Thursday, January 31, 2008

The Hugging Art

I here state the obvious: there is a style and an art to hugging. Each hug given and received has a very clear message that it sends, something that speaks to the soul in ways that words cannot. In order to help myself and others to understand what each hug signifies, I include a listing of common hugs and their "signs." I will separate them into two groups: Normal occurrence hugs and after date hugs.

Normal Hugs:

The Handshake One Armed Hug (Manitus embrasus). In a truly humorous manner, two people (nearly always two males, though it has been know to occur with one male and one female) shake hands and, while maintaining their grip, hug each other with their other hand. This hug is meant to portray fraternal good will.

Bear Hug (Envuelvus sencila). This is your basic all encompassing hug. Depending on the length of this hug, there can be many signals given. A short but strong Bear Hug indicates affection of the friendly sort. Longer hugs may signal a feeling of vulnerability and need to be comforted, or they may also betray an inner desire for a closer relationship. For the majority of cases, the longer and harder the hug the greater the need or the desire, though all of those must be taken into consideration. At the point of becoming painful or embarrassing, this type of beautiful hug turns ugly, almost into a form of torture used mostly as a joke.

Suffocating Hug (Quitatis Airayti). The idea of this hug is to cause physical pain in another person. An extrapolation of the bear hug, the suffocating hug has been known to haunt the halls of brothers hugging brothers (or sisters), and is very rarely seen elsewhere.

Side Hug (Lado circulae). This hug is one of the more complex hugs. Two people are side by side and hug with one arm each, keeping an open position. For each situation it is different. If the two parties are of the same gender, it means sisterly or brotherly love and affection. Sometimes it may indicate that said person needs to touch someone in order to feel validated, comfoted, etc. When the two parties belong to distinct sexes, then the interpretation of this hug becomes a little more tricky. Depending on the person, and the situation, it is sometimes the only way that a person can express the want to truly hug another. In other words, it sometimes means that the person recieving the hug (often of the male variety) is a little dense, and will only really react to physical touch, and so the other party (often a female) breaks the "touch barrier" with a side hug. However, one must be extremely careful when interpreting a side hug in this manner. The side hug between two members of the oppostie sex may also be nothing more than a friendly gesture, or the expression of a need of comfort.

Tap hug (Tocaris evitu). Though actually hugging, the person giving this hug is for whatever reason trying to avoid the appearance of actual attachment to the person to whom the hug is given. With hands held stiff they lightly tap the back of the person they are hugging, sending the impression that they are not interested in a truly satisfying hug from that person. It might be because of the situation, the temperament of the person, or even the attitude of one person towards another, but the message is pretty clear: I would rather be dead than hugging this person.

For the sake of brevity, I know go to after date, or relationship determining hugs.

Two armed hug. (Doas brosos) Basically, each party hugs with only one arm, the other hanging limp at the side. After a date, this particular hug says "I will not ask you out again" or "don't even think about calling me."

Three armed hug (Trias Embrasas). This is where one party (from what I personally have experienced, usually the girl) hugs with only one arm, the other clearly taken out of the action, and the other party of the hug giving it his (or her) all, with both arms wound tightly. In the case portrayed this hug means the guy will probably call the girl again, and will just as probably get turned down.

Date Bear Hug (Envuelvas romanticu). A version of the normal bear hug, this particular specimen is a little more satisfying. Its meaning is that both parties are agreeable to another date, and that enjoyment was the final result of the date that is ending. The pattern of arms for this hug is important, as it sets it apart from its cousin, the romantic hug, aka the neck surrounding hug. The pattern of the arms is an "x" forming a criss-cross. One of the boy’s arms is above the girls and the other arm is below the girls other arm (and vice versa). The amount of enjoyment on the date, and the interest in future dates, can be measured by the strength and the length of the hug. A short hug means little interest (and in some cases can mean no real interest, just kindness), and a long and strong hug means great interest (and can be more enjoyable than a N.S. Hug) with a hint more of timidity in it than its cousin.

