But sometimes when I go back, I find myself unable to really expound on a topic. So then this happens:
Spurgeon’s Tower of Isolation and Intentionally Long Essay Titles
The Ant of the Self is one of a new breed of “high” literature concerning the typical minority experience, written, ironically enough, by a very atypical minority. Fortunately, the story lacks the usual pretention towards “understanding” the average minority and instead acknowledges the unusual experience of the author, ZZ Packer. Yes, why is it that modern authors feel the need to squeeze meaning into every line? But it is the status quo. Apparently, writing throwaway fiction is no longer considered an art. I mourn the dozens (Thousands? Millions?) of unpublished authors who go about peddling their trashy romances, predictable mysteries, boring Sci-Fi’s but cannot find a home for these rough, uncut literary gems. Why, oh society? Why do you ignore those in need of a voice? Instead you invite pretention and desecration as a viable alternative to the true works of fiction. But I digress. The story is written with the purpose of demonstrating the isolation that one (likely her, from a biographical standpoint) feels when you don’t quite fit in to any particular portion of society. The author does this through the character of Spurgeon in his approaches to the situations with his father, the Million Man March and the small child he sees at the end of the novel are written.
Without fail, Spurgeon assumes the worst of his father, from his assumption that his father would never pay him back to the assumption that he had mugged someone for money at the end of the novel. Though these assumptions are rarely contradicted, they serve to provide a window into Spurgeon’s perspective of his father. He is perpetually at odds with his dad, constantly correcting him, as in “You mean stockbroker. A stockbroker advises about stocks. Not an accountant,” (77) or insulting him, as in “He’s so stupid, he’s brilliant; so outside of the realm of any rationality…” (82) It’s through this sort of verbal conflict, as well as the ubiquitous analysis of his father’s every movement that Packer creates to the world of isolation that Spurgeon inhabits. Indeed, Spurgeon feels just as isolated from his mother, as it was “…clear that the only man of this house was Jesus.” (85) Spurgeon also subconsciously judges his father’s actions, adding connotations and seeing emotions or intentions that may or may not be real from beginning: “…as if trying to get them [words] through my thick skull,” to end “…as if he’s congratulating me.”He spends a great deal of time focusing on the differences between himself and his father, looking to distance himself intentionally from the undesirable aspects of his father. Just as publishers intentionally distance themselves from authors they don’t approve of. If your name isn’t bigger than the title on a book, they don’t care. Look what happened to Kafka! He died before he was really published! If only they had cared, he might still be alive even today!
Later at the Million Man March, Spurgeon typifies the black men at the march as somewhat menacing as in “…wearing stern looks and prison muscles.”(91) He is constantly worried that one member or another of the crowd would hurt him exemplified by “One man looks like he wants to beat the crap out of me.” (90). He designates the whites outside the picket as simply being aloof, or interestingly enough, also scared of the blacks as shown by “Quite a few whites also stop to look as if to see what this thing is all about, and their nervous, hard smiles fit into two categories: the ‘Don’t mug me!’ smile, or the ‘Gee, aren’t black folks something!’ smile.” (88-89) This emphasizes the disconnect Spurgeon feels with his own race as well as the races of others. As he so dramatically explained to members of the march, he’s not interested in the black nation or other issues beyond “debate purposes.” Just as major publishers aren’t interested in the short fiction works of names they haven’t heard of. They spend their days counting all the money they’ve made of the latest James Patterson novel, or counting revenues from the latest Evanovich tripe, but do they think of the little guy? No. Not once. After all, the little guy isn’t making them money. But fiction is about so much more than that. It’s art! Printed art, word for word!
At the end of the story, Spurgeon is dead tired, beat from his father and the trek to the train station. He witnesses a boy with his father at five in the morning, and immediately begins to construct a negative, depressing story about the boy and his father: “…kid in the hot sun for hours…cold night for longer.” (102) When he’s proven wrong at the end, he realizes his folly and how disconnected he really is. His isolation comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave when he realizes how unhappy he is, contrasted by the kid’s happiness, stating that the kid was “the happiest I’ve seen anyone, ever.” (103) Despite this, he simply sits through the pain of his realization and lets it pass. Just as society has let so many great works of fiction pass, simply slip through their fingers like so many diamonds hidden within snow.
Packer worked hard to create a feeling of isolation. As the book jacket states, her characters are on the periphery of society, unable to move to the center for one reason or another. Spurgeon is clearly unable or unwilling to accept a place in one or another society that he belongs to. He refuses to be black, he refuses to be white, he refuses to be his father, and he refuses to bend; choosing instead to remain in his tower of moral rectitude rather than meet the world at a level plain. Even at the end, after his life changing fight, he continues to think badly of the station attendant, the man with the child, and the little old white lady talking to herself. The way he approaches the world around him makes this evident. But weep not for Spurgeon, for he shall not weep for himself. Weep not for the unpublished novelists of this world, for they shall not weep for themselves. John Kennedy Toole might still be alive today, if publishers cared. They said his novel “isn’t really about anything.” How wrong they were.
This is why I get 'c's.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Before
See, I'm down with writing essays. I can totally do structure and stuff and whomp out a good page in like fifteen minutes. But sometimes that's all I can write without feeling like I'm repeating myself. Here is a prewrite (errors included) of a recent essay. Before quotes and whatnot are applied.
Packer’s intentions in The Ant Of The Self is to emphasize the isolation Spurgeon feels from the world around him. She does this through the character of Spurgeon in the way he approaches the situations with his father, the million man march and the small child he sees at the end of the novel.
