I *hope* you all had a great Thanksgiving! I *dream* that next year you'll be able to fly and explode things with your mind. A girl can dream, right? Speaking of which, what does dream even mean? How does it differ from hope? Well, I'm glad you asked!
Dream--an involuntary vision occurring to a person when awake. (As a verb) To see or imagine in a vision. Also, a vision voluntary indulged in while awake. Key word here being awake.
Hope--(as the verb) to look forward to with desire and reasonable confidence; to place trust, rely; to feel that something desired may happen. (As a noun) The feeling that what is wanted can be had.
I didn't just make this up either; I found this in the dictionary. "So why, Paityn," you're asking yourself, "are you telling us the denotative meanings of dream and hope? Don't you know what break is? How about you look that up?" And then you begin laughing to yourself at that wonderful joke you just made because you're so clever.
Well, I told you this so I can explain why I love Gatsby so much. It takes a lot of courage to hope for something and hardly any at all to dream. I'm scared to tell people of my hopes because what if they don't happen? What if I can't reach them? It's terrifying, but we all know how to "dream big." Anyone can want something they'll never have, but not everyone is brave enough to live their entire life in the *hope* that something will happen. One of my biggest hopes is that I won't get stuck here. In America. There are a thousand places to go and see, and I will not allow myself to be anchored. I believe with a reasonable confidence this will happen. I can't think it won't. I just can't. One of my biggest dreams is to go to space. I understand that it will probably never happen, but I still want to. If I was on a space engineering team, maybe I would hope to go to space, but until then, it's just a dream. You see the difference?
Gatsby hoped so much. He hoped in an unabashed, innocent way. The way a child hopes for Christmas; the way an army brat hopes their parent will come home; the way a lost child hopes they'll be found. It's an all consuming hope, so much that you can't imagine it won't happen. There is no way. You have to be extremely brave to hope and work and strive for something so out of your control. You have to be insane to base your life on something that you can only hope for. Gatsby may have done a lot of shady things, he may have had a good deal of secrets, but he was brave, in it, he hoped for more. I understand why a lot of people may not like Gatsby, but he was my favorite character. He was hope itself in every definition of it. What's your biggest hope? You don't have to tell me, just think about it. Don't think about how absurd or scary or unlikely it may seem, just what is it? Now, think about you never being able to do it; you never being able to succeed. Scary, right? You have to be brave to embrace it anyway and go for it. I'm not asking you to become a bootlegger to make all your dreams come true, but imagine how Gatsby felt, faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles and all he could do was hope for the best. So he did. And maybe that's the most important part.
Okay, just so no one says, "Well look where that got him. Did you even finish the book?"
I understand that "...he must have felt that he had lost the warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream" (pg 161). Also notice how he said "dream." I'm not going to analyze when Daisy switched from a hope to a dream, but it's not that he died, or how he died or why he died or anything. It's that he hoped so much with so little of a chance for return, but he did so anyway. And that's one of the bravest things I can imagine.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
The Team
Man is inhumane towards man. Okay, I can go with that. The Savannah is vanishing; sanctuary is receding. Okay, I guess that's true too. Man kills and hurts innocent people that are unfortunate enough to be less than them, sort of like a skewed survival of the fittest if half the world was never given a chance to survie. Yes, that too, is sadly true. There is no hope and no where to turn; we will only survive is someone is willing to sacrifice themself. Well...
If any of y'all hadn't noticed, I'm on a swim team. Team being the key word. When I have a rough day, I have my team to fall back on. If I have a rough swim, my team has "got me." And same goes for them. My team and I, well, we're a team. (I don't care how awful that pun was.) Being on a team is a sanctuary within a sanctuary. It's a beautiful mob mentality of acceptance. It's a beautiful sense of conformity; even though we are all different, we are the same as a team.