N.S. (Neck Surrounding) Hug. (Cabezitis envolvu) This hug is most often associated with romance. Though not necessarily and indication of any true regard, it is often an indication that both parties are very interested in each other, and wouldn’t mind expressing it with their bodies. Does that sound bad? I didn't mean it to sound bad. The most comfortable arrangement for this that I have found is that the guy places his arms across the girls back (around her waistline), and the girl arranges her arms behind the shoulders and neck of the guy. From this vantage point it becomes rather easy to progress to a different show of affection, that involving the lips, but considering that I have never truly kissed anyone, I would be the worst person to write about that.

There it is, an incomplete register of hugs. If you wish me to add any, just tell me, and I'll be more than happy to include your additions.

And that is why, my friends, when you finish a date and you enjoyed yourself, or if you didn't but you still like the person, hug them hard and hug them well. There is nothing as unsatisfying like a person who hugs with no real power. Hold them tight, dang it!

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Flower Power

The plants are out to get us.

It's a constant source of amuzement to me how cool plants really are. I enlisted in the ranks studying botany this semester only in the hope of being able to complete the required fields for my associates degree, but I frankly admit that I have so far thoroughly enjoyed my botany class, entitled "Plants in Human Affairs." The plants really are out to get us, and I have discovered that not only are plants amazing in ability, proportion, and complexity, but that they are master daters. That's right, I have discovered the secret behind the plants beauty, its flowers.

Flowers are complex structures with one intent only: to ensure reproduction. Each flower reflects the personal taste of each plant that it belongs too. For example, yellow and blue flowers are meant to specifically attract bees and butterflies. Their bright colors make it easier for the ultra violet seeing bugs to identify the plants for possible nectar. The wide petals of the flowers are designed specifically as landing pods for the flying insects, making the botanic exchange of chromosones much more likely. Red flowers are mostly aimed toward birds. The red is more attractive, more attention getting for an animal than for a bug. And you wondered why we like roses. It's because the flowers are out to control the world, and they're using our sense of asthetics against us.

The color of flowers is by no means the only weapon in its arsenal. There are many otherwise drab looking flowers that even still manage to carry out their jobs as man (or as the case may be woman) hunters. Flowers that are specifacally meant to attract near sighted bugs and animals (such as the beetle or the bat) may be white or greyish, or in other words not particularly exotic in their visage, but they emit a seductive smell, that these weak eyed creatures can smell for miles around. It reminds me of some perfumes that I've smelt. When the right type wanders up into my nostrils, I could care less who is wearing the perfume or what she looks like, all my defenses are down and, well, we'll leave it at that.

Girls seem to have learned a lot about attraction from flowers. Not only do they do their best to look amazing, and you can see what marvelous affect this has on the spaced out face of every male that they walk in front of, but they've also mastered the art of smell. The two forces combined can make a man nearly powerless in his efforts to resist womanly charm.

It's a good thing men have flowers, though. I mean, it's men who give the flowers. I finally understood why it is that traditionally it is the male figure of a relationship who gives the flower. First off, it shows that, despite popular beleif, men are intelligent in the ways of attraction. Why? First, it gives a girl an asthetically pleasing experience to see a flower. It's natural, flowers evolved that way so as to survive. Next, flowers often give off their own emotion evoking perfume. That way a boy can influence the feelings of a girl by simply presenting a flower.

Girls, do not trust guys who come bearing flowers. They know all to well the natural implications of flowers, and the feelings that they produce. Men who give out flowers can not be trusted.

Oh, and by the way, happy upcoming valentines day.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Slighting Influences

At the beginning of this blog, the conception stage, I admit to having feelings that, while not comparable in their intensity nor in the actual benefit of the suffering, may be likened unto a woman giving birth. Woah! I can here the loud feminine reproach coming swifter than an eagle carried on the winds of a hurricane, and wish to stem the tide. I have, of course, made a slight allusion to the process of conceiving as being similar to the feelings experienced tonight as I sit and think on how to make merely the second instalment in my ambiguously historically marking blogathon. Only the second instalment, and I must already confess to vague wishes for it to be over.