Without fail, Spurgeon assumes the worst of his father, from his assumption that his father would never pay him back, to the assumption that he had mugged someone for money at the end of the novel. Though these assumptions are rarely contradicted, they serve to provide a picture of the way Spurgeon views his father. Indeed, he felt just as isolated from his mother, as it was “clear to him that the only man of this house was Jesus.” He spent a great deal of time focusing on the differences between himself and his father, looking to distance himself intentionally from the undesirable aspects of his father.
Later at the million man march Spurgeon typifies the black men at the march as somewhat menacing, constantly worried that one member of the crowd would hurt him or another. He again designates the whites outside the picket as simply being aloof, or interestingly enough, also scared of the blacks. This emphasizes the disconnect Spurgeon feels with his own race. As he so dramatically explained to members of the march, he’s not interested in the black nation or other issues beyond “debate purposes.”
At the end of the story, Spurgeon is dead tired, beat from his father and the trek to the train station. He witnesses a boy with his father at five in the morning, and immediately begins to construct a negative, depressing story about the boy and his father. When he’s proven wrong, finally, at the end he realizes his folly and how disconnected he really is. His isolation comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave. Despite this, he simply sits through the pain and lets it pass.
Packer worked hard to create a feeling of isolation. As the book jacket states, her characters are on the periphery of society, unable to move to the center for one reason or another. Spurgeon is clearly unable or unwilling to accept a place in one or another society that he belongs to. He refuses to be black, he refuses to be white, he refuses to be his father, he refuses to bend; choosing instead to remain in his tower of moral rectitude rather than meet the world at a level plain. The way he approaches the world around him makes this evident. But weep not for Spurgeon, for he shall not weep for himself.
Packer’s intentions in The Ant Of The Self is to emphasize the isolation Spurgeon feels from the world around him. She does this through the character of Spurgeon in the way he approaches the situations with his father, the million man march and the small child he sees at the end of the novel.
Without fail, Spurgeon assumes the worst of his father, from his assumption that his father would never pay him back, to the assumption that he had mugged someone for money at the end of the novel. Though these assumptions are rarely contradicted, they serve to provide a picture of the way Spurgeon views his father. Indeed, he felt just as isolated from his mother, as it was “clear to him that the only man of this house was Jesus.” He spent a great deal of time focusing on the differences between himself and his father, looking to distance himself intentionally from the undesirable aspects of his father.
Later at the million man march Spurgeon typifies the black men at the march as somewhat menacing, constantly worried that one member of the crowd would hurt him or another. He again designates the whites outside the picket as simply being aloof, or interestingly enough, also scared of the blacks. This emphasizes the disconnect Spurgeon feels with his own race. As he so dramatically explained to members of the march, he’s not interested in the black nation or other issues beyond “debate purposes.”
At the end of the story, Spurgeon is dead tired, beat from his father and the trek to the train station. He witnesses a boy with his father at five in the morning, and immediately begins to construct a negative, depressing story about the boy and his father. When he’s proven wrong, finally, at the end he realizes his folly and how disconnected he really is. His isolation comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave. Despite this, he simply sits through the pain and lets it pass.
Packer worked hard to create a feeling of isolation. As the book jacket states, her characters are on the periphery of society, unable to move to the center for one reason or another. Spurgeon is clearly unable or unwilling to accept a place in one or another society that he belongs to. He refuses to be black, he refuses to be white, he refuses to be his father, he refuses to bend; choosing instead to remain in his tower of moral rectitude rather than meet the world at a level plain. The way he approaches the world around him makes this evident. But weep not for Spurgeon, for he shall not weep for himself.
Monday, March 9, 2009
New music!
Yay for creativity sparked by limited tools! One day, I'll have internet again and I'll go back to making super obvious songs out of samples. For now, I must dig into my own musical collection to snip bits out of and otherwise desecrate the original artist's work.
Incidentally, I found out I was wrong. Hip-Hop is not my most listened to music. Which means I'll have to go back to answering that question with "yeah, I like instrumental Hip-Hop, Eighties synthpop, and vulgar Post-Disco/White Rock-Rap fusion."
Do I sound pretentious?
Incidentally, I found out I was wrong. Hip-Hop is not my most listened to music. Which means I'll have to go back to answering that question with "yeah, I like instrumental Hip-Hop, Eighties synthpop, and vulgar Post-Disco/White Rock-Rap fusion."
Do I sound pretentious?
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
It's official
I finally queryed my music collection, and I can now say that my favorite music is Hip-Hop. Which says nothing of what variety I actually listen to, but is interesting nonetheless. I'm happy to have an answer. Peace out, homie G's.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Why Do I Have A Blog Anyways?
People (Who I assume are trendy) frequently ask me "Oh, do you have a myspace/facebook/xanga(seriously)/whatever?" So I'm forced to deny ownership of any of these means of personal expression. I say, no, but I have a website! And their faces droop, saddened by the realization that they won't have the opportunity to pry into my personal life, or whatever it is that motivates people to spend hours on myspace/facebook/xanga/whatever filling out little quizzes and messaging long chains of personal tell-alls to one another. I tell them of my website, I give them the address, and then they don't bother visiting, because a blog is somehow inferior or at least less entertaining than a social networking page.
On the one hand, it makes me a bit sad to see a personal connection swing and miss, but on the other, I honestly have no interest in most of the things that people who frequent myspace/facebook/xanga/whatever do. I actually do have a myspace, though I razed it when I realized I wasn't interested in vainly attempting to keep lines of communication open with people from my past. it's under "thejakeman16." I also started a facebook page, mostly so I could see all these relatives my dad keeps meeting over it. It's under my name, which you should know if you've been paying attention. Back to the point of this post, I have a blog simply because it seems like the best way to organize myself. And I hate things that aren't blogs. I even hate most blogs, especially when they get flashy, or preachy, or all personal.