When I'm having a bad meet, I don't race for myself, I race for my team. If I can't do well for me, I can do well for them. When I count (laps) for my friends, I get just as caught up in the race as them. There's that wonderful sense of comradery which has no equal. You see them coming into the wall, racing, breathing hard, pulling...pushing...fighting for air and position and then they're at the flags. And then you're shaking the counter up...down...side to side. You hold your breath and wait. They wait to hold their breath. You're pushing for them to win and they're pushing for them to win and everyone is cheering; your heart races and you can't breathe and they are just so close. Keep going! You scream. GO GO GO GO GO, even though they are going. They are going so fast and in this moment they--you--have to decide, "Do I want to win?" "Am I willing to push myself to win; am I willing to experience this pain?" And they--you--have to. There isn't a choice to try when you're on a team. And when they touch the wall, regardless of how they do, it's...everything. Voila! It's done and over. From the practice to the block, from the workouts and the training to the pool and the race, from everyone one and everything to one single, defining race; it's done.
That's how I felt counting for, and swimming, my 500 free. How I did isn't important (but I did do pretty awesome), what's important is why I did it. For my team and they did what they did for the team. Man may be pretty inhumane towards man, our sanctuary from harm may be receding. This struggle is real, but it's nice to lose yourself in the team. In the team, we don't have to be exposed to that inhumanity. As for sacrifice, I sacrifice and they sacrifice for the team. If this is sounding a little 1984, so be it. In the team (I promise I'll stop saying team), I am protected from it all and I protect them and we protect each other. It's exhilarating to be with each other and part of each other and in this way we escape that inhumanity.
If any of y'all hadn't noticed, I'm on a swim team. Team being the key word. When I have a rough day, I have my team to fall back on. If I have a rough swim, my team has "got me." And same goes for them. My team and I, well, we're a team. (I don't care how awful that pun was.) Being on a team is a sanctuary within a sanctuary. It's a beautiful mob mentality of acceptance. It's a beautiful sense of conformity; even though we are all different, we are the same as a team.
When I'm having a bad meet, I don't race for myself, I race for my team. If I can't do well for me, I can do well for them. When I count (laps) for my friends, I get just as caught up in the race as them. There's that wonderful sense of comradery which has no equal. You see them coming into the wall, racing, breathing hard, pulling...pushing...fighting for air and position and then they're at the flags. And then you're shaking the counter up...down...side to side. You hold your breath and wait. They wait to hold their breath. You're pushing for them to win and they're pushing for them to win and everyone is cheering; your heart races and you can't breathe and they are just so close. Keep going! You scream. GO GO GO GO GO, even though they are going. They are going so fast and in this moment they--you--have to decide, "Do I want to win?" "Am I willing to push myself to win; am I willing to experience this pain?" And they--you--have to. There isn't a choice to try when you're on a team. And when they touch the wall, regardless of how they do, it's...everything. Voila! It's done and over. From the practice to the block, from the workouts and the training to the pool and the race, from everyone one and everything to one single, defining race; it's done.
That's how I felt counting for, and swimming, my 500 free. How I did isn't important (but I did do pretty awesome), what's important is why I did it. For my team and they did what they did for the team. Man may be pretty inhumane towards man, our sanctuary from harm may be receding. This struggle is real, but it's nice to lose yourself in the team. In the team, we don't have to be exposed to that inhumanity. As for sacrifice, I sacrifice and they sacrifice for the team. If this is sounding a little 1984, so be it. In the team (I promise I'll stop saying team), I am protected from it all and I protect them and we protect each other. It's exhilarating to be with each other and part of each other and in this way we escape that inhumanity.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
FISH and NOT A FISH: Which Category are You?
There two categories for everything. My brother and I sat down one day to hammer this out. The first category is FISH. The second category is NOT A FISH. I know for a fact which category everything fits into (I'll wait while you race to the comments to point out something so confusing that I wouldn't know which category it belongs to....okay...all right....I assume you're done). Now obviously, there are subcategories. Lion and berry both fall under NOT A FISH, but they're not the same thing. Just like there are two categories for everything, they're are usually two types of people for everything.
"Introducing in corner one: THE MORBIDLY CURIOUS!!!!" (One exclamation mark just didn't cut it.)
"Introducing in corner two: THE NOT MORBIDLY CURIOUS!!!!!"
The morbidly curious are the people that think about death; the people that personify death; the people that don't let it be a passing thought, but ruminate about death. When death comes up, they think about their death, other people's deaths, what it means, how will it feel, where do I go, what does any of this mean then. They're not necessarily depressed or fangirls for death, but they can't help but think about it. Also, it's not just a passing thought. I'd say to fall under this category, you would have to think about death about 6 or 7 times a day for 3-5 minutes at a time. Or maybe for 35 minutes one time. Just more than a passing thought.