You must understand, the very fact that you are reading this today, tonight, this evening, whenever and however you may be reading it, is an example of what I wish to discuss. Do you know of the heartening affect that a little cooked dough (also known as home made bread) and a collection of overly churned milk (also known as butter) can have the soul of a man? With the simple introduction of a very basic snack, nothing more than flour, water, a little yeast, sugar, cream, and a few other preservatives that are the only thing making it so my hair does not jettison itself fully from my head, I find myself in completely different spirits than I was not half an hour ago. It's amazing what an affect something that weighs so little can have on a being.

Not that I mean to infer that little people should by consequence be expected of little influence. Rather, it is a surprise to me the influence that little things (and little people) have on the world. I am not so big as to warrant the adjective, and so I can understand both the large and small variety, belonging to neither and therefore possessing a lack of bias for one side or another, (is it possible to posses a lack?), I am in a position to state with equanimity "Small or large, short or tall, all have an influence!"

Consider for a moment the profound influence of three small mice. Though they be blind, they have captured the hearts of many through first fairy tale and now ogre tale. A small species, one would not expect that such a being would have much of an impact on anyone. Not only are the three blind members of that race famous, but that species is also responsible for carrying Cinderella safely to the castle. Without those mice she would've never arrived, and therefore never had the pleasure of associating herself with the magnificent Prince Charming, of whom we have heard so very much about. A mouse. Well, a couple of mice. What an impact!

Large people have an impact as well. For instance, in that classic "The Princess Bride," Fesic, (if that is how you spell his name) is none other than a loving giant, though not all gentle. Without his pivotal role, one can see quite clearly that the movie would've never reached it's climatic and happy ending. He was vital for the recovery of Indigo, the breaching of the gates, the finding of four white horses (I will one day learn why a white horse is necessary for marital bliss. I mean, Cinderella had them as well), and supplying the means for a miracle. Or mostly a miracle. Yes, my friends, big things have an impact.

My point, in all that I am saying, is that I have a large list of influences. I can honestly say that few are as moving or potent as the influences of love. I have said before how that is true, and so I will only touch on it now. Loneliness, giddiness, euphoria, listlessness, and good old fashioned joy (and, being honest, depression) can trace their roots back to love. The subtle variations in relationships, in my relationships to make it personal, are a source of constant movement, a constant influencing over my thoughts and actions.

The degree of validity of that statement is despicable to me. I know myself capable of great goodness, but also of great shallowness, all because of my ability to be influenced.

Not that influence is a bad thing. The Spirit influences us every day, in every thing that we do, and without it I would be a lost man long ago. A slight feeling that someone needs a hug, a smile, a listening friend influence us to action. A strain of music can touch our souls and move us to great eloquence, or even bestir anger and resentment. A hamburger may cause heartburn, a salad hunger, a word from others may invoke joy or regret; an empty house an empty heart, a good movie feelings of satisfaction; a moving quote may influence to deeper thought.

We are an affected people. I think we choose our influences. Thus said, what do you choose to influence you? A blond hair, a brown eye? A quick wit, or unfailing optimism? What influences you? I can say what influences me, but that would reveal far too much of my own soul, and even my blog is not privy to that.

Monday, January 28, 2008

And He's Off!

I had a very brief inner struggle about the morality of starting this blogathon with a poem that I have already written, but considering both my present state of mind current unwillingness to be yellowish, I've decided that to begin in the past is permissible.

This poem hearkens back to before the mission. The date was November 11th, 2004. I surprise myself because, honestly, I'm not really sure what I was trying to say. I guess it's normal for me to write meaningfully ambiguous poems

Personal Quest

Nooks, crannies, crags, and cracks,
behavior and the brain, so folded.
Each fold, what does it hide?
A statement, a gesture, so telling
behavior and brain coincide.

A candle, burning, upon a stick,
trying to abolish darkness,
is lit, the light so stark
casts shadows in the crags
and accents all the dark.

I hold my light, small but growing,
and go forth, forth to meet the night
one step, two, my light grows dim
unsure, I wait. One moment, two.
Cradling the flame, the wick I trim

Carefully, slowly, the precious flame
peeks, finds room, grows brighter,
not enough to fill the space,
Not yet, but shows one step
one step on the path I trace

One step ahead I forge
this is my quest:
going forward, that is all,
and if you pass me, alright;
I'll reach you at the final call.

