Mimicry

In a sense, much of our learning derives from mimicry. The magic of intelligence is not its mimicry, but its adaptive potential. One of my greatest foibles is a lack of abstraction. I see, I discover, I imitate, and when tomorrow arrives, I've learnt in a linear fashion, instead of dispersing that knowledge into connections. It is like a puzzle game where you see doors with a green lock all game, and eventually find the green key. However, if you only recall the location of the last green door, the rest of those connections you made on your entire play-through are squandered. 

In programming, old languages (and even new languages, sometimes) require the developer to consider memory. In those old languages, you specifically asked for segments of memory, and constructed pointers to access those memory instances. When you finished using that memory space, you cleared the space from the program's usage. This way, you don't end up with memory leaks in your code that lead to all your computer's memory disappearing and your program swallowing all your computer's computation and memory.

More modern languages abstract away that clean-up in a process called "garbage collection". When you lack abstraction, you aren't connecting those pointers. Your mental program is wasting space with leaked memories, floating about in your head without having revived those dusty corridors of brain-space. This is my artistic failing. I'm swimming in a sea of lost pointers and memory leakages, and every new fact is isolated and devoid of translation. 

Yom Kippur

Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the sabbath and Yom Kippur Candles

Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to this special time.


I've noticed through studies and reading and different interactions that each culture views God in a different manner. Almost every Jewish prayer begins like these two for Yom Kippur: baruch atah hashem, eloheinu melech ha'olam - Blessed are you, oh Lord our God, King of the universe. In fact, when writing out these prayers, the Jewish people often write out "ha shem" which means "the name" instead of the word for Lord, for fear of taking the Lord's name in vain. If you've ever seen G-d before, you know a Jewish writer is writing such to avoid actually spelling out the name of God. There is a lot of fearful respect there that I've always found a bit fascinating.
Anyway, it is Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement for Christians is strange, as we don't receive our sanctification and redemption through priestly sacrifices (though the Jews do not either at this point).

Leviticus 16: Day of Atonement Text

Many of the traditional activities current Jews avoid are not found in that chapter, but in the Talmud and later writings. Wikipedia lists these as traditional, though I'll probably stay relatively Biblical:

No eating and drinking

No wearing of leather shoes

No bathing or washing

No anointing oneself with perfumes or lotions

No marital relations

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur

It is the one Biblical holy day that is a fast. Later, the celebration of Purim (Esther) includes a fast as well, though it was not an original holy day. I was sitting here and playing guitar, lighting candles (Jewish holy days all have candles. Light is a very important motif of Judaism), praying, thinking, and singing, and wondering what this day actually means for me. Is it like an Easter or Pesach? Thankfulness for God's sacrifice as our passover lamb? Or is it praise and thanks for the blessing of sanctification? I honestly cannot say quite what it means to me, and I've honestly never succeeded in keeping Yom Kippur. Last year, I was walking and praying and doing a fantastic job, when a whole row of blackberries tempted me when I was spacing out. I ate handfuls before realizing how stupidly I'd broken my fast.
Another traditional piece of Yom Kippur is the remembrance of those lost to us. This is another thing I'll be remembering.

New Shoes and Clicking Heels - I'm Home.

A rather shoddily shot picture of my parent's backyard. Yeah, we live in a forest. The maples look positively gorgeous in the late afternoon sunlight. We also live in a valley (which makes running tricky, since I have to go somewhere so I'm not constantly running at 30 degrees up) I'd blame the camera for this shot, but it was actually my fault. I got excited and took the picture as I walked under a fir and quickly scrambled to capture the moment. I did not capture the moment, but at least I captured - for me anyway - something. The apple trees are looking splendid, the pines, firs, maples, birches, all the trees in the backyard are so amazingly beautiful. I needed this vacation. I went and bought running shoes with the mother, had dinner with the family, and then we started playing bananagrams. Turns out, my dad is a secret champ, mother is a bit slow, Sam makes up words, and Phil gets to be a combination of Sam and mother. I think my dad is also siphoning me terrible letters every game (or just not mixing them). Then we played quiddler (rummy with words), and Mother won the first game, Phil the second. It's so good to be home, almost moves me to poetry. I can wait until sunny-tomorrow for that, though. I really wish I had come home earlier in the summer season for more of this. I miss the Redmond (Carnation) country-scape so very much: the valleys, the mountains, the rich greens, the smells of pine and rich soil, the bears trampling our apple trees (just once I think. But he knocked over the whole tree to get apples. Gluttonous bear), the windy hills leading home, the waterfalls and mountains less than an hour away, the half-price books. I admit, the first place I went to was not home, but in fact the bookstore. And half-price books was having a 20% off sale! (2/5's price books?)

