Uh...sports

I know I really can't speak with very much credibility on this issue.

But I made an observation in the car today, head pressed against the window watching cars and scenery.

I read a book, a short while ago, on chariot racing in ancient Byzantium- the predecessor to Constantinople, now called Istanbul. 80 000 fans used to attend that event,in the city called the Eye of the World, roaring crowds who lived their lives among the sands of the Hippodrome, and the turnings of the Spina. This preoccupation with sports, seems to be a universal element- today even, as I say flags whipping in the wind, the bold and fiery symbol of the Flames upon it.

The Red Mile, the wryly appropriate name for 17th Avenue in Calgary, seems to epitomize the fervor and excitement that sports inspire- leading thousands of fans to spill out on the streets, and carouse, unfettered and seemingly free of all inhibition.

What is it about sports that fire up the people, and compel them towards actions they might otherwise not be likely to do? Few other mediums can claim this unswerving power.

Today my school was a veritable sea of red- and me an unfortunate island of blue and grey-and I realized that this overwhelming pride, and fanatic fervor, was a poignant emotion rarely ever seen.

3081 words, 10 posts

What compels humans to quantify everything?

Everywhere I look, especially on magazines, I see numbers splashed upon pages, as if they further increased the validity of the magazine. Look at us, they say, our magazines use numbers and therefore we are more credible. Upon opening them up, one is witness to '101 Ways to Contort Your Body' or '39 Foods That Will Make You Slim- Instantly!' or even '10 Tips for Dating in the Animal Kingdom'. As useful and relevant as these all are,I sometimes have difficulty with societies innate desire to put a number to everything.

I'm not getting all 'Petit Prince' (a book that is particularly vociferous on the subject of numbers and how they are generally corrupting society) here, but certainly there has to be a limit? Why can't we just live with the abstract and the undefined? Why does the blurry have to be brought into sharp focus, so that every aspect and focus of everything is clearly and minutely detailed and outlined?

Fame? Fortune? Cookie?

I installed a site counter. This makes me immeasurably pleased.

_

Something sprang into my mind today, and I found it deeply disturbing.

I have not been able to sleep in, since May 1, 2004. Since then, overcome with a deluge of homework that teachers frenetically assigned, I have woken up dutifully at 7 AM (on Saturdays and Sunday's as well) and after eating as fast as possible, dived into the pile of homework that serenely awaited me, sitting neatly upon my desk.

There used to be a time, when the very idea of not sleeping in on weekends, would evoke a shocked gasp and utter disbelief. Now, I can only muster a weary, shake of my head at the thought- that my life has become so dictated by the courseload of Full IB, that I cannot even enjoy that which I hold so close to my heart- sleep.

Even now, bags under my eyes and hair in furious disarray, I wonder when I became this mindless drone, typing mechanically on his computer and spewing out essays, speeches and presentations. I believe, I have made my work as independent of consciousness as possible- my mind, driven by a lack of sleep to the darkest, nether regions of my brain.

_

What is it that every living inhabitant of our planet, really wants? Perhaps fame- the desire to have generations after us, repeat our names with tones of awe or perhaps fear. The desire to leave a legacy,that does not end with our end, that does not wither away even as we do.

Or perhaps, it is fortune- the ability to live a soft, luxorious life where one can have anything brought at one's behest, and watch money roll in with casual consistence.

Or maybe it's just for the ephemeral pleasures we are granted. The fleeting happiness we are granted at the announcement of a piece of good news, or the sense of euphoria and elation that can occur at the unlikeliest of moments.

Or, perhaps, we just want sleep.

Work

I have come here, surreptitously, in the midst of my homework, to commiserate on the inordinate amount of homework that I have been handed. Is there no pity? It seems, that with every flippant smile and spoken words that assign yet another project or test, I am being dug further and further into my grave.

If I may quote Cold Mountain, 'There will be a reckoning!'. I don't really believe that- my world will always be cruelly dictated by a cavalcade of work, assigned by more teachers and spoken with more flippant smiles.

I just wish that it all did not have to come now, as exams loom closer, like giant monstrosities that I know will attack in the dark . I wish that everytime I wake up, I didn't face the prodigious amount of homework, awaiting me on my desk in neat, organized piles as if mocking the irony of my preparedness and my inexorable procrastination.