Blogathon

Hello all you crazy people!

Let it be known and shown unto all you, blogger readers and writers, that this the day 28 of January or the year 2008 marks the beginning of a two week long blogathon in Yellow Lives. It is here decreed that all serious bloggers pertaining to yellow lives (that would be me) dedicate themselves to writing one blog or more per day. It is strictly understood by all those who may in some way be influenced by said writing that the blogathon is not a time for masterpieces. It is, yes, a momentous occasion, and the reason as to why said blogathon was endeavored in the first place will be revealed hereafter.

Let the typing begin, let the show go on, and let those who have waited receive there good things!

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Another Saturday Night

In my little world that is composed of the intricacies of my brain and its functions, I admit to writing this particular blog just so I can use the title. Which means that maybe, just maybe, the creation of this blog has nothing to do with the title. Maybe. The irony of the title is striking because the name for the blog came to me as I prepared to be accompanied by a lovely young woman on a date. It's even better that today is a week later, and I find myself alone, listening to the best of Nat King Cole. Apart from the piece of heart that gets ripped out of me every now and then, offered up to the songs he sings, I am honestly more content than I have been in awhile.

There's nothing quite as relaxing after a long week as just being at peace with oneself. That's not to say that a little company of the right variety would bad. . .

The dating ritual in Utah is one of the most absurd creatures I've ever encountered. First off, we're told to be meek, submissive, and the like. Although I know that I'm saying something completely against what we're actually taught, but how is it that guys are supposed to be meek, humble, submissive, and at the same time bold and courageous, unwilling to take no as a true answer? It's a great incongruity that at the same time as men are expected to be submissive, they're also expected to take the role and make other's submit to their will. Okay, I exaggerate, seeing as taking someone on a date isn't really making them submit to your will (emphasis added), but you see my point. How is that one such as I, who spent my entire life learning how to be obedient and take orders, should now be the one ordering others around? I feel like a penguin in the tropics, and trust me, it gets a little warm here.

I can hear all of the ladies who read this blog (not to say that only girls read my blog, but I'm talking to the specific group now) heaving a big sigh and saying "you're such a boy!" It might be that I can hear that since I've had that said to me not once, but twice in the last two days. While I am extremely proud of my sex and am glad that others are not left in doubt as to which gender I actually belong, I can't help but wonder at why they said that. If they were intending to be condoning, it didn't really work. I personally find that a validation of my masculinity is an abstract way of complimenting me, and so the "you're such a boy" spoken in derision becomes for me a compliment. Perhaps that's another reason why those of the female gender are so ready to term me as a young man of the extreme variety. I mean, if I told a lady that she was a girl, she would probably whip out some sarcastic remark like "you think?"

All of that rambling actually had a point, though. If you put together the fact that I am a male (I know, for some of you there is still some question. Let me lay your doubts to rest. I'll use a comforter, I promise) together with the idea that males are taught conflicting themes, it becomes much easier to see how I excuse myself to myself so often. For instance, let's say that I like someone in particular. See, I am humble enough to recognize that I like said person, that she's amazing and that nothing would make me happier than to say that I like her, that she's beautiful and amazing and a whole lot of nearly perfect wrapped up together in one stunning person. There's the humility, recognizing the truth. Now, this is were the weird part of my brain comes in. I feel bad, honestly, when it is the case that I like someone but lack the courage to tell the person so. Sometimes it turns out to be a good thing (I've been saved many a sure rejection because of that exact lack), but all in all it's an uncomfortable feeling. My mind has some amazing defense mechanisms. Let me show you one of them: when it is the case that my self imposed silence is driving me crazy, my saves the day by saying "yes, but she might not like you, and that's putting her in a bad position of you trying to impose your will on her." Oh ho, there is a lack of submissiveness! Ah, well, we can't be having that, now can we. Better that we suffer in silence, because that would not impose anything on anyone.

