepia pixel. The details stick out in this picture, though, as they never did in the epic landscapes of Berkeley and San Francisco bay.
Not that those places lacks the right details; my photos can't do those individual traits justice. But this one takes both into account, the specific details that draw your attention and the depth that keeps you thinking. It's a novel with a beautiful theme and a believable character. It's Dark Side of the Moon. It's the Mona Lisa. Except this guy has eyebrows.
Which I absolutely love.
At first when I put up this new picture, I thought it meant a discontinuation of that panoramic pattern, kind of like I was losing that scope and focusing in on the specific. A friend of mine once said, perhaps looking up from reading one of my poems, "Surprisingly, adding specifics helps a general audience connect with you more. I guess I just want to feel your frustration or disgust or whatever you want me to feel...more." I like that, I really do. I think specifics are the bread and butter of life. They are the commonalities we share, linking each of us together, link by link.
And I mean, come on: look at the individuality of this man: the outbursts of color (imagine them) on his overalls, the little patch that reads "hate free zone," the peace sign, the seemingly unimpressive cardboard sign that overflows with importance and emotion, the world experience etched into his face, hidden by his hat and his clothing (if you aren't looking closely you will certainly miss it). He embodies the specific and vanquishes the vagueness; he is the destroyer of the broad. He stands out. He won't be overlooked. You just feel inextricably linked to the man.
Then I took a second look at what was going on in this photograph. The depth of focus. The distinction between the older man and the students. Experience against a backdrop of youth. A sense of timelessness in the idea that he is battling for a solution to a problem that has always existed, spanning his youth and theirs. Man against a backdrop of nature. The need to set oneself apart; the need to fit in. Every known conflict is embodied in one image.
So that same sense of panorama is there. It is in every sepia pixel. The details stick out in this picture, though, as they never did in the epic landscapes of Berkeley and San Francisco bay.
Not that those places lacks the right details; my photos can't do those individual traits justice. But this one takes both into account, the specific details that draw your attention and the depth that keeps you thinking. It's a novel with a beautiful theme and a believable character. It's Dark Side of the Moon. It's the Mona Lisa. Except this guy has eyebrows.
Which I absolutely love.
Friday, July 16, 2010
ADAB Revisited, Addendum
Claire said to me the other day, when I asked her if I ought to change my blog's color scheme to spice it up, make it snazzy, make it inviting, she said to me, or rather texted to me, this:
"The design matters that much. Just write good shit."
And I am dubmstruck like one of those Japanese Beetles flying into a wall that's been there all along, they just weren't quite sure what they were looking at. Why haven't I thought that same thing before? It seems so obvious to me now, in retrospect, after banging my brain against it midflight.
The answer is, of course, that I have thought the same thing before - just not for myself or my work or, more specifically, this blog. Instead I focused the critical eye on other people's works, dissecting them, challenging them, wondering how they made simple sentences so poetic, or, often, why their words fell flat. But I usually fail to look inward and challenge what I do. I hide it behind clever fonts and dazzling portraits and color schemes.
But now that I have this new whitescape unfolding here, I have come to a crossroads: will my words stand alone, speak for themselves, become the "good shit" Claire so aptly called for? Or will I simply use the newfound simplicity to once again layer over my blog, turning it into a newer version of the same meandering wordage?
I choose good shit because in the end the colors are for a blind man, but the words are for the wise man. Not that a blind man can't be wise; that would be silly. I'm just saying. Words have always been more important to me personally than what holds them up. Now it is my job to make them dazzle against the vast whiteness.
"The design matters that much. Just write good shit."
And I am dubmstruck like one of those Japanese Beetles flying into a wall that's been there all along, they just weren't quite sure what they were looking at. Why haven't I thought that same thing before? It seems so obvious to me now, in retrospect, after banging my brain against it midflight.
The answer is, of course, that I have thought the same thing before - just not for myself or my work or, more specifically, this blog. Instead I focused the critical eye on other people's works, dissecting them, challenging them, wondering how they made simple sentences so poetic, or, often, why their words fell flat. But I usually fail to look inward and challenge what I do. I hide it behind clever fonts and dazzling portraits and color schemes.