The not morbidly curious category is for everyone else; it's a much less exclusive group. It's the Members Only jacket of groups. These are the people that, when the topic of death comes up, think about it for a second, and then move on. They may push the thought away, but they don't genuinely think about it. They acknowledge it, then it's gone. Death is just a part of life. Why think about something so...definite? It's not like the 200 fly where you can scratch once you realize how painful it is. Some not morbidly curious people think it's stupid to think about something so out of our control.
So, before I connect this to literature, which category do you fit in? No, do not say somewhere in between. Either you think about it or you push it away and move on. Don't take my time parameters too seriously. Go ahead, you can tell me. I won't judge.
If you hadn't figured out where I was going with this, you're in the same boat as me, because I just did. Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman represent both boxers in the ring. Dickinson is in corner one. Whitman: in two (Where would you put them?). Maybe it's because I haven't read much of Whitman, but just from the homework, I saw that when he thought of death, he said it doesn't really exist and moved on. Dickinson had an entire poem about her carriage ride with Death. But just because I put Whitman in the not morbidly curious category, doesn't mean he isn't. Maybe I'll see him change over. And just because you're in the morbidly curious, doesn't mean you don't think about life. They're not mutually exclusive. In fact, there are two categories for people and life...but that's a blog for a different time.
"Introducing in corner one: THE MORBIDLY CURIOUS!!!!" (One exclamation mark just didn't cut it.)
"Introducing in corner two: THE NOT MORBIDLY CURIOUS!!!!!"
The morbidly curious are the people that think about death; the people that personify death; the people that don't let it be a passing thought, but ruminate about death. When death comes up, they think about their death, other people's deaths, what it means, how will it feel, where do I go, what does any of this mean then. They're not necessarily depressed or fangirls for death, but they can't help but think about it. Also, it's not just a passing thought. I'd say to fall under this category, you would have to think about death about 6 or 7 times a day for 3-5 minutes at a time. Or maybe for 35 minutes one time. Just more than a passing thought.
The not morbidly curious category is for everyone else; it's a much less exclusive group. It's the Members Only jacket of groups. These are the people that, when the topic of death comes up, think about it for a second, and then move on. They may push the thought away, but they don't genuinely think about it. They acknowledge it, then it's gone. Death is just a part of life. Why think about something so...definite? It's not like the 200 fly where you can scratch once you realize how painful it is. Some not morbidly curious people think it's stupid to think about something so out of our control.
So, before I connect this to literature, which category do you fit in? No, do not say somewhere in between. Either you think about it or you push it away and move on. Don't take my time parameters too seriously. Go ahead, you can tell me. I won't judge.
If you hadn't figured out where I was going with this, you're in the same boat as me, because I just did. Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman represent both boxers in the ring. Dickinson is in corner one. Whitman: in two (Where would you put them?). Maybe it's because I haven't read much of Whitman, but just from the homework, I saw that when he thought of death, he said it doesn't really exist and moved on. Dickinson had an entire poem about her carriage ride with Death. But just because I put Whitman in the not morbidly curious category, doesn't mean he isn't. Maybe I'll see him change over. And just because you're in the morbidly curious, doesn't mean you don't think about life. They're not mutually exclusive. In fact, there are two categories for people and life...but that's a blog for a different time.
Friday, November 8, 2013
"They're A Bunch of Weirdos"
True or false: There are a thousand other people just like you.
Well, maybe not exactly just like you, but they share similar interests, dislikes, personality quirks, tendencies, etc.
So, true or false: There are a hundred people just like you. No, you're saying, I'm original; I'm unique. There's just me, no one else like me, one in a million, a beautiful snowflake, and so on.
Last time. True or false: There are ten people just like you. If you're still saying false, for whatever reason, you may want to reconsider. I believe that there are at least 10 people more or less just like me. I may not be able to tell who exactly, but I could name a few off the top of my head.