'Be Careful What You Wish', the old maxim goes sternly warning against those afraid of any of their desires remaining unrequited. Although I can discern a glimmer of truth in that, it's more convenient right now to complain and shout and scream.

Bye, then.

Conspiracy Theory

I think it's time to disseminate one of the most popular myths of our time- it has taken such a strong root in pop culture, that it has seeped into the collectively vulnerable minds of our youth, like a pervasive pathogen. Deadly and lethally accurate, it is time that the truth was uncovered and the lies exposed.

I'm all for exposing. Lies.

Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, the awkward and clumsy symbol of Christmas, has remained invincible behind his stronghold of falsely contrived stories that tell of his ostensible conversion from a socially ostracized reindeer (read:loser. Trust me, I'd know about this one.) to a socially succesful (read:popular. Don't know much more.) creature that is given a prominent leadership positions among his fellow mammals.

While I'm all for stories that promulgate idealistic visions of losers ascending the ranks of elite popularity, I believe this myth has crossed the line. We begin, with Rudolph's unlikely climb to the top of the Reindeer pyramid. Why, would Santa Claus promote a reindeer who has no popular support? What is the point of having a leader, whom nobody likes? (See: Not Being Elected Prefect). And why did Santa Claus take this decision upon himself- why did he not use a reality show so that America could choose America's next reindeer. Some suggest, it was for the sheer wattage of Rudolph's nose- has Santa Claus, however, not heard of Home Depot? The problems that riddle this poorly thought out myth, are unfortunately found among the other reindeer of Santa Claus' brood as well. After Santa Claus, unexpectedly promotes the aforementioned reindeer to the lead position, we are witness to a startling event. Suddenly, as though they had forgotten their previous hatred and attempts at isolating the poor reindeer, the other reindeer's practically run over each other to support a bewildered Rudolph. Why, when they hadn't even let him join in their reindeer games, did they execute this about turn in personality and in preference?

If this story truly did happen then perhaps there is- after all- hope for me.

Put-your-garbage-on-fire-night

I was at a volunteer appreciation night tonight.

I was approached, later in this reserved, restrained evening, by an elderly woman who had volunteered extensively. She generously confided in me her life history as well as that of her children - this accompanied by her beaming face, alight with pride- and then solemnly thanked me for not going the path of the rest of the corrupt youth in our society.

"It's seldom we find those who care," she said gravely, surveying me with startlingly blue eyes. I smiled a little and nodded, not wishing to disturb her misconceptions.

Are youth, seemingly apathetic? Certainly, being one, I do not believe they are devoid of feeling;they do not seem to have the marked indifference that this woman seemed to think as a common condition among the youth of today. It seems tired rhetoric now, I'm entirely too used to hearing these commiserations and frankly tired of it. The youth of today are not the slovenly, sedentary lards that some may percieve them as- we are full of conviction and passion, and move willfully in every endeavour.

It was, however, a great evening, and the portable zen garden (generously given to my twin and I as a gift for attending the event) is something I shall hold close to my heart.

I remembered something from Haiti tonight, incongruous in the midst of a fundamentally different event. I remembered, suddenly, the garbages there- heaps and piles of it, lying in rough holes in the sidewalks. On Friday's, we would see those piles flickering with flames, being slowly reduced to black, charred ashes. It was strange, this finality, this complete destroyal of what was not needed.

And that, I suppose, is all.

A Story

He walks smoothly through the wooden doors to his study, in a manner of casual routine. Morning light slants through the angular windows of his skylight, resting softly upon his mahogany desk. The mail, placed neatly in a pile on his desk already, is perused briefly by the man, then set down with seeming indifference.

The round clock, fastened so long ago by a slender nail to the back wall, is ticking softly- a thundering noise in the hollow silence of the room. The man looks up at it, hard grey eyes resting briefly on the long hand of the clock, set just past the roman numeral III. He moves towards his desk, resting long slender hands on his pen and bringing it towards him, fiddling with it. The man appears preoccupied, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration and his expression nearly as menacing as it was thoughtful. He gripps the pen suddenly, feeling his hand tremble with apprehension, then brings it down suddenly and forcefully to the paper below. His hand moves fast, although his eyes convey bored indifference, and slowly his movements are more and more frenetic. Until he stops. Staring then, his expression one of the greatest shock and awe, the pen drops slowly from his hand. The man stands up, the chair pushed by his sudden rise, and brings whatever he has just written on the paper below, closer to his eyes.