But now that I have this new whitescape unfolding here, I have come to a crossroads: will my words stand alone, speak for themselves, become the "good shit" Claire so aptly called for? Or will I simply use the newfound simplicity to once again layer over my blog, turning it into a newer version of the same meandering wordage?
I choose good shit because in the end the colors are for a blind man, but the words are for the wise man. Not that a blind man can't be wise; that would be silly. I'm just saying. Words have always been more important to me personally than what holds them up. Now it is my job to make them dazzle against the vast whiteness.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
ADAB Revisited
Here is a new layout. It is nice. It is simple. I like simple things.
The new width is for Claire Perlman. Voila!
W
The new width is for Claire Perlman. Voila!
W
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
My Other Hero
Oh Melia, you've done it again.
Jeopardy! Champion. Rhetoric Professor. Humanitarian. Draconian. Role Model.
Daniel Melia never ceases to amaze. Whether it is with his adept powers of argument, his ability to speak for hours at a time without saying anything, or, as seen here, his Cyclops-like power to burn out the eyes of his foe, Professor Melia does it with style, grace, and chutzpah.
If you ever get the chance to take a class with this Man, Rhetoric, Celtic Studies, or TV Judges, remember this moment. He will make your eyes burn. It is highly likely that he will take you to a German bar. And he will not smile. The only thing funny is Melia. And yes, he will describe to you in detail how humour works.
Nein!
Were You Aware?
Were you aware that I was genetically crafted to be an educator? It's true!
That's what I tell everyone who responds to my admission that I am an English Major thus: "So what will you do with your English degree? Teach?" Most people don't realize the kind of tone that comes with that word. I shiver upon hearing it. For the non-English majors among you, I'm sure you sometimes get a similar response when you confess your intended concentration: " What will you do with your history degree? Teach?" Or perhaps: "What will you do with your business degree? Ruin the world with capitalism and greed?"
You know what I'm talking about. But if you don't, I'm sure you will be put in a similar box soon enough.
So when people spit out that word - Teach - it's like I suddenly find myself sinking in quicksand. Most assume that is the only viable option for my future. But that isn't just from being an Englisher; I really think there's a basis to what I say about being bred to teach, which comes with the territory of having a teacher as a parent. That would make it teacher by nurture, not by nature (Argue amongst yourselves on that one). No matter what the decider, my degree or my pedigree, it seems like a sure thing that I would pursue a career in teaching!
Well I'm not okay with that.
Not the part about being a teacher/educator; no, what really combs my mullet* is the idea that I was raised a certain way and chose a certain major and those small moments force the decision about what I will do for the rest of my life. It's like I boarded a train and can't transfer at any of the stations I ride through. That's stupid. Genetics and college degrees don't designate what you must do, but rather what you can do. They are arrows and guideposts, not one way streets. And lame automobile analogy aside (they gasp at my amazing alliteration), there are a so many other factors influencing what life path to take.
I am a firm believer that a BA in chemistry is a great degree for an interior designer AND a brewery chemist. That degree is saying more than "I'm adequate at chemistry"; I hear it screaming at the top of its lungs, "I'm a thinker and a problem-solver and a genuine workaholic" and whatever else you want it to say. It means you have been challenging yourself and preparing for intricacies and difficulties of "The Real World."
I have goals. I don't yet know how I am to accomplish them. My predisposition for communication and my choice of university program are adding to the vast array of knowledge and techniques I will use to achieve big in whatever I decide is worth doing, whether it's teaching, writing, speaking, cleaning, creating, undermining, or imagineering. I will not be decided by a diploma nor my genetic AAGTCGTGATG. Yeah I said it.
Next time someone says, "What will you do with your biology degree? Teach?" Go ahead and say yes. Then tell them you'll also use it kindling for your future wildfire of life experiences.