"So why, Paityn" (No, Google, my name is not spelled wrong), "are you telling us this? You must want us to not feel special." Not in the least, you beautiful, special snowflakes. Let's do this first:
You wake up one morning, and everyone that is more or less like you now has a glowing dot above their head. And now they know you're more or less like them. Now, all of a sudden, you can relate with them, right? You'll be best friends forever! Maybe. Perhaps some of them also share your love of pretending to be a slug at 3am, but maybe the others are like you for a more sinister reason. What if you could tell- would you still want to be with them, or would they want to be with you? You're the same, after all.
What I'm trying to say is that Hester was surrounded by people more or less the same as her. They all knew what she had done, but for some, and only some, she could tell what they had done. She wasn't alone--lonely, yes, but not alone. So, and I am legitimately asking, why didn't they approach Hester? My guess is because then the others would know what they'd all done, respectively.
So, this leads me to wonder: if everyone could relate to some sin that at least one other person had done, wouldn't that mean they all knew they were all sinners? And if they all knew, why were they all so judgmental? Besides the obvious, "everyone loves a scapegoat," I'm seriously asking. Let me know what you think.
To answer your question, I'm telling you this, my opinion, because next time you do something awful or wonderful or kick yourself for telling the waitress "you too" when she tells you to enjoy your meal, or you mirror the person's trying to pass you movements or you false start or get a best time or eat all of the food or barely touch dinner because it's just one of those days, but you're "fine," I think you should remember to take a deep breath, and look around at everyone near you and realize they're not so different after all.
Well, maybe not exactly just like you, but they share similar interests, dislikes, personality quirks, tendencies, etc.
So, true or false: There are a hundred people just like you. No, you're saying, I'm original; I'm unique. There's just me, no one else like me, one in a million, a beautiful snowflake, and so on.
Last time. True or false: There are ten people just like you. If you're still saying false, for whatever reason, you may want to reconsider. I believe that there are at least 10 people more or less just like me. I may not be able to tell who exactly, but I could name a few off the top of my head.
"So why, Paityn" (No, Google, my name is not spelled wrong), "are you telling us this? You must want us to not feel special." Not in the least, you beautiful, special snowflakes. Let's do this first:
You wake up one morning, and everyone that is more or less like you now has a glowing dot above their head. And now they know you're more or less like them. Now, all of a sudden, you can relate with them, right? You'll be best friends forever! Maybe. Perhaps some of them also share your love of pretending to be a slug at 3am, but maybe the others are like you for a more sinister reason. What if you could tell- would you still want to be with them, or would they want to be with you? You're the same, after all.
What I'm trying to say is that Hester was surrounded by people more or less the same as her. They all knew what she had done, but for some, and only some, she could tell what they had done. She wasn't alone--lonely, yes, but not alone. So, and I am legitimately asking, why didn't they approach Hester? My guess is because then the others would know what they'd all done, respectively.
So, this leads me to wonder: if everyone could relate to some sin that at least one other person had done, wouldn't that mean they all knew they were all sinners? And if they all knew, why were they all so judgmental? Besides the obvious, "everyone loves a scapegoat," I'm seriously asking. Let me know what you think.
To answer your question, I'm telling you this, my opinion, because next time you do something awful or wonderful or kick yourself for telling the waitress "you too" when she tells you to enjoy your meal, or you mirror the person's trying to pass you movements or you false start or get a best time or eat all of the food or barely touch dinner because it's just one of those days, but you're "fine," I think you should remember to take a deep breath, and look around at everyone near you and realize they're not so different after all.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
"But I Didn't Do Anything Wrong!"
"Are you sorry for what you did or are you sorry you got caught?" My teacher/father/mother/coach/whoever stares at me and waits.