It all makes me want to weep with joy, write stories all night long, drink all the apple juice and chips and salsa and oatmeal raisin cookies that my parents treated me. And I want to climb that mountain. I also have a strong desire to see mount rainier.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/eb/Mount_Rainier_from_west.jpg

I have a feeling the clouds are rolling in. By Wednesday (my mid-week fun day), I think it might even be too rainy for a good view of the mountain. We'll see.

Several summers ago, when I worked at camp, I was not given much warning or information on what to bring (I only knew I was working at camp for a day before I flew out). One of the (many) things I forgot was a good pair of shoes. I brought old shoes that were almost worn out, and camp destroyed them. Because I did not have time for a lifeguard certification, I did only field activities for the kids: baseball, archery, soccer, running around, and so on. My shoes almost immediately fell apart. Especially since at the start of summer there was still quite a bit of snow (7000 feet up in the mountains?), and it shortly switched to over 100 degree days, I'm fairly certain my shoes just gave up on life. Shoes falling apart was a big deal. The second biggest problem I faced was that there was no cell service for an hour in any direction. Everyone brought calling cards with them so they could use the camp phone. I didn't know about the calling card setup, and had no calling card. I thought about writing a letter - no stamps. That was the easier of the problems, but writing a letter to ask the parents to ship you shoes? (because it was 3 hours to a location that sold shoes as far as I could find out. I had no car). The turn-around time on that is intimidating.

Instead, I borrowed a calling card, and quickly called my parents and asked them to send me shoes. This is where I made another mistake. I forgot to tell them my shoe size. I simply stated, as quickly as possible, that basketball shoes should work just fine. Apparently my parents believe me a clown, and they bought me 10.5 men's shoes. I'm not a short person, but I'm a bit below the national average for males (a little over 5'9"). My foot size, however, is not 10.5. When I got home, I bought some 9.5 sambas, which turned out to be too big also, but lasted me almost 4 years. Two years ago, I bought my current pair of shoes, another pair of sambas that are 8.5s. Today, I finally bought the first pair of shoes that I think truly fits my feet. They are 8s. Yep, 2.5 sizes smaller than my parents believed. I even have some extra wiggle room at the end for my toes.

The Most Telling Move

Late. On a day of complete freedom, with few predetermined appointments, I still failed in running until far too late into the evening, and thus haven't started writing, reading, or preparing for work tomorrow as yet. I went to a games store (and bought a card game - I haven't done that in some time), went to a used bookstore (and bought only 3 books. What restraint!), played some disc golf, read a bit of Everything is Illuminated, skyped the guys, ate dinner, played a board game that lasted all night, and only just now finished running in the light drizzle for a while.
In other bright news, I fixed my desktop drivers and wireless such that I can use it again (I can work on dual screens instead of lappy386 all the time). A pleasant day. As I was running and listening to my audio book (best way to run ever), I was contemplating subtlety and cunning. When I compete, I often pick what I deem the most effective strategy. I know some people who always play aggressive, always play sneaky, always play through knowledge. I pick the most effective strategy, whatever it happens to be, and mold my tendencies into that strategy. Yet, if I had to select my favorite, cunning was always my preferred method of conquest - winning through intelligent process and careful analysis.
I enjoy games, but I enjoy them far less than people, now. This was not always so. And in the games today, as I lost and my opponents asked me how my horrible game felt (they are competitive sometimes in a bad way. I was there once), I simply smiled and said, "It's good to be outside with friends." They had no response. In the greater game, I made a move they could not counter with their existing strategies, and it captured their hearts a bit. Sneaky? Perhaps. But a good move, I'd like to think. I've made another move today, the most telling one, perhaps. Now we just have to wait and see whom it heals, and whom it breaks.