Do you know how stupid I sound saying that? I think this exchange happens mostly unconsciously, because if I take the time to actually realise what I'm saying to myself, I realise how very silly I'm being, and I either get over my fear and go say something, or I go home and play the piano, who always seems to understand what I'm feeling. At other times I've tried listening to music, but at those times I am consistently amazed that everything in my entire stinkin' collection of music has something to do with love, and all of my patience is required not to physically beat my CD player. Since the times when I turn to music is normally during the transit home, the one time I succumbed to my frustration I had a near death experience with the oncoming traffic. I've since learned to turn off my CD player when I'm upset.

Who knows what I'm really trying to say by all of this. Wait, I know what I'm trying to say. Just because no one else knows what I'm trying to say doesn't mean I'm crazy. Or does it? Speaking of which, any of you that have read my poem, what did you think it meant? Everyone I've talked to so far has no idea what I meant to say. Of course, sometimes understand is hard to come by with only two people. Poetry is of that amazing quality as to allow for personal translation of practically anything, so it might have lots of meanings, but I had only one in writing it. I'd like to find out, though, if anyone can guess what I meant to say. If you can, I might just give you a cookie. You know, the tracking kind.

Okay, that was pretty bad.

I hope you all enjoy your respective Saturday night. Though men might be boys and girls might be ladies, there are people out there you love you, probably, even if they never say anything. The weird thing is that the people who like you most are the least likely to say so. Or at least that's the case for me. Just be happy in the thought.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Screaming in Silence

Can you hear that?
There's a roaring echo,
a whisper shouting to be
let in, a fearsome oath it decrees.

Just a moment. Listen;
a faint cry carried
large and quiet through
the darkness, arriving on a fearsome cue

The Silence is screaming tonight
its pervasiveness is oppressive;
and though the source is out of sight
persistently a torture it gives.

They say that when
in a void you scream
no one can hear, not one
in all the reaches of the sun.

but voids are unnecessary
because when silence screams
so few notice, fewer even dare
to show the screamer that they care.

A move, an inhalation
a slight twinkle in an eye
betray the inner novel; and
better than a picture is a sigh

Can you hear that?
The silence is screaming tonight.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Perfumed Pockets of the Plague

It's a good thing that they have invented a meter that can show how many people are visiting a web site in any given week. While it is not necessary for me to have people actually viewing my blog in order for me to continue, it does give me a boost to know that others at least view if not appreciate what I write. I couldn’t help but notice that one out of the ten last blogs I have written has received a comment. I'll just have to assume that the things I say change people so deeply that they have problems expressing that feeling.

Enough of me pitying me. Onto the main show!

Though it is a more than daily experience for me to walk across the awkward sea of a college campus, I find each day an exhilaration. There is always something new, always something more to behold. There might be the sounds of construction that always seem to be going on but never seem to be going anywhere or perhaps the feelings of awkwardness from spying a pair of newlyweds, locked together in a much more close way than just fingertips. One might observe a freshman, new to the hugeness of campus running for all he's worth, forgotten his duties to social grace or stature. I love the see the sun, bursting over the tops of the mountains to warm a frozen cheek, a constant reminder of the infallibility of hope and eventual happiness. You might have harsh winds that bite at your cheeks and rob your lips of moistness. Anyway you look at it; the trek from one end of the campus to another can be a wonderful experience. Especially if others think you're crazy, because this frees you to do things you might otherwise feel restricted from doing.

The worst thing, when walking from class to class, is encountering yourself with a bombardment of nastiness. The air one moment is crisp and clean, that sort of cold quality that sears your lungs and leaves them feeling refreshed healed, only to be robbed of that revitalization by the sudden entering into of a pocket of plague. These pockets follow certain people around, and as you approach them there is little or no warning before they are totally upon you. One moment all is clear, the next the world appears through a hazy smoke, and the lungs and chest begin a battle. It's not a comfortable one, but they strive to reject the feeling of dirty that has suddenly penetrated them. I can think of little I enjoy less than going from cool air to the haze of a personalized industrial zone.