I'm sorry I got caught, obviously. Instead, I say, "I'm sorry for what I did." My teacher/father/etc continues to look at me, studying my face; he tries to discern if I'm telling the truth or not. He wants me to feel that I am sorry, the sorriness that I claim I feel. He is appeased with my omission...for now. With one last stern look, he walks away, leaving me with my shame of the crime I committed. Wait, not for what I did, but for getting caught. When I arrive home, my mother has obviously by now heard the news of her disobedient child, she reiterates the same question: what am I sorry for? Despite my height on her, I can feel her looking down on me. My brother, however he found out, joins in the shaming. I retreat to my room to escape their damning gazes. Around 7, I tentatively venture out, eyes peering around the corning, hoping to be alerted their presence before they take notice of mine. It doesn't work. They see me and immediately stop what they are doing. They do not stare, but the silence in the room is deafening; their stolen glances are painful. I am not sorry for what I did, I do not see how it is wrong, but nonetheless, I wither under their judging eyes. I cannot retreat to my room, not yet, I have too much pride, and life must still go on, yet each passing second urges me to get what I've come for and leave just as quickly. I grab a small plate of dinner with the hopes my appetite will soon return. As I leave, eyes averted, my father walks down the hallway. I pause at the beginning of it and wait for him to pass, the hallway being too narrow for the both of us. He does not say excuse me or offer any apology, the look he tosses at me proves that I am not worthy of that respect. Whilst feeling the betrayal and rejection of my humanity, I cast a longing gaze toward the rest of the family. They do not meet my eyes. With no words spoken, but everything being said, I rush to my room and close the door to suffer in silence. If I hadn't gotten caught..., I think, what did I do to warrant this?
Woah, that escalated quickly. This was my best take on how Hester feels, please let me know if I missed anything. Now, I understand in The Scarlet Letter, we know that Hester committed adultery, but I chose to leave out my crime so that my didactic story contained as few fallacies as possible (What up vocab. reference?) I also understand that to fully convey the emotions she felt, the story would need a lot more development. If any of you thought this actually happened, no worries, it didn't; my family is not that cold, and I love food wayyyy too much to lose my appetite and only take a small plate. I just wanted to try out a different introduction.
To get to the main point, I was thinking about how Hester and Dimmesdale are different. However, we're not going to talk about Dimmesdale for the sake of space. Any ways, Hester has her sin out in the open. She's suffering, each time someone looks at her, it hurts. I'm under the impression that she understands adultery is wrong (just like I, in my little story understood that what I did was wrong), but she feel she has done nothing to warrant this pain and suffering it--people--bring(s) her. So I asked myself (what is that beautiful house, Talking Heads anyone?) is she sorry she did it or is she sorry she got caught? I don't think she suffering only because she was caught, but I feel that if this love affair were to go on uninterrupted, she would not be phased, because like I said, I don't think she thinks what she's doing should be punished. She knows adultery is wrong, but I don't believe she feels that what she is doing is wrong. I don't think she can or wants to or is trying to make that connect. This all seems quite confusing, but Dimmesdale has not been found out, and differing from Hester, he feels immense pain. Maybe it's because she's in pain, maybe it's because he knows it's wrong. Regardless, I personally believe that Hester is completely unapologetic for what she did and cannot understand why the Puritans are being so unforgiving for something she feels is not wrong. Maybe my example will provide a better exposition that my explanation can give.
I'm sorry I got caught, obviously. Instead, I say, "I'm sorry for what I did." My teacher/father/etc continues to look at me, studying my face; he tries to discern if I'm telling the truth or not. He wants me to feel that I am sorry, the sorriness that I claim I feel. He is appeased with my omission...for now. With one last stern look, he walks away, leaving me with my shame of the crime I committed. Wait, not for what I did, but for getting caught. When I arrive home, my mother has obviously by now heard the news of her disobedient child, she reiterates the same question: what am I sorry for? Despite my height on her, I can feel her looking down on me. My brother, however he found out, joins in the shaming. I retreat to my room to escape their damning gazes. Around 7, I tentatively venture out, eyes peering around the corning, hoping to be alerted their presence before they take notice of mine. It doesn't work. They see me and immediately stop what they are doing. They do not stare, but the silence in the room is deafening; their stolen glances are painful. I am not sorry for what I did, I do not see how it is wrong, but nonetheless, I wither under their judging eyes. I cannot retreat to my room, not yet, I have too much pride, and life must still go on, yet each passing second urges me to get what I've come for and leave just as quickly. I grab a small plate of dinner with the hopes my appetite will soon return. As I leave, eyes averted, my father walks down the hallway. I pause at the beginning of it and wait for him to pass, the hallway being too narrow for the both of us. He does not say excuse me or offer any apology, the look he tosses at me proves that I am not worthy of that respect. Whilst feeling the betrayal and rejection of my humanity, I cast a longing gaze toward the rest of the family. They do not meet my eyes. With no words spoken, but everything being said, I rush to my room and close the door to suffer in silence. If I hadn't gotten caught..., I think, what did I do to warrant this?