I hate most things. :/
On the one hand, it makes me a bit sad to see a personal connection swing and miss, but on the other, I honestly have no interest in most of the things that people who frequent myspace/facebook/xanga/whatever do. I actually do have a myspace, though I razed it when I realized I wasn't interested in vainly attempting to keep lines of communication open with people from my past. it's under "thejakeman16." I also started a facebook page, mostly so I could see all these relatives my dad keeps meeting over it. It's under my name, which you should know if you've been paying attention. Back to the point of this post, I have a blog simply because it seems like the best way to organize myself. And I hate things that aren't blogs. I even hate most blogs, especially when they get flashy, or preachy, or all personal.
I hate most things. :/
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
My Political Beliefs
Like all opinions, this is subject to change. And hope. Yes, I can.
I am a fiscal conservative and social liberal.
Fitting a vast breadth of opinion and thought into one phrase always leads to some oversimplefication. I believe the only thing that government should be supplying are things that the people cannot or can't be trusted to provide. These things are pretty much limited to Laws and Police, Fire services, Access to medical assistance, Transportation (especially to government mandated activities, like school), Water, and Defense. Anything beyond that is frivolous, as far as I'm concerned. Socially, however, I honestly don't care what people do, as long as it doesn't interfere with other people's capacity to live.
I am a fiscal conservative and social liberal.
Fitting a vast breadth of opinion and thought into one phrase always leads to some oversimplefication. I believe the only thing that government should be supplying are things that the people cannot or can't be trusted to provide. These things are pretty much limited to Laws and Police, Fire services, Access to medical assistance, Transportation (especially to government mandated activities, like school), Water, and Defense. Anything beyond that is frivolous, as far as I'm concerned. Socially, however, I honestly don't care what people do, as long as it doesn't interfere with other people's capacity to live.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Some Terrible Music
Just to prove that I have been making some, though not necessarily the best. My internet has again been down for some time, so I'm more or less using the same samples. On the bright side, I'm finally getting some sort of hang of using a synthesizer, as you can hear at the end of Amped. Bad habits to work on: Making a song that's really a couple of songs squished together. The style ends up being jarring. Also, don't change the tempo mid song. It just doesn't seem to work.
This song is probably the most presentable. I just put a bunch of piano together with synth and hoped for the best. On an unrelated note, isn't it interesting how the word hope and pray are more or less synonyms?
This one I'm most grouchy about. It started out as a "alright, let's make a metal song, and turned into a string of unrelated, but nice sounding, guitar bits. It's a slur on the Ulroch name. All the more reason to post it then. :p
Now, this one..... it started as some sort of slow Hip-Hopish beat, but then I was like, whoa, this sucks and I turned up the tempo and threw in a half speed music bed and some square lead. The result is kinda weird, but I like the synth. First time I feel like I really nailed a self made synth section without it sounding forced.
This song is probably the most presentable. I just put a bunch of piano together with synth and hoped for the best. On an unrelated note, isn't it interesting how the word hope and pray are more or less synonyms?
This one I'm most grouchy about. It started out as a "alright, let's make a metal song, and turned into a string of unrelated, but nice sounding, guitar bits. It's a slur on the Ulroch name. All the more reason to post it then. :p
Now, this one..... it started as some sort of slow Hip-Hopish beat, but then I was like, whoa, this sucks and I turned up the tempo and threw in a half speed music bed and some square lead. The result is kinda weird, but I like the synth. First time I feel like I really nailed a self made synth section without it sounding forced.
A House Divided
This segment is a bit more negative. Here, the camera focuses squarely on Halliwell and his insecurities. More to come, natch.
A Coffee shop:
“Where’s that guy? That Kevin fellow?”
“Dunno. Is that his name?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, anyway, so I had a great Idea. Every state should be its own state.”
“The country is way ahead of ya.”
“No, I mean state in the nation sense. The entire country should divide into 50 separate countries. Each could collect its own taxes and make its own legislative decisions.”
“But they already can.”
“No, not at all, states aren’t allowed to do a whole mess of things that the federal government can. Like make treaties with other countries. Like
“You know, Hitler was an Austrian.”
“And a vegetarian, but how is that in any way relevant to my fantastic Idea?”
“Absurd idea, you mean.”
“And how so, mister big shot?”
“Well, for one, having states that size would never work. It would lead to disparities in less populous states, like
“But that already exists!”
“Not to the extent it would, the government helps make up for lack of income and support. Beyond that, there’s the problem of defense. How would a collection of tiny nations defend itself?”
“The same way the colonies did. Through a collective army.”
“But it would be a nightmare to co-ordinate. And speak nothing of potential conflicts between states. What if
“What kind of line of thought is that? When was the last time a foreign nation attacked mainland
“We have to think towards the potential future. What if there was another Cuban missile crisis? What would the collective nations of
“Beyond the ridiculousness of that idea, the opposing power wouldn’t necessarily be at war with all of
“Now that’s just crazy talk. You know, after World War One, people said that would be no more war ever again. It was to be the ‘war to end all wars.’ It didn’t last long, now did it?”
“But nearly every conflict since world war one have been American provoked. Even the entry into both of those wars was somewhat contentious.”
“Bah, conspiracy nonsense”
“Even discounting the two world wars, we still have the Korean war,
“Which was initiated by
“When a figurehead we installed to ensure constant supplies of oil got somewhat uppity. It was still none of our business, and clearly an attempt to justify flexing our military muscle just after the cold war. Anyway, the current
“Now you’re just getting silly.