A friend of mine's mother may be dying soon. Pray for them, and her. And everyone else. I've a tough decision to make here soon, so pray I make the wise one. Lord, please help me make the right one.

Comme ci comme ça

The more I see of people's lives, the more I'm dazzled by each person's fantastic defiance of expectations.  I see a couple people who are, at first glance, so similar: sporting, outdoorsy, lovers of good books, outgoing, competitive, *swedish*.  I think, "those two are like twins! They are so similar!" Then, as I interact with each, alone and in tandem, I realize they are so different as to be beyond belief. He likes soccer and running sports, she all sports, especially football, soccer, and ultimate frisbee; he enjoys day-hiking, and she prefers backpacking and long hikes; he endeavors to understand all the rules in games so he can compete with authority and knowledge, while she tends toward sneaky strategy and feisty competition. He's a hopeless romantic and she owns no jewelry, wears no makeup, dislikes receiving gifts and is ambivalent about dating.

What did I see at first that was so similar? It's mind boggling the difference I see now! Perhaps I'm simply unobservant, or perhaps this is simply the nature of persons, the marvel of creation. At the atomic level of being, God made us unique. I think this is why the tragedy in Death of a Salesman always breaks my heart. It is the tragic lie we swallow so heartily: "you are not important; you are a dime a dozen." It is the most malicious of lies, that which (thank you Obi-Wan Kenobi) is true, from a certain point of view.

But it is not true. The more I see, the more I realize that if I knew all God knew about each one of us, I could not but love everyone with all my heart. I would sacrifice myself for any one of them, knowing the trials and obstacles each has faced, bringing them to this point of life, and knowing their thoughts and reasons. It places things into perspective if I get angry or short with anyone (hopefully I don't). "What was life like in their shoes, today?" Or this past week, or year. 

Well, that was a series of thoughts that might be long essays if I spent more than a couple sentences on each.

I was planning on a Sabbath day, a rest from activity at home. "Introvert time" if you will. Of course my hopes were stymied. That's fine though, I still had a good (if not the most restful) day. I did have the whole morning to myself and I got to read a book (Fellowship of the Ring). It has been weeks (June 26th I think, waiting in line to have my book signed) since I've read a book in one sitting, so I'm thankful I got that opportunity, finally. I did not have time for writing that short story. I wrote a little more of the Jak "Ragnorak" story, and perhaps detailed a little for myself of the Harold the Walrus story, but I wrote no stories about clouds or not-people. Sorry, P. Next time.

A person who won't read has no advantage over one who can't read.
~ Mark Twain

With that, I think I'm going to surrender writing, and go do some reading. Maybe I can read two books in one day. How magical would that be? So much for writing a short story tonight. Shikata ga nai.

Gunshot Robbery of Spring

Thunder exploded in the deep distance, the gunshot robbery of spring.

Only later, sometimes, can we see the faults within ourselves.  From a distance, that image on the television looks real, real people living their diverse lives. It looks perfect, ideal, these perfect people walking as heroes in their worlds. Even the villains can look statuesque, as marble figures stern and cruel. But you take that step closer, and you see pixels, the atoms of digital expression, and realize these are not platonic forms. We are not the shadows of these images, nor are these images we see on the wall perfect. But sometimes, in the moment, it's easy to consider ourselves chiseled specimens of mankind when evaluating our own beliefs and arguments.

Not that we always do, oh no. Humanity bites and growls when threatened with classification. Some never build the self-esteem requisite in deeming oneself the exemplar of humanity. But the point is that often, in the heat of the moment, we believe our viewpoint valuable, more valuable, perhaps, than it warrants on later introspection.  We think our theories, our philosophies, our faith and creativity and experience as the experience and it is difficult to listen. There are times when it is difficult to stop and pay attention to other's viewpoints, difficult to imagine that this wall of shadows we've set before ourselves is not all reality contains.