Woah, that escalated quickly. This was my best take on how Hester feels, please let me know if I missed anything. Now, I understand in The Scarlet Letter, we know that Hester committed adultery, but I chose to leave out my crime so that my didactic story contained as few fallacies as possible (What up vocab. reference?) I also understand that to fully convey the emotions she felt, the story would need a lot more development. If any of you thought this actually happened, no worries, it didn't; my family is not that cold, and I love food wayyyy too much to lose my appetite and only take a small plate. I just wanted to try out a different introduction.
To get to the main point, I was thinking about how Hester and Dimmesdale are different. However, we're not going to talk about Dimmesdale for the sake of space. Any ways, Hester has her sin out in the open. She's suffering, each time someone looks at her, it hurts. I'm under the impression that she understands adultery is wrong (just like I, in my little story understood that what I did was wrong), but she feel she has done nothing to warrant this pain and suffering it--people--bring(s) her. So I asked myself (what is that beautiful house, Talking Heads anyone?) is she sorry she did it or is she sorry she got caught? I don't think she suffering only because she was caught, but I feel that if this love affair were to go on uninterrupted, she would not be phased, because like I said, I don't think she thinks what she's doing should be punished. She knows adultery is wrong, but I don't believe she feels that what she is doing is wrong. I don't think she can or wants to or is trying to make that connect. This all seems quite confusing, but Dimmesdale has not been found out, and differing from Hester, he feels immense pain. Maybe it's because she's in pain, maybe it's because he knows it's wrong. Regardless, I personally believe that Hester is completely unapologetic for what she did and cannot understand why the Puritans are being so unforgiving for something she feels is not wrong. Maybe my example will provide a better exposition that my explanation can give.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
This is Swimming
Yes, my title is cheesy. No, I couldn't pass that opportunity up. Other titles included: This is (what you get at) 1:40 am, This is Tired Personified, This is I Really Should Just Wait Another Day and Do This When I'm Alert and Coherent, and last, but not least, This is Life.
David Foster Wallace's commencement address was amazing; it captured the hectic, day-to-day, stream of consciousness, default setting focusing selfish views of our current lifestyles--our society. The main point of the whole speech (that I got out of it) is that we go through our lives, day in and day out, focused on ourselves, so much that we become complacent to life. We literally become so involved in our own life (I am aware that should be plural, but for the sake of parallelism), that we literally become complacent to life. Just like the fish didn't know they were in water, because that's all they knew, we forget we're living, because that's all we've done. That's really what I've been obsessed with all week; thinking about how we could forget about something so there. In fact, I wondered how I could apply this to swimming, so here we go:
Here's a story. It 4:30 am and a swimmer is on her way to practice, texting her other swim friends to make sure everyone else is up. Once she finally gets there, she heads into the locker room and exchanges her usual complaints about swimming and kicking and what will the set be today, oh I don't know, we did major stroke yesterday, cool, I hope it's not IM, until someone notices the clock and silently curses and reluctantly heads out to the pool room; she doesn't want to be last, so she hustles to change and grabs her gear and follows and stands by the deck and waits for instruction. The coach moseys on over, oddly awake for 5:00--she notes silently, and begins to explain the warm up. It's pretty basic so she zones out. Fast forward a painful hour and a half later: She's sitting in her first hour class, hating her coach and practice and swimming and oh my god this is so unfair, so she starts complaining to her desk mate and inevitably, she says, "So why don't you just quit if you hate it so much?" "Well...because..." She really doesn't know how to respond.