“Ridiculous. No one has the guts to use a nuke in this day and age. The global sanctions and political climate would decimate whatever part of the nation left after the retaliatory strikes. Quit interrupting me, though. Before the world wars, we had the Indian “wars” where we slaughtered a continent of people for having an incompatible way of life. After that we have a number of smaller wars, mostly with
“Wow. You really are insane. Weren’t the other day you complaining about the ‘hippie group think’ that I was espousing? And now you’re spouting a long line of vitriol against your home country. Don’t you appreciate it living here? Most anywhere else you’d be condemned for saying that.”
“In this country I’m condemned for saying it. Just because it’s a social condemnation as opposed to a legal one makes little difference to me. GOD! Why is this country so fucked up?”
“In the vein of JFK, why are you so fucked up?”
“A man, living in adverse conditions can do little to stop himself from becoming adverse.”
“Where’s that from?”
“Dunno, just made it up.”
“Ah, it must be bullshit then.”
“Oh, absolutely. Because only people who are dead and buried or famous can say profound things.”
“Now you’re catching on!”
“Obscure quotes and snappy comebacks are the realm of comedy writers, and the only thing funny about you is your face. Good day, sir.”
“Doth mine ears deceive me? Hath the great Halliwell J, esquire, made a comeback? This is rarer than the rose picked at midnight!”
“That’s not a real quote.”
“See, I can do it too.”
“Kevin’s still not here, what happened?”
“Why do you assume I know? I never work wherever it is he lives. I only see him here and not that often, at that. Why do you care, anyhow? He’s just some weirdo who sits by us for some reason. “
“You know, it’s nice to care about other people. It helps win you friends. Perhaps if you had some, you wouldn’t be so negative about this country. Sure, things aren’t as good as they were in
“Un example, por favor.”
“Americorps! Bill Clinton’s legacy of a volunteer program that helps people and communities nationwide.”
“Temporarily. No lasting impact. Some future administration will write it off, citing budget inefficiency or some such.”
“I doubt even a republican would commit political suicide by refusing to help people.”
“You’re talking about a party that recently railed against a “stimulus” package because it included a portion supporting birth control. Earmarks and condoms, they said. They should have said apportions and abortions. It would have rhymed better.”
“I’m perfectly aware of the general heinousness of the republican party. Back to my point, Social security has saved hundreds of thousands of retirees from complete poverty or death.”
“With whatever money they have left after all the borrowing against it the government does. The recent crisis has nothing to do with baby boomers. It has to do with a bunch of ill advised reallocations of funds from the social security pool to cover the ridiculously massive budget we’ve been wrestling with since the Reagan administration.”
“Can anything break through your bitter shell of cynicism?”
“Puppies, kittens, warm woolen mittens. That’s about it.”
“What of the education system? Millions of kids are educated for free, every year.”
“Go on.”
“I was waiting for another biting response. “
“I’m interested in what you have to say about yet another corrupt aging institution in society.”
“Oh, there it is. In other countries, kids aren’t educated nearly as much as ours. In most countries, people have to pay to get their kids educated past primary school. Here in
“That’s a very positive view of it.”
“Well, let’s hear your contradiction. By all means, let your ridiculous American antipathy free.”
“I’d rather not. I’m not a show dog, to be herded about and mocked. ‘Oooh, look at the adorable unpatriotic sentiment.’ I’ll have none of that, mind you. I’ll not be used to engage in others self reflection for them.”
“Self reflection? Is that what you call it? I think you’re simply trying to eke out an edgy space for yourself by fostering a pointless stance of purest cynicism. It’s more like ‘Oooh, I’m so impressed, he doesn’t follow social norms!’ It’s okay! You can let down your guard with me! You can be sentimental without trading in your balls! Manhood’s definition is no longer measured by the level of apathy you can display!”
“You presume to understand me? You, who hardly knows me? What about your silly crusades? You want people to support you in a grand unification of the human spirit, and join together in harmony and peace and understanding. Don’t you get it, Mike? That’s not what people are! People are many things, but kind and amiable aren’t on that list! There will always be hatred, always be segregation!”
“It’s you who doesn’t get it! These things are part of our base natures, sure, but with a conscious effort, we can overcome our brutal animalistic desires to surpass ourselves! Sure, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in my lifetime, but it’s a process! People can overcome! Can’t you see our progress? Can’t you see how far we’ve come! We have a black president! No more than fifty years ago the very Idea was unmentionable! The people in this country have achieved so much, and you would dash it all to the floor by simply saying ‘it’s not enough.’ When will it be enough, Hal, when?”
“Why do you persist in such unrealistic dreams? You’re just creating illusions for yourself to stem the acknowledgement of reality. Life isn’t sunshine and roses. All of these things you mention are just examples of the popular climate moving away from legal enforcement of social rules. Blacks are still treated like ghetto trash because they literally are ghetto trash. They’re being confined to the ghettos by social stratification. The real estate companies, god bless their souls, are simply supporting the views of the public. The only reason a black man became president is through a bunch of political maneuvering by the democrats. They needed an ace in the hole to guarantee their win, so they put forth both a woman and a black to see which the public would bite. They picked a black guy, and all of a sudden, racism is gone. That line of thinking is just so shallow, I can’t even begin to describe… When people begin to believe the rhetoric they hear, nothing good ever comes of it. Look at the McCarthy period! Look at the Comstockian laws! You really want people to think the problem is solved just by putting a band-aid over it! Schools are no better! Institutions of western propaganda! Even what is taught in schools ends up under controversy! And why shouldn’t it? Schools were designed to instill good catholic morals in the children of the working class years ago! Rather than encouraging free thought, it simply emphasizes a certain way of thinking! Why do you think colleges spend so much time deconstructing assumptions in freshmen? Because the public school system spent so much time building up a set of prejudices! Why are you so blind to this?”