Then tell them not to wait for your smoke to clear - you'll be far out of sight by then.
*A term wit the same connotations of What really chaps my hide, et. al.
That's what I tell everyone who responds to my admission that I am an English Major thus: "So what will you do with your English degree? Teach?" Most people don't realize the kind of tone that comes with that word. I shiver upon hearing it. For the non-English majors among you, I'm sure you sometimes get a similar response when you confess your intended concentration: " What will you do with your history degree? Teach?" Or perhaps: "What will you do with your business degree? Ruin the world with capitalism and greed?"
You know what I'm talking about. But if you don't, I'm sure you will be put in a similar box soon enough.
So when people spit out that word - Teach - it's like I suddenly find myself sinking in quicksand. Most assume that is the only viable option for my future. But that isn't just from being an Englisher; I really think there's a basis to what I say about being bred to teach, which comes with the territory of having a teacher as a parent. That would make it teacher by nurture, not by nature (Argue amongst yourselves on that one). No matter what the decider, my degree or my pedigree, it seems like a sure thing that I would pursue a career in teaching!
Well I'm not okay with that.
Not the part about being a teacher/educator; no, what really combs my mullet* is the idea that I was raised a certain way and chose a certain major and those small moments force the decision about what I will do for the rest of my life. It's like I boarded a train and can't transfer at any of the stations I ride through. That's stupid. Genetics and college degrees don't designate what you must do, but rather what you can do. They are arrows and guideposts, not one way streets. And lame automobile analogy aside (they gasp at my amazing alliteration), there are a so many other factors influencing what life path to take.
I am a firm believer that a BA in chemistry is a great degree for an interior designer AND a brewery chemist. That degree is saying more than "I'm adequate at chemistry"; I hear it screaming at the top of its lungs, "I'm a thinker and a problem-solver and a genuine workaholic" and whatever else you want it to say. It means you have been challenging yourself and preparing for intricacies and difficulties of "The Real World."
I have goals. I don't yet know how I am to accomplish them. My predisposition for communication and my choice of university program are adding to the vast array of knowledge and techniques I will use to achieve big in whatever I decide is worth doing, whether it's teaching, writing, speaking, cleaning, creating, undermining, or imagineering. I will not be decided by a diploma nor my genetic AAGTCGTGATG. Yeah I said it.
Next time someone says, "What will you do with your biology degree? Teach?" Go ahead and say yes. Then tell them you'll also use it kindling for your future wildfire of life experiences.
Then tell them not to wait for your smoke to clear - you'll be far out of sight by then.
*A term wit the same connotations of What really chaps my hide, et. al.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Graduation Tomorrow
Yes, friends, it has been one year since I left the confines of high school for the open pastures of college. And to celebrate, I will go to what is the second, and highly likely the last, of my Alma Mater's commencement ceremonies.
Thank God. I really hate my high school's graduation ceremony. What a suckfest. But the lack of awesome that accompanies these un-festivities will serve to remind me of the crap I went through for four years. Now I am living the good life. It's time to be thankful for that.
I may post pictures! Whoopee!
Thank God. I really hate my high school's graduation ceremony. What a suckfest. But the lack of awesome that accompanies these un-festivities will serve to remind me of the crap I went through for four years. Now I am living the good life. It's time to be thankful for that.
I may post pictures! Whoopee!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
My Creativity!