Well, because, This is Swimming. If you suffered through that stream of conscious, you can stick it out 'til the conclusion. The swimmer in this example (*cough* me *cough*) has become so complacent to swimming, that she's forgotten what it is. All of that pain and exhaustion comes with the territory. Anger and frustration come with life. You can change your outlook, as Wallace was saying, you can put yourself somewhere else other than first and most important. You can not be on your default setting in life like a swimmer is with swimming. It's difficult, as he also said, but a swimmer that's excited for a tough day will invariably be better than the swimmer that could barely get out of bed. As Wallace, I'm not here to tell you I've got it all figured out. I'm the swimmer that can barely get of bed, but I can tell you not to make this reality the hardest one to see. Don't forget that you are living, in life. Yes, we are constantly exposed to it, and it can be difficult to remember, but we have to not become complacent, because This is Life.
To completely emulate Wallace, I need at least one cliché:
David Foster Wallace's commencement address was amazing; it captured the hectic, day-to-day, stream of consciousness, default setting focusing selfish views of our current lifestyles--our society. The main point of the whole speech (that I got out of it) is that we go through our lives, day in and day out, focused on ourselves, so much that we become complacent to life. We literally become so involved in our own life (I am aware that should be plural, but for the sake of parallelism), that we literally become complacent to life. Just like the fish didn't know they were in water, because that's all they knew, we forget we're living, because that's all we've done. That's really what I've been obsessed with all week; thinking about how we could forget about something so there. In fact, I wondered how I could apply this to swimming, so here we go:
Here's a story. It 4:30 am and a swimmer is on her way to practice, texting her other swim friends to make sure everyone else is up. Once she finally gets there, she heads into the locker room and exchanges her usual complaints about swimming and kicking and what will the set be today, oh I don't know, we did major stroke yesterday, cool, I hope it's not IM, until someone notices the clock and silently curses and reluctantly heads out to the pool room; she doesn't want to be last, so she hustles to change and grabs her gear and follows and stands by the deck and waits for instruction. The coach moseys on over, oddly awake for 5:00--she notes silently, and begins to explain the warm up. It's pretty basic so she zones out. Fast forward a painful hour and a half later: She's sitting in her first hour class, hating her coach and practice and swimming and oh my god this is so unfair, so she starts complaining to her desk mate and inevitably, she says, "So why don't you just quit if you hate it so much?" "Well...because..." She really doesn't know how to respond.
Well, because, This is Swimming. If you suffered through that stream of conscious, you can stick it out 'til the conclusion. The swimmer in this example (*cough* me *cough*) has become so complacent to swimming, that she's forgotten what it is. All of that pain and exhaustion comes with the territory. Anger and frustration come with life. You can change your outlook, as Wallace was saying, you can put yourself somewhere else other than first and most important. You can not be on your default setting in life like a swimmer is with swimming. It's difficult, as he also said, but a swimmer that's excited for a tough day will invariably be better than the swimmer that could barely get out of bed. As Wallace, I'm not here to tell you I've got it all figured out. I'm the swimmer that can barely get of bed, but I can tell you not to make this reality the hardest one to see. Don't forget that you are living, in life. Yes, we are constantly exposed to it, and it can be difficult to remember, but we have to not become complacent, because This is Life.
To completely emulate Wallace, I need at least one cliché:
Saturday, October 19, 2013
The True* Kind of Freedom
We talked about a lot over the week, but most of it revolved around freedom. So, today, boys/men and girls/women, let's talk about the true* kind of freedom.
Now, I understand that there are many kinds of freedom or at least, interpretations of it; however, this is just about the true* kind. Have I said that enough times yet?
In World War Z by Max Brooks (definitely check it out), under The Great Panic section, during the interview Maria Zhuganova in the Holy Russian Empire, at the end of her interview (prepositions make the world go 'round), she says, "We relinquished our freedom that day, and we were more than happy to see it go. From that moment on we lived in true freedom, the freedom to point to someone else and say 'They told me to do it! It's their fault, not mine.' The freedom, God help us, to say 'I was only following orders'" (Brooks 83).
I read that over a couple of times, then I compared that with 1984 by George Orwell's freedom: Freedom is Slavery.
THEN, I compared that with Declaration of Independence's freedom: to be free from the tyrannical reign of G.B.; to be their own nation; to be free from slavery.