“Blind? Blind? I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Why can’t you take any joy in life? Why are you so obsessed with motivations and judgments? Can’t you relax? Are the means really that bad? With the ridiculously high standard of living in this country, why does it matter so much how we got here or what we’re doing to support it? People are people, no matter where you go, sure they’re fallible, but there are wonderful things about them! Not everything in life is bad! Every day, people make miracles happen for other people! Huge amounts of money are donated to charity each year! Bill Gates, one of the richest men in America Has donated massive portions of his wealth, and plans to donate almost all of it to helping kids everywhere! Never before in history has the whole of humanity cared so much about each other! We make and buy free trade coffees to help the poor of other nations lift themselves out of poverty, we have massive organizations that move food and supplies to the needy all around the world! Millions of people volunteer around the world, using their time to help those less fortunate! There are so many good things in the world, and you only want to see the bad! With this horrible view of the world, why haven’t you killed yourself yet? If things are so bad and never going to get better, why are you still bothering to be alive?”
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“So, how bout that weather?”
“Better than last week’s, I suppose.”
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
“Listen, I’ve got to get going.”
“Yeah, same here. See you later, I suppose.”
“See ya.”
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
How to Be Smart
When I was little, around 3 or 4 or so, I was read to. Quite a bit. Lots of cool picture books and the like. I’m not sure if that’s what did it, but I certainly developed a fondness for reading only matched by my fondness for electronic games. At some point I figured out that the entire world was out there, in books, magazines, newspapers and the like. My first major literary love was the Animorphs series. In second grade, I read as many of those as I could get. I was also quite fond of the Goosebumps series of stories, though they started to wear thin, as every single book included a “surprise” twist ending. After that, in third grade, I was turned on to the harry potter series. I received the 3rd book from the mother of a girl I had been friends with since swim lessons when we were five. I read the third book and absolutely loved it, leading to my rapid consumption of the other two. After that, I can’t say there were any particular trends in the realm of fiction. At some point in 7th or 8th grade, I discovered the brilliant wit and magic of Diana Wynn Jones. I read a great deal of her books in another short span. Ah, I read Enders shadow when I was in 6th grade and absolutely loved it. So I read Enders Game, but not the later novels, at least not until I was fourteen or so. In 8th grade I read all of Dan Brown’s terrible, terrible novels after reading The Da Vinci Code. Also in 8th, I finally read the His Dark Materials trilogy, though having heard about it several times before. It ranks up there as my most re-read novel, with only the Harry Potter series approaching. And that’s only because I would re-read the entire series of Harry Potter just before a new book came out, so I could remember what happened. My heaviest literary period was in my teens, as I went through a vast number of Crichton, King, and Card novels. I also fell in love with the wheel of time series, and finished that over the course of about half a year. Pepper and salt as you please with all sorts of smaller, unrelated books that aren’t particularly memorable. I did read the first few Series of Unfortunate Events but I wasn’t a big fan of those. I have a tendency of only reading books that are particularly critically acclaimed. I read several books in grade school based on that criterion alone. The most recent trilogy of novels I read solely for pleasure was the Soldier’s Son trilogy, by Robin Hobb last year. I thought it was pretty dang good.
That’s just the novels. Magazines I’ve subscribed to over the years (or have been subscribed for me, in the first two examples) were: 3-2-1 Contact, the children’s version of Discover. My favorite part of that magazine was a monthly story featuring some time traveling kids. Cool stuff. Zillions, the consumer reports magazine for kids. Neat reviews of toys and various doodads, with some cool parody comics aimed at corporations. Skip some time, and Electronic Gaming Monthly was the only magazine I read for awhile. Later I read a lot of the regular Discover magazine. Most recently, I read nothing but Newsweek.
Other literary things I’ve read or otherwise done mostly fall under the heading of comics (the strips, mostly). I’ve read the entirety of the following strips: Bloom County, Calvin and Hobbes, Dilbert, and Peanuts. Read massive portions of Doonesbury as a kid, and re read them getting older (something to be said for the joy of re-discovering exactly what makes the comic funny, or relevant, or biting, or whatever.) I would literally go to the library (up till around sixteen or so) and check out like twelve of their collections of comic strips. And maybe one novel. As I got older, this would translate into manga or graphic novels. The entirety of my comic book based knowledge is formed from these graphic novels. I was never dumb enough to pay two bucks for a booklet full of thirty trite dialogue pages and one page of action. The entirety of my trivial knowledge (which is far vaster than I’d like to admit) is based on the discovery of the magic of Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader, though it was later built upon through hours and hours of Wikipedia benders.