I really hate it when an local event is publicized in the newspaper like this:
"Comic Book Making Workshop! COMICS!!! Sunday afternoon at Museum of Latin American Art, join us for a rolicking festival of INK! DRAWINGS! CAPTIONS! VOICE BUBBLES (BUBBLES PEOPLE!)!!! make your own comic book for FREE comic book comic book comic book SUNDAY!!! Free Event at MoLAA. Be there or you SUCK!!" - LB Press Telegram, Weekend Section
And I'm like, "that sounds cool - there is no way that this could possibly be disappointing." But I think that is because imagined my own workshop and then mistakenly assumed it was the real one, the one I would attend in the real world. I really wanted to attend my fantasy workshop (to be taken in the least dirty way possible) and I applied these criteria to the free workshop:
1. Some sort of idea of what comic books are would be presented, i.e., narrative techniques, history, voice, shading, ink, etc. (I wished wholeheratedly)
2.There would be examples of comic books (I imagined lazily)
3. Someone there would know something about comic books (I dreamt with gusto)
4. Leaders would be able to provide assistance on making a comic book (I hoped desperately)
But no way, that is absolutely crazy. All of these radical assumptions were met by a whiteboard that said "dialog" (still not sure that is English, but wikipedia says it is. Wiki-dumb) and had a rough sketch of nested squares that I supposed was a mock up of a comic book page. And a few volunteers who were... volunteers. I was displeased from the moment I walked in. My dream world collapsed and a harsh reality presented itself.
And, yeah, I had an awesome time with my friends, playing with nib pens and stamps and laughing at the silly shindig. We didn't bring a big production comic book into life, but hey, we wouldn't have done that unless we were in a week-long $800 workshop at the local Marriott. And you can bet the end result probably would have been just as crappy, but with the added bonus of unending shame knowing that our expectations weren't met and that we were talent-less hacks. At least after the free one I could hold my head up and look forward to doing more. I left with dignity intact.
Go to a free workshop somewhere or a free concert or dance-off or something. Instead of expecting the best artwork or the best music or the best dancer (I'm looking at you, Robot-Man on Fisherman's Wharf), just bask in the glory of people who want to do what they love, people who have to start from the bottom, people who may don't want the best and are satisfied with what they got. Isn't that where we all are anyway?
No, not you Robot-Dancer, you are at the top of your game. Don't you dare hide that talent.
"Comic Book Making Workshop! COMICS!!! Sunday afternoon at Museum of Latin American Art, join us for a rolicking festival of INK! DRAWINGS! CAPTIONS! VOICE BUBBLES (BUBBLES PEOPLE!)!!! make your own comic book for FREE comic book comic book comic book SUNDAY!!! Free Event at MoLAA. Be there or you SUCK!!" - LB Press Telegram, Weekend Section
And I'm like, "that sounds cool - there is no way that this could possibly be disappointing." But I think that is because imagined my own workshop and then mistakenly assumed it was the real one, the one I would attend in the real world. I really wanted to attend my fantasy workshop (to be taken in the least dirty way possible) and I applied these criteria to the free workshop:
1. Some sort of idea of what comic books are would be presented, i.e., narrative techniques, history, voice, shading, ink, etc. (I wished wholeheratedly)
2.There would be examples of comic books (I imagined lazily)
3. Someone there would know something about comic books (I dreamt with gusto)
4. Leaders would be able to provide assistance on making a comic book (I hoped desperately)
But no way, that is absolutely crazy. All of these radical assumptions were met by a whiteboard that said "dialog" (still not sure that is English, but wikipedia says it is. Wiki-dumb) and had a rough sketch of nested squares that I supposed was a mock up of a comic book page. And a few volunteers who were... volunteers. I was displeased from the moment I walked in. My dream world collapsed and a harsh reality presented itself.
And, yeah, I had an awesome time with my friends, playing with nib pens and stamps and laughing at the silly shindig. We didn't bring a big production comic book into life, but hey, we wouldn't have done that unless we were in a week-long $800 workshop at the local Marriott. And you can bet the end result probably would have been just as crappy, but with the added bonus of unending shame knowing that our expectations weren't met and that we were talent-less hacks. At least after the free one I could hold my head up and look forward to doing more. I left with dignity intact.
Go to a free workshop somewhere or a free concert or dance-off or something. Instead of expecting the best artwork or the best music or the best dancer (I'm looking at you, Robot-Man on Fisherman's Wharf), just bask in the glory of people who want to do what they love, people who have to start from the bottom, people who may don't want the best and are satisfied with what they got. Isn't that where we all are anyway?
No, not you Robot-Dancer, you are at the top of your game. Don't you dare hide that talent.
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