Then I stopped comparing. In World War Z's case, being free is being able to do what you're told without fear of consequence because you were just following orders; to be able to redirect the blame to whoever told you. They gave the order, after all. If so, what freedom did they relinquish? Their freedom to be in control of themselves. You can't say "wasn't me" when it's convenient. You're either always responsible for your actions, or never. There's no flip flopping on this one. Because I don't want this to distinction to be missed: They didn't do it, they did what they were told, which just so happened to be it. They no longer have to think about what they're doing, only do what they're told. By releasing their control, they received the freedom to act without fear of consequence; without guilt.
Okay, so when someone relinquishes control of their actions, and is instead, subservient to another, they're...what's that called again? Please, don't be so politically correct. They're pretty much voluntary slaves. And slaves are generally in what again? Slavery, right. So their freedom lies within their slavery. We can simplify this: Freedom is Slavery. Well gosh darn it, Orwell was right; at least, Brooks also came to that conclusion. As we all (hopefully know), by the end of the novel, Winston has given himself to Big Brother. He's relinquished his fighting spirit, and simply accepted everything they've told him. He allows himself to become a slave, and in this thoughtless way, he has become free from Thought Crime. How can he commit it, if he doesn't have to think--just do?
"Wait Paityn," you're saying to yourself, "but the Declaration of Independence was all about escaping their slavery and becoming a new, free nation, oh silly, you've entirely missed the point." Or maybe you're just skimming this because this is borderline rant now, either way, I'm getting there. I'm talking about true freedom, here, not good freedom. If America had just stayed subservient to G.B., they would have eventually learned through forced submission to just do whatever they were told. They would have become free in its truest sense. The Dec. of Ind. might have served to a higher, better freedom, which eventually led to a (usually) wonderful nation, but it didn't serve the truest freedom: the freedom of slavery.
Now, I understand that there are many kinds of freedom or at least, interpretations of it; however, this is just about the true* kind. Have I said that enough times yet?
In World War Z by Max Brooks (definitely check it out), under The Great Panic section, during the interview Maria Zhuganova in the Holy Russian Empire, at the end of her interview (prepositions make the world go 'round), she says, "We relinquished our freedom that day, and we were more than happy to see it go. From that moment on we lived in true freedom, the freedom to point to someone else and say 'They told me to do it! It's their fault, not mine.' The freedom, God help us, to say 'I was only following orders'" (Brooks 83).
I read that over a couple of times, then I compared that with 1984 by George Orwell's freedom: Freedom is Slavery.
THEN, I compared that with Declaration of Independence's freedom: to be free from the tyrannical reign of G.B.; to be their own nation; to be free from slavery.
Then I stopped comparing. In World War Z's case, being free is being able to do what you're told without fear of consequence because you were just following orders; to be able to redirect the blame to whoever told you. They gave the order, after all. If so, what freedom did they relinquish? Their freedom to be in control of themselves. You can't say "wasn't me" when it's convenient. You're either always responsible for your actions, or never. There's no flip flopping on this one. Because I don't want this to distinction to be missed: They didn't do it, they did what they were told, which just so happened to be it. They no longer have to think about what they're doing, only do what they're told. By releasing their control, they received the freedom to act without fear of consequence; without guilt.
Okay, so when someone relinquishes control of their actions, and is instead, subservient to another, they're...what's that called again? Please, don't be so politically correct. They're pretty much voluntary slaves. And slaves are generally in what again? Slavery, right. So their freedom lies within their slavery. We can simplify this: Freedom is Slavery. Well gosh darn it, Orwell was right; at least, Brooks also came to that conclusion. As we all (hopefully know), by the end of the novel, Winston has given himself to Big Brother. He's relinquished his fighting spirit, and simply accepted everything they've told him. He allows himself to become a slave, and in this thoughtless way, he has become free from Thought Crime. How can he commit it, if he doesn't have to think--just do?
"Wait Paityn," you're saying to yourself, "but the Declaration of Independence was all about escaping their slavery and becoming a new, free nation, oh silly, you've entirely missed the point." Or maybe you're just skimming this because this is borderline rant now, either way, I'm getting there. I'm talking about true freedom, here, not good freedom. If America had just stayed subservient to G.B., they would have eventually learned through forced submission to just do whatever they were told. They would have become free in its truest sense. The Dec. of Ind. might have served to a higher, better freedom, which eventually led to a (usually) wonderful nation, but it didn't serve the truest freedom: the freedom of slavery.
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