This encountering of smell is not always bad. When it takes on the qualities of Chicago on fire it definitely has adverse affects, but I have recently been reminded that a powerful emotion may be evoked by a different sort of olfactory experience. As I entered the building that I most frequent on campus, I was startled to have a pleasantly soft smell come to my then awakened senses. A sharp twist had been introduced to the smell common to many flowers, which had a most desirable affect. I stopped in my tracks, eager to go on experiencing this particular perfume. The odd thing about perfume, though, is that it often stays with she who carries it. It would have been idiotic of me to turn and follow that particular person out of the building that I had just entered, and so my pride bid me turn and save that particular extension of experience for another time.

I wonder what my pocket of perfume is like.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

I'm a Jigsaw Puzzle.

I hate to give the punch line in the title of the blog, but I know that the majority of those who read my blog mostly look at the titles and then move on. This lets them say they looked at my blog without actually taking any time to ingest the information. So, for those that read only the first paragraph, I say: “I am a jigsaw puzzle!” Don’t you wish that you were all like me, an intense gathering of bits and pieces that can’t be examined too closely separately unless you are thinking about the big picture. I’m sure that many of you are thinking that I can not have license to this typography of myself, and so I’ll just go ahead and say it, we’re all jigsaw puzzles!

First off, each one of us has characteristics that don’t really seem to fit one with another. For instance, I, Major Bubbles, enjoy music. I am appeased by the soothing quality of calmed classical, enthralled by jazz, and invigorated by the upbeat style of music. I revel in the different mediums of music, from voice to brass to string instrument, and even percussion. I love music! And I love boxing. Do those things fit together in your mind? It’s like when you try to put two pieces unsuited for each other together. You smash it down, wedging the projecting parts of the piece into the holes of the other, until it will not move. It may not be a good match, but when you’re two it doesn’t really matter. The nice thing about puzzles and people, though, is that all the pieces really do fit, you just to have to find where. For instance, my love for music creates a passion in me, a passion that often results in physical energy. I love doing things, love being active. Boxing is one of the most physically draining things of my experience. Boxing then does fit, only with a different piece of the puzzle. I’m a jigsaw puzzle!

I know that I’m not the only one who has this misfit pieces. One friend in particular is a constant puzzle to me. Because I think the world of this friend, I will refrain from using even the pseudo name of the person. This person is a very good person, and honest almost to a fault. I had understood that this person was involved in a prestigious performing group, but when this person was offered a chance to sing for a small group (mostly for our pleasure), backed down, claiming inadequacy. I know for a fact that this person is better than she/he said, but he/she still would not sing. I felt like it was a deception on the part of the person, and it didn’t really fit with what I thought of the honesty of said party. This probably reveals more of my psyche than I want to, but I digress. These were two pieces that, for me, didn’t fit. Most everyone reading this will have said by now “well, the person to whom he refers maybe easily embarrassed.” That’s a good point, and it took me awhile to come to it, sadly enough. Here’s the proof, though, that the two pieces that were incongruous are really attached to different pieces, but altogether make up a beautiful person, one that I especially enjoy knowing. Said person is a jigsaw puzzle.

The interesting thing about people is that our jigsaw puzzle ends up looking like one giant puzzle piece. I don’t think that we really end up looking like some perfect rectangle, like the popular puzzles that we put together. Rather, each and every one of us has nooks and crannies that lend interest, and make us more like a complex puzzle piece.

Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be a puzzle piece? There are a great variety of puzzle pieces. If we pick one up, lets say a flashy orange one, and try to put it next to a brown one, it might cry out “not there! Anywhere but there! Those brown pieces are so drab, all they do is sit around and talk about the basic blocks of puzzles. Please, not there.” Maybe you’d get to know a cool green puzzle piece that would say “It doesn’t matter where you put me, I’ll lend an air of calmness. Just don’t bury me in a sea of reds, they’re so agitated.” Perhaps you’ll find a place for a happy yellow piece “put me there, I’ll love it!” Either way, each puzzle lends a different color, variety and splashes of shades, making the puzzle beautiful and pleasing.

Are we all that different?

The problem is when we feel like we don’t fit where we got put. I know I’ve felt like that before. Can you imagine the discomfort of a puzzle piece being jammed where it doesn’t belong? The only problem is that we as humans aren’t as willing to be put as puzzle pieces are. We have the tendency not to accept where we’re put. Oh well, I’m sure that we’ll figure it out someday.