Even in simple examples like writing a story, I believed my piece elegant and worthy of merit. Glancing back at it now, I wished I'd put it aside longer for revision, as each paragraph is rife with cracks and flawed expression. This is how it is, isn't it? But if we make mistakes, so, too, can we learn from them. In my life, sometimes I feel like spiritual, emotional, physical seasons come and go as surely as natural seasons. I'm passing, perhaps, from spring to summer, or summer to fall, and I can hear the thunder in the distance, I can smell the storm on the wind. 

And there are more important things than my issues, my conceit, my problems. I have friends whose mothers are dying; whose newborn babies cannot swallow food, and they've been in the hospital for days, trying to discover ways of feeding their child; friends running from or enduring painful relationships; friends starting new relationships; friends struggling with money and jobs and anxiety and despair and stress; friends who are lonely or tired or aimless and despairing at finding any direction to their lives. And there are friends just in transitions, frightened of the change.
It is humbling to think of these things and to consider, what have I, really, to compare to these in my life? The worst thing that happened to me this week was getting stepped on with cleats because I foolishly enjoy playing soccer without shoes. Or maybe missing friends in distant places. Humbling. Sure, I'm not certain where my life is going, or where God is taking me, but that friend is losing her mother to cancer, and that friend over there is fighting panic attacks, and that friend over there is suffering from x and y and z, and so on. 

Soul Tea

I've gleaned much this weekend, from restorative fields. Friday stretched on into forever, work demanding concentration I thought long dissipated throughout the week's hectic tumbling. And finally I burst into the clear. I felt like my submarine had imploded beneath the sea. I swam with all my might towards the surface, and the going became tougher and tougher until finally I broke free, the water tension of the surface breaking around me. It was none so difficult, nor so deadly or anxious, but the weekend was a breath of fresh air.

And once it arrived, it arrived with panache. Grey clouds covered the sky, but the sun cracked its way through and a light show danced towards earth, illuminating the cottonwood seeds floating about the sky like pixie dust or summer snow. I ran and ran for soccer, and grew tired and ran some more, through a beautiful sunset of cotton-candy clouds and into the early twilight. Arriving home, I collapsed in bed and wrote and read until I fell asleep. I woke bright and early and skyped with A and S for several hours, smiling and ponderously engaging in the diamonds and coals of life. Then P and guest came over and we explored Newberg, eating burritos and cilantro salsa and kicking around a soccer ball on the turf fields.

Finally, I rested half an hour before heading out to the lake for a bit of canoeing, picnicking, swinging on a giant swing between the trees, wire-walking, sunset canoeing, archery, and, eventually, goodbye hugs. I drove back beneath stars just peeping into being in the heavens. As a child, I remember books like "Chicken Soup for the Soul", and I think this was my chicken soup for my soul. A perfect Sabbath.

One thing I heard about Sabbath once was that God rested on the 7th day, and not the first. God did not rest to prepare for the upcoming week, but to celebrate a week that was good. It is a tiny difference, but one I really appreciate. I had a most excellent week, and celebrating it on the river with cider (they had beer) and bread was the perfect end to a week. Thank you, Lord, for the Soul Tea. I know I'm going to need it.

The Road I've Traveled By

Nostalgic Mornings: Friday Edition - The Road I've Traveled By - by Benjamin
In a former post, I discussed my slow start into writing. I believe my first incursion into purposeful writing and reading began in my early senior year, when A decided art what was he truly loved, and disappeared into the art studio for a year. I was in a unique stage in life, with some close friends trickling out of life and some new friends stampeding in, and I'd much on my mind worth considering. I still have all my journals, and I can still see my original, first journal piece that I ever wrote on this train into now. I wrote a poem titled "The Oasis Divine" and a small piece on roads. I did not expect I might be still writing today, or that the journaling would continue at that time, and did not date my entries for some time. Everything started out slow, and I believe my journaling probably did not truly pick up speed until late 2009. That 2009 through early 2010 journal was far more utilitarian: a sequence of diary notes.