It is as if his face has been transformed, a curious mixture of a deer trapped in the flourescent flood of headlights and a triumphant, restrained air that has suddenly infused this room, so mundane a few moments ago. The man moves now, faster and willfully, past his desk and runs out of the study.

It just made sense.

MSN and the Foibles of Mankind

I love MSN.

Now I'm not one of those that uses it on a constant basis, that hashad their life (what life?) subverted by an evil online mechanism, or one of those who can't get people to talk to them otherwise. I use MSN sometimes, when I'm taking breaths in between homework, and I have time to emerge from the shell I call schoolwork.

Yet there is something to be said for the facade it provides, an utterly impassive layer that can hide emotions and reveal others. One is apt to say something on MSN, that one wouldn't dream of saying/doing in real life. In this world of social necessity, its refreshing to have something to retreat behind- and sometimes, even to have something to venture beyond.

Speaking of facades, I watched The Swan the other night. I watched it, slowly growing from bemused to shocked to utterly dismayed. Here is a program that aims to exploit mankinds greatest foibles, that aims to take them and plaster them against a wall for all to see, as if they were cheap artwork. Here is a show, that does not merely deny the politically correct, but stamps and tramples upon it. Here is a show that does not deserve to grace the already sullied coffers of the television set.It takes perfectly normal people, and converts them (through a 'council' of experts) into swans, beautiful and fanciful creatures who flutter their eyebrows and proclaim their inner rejuvenation that happened to accompany their outer transformation. I had to restrain myself from throwing my coveted Wagon Wheel at the screen, and from screaming outloud with frustration at a world that has become overly preoccupied with appearance.

Humans are, in the end, not much more than a mass of cells and yet complex at that. That paradox- the way the complex overlays the simple- has eluded me for a long time and will yet.

There are no segue's in life, so why should my blog have any?

I like learning. Does that ostracize me, further, from the precious circle of elite popularity? How sad. I think I shall miss it.


The most peculiar position of all, I think, is when an overachiever is placed in a group, and expected to overachieve.Don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware of the implications of my role; however it is sometimes refreshing to believe that I don't have to live up to it. Take this math project, as an example. The four of us allotted our roles, decided on the work that each group member would complete and left our planning session feeling productive. Instead, it was only one person who deigned to help me.

So I spent the last 6 hours of my life, doing a math project and fuming.

But this is expected of me. 'He'll do it all for us,' I'm sure they whispered, bemused, while I walked about happily under the misconception that division of labor was a sound idea. I don't deny that I feel urgently compelled to micromanage, and feel most comfortable when everything rides on my shoulder- I suppose this is about taking advantage of an opportunity to complain and be outraged. Musn't let those chances slip, you understand?

More reasonably I have found out that scheduling is a wholly futile endeavour- it appears as though it consumes valuable time which could be spent procrastinating or changing the world. My twin, who never schedules or makes any attempt at organization, seems to move about in an entropic manner. The end result, unfortunately and fortunately, is the same quality and quantity of homework that I spent hours completing and honing. I suppose he's got the whole natural brilliance thing going on- where did I go wrong? In fact that's a question that is not surprisingly evoked, everytime I look at my writing (which could be compared favorably with the writing of an ape, or toddler) or my innate laziness.

There's so much pivoting in life. There's always a fulcrum somewhere, some point where our lives change fundamentally and we're tossed into the bizarre mix of reality and imagination that is life. I wish I was the kind that laughed at those constantly appearing levers, and jumped on bereft of dignity and cautiousness.

In the Morning

Here I am, at this unearthly hour- 7:30AM or thereabouts- writing in my blog. Does that indicate fanatic obsession or a lack of life? Since it has already been definitively established, I suppose it'll have to be the latter.

I was informed, the other day, that 'gah' is in fact not my word to coin or mint. I was introduced to the wonders of the Urban Dictionary. In it, some cunning and sly person, most likely aware of my attempts at neologism, has already written a definition. To add insult to the injury, another named 'Roger', added a definition for gaa, and wrote that an 'h' could not be used as the third letter under any circumstances.

Gah.