If I do something you don’t understand, though, just realize that I’m a puzzle! You’re just looking at the pieces, and you don’t see the whole thing yet. I’m pretty sure that if you could see the whole thing, you might just end up loving me.

Maybe it’s a good thing you can’t see the whole me.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

A rhymet.

Each day I awake
to see the bright sun shine.
At least when I sleep in.
Otherwise, I wake to see the night
chased away by rays of light.

In class I sit
to study and learn,
that is, when I listen.
Or maybe I'm lulled into dreaming
by a mind that is awfully scheming.

Other places
Other times
I do this or that. I'm occupied.
I hide in my business
Much too afraid of being without
something to do.
'Cause inactivity is the same for me
as for a blister, a shoe.

There's more to this rhyme that meets the eye. I cannot say that every moment of my life is always happiness, nor can I say that I understand myself all the time. I have learned, however, that the quiet moments I have all to myself when I am doing nothing and have no one around to talk to are the moments when most my devils scream for admission.

I find that the trick is not letting them past the front gate.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Social Alliteration

One of my favorite things about the week right after Christmas is the big headache of going through every last one of my presents that were clothes and finding getting them exchanged for clothes that are actually my size. This year I’ve been blessed with a jacket that was a size too small, a shirt that was two sizes too big, and a couple of shirts that shrunk right after I washed them. I know this because they were stylish, but now they are just suffocating.

But, all is not lost. Most of these are returnable (alas, the turncoat shirts will not be replaced, as they have had the condemning influence of laundry detergent all over them and have lost their smell), so there is no real damage done. In truth, I have already made a few voyages to insure that the cloth cut out in the correct shape is what I actually own. Therefore, having sallied forth and gotten my goods I have a leather jacket of almost criminal coolness and other assorted clothing.

I’m talking about my jacket because it has magical powers. No, I’m serious! You think I’m just talking for the sake of my blog, and that I need to spout sensational exaggerations to ensure the attention of my readers. I learned a long time ago that most of the people who read my blog don’t get past the first paragraph anyway, so why should I pollute my honest and benevolent page of emoting with such blatant misrepresentations of my own clothing? I do hereby declare the validity of my jacket’s magical prowess. It makes those who wear it transform.

I understand that it is almost impossible to understand the miracle, but let me explain what it is. Before Christmas I was, as many of you know, strange. Let us just say that I did not fit into the category of normal in any leap of imagination or of faith. Nor did I fit into the category of cool. I was a category all to myself, it appeared, and thus I preferred it. A few days after having purchased my jacket, though, I began to notice changes. I grew my sideburns out just a little. I combed my hair different. I even went so far to almost lay down my head on a girl’s lap, at which point my natural not cool defenders kicked in and forced me into a sitting position on the other side of the room. Either that, or the glare in her eye had made it clear that I was definitely not getting anywhere near her lap. Either way, I realized that something radical had happened. I had transformed into a normal nearly cool guy. I was stunned. How could I face my family? How could I face my friends? What would I say when their world was rocked with the realization that I no longer fit into the quietly crazy sidekick role?

I pondered over this turn of events for a long time. Then something happened. My leather jacket also seems to have a self defense mechanism, because it disallowed itself to be used when I was sweating. After having heaved a basketball around for a good two hours, I was not a pleasant picture. My jacket then refused to be worn. My hair went back to normal, and I’m pretty sure that my sideburns went back to where they were before. Suddenly I was quietly crazy! I was torn between relief and sadness at seeing this new side of me go. I think I cried. On the inside.

A new jacket does not stay unworn for long, though. Once again I tempted the waters, put on the jacket, and suddenly I was slightly cool again! It was irrational, but it was true. I had more comments about my clothes and about my looks then ever before. It was disturbing, and I didn’t know how to react. Mostly I made it a joke (which incidentally helped me become slightly less cool again). It was then I knew the truth. With my new leather jacket, I was a transformer.

To celebrate I shaved one of sideburns a little higher than the other, to show my now flip floppy character.