What is fascinating is glancing backwards and seeing these journals now. Most of my journaling was done through poetic prose, story, essays, and vague dialectics. Rarely did I discuss actual events occurring in my life. Yet, I can see as I walk through each life segment the tragedy of each time, the triumphs. In the end of 2009 where my writing dives into sadness at the loss of a great friend; in the hopeful, early seasons of 2010 where I was realizing dreams; in the mid-seasons of 2010 when I lost the same friend, again, and the crushing of dreams; in late 2010 with A's difficult time where his brother was sick; in 2011, when A found S and I started my first nanowrimo. In 2012 when A disappeared into California, Matthew had some interesting relationships, P got out of the house, a family friend died, new house with new people, a graduation of my best friend, Matthew (was that really just 2012? 7 years of school... hehehe) - so much changed in 2012. And now, this year with its own crazy ride. I look back at the prayers I wrote, the fasts I followed, the stories I wrote, the pain I battled, the joys I praised through over and over, the friends I pleaded for and love so dearly, the poetry of a soul living.

There are some motifs, it seems.  Two favorite recurring phrases in the darker times: Dum Spiro Spero and "Time Inexorable" which is something that comforted me when high school was miserable. During blessed, joyful times, motifs such as different Psalms of joy, more poetry, paeans, a bright fable or myth.  I did not get my story into the anthology (only twenty people got in out of over a thousand entries). I'm a bit disappointed, but the publishing is creative commons, which means I get to see who did end up winning once it's published. I actually suspect that I could have been denied because my story was a tad... odd. It leaned towards the urban, weird genre rather than traditional fantasy or sci-fi. The experience was by no means a loss, and I actually do enjoy the story I wrote (at least a bit). Hopefully another anthology opportunity stumbles on by soon enough.

Losing Battles and Joyous Reminders

Some wars cannot be won, no matter how the battles are fought. Countless times, I've come across these: Pyrrhic victories, where every battle is won, but the cost is too great, or the loss inevitable. These are the worst. More than ever, these drive my competitive spirit, rekindle that flame of conquest I've denied. Why can I not win? Surely I just need more motivation, more study, more understanding... Perhaps that is true, or perhaps another force exists beyond what I can compete with, and impedes my victory no matter the invested effort. Whatever the case, I know I'm not the only soldier in these battles.

I see that others also engage in inevitable defeat, and strive until the bitter end for a lost cause. When I see others endure these losing battles, my empathy cries out. I shudder and cry for them, I pray desperately that theirs will be different - can I help? Can I shift the inexorable tides?  And here I sit, suffering that same generational weakness of the pharisees and Israel, asking for a sign, a miracle, a prayer of a chance for the sufferer. My eyes are fixated on the fact that a particular door is closed, and I cannot deign to see whether any other doors might be closing and opening, for myself or them. So I and they continue fighting, keep on winning battles in a losing war, or not, and the outcome appears an injustice forced upon us, when, if only we'd had faith, we might walk the water away from a sea in storm. Sometimes, there is more than life to gain, more than pride to lose, more than selfishness at stake.
So how can I help?

I'm an empathetic person, mostly. When my closest of friends suffer, I suffer also. I've endured fevers and sleepless nights, nausea and visceral agony (mostly all at once) for friends in hurtful scenarios, and they'll never know. I would not add to their pain. I cry out all night for their anguish - oh, may it cease, may it cease - and when it does, or if, I praise the Lord as in the most triumphant of Psalms. In fact, I believe I suffer more for other's angst than my own, for I know that God will get ME through. He always has, however much through the threshing (and the threshing often comes). Would that I had that same faith all the time.

But I read some comforting words in Psalms, today, chapter 46:

God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change
And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;
Though its waters roar and foam,
Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.
...
Come, behold the works of the Lord,
Who has wrought desolations in the earth.
He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth;
He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two;
He burns the chariots with fire.
“Cease striving and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”
The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our stronghold. Selah.

Beautiful and important words. He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth, even wars in me. Break the bow and cut the spear in twain. My God is a consuming fire, and full of loving grace. Have faith.
I'm praying for you all.

(And this is the victory that has overcome the world, even our faith)
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I was reading one of my favorite poems tonight, and was just jarred by its lyric:

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats      
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….      
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

---

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall

TS Eliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Such a master of verse, rhythm and rhyme.