Whatever, the case, I have a sweltering load of homework to do today. My eyes, right now, are bulging at the thought. I have the unfortunate honour of taking Physics by correspondence, an unwise decision in retrospect. Now, I'm stuck with 9 modules to complete- each taking an average of 12 hours to read through and finish. I had planned, long ago when I first recieved by wonderful Physics package, to finish the whole thing by June. I'm away all of July, so I thought I could study the first few days in August and then take my diploma. Of course the 'best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry' so now I'm sitting here, at this unearthly hour, attempting to understand the finer points of static electricity, in an absolutely futile attempt to finish a whole physics course by correspondence, before the end of June.

If I wasn't stressed out enough, it was deemed fit that I also be given a huge mound of schoolwork to complete, SAT II's to stress about and the ominous approach of final exams. This, is the appealing lifestyle of an overachiever.

I think I'm going to dive into some of that homework (I use the word 'dive' only because it is slightly less depressing then 'start') and hopefully when I finish today, at 10:00 PM I will feel an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Yeah.

Writing: My New Hamlet Manifestation

Time is so ephemeral.

It seems to pass by so quickly, so fleetingly that even as I grasp wildly to try and hold it , it slips through my fingers like sand. I suppose that's a universal human habit, grasping at straws although we are well aware there is no significant yield.

I'm trying to write a book. Yet, everytime after I've written a few hundred words, and I scroll up- face flushed with satisfaction- to reread my art, it does not seem to have the essential quality of an author. It seems forced, as though I was being compelled by some mortal threat to write a story. So, I sigh and try again muttering about how frustrating and utterly insatiable my desires for good writing are. Perhaps I'll post some here- its not as though anyone reads this.

In other news, I've coined a new word: 'Gah'. Yes, that's right, for a small fee I give you permission to use this newly-minted, unfailingly charming and endearing word. It means (but do understand, there is a great deal of artistic licsence permitted here) frustration.

My hockey team is doing very well this season. Perhaps I should correct that- its not really 'my' hockey team. I'm not devoted or obsessed enough, to start thinking of them as a possession. I'm just a mild observor, who takes occasional interest. My city's hockey team is doing very well this season.

Good.


I've just finished reading the first book of Guy Gavriel Kay's series, The Sarantine Mosaic- again. I read it so many years ago, back when I was immersed in my own world of unhappiness and tragedy. Now, though, as if I were seeing light coming through a mosaic in Ravenna, it seems perfectly clear to me that this novel is a brilliant work. He writes so persuasively, every word drawing you into the vortex of dangerous deception that he has artfully painted. A refreshing, elegant novel that has led me to read its sequel- again.

And because no blog is complete without a proper dose of randomness (neologism you understand?) I will type the following:

Fo shizzle.

Heh, so out of character.

The First Post

It was suggested, a long time ago, that I try this. That the ubiquitious surfers of the internet might even take passing interest in what I have to say, in a blog posted in the farthest corner of the internet. I remembered, vaguely, an article I had seen in my local paper, that raved about the wonders of the blog and its ostensible encroachment upon modern literature.

That said, boredom can provide a remarkable impetus to act on offhand suggestions. Thus I am here, typing and staring blankly at my wonderfully formated screen, wondering what I could say that could possibly be of any use to the world. Mind you there is no little theraputic value in writing- it has a mollifying effect on someone who wakes up at 7AM on Saturday and whose life is largely composed of learning fascinating pieces of knowledge such as how the carboxyl group figures in the formation of certain acids.

I have a chemistry test to study for. Although, it is generally understood I am an academic first and foremost, who, of his own volition, will spend most of his life with his nose immersed in mundane literature, the reality is I procrastinate. I can envisage the smothered laughs of disbelief that statement might evoke, but it is an uncannily accurate observation of myself.

Its like Hamlet, though my circumstances are perhaps not that dire.

After the chemistry test, I suppose it is due time to begin studying for my history exam. The list goes on, and I certainly won't bore my internet abode by regaling it with tales of academic obligations.

The reason, I suppose, for all of it is that I want to go to a good university. So that everytime, when someone asks me where I want to go to pursue post secondary education, and I say (so originally) 'Harvard', I can actuallly feel that is a feasible dream. Of course it isn't, which my acquaintances don't seem to be able to understand- admission to those universities is very difficult at the best times and impossible at the worst. I'm not harboring false hopes, mind you- the mindset of a pessimist, wouldn't allow that. Whatever, can be said about the sunny disposition of optimists, at least it can be said of pessimists, that they are never disappointed. Perhaps we pretend to take solace in that fact.

I think I shall visit here often now.