Though, as my ideological opponents will gladly (and vociferously) tell you, This only leads to book smarts. Valid intelligence, certainly, and a healthy love of books is good for anyone, but it lacks a necessary component to make one truly intelligent: social intelligence. This I may not have in spades, as my life has somewhat interrupted social development. I was a bit violent as a kid, but fairly gregarious. I found that a good deal of kids didn’t like me based on my intelligence or odd habits or whatever else. So I forced kids to like me, either through force or through coercion. Whether or nt this worked is something to leave to philosophers, as frankly I wasn’t all that interested in hanging out with other kids for much of my youth. I typically had one or two really decent friends that I’d actually talk to or hang out with and tons of acquaintances that I don’t really recall. In grade school it didn’t matter much, since you basically just played with whoever or whatever at recess. I was never the last kid called on or the only one shunned, nor was I the first. My life took a turn for the strange around sixth grade, shortly after my parents divorced. I had already been sent off to my aunt about a year previously as a solution to my “out of control behavior” wherein I’d refuse to do homework or much of anything besides play video games. Since my mother suddenly (well, the divorce was her idea, so, premeditatedly?) found herself a single mom, it put a bit of strain on her to have a relatively non functioning kid. Anyway, I returned and started sixth grade where things were a bit different. Previously, I went to the elementary school which was literally up the street from my house. For Middle school, I was expected to get up much earlier to catch a bus . Naturally, I didn’t take to well to this change, causing my mother to become rather more upset by my behavior. Middle school didn’t treat me well. I didn’t get along with anyone at the school, and I had been properly brow beaten out of fighting as a method to cope (or whatever it was) . it was then I become the losery kid who slept through morning math and was failing every class except English (I had an exceptionally stern teacher, Mrs. Beadle, who managed to frighten me into doing my work). Details here are a bit fuzzy, but at some point in this period of time I did something that seemed especially heinous to my mother, and she submitted me to a psychologist to figure out what was presumably wrong with me. The test came back more or less negative, and my mom was very annoyed at this. We left the psychologists office, and returned to the parking lot to make a phone call to her boyfriend (and later husband) Jim. At some point during this, she remarked to me “You’re not coming home with me,” which drove me into a fit of depression, fiercely enough that I hit myself several times on the head on a pillar thing that was nearby several times, until my forehead became bloody and scratched.
My mother, upon seeing this, took me back upstairs to the office and to emphasize her point, she thrust me forward in the office and shouted something along the lines of “there is something wrong with this child!” at the presumably bewildered patients and doctors. Later that day, she admitted me for the first time to (Vernon?, Divinity?, Dominion? I can’t recall. It was next to a freeway and right at the beginning of Virginia, I think) Mental Hospital. It was an interesting place, and incidentally where I read Enders Shadow. I was more or less myself, as I got over the ordeal rather quickly. During the group meetings, when we introduced ourselves, I would jokingly point at my somewhat scabbed forehead and say “I’m here because of this.” My best friend in that place was a pyromaniac. I remember once sneaking really late at night (I was a chronic insomniac back then) into another kids room to try that “put a hand in a cup of water at night to make them pee” thing. I can’t recall if it worked. Anyway, not to dwell on that too much, I was released with a diagnosis of minor depression. Details are again fuzzy here, but that certainly wasn’t the end of it. I was admitted one more time to Dominion (I’m pretty sure this is it) later, and released again with the same diagnosis (I later learned that it’s the most minimal diagnosis that can be justified having my stay there). At some point after that I was placed in a group home. The group home had been intended for teenagers, but they put me in because I was 12 and the justification was that I was close enough. The group home was another interesting experience. Naturally, I didn’t along well with the teenagers, who thought (probably rightly) that I was a pest and would gladly torment me, just for kicks. Anyway, they had a computer at the group home, though no video game consoles. I was very adamant about acquiring an internet connection for said computer (so I could play more games, natch) to the point that when I found a key ring in an old desk, I tried them all out until I found the key to the little psychologists office there and I unplugged the phone cord so as to use for an internet connection. I was never particularly good at concealing my misdeeds (I once stole a Troll branded package of gummies from a super market when I was 4. Instead of properly eating my stolen item, I went and showed it off to my mom like a week later) and I was quickly caught when the line of questioning turned towards “where did you get that?”
Of course I got in huge trouble, my mom was called, and so on. This lead my mom to taking me out of the home. Before I left, one of the counselor guys insisted on playing chess with me. He went on about how I divided and conquered people, and that was how I worked (I doubt it had anything to do with the chess game, I was terrible at chess). So this lead my mom to once again drive to a different hospital and demand (at some 10 at night) that they evaluate me. By the time someone came out, it was around two, and he said that there was nothing wrong with me. When we got home that night, my mom made me sleep on the kitchen floor and insisted on staying until I was asleep, to make sure I wouldn’t touch the gas burners (something that I had never done). Shortly afterward, I was shipped off to go live with my grandmother. There is a bit more stuff in this period, such as a house fire that led to me and mom living with Jim for awhile, and me having to take the metro and walk to school each morning (it wasn’t that bad, like four blocks away).
Well, I went to live with grandma, another interesting experience. If you may have noticed, I really don’t mention a lot of people outside myself here. I didn’t have really very many friends in this period. There was Ben and his brother Matt in the after school care, as well as my mortal nemesis, Tony, (the kid was a total dick. He once stole an awesome K’nex motorcycle thing I had made and claimed he built it. Later, while we were playing football [tackle, touch is for pussys] he ran into the brick wall we were using as a goal and had to be carted off by some medical people.) but outside of that there were few people in my life beyond me and mom. At grandmas, I didn’t do much. I didn’t go to school for the rest of sixth grade, and only had a tutor in the summer to keep me grade level or whatever was the excuse. I spent a lot of time on my grandma’s computer, playing around on the internet, downloading games, filling the thing with viruses. I played a lot of video games. I would rent an N64 game almost weekly and more or less played through every game that EGM deemed worthy that was on the n64. I discovered the magic of card games, after having dabbled in Pokemon cards in grade school. I rode the initial yu-gi-oh wave, but stuck with magic: the gathering, since the cards were cheaper. I went to a special school in seventh grade. It was pretty weird. The teacher was some sort of self healed manic depressive (or something) who often went on about how she hoped the kids would learn to get past the problems before they turned forty like she did. You were allowed, and encouraged to take your shoes off in class and stuff like that. There was also a twice a week class in Su bok to, a south Korean martial art taught by another one of the teachers at that school. I made one friend, who I think was named Eric. Very similar to me. That all more or less ended when my mom came back up to Montana to more or less reclaim me. I didn’t want to go, I was perfectly happy with my life of decadence, but she insisted to the point of calling up CPS to remove me from my grandmother’s home. That was the end of my twelth year.
So, I came back to Maryland. My mom, on the first day, impressed on me that she was very serious about things, going so far as to tie my hands together to demonstrate what would happen to me if I dared lift a finger against her (something I had never done). Properly intimidated, I went about life as best I could. I was enrolled in the local middle school (mom had moved out with and married Jim while I was in Montana), where my previous woes more or less continued. Other kids thought I was weird because I’d take off my shoes in class and wouldn’t do much work. I was also kinda chubby at this point. Too much general lethargy in Montana. So, after I got into a scuffle during P.E. (it was wrestling, and some kid had punched me after I was down. No lie, he punched me in my open mouth. The ol’ Ow! he bit me, bit. More scuffling after) I was sent of to a special school for the emotionally disturbed. I want to say it was called “Discovery” or some such. There, I was treated to some of the easiest classes I’d ever attended, where participation counted more towards a grade than actual correct answers. Also had a weekly therapy session, where I did very little beyond play fetch with a dog and answer the occasional question. At home things weren’t all that great. A few weeks after I arrived, my mom quit her job (Because, you know, she now had a rich engineer hubby to take care of her), and devoted her life to watching me, not cleaning (seriously) and spending her time on craigslist or freecycle picking up various doodads to fill our garage with. On the Jake front, I was quickly banned from eating in the living room, one of the least enforced rules I’ve seen in my life, because I had spilled some soup on the carpet. Things are going a bit out of chronological order here, as they all happened in another place and time and mindset, so bear with me if I stop making sense. At this point in time I was denied my main source of fun, namely videogames, all my consoles and stuff were still in Montana. All I had, for some reason, was a computer in my room with internet access. This was enough for me, more or less, except that access was extremely curtailed, and was on a permission basis only. I would have to nag my mom or Jim to let me on, and there were other various strange stipulations. Jim is a somewhat temperamental man, and he would sometimes refuse me access if I was too pushy. I believe I had computer privileges taken away for some amount of time for turning on the computer prematurely.
Well, I’m not sure why I wrote this. It feels good and right and all to get it out, but I’m not sure If I’m just expressing myself, or digging for sympathy. Like a lot of things, it’s probably a little of both. I don’t really tell this to many people I know, with maybe three people having some of the general idea of it. It’s true, what they say, each time you tell it, the easier it gets. Anyway, if you feel (probably rightly) that I’m just inviting you to a pity party, I hope you can forgive my vanity of holding one.
Obviously, there's more to the story, but neither my mind nor my heart is into writing the rest of it. I still feel terrible posting this, so ingrained is my self hatred for "attention seeking" or whatever. I dunno. It's complicated. Actually, I'm on the verge of deleting it again.
That’s just the novels. Magazines I’ve subscribed to over the years (or have been subscribed for me, in the first two examples) were: 3-2-1 Contact, the children’s version of Discover. My favorite part of that magazine was a monthly story featuring some time traveling kids. Cool stuff. Zillions, the consumer reports magazine for kids. Neat reviews of toys and various doodads, with some cool parody comics aimed at corporations. Skip some time, and Electronic Gaming Monthly was the only magazine I read for awhile. Later I read a lot of the regular Discover magazine. Most recently, I read nothing but Newsweek.
Other literary things I’ve read or otherwise done mostly fall under the heading of comics (the strips, mostly). I’ve read the entirety of the following strips: Bloom County, Calvin and Hobbes, Dilbert, and Peanuts. Read massive portions of Doonesbury as a kid, and re read them getting older (something to be said for the joy of re-discovering exactly what makes the comic funny, or relevant, or biting, or whatever.) I would literally go to the library (up till around sixteen or so) and check out like twelve of their collections of comic strips. And maybe one novel. As I got older, this would translate into manga or graphic novels. The entirety of my comic book based knowledge is formed from these graphic novels. I was never dumb enough to pay two bucks for a booklet full of thirty trite dialogue pages and one page of action. The entirety of my trivial knowledge (which is far vaster than I’d like to admit) is based on the discovery of the magic of Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader, though it was later built upon through hours and hours of Wikipedia benders.
Though, as my ideological opponents will gladly (and vociferously) tell you, This only leads to book smarts. Valid intelligence, certainly, and a healthy love of books is good for anyone, but it lacks a necessary component to make one truly intelligent: social intelligence. This I may not have in spades, as my life has somewhat interrupted social development. I was a bit violent as a kid, but fairly gregarious. I found that a good deal of kids didn’t like me based on my intelligence or odd habits or whatever else. So I forced kids to like me, either through force or through coercion. Whether or nt this worked is something to leave to philosophers, as frankly I wasn’t all that interested in hanging out with other kids for much of my youth. I typically had one or two really decent friends that I’d actually talk to or hang out with and tons of acquaintances that I don’t really recall. In grade school it didn’t matter much, since you basically just played with whoever or whatever at recess. I was never the last kid called on or the only one shunned, nor was I the first. My life took a turn for the strange around sixth grade, shortly after my parents divorced. I had already been sent off to my aunt about a year previously as a solution to my “out of control behavior” wherein I’d refuse to do homework or much of anything besides play video games. Since my mother suddenly (well, the divorce was her idea, so, premeditatedly?) found herself a single mom, it put a bit of strain on her to have a relatively non functioning kid. Anyway, I returned and started sixth grade where things were a bit different. Previously, I went to the elementary school which was literally up the street from my house. For Middle school, I was expected to get up much earlier to catch a bus . Naturally, I didn’t take to well to this change, causing my mother to become rather more upset by my behavior. Middle school didn’t treat me well. I didn’t get along with anyone at the school, and I had been properly brow beaten out of fighting as a method to cope (or whatever it was) . it was then I become the losery kid who slept through morning math and was failing every class except English (I had an exceptionally stern teacher, Mrs. Beadle, who managed to frighten me into doing my work). Details here are a bit fuzzy, but at some point in this period of time I did something that seemed especially heinous to my mother, and she submitted me to a psychologist to figure out what was presumably wrong with me. The test came back more or less negative, and my mom was very annoyed at this. We left the psychologists office, and returned to the parking lot to make a phone call to her boyfriend (and later husband) Jim. At some point during this, she remarked to me “You’re not coming home with me,” which drove me into a fit of depression, fiercely enough that I hit myself several times on the head on a pillar thing that was nearby several times, until my forehead became bloody and scratched.
My mother, upon seeing this, took me back upstairs to the office and to emphasize her point, she thrust me forward in the office and shouted something along the lines of “there is something wrong with this child!” at the presumably bewildered patients and doctors. Later that day, she admitted me for the first time to (Vernon?, Divinity?, Dominion? I can’t recall. It was next to a freeway and right at the beginning of Virginia, I think) Mental Hospital. It was an interesting place, and incidentally where I read Enders Shadow. I was more or less myself, as I got over the ordeal rather quickly. During the group meetings, when we introduced ourselves, I would jokingly point at my somewhat scabbed forehead and say “I’m here because of this.” My best friend in that place was a pyromaniac. I remember once sneaking really late at night (I was a chronic insomniac back then) into another kids room to try that “put a hand in a cup of water at night to make them pee” thing. I can’t recall if it worked. Anyway, not to dwell on that too much, I was released with a diagnosis of minor depression. Details are again fuzzy here, but that certainly wasn’t the end of it. I was admitted one more time to Dominion (I’m pretty sure this is it) later, and released again with the same diagnosis (I later learned that it’s the most minimal diagnosis that can be justified having my stay there). At some point after that I was placed in a group home. The group home had been intended for teenagers, but they put me in because I was 12 and the justification was that I was close enough. The group home was another interesting experience. Naturally, I didn’t along well with the teenagers, who thought (probably rightly) that I was a pest and would gladly torment me, just for kicks. Anyway, they had a computer at the group home, though no video game consoles. I was very adamant about acquiring an internet connection for said computer (so I could play more games, natch) to the point that when I found a key ring in an old desk, I tried them all out until I found the key to the little psychologists office there and I unplugged the phone cord so as to use for an internet connection. I was never particularly good at concealing my misdeeds (I once stole a Troll branded package of gummies from a super market when I was 4. Instead of properly eating my stolen item, I went and showed it off to my mom like a week later) and I was quickly caught when the line of questioning turned towards “where did you get that?”
Of course I got in huge trouble, my mom was called, and so on. This lead my mom to taking me out of the home. Before I left, one of the counselor guys insisted on playing chess with me. He went on about how I divided and conquered people, and that was how I worked (I doubt it had anything to do with the chess game, I was terrible at chess). So this lead my mom to once again drive to a different hospital and demand (at some 10 at night) that they evaluate me. By the time someone came out, it was around two, and he said that there was nothing wrong with me. When we got home that night, my mom made me sleep on the kitchen floor and insisted on staying until I was asleep, to make sure I wouldn’t touch the gas burners (something that I had never done). Shortly afterward, I was shipped off to go live with my grandmother. There is a bit more stuff in this period, such as a house fire that led to me and mom living with Jim for awhile, and me having to take the metro and walk to school each morning (it wasn’t that bad, like four blocks away).
Well, I went to live with grandma, another interesting experience. If you may have noticed, I really don’t mention a lot of people outside myself here. I didn’t have really very many friends in this period. There was Ben and his brother Matt in the after school care, as well as my mortal nemesis, Tony, (the kid was a total dick. He once stole an awesome K’nex motorcycle thing I had made and claimed he built it. Later, while we were playing football [tackle, touch is for pussys] he ran into the brick wall we were using as a goal and had to be carted off by some medical people.) but outside of that there were few people in my life beyond me and mom. At grandmas, I didn’t do much. I didn’t go to school for the rest of sixth grade, and only had a tutor in the summer to keep me grade level or whatever was the excuse. I spent a lot of time on my grandma’s computer, playing around on the internet, downloading games, filling the thing with viruses. I played a lot of video games. I would rent an N64 game almost weekly and more or less played through every game that EGM deemed worthy that was on the n64. I discovered the magic of card games, after having dabbled in Pokemon cards in grade school. I rode the initial yu-gi-oh wave, but stuck with magic: the gathering, since the cards were cheaper. I went to a special school in seventh grade. It was pretty weird. The teacher was some sort of self healed manic depressive (or something) who often went on about how she hoped the kids would learn to get past the problems before they turned forty like she did. You were allowed, and encouraged to take your shoes off in class and stuff like that. There was also a twice a week class in Su bok to, a south Korean martial art taught by another one of