So there is a new hero to the scene. Major Bubbles, the amazing social phenomena! Seen now in hddvd…d…d. I am a Transformer!

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Newness!

When the government endeavors to create laws that put the power into the hands of the few, and diminish the power of the people, limiting their rights to progress, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, it is the right of the people to complain.

I heard something akin to that from the television. Not exactly the normal place to look for reliable information, but I find PBS’s documentaries informative and interesting. That particular misquote came from Andrew Jackson, a particularly controversial president. Though Fwidapin might agree to the more negative view of him, there was enough good along with the bad to spark my curiosity. Why is it that one man can bring about such opposing views of himself as to be described as an “Atrocious Saint” or an “Urban Savage?” Most of the time I find oxymorons nothing more than a word game I play with myself to keep my mind engaged while I deal with dreadfully dull moments, but seeing it as an accurate description of an actual man’s character, I am led to ask why. Why would a man be described as both? I am not a historian, I do not claim any sort of previous knowledge or understanding, I merely claim interest. Can anyone answer why Andrew Jackson is still considered a great controversy?

But, that’s not really what this blog is about. Most people would probably say that Andrew Jackson is a terrible way to start a new year. That being said, perhaps I should apologize. I don’t think I will though, because, after all, it’s my blog, you sillies!

I’ve heard that the Mayans were wonderful astronomers. Can you imagine those stout little men, so often depicted as little more than fierce whiskey loving warriors as astronomers, running around in white lab coats? Although they probably didn’t wear the lab coats, their achievements are a wonder to us even today. I understand that they made a calendar so exact that it’s off only by a few minutes (or was it hours) even today, some fifteen hundred years later. Honestly, my calendar doesn’t even tell me what hour it is, so these guys must have been pretty intense. Can you imagine what sort of precision that must have took, to make something that changed ever so slightly every day, for thousands of years until the mystic date of April 6, 2012? Once again I saw a documentary about these people in which the calendar was depicted as a rather large clockwork type concoction, with lots of dials that moved. I imagine it was more like a sun chart, but never having seen the beastly day planner, I really couldn’t tell you.

But let’s go with the idea of the giant clockwork. In watches and clocks around the country, the small but pivotal movement of that great calendar is reflected, and such was the case as the world stood still (literally until midnight, then they were kissing like crazy) to watch the last few official seconds of 2007 tick by with the last one giving its most atlantean effort ‘till it was squished underneath a lighted ball. The world rejoiced, and all over the world little dials went like this: 7… 7… 8… 8… The world rejoiced because one miniscule number changed by one. Mathematically, this number is so close to insignificant it’s terrifying. In terms of historical or world events, the number one means so little that we laugh if we try and figure out the date of most anything (except the most recent occurrences) to be closer than within a few thousand, or even ten of thousands.

Why does the world rejoice over the change of one number, and only by one?

Probably because that number means a whole lot more than just its numerical value. I think people celebrate hope more than anything. Every 1st of the 1st month is an excuse to start new. It’s a reason to begin to mend bridges, to make new vows (I did see someone get proposed to on new years day), to do something better, to do something new. This hope is pretty silly, as we don’t change with the passing of one day. Not really, anyway.

Not that that should make us despair and give up on New Years altogether. Honestly, I think that just like Christmas and Thanksgiving should be continually on our minds, New Years should be a daily event. Maybe each day only changes the dials on the day switch, and only once every year it changes the year switch, but each day is a new beginning. I am a firm believer in changing our lives one day at a time, and I don’t believe that once every year is a good way to go about it. Each morning can have the New Year Spirit, just as each meal can have the Thanksgiving Spirit, and each moment we have with others can be filled with the Spirit of Christmas. Each day can be a holiday, and I’m glad about that.

So here’s to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And for the whole year round, and though it is terribly politically correct to say it (though I mean it in a terribly politically incorrect way) Happy Holidays!

As a disclaimer, I really am not normally this introspective and pondering. Most of the time I talk about complete nonsense. I’m afraid I’m a bit out of practice of late, due to a lack of contact with the outside world. My office can hardly be referred to as outside, and apart from that I find it hard to wander far from my house during the winter break. I’ve been awfully boring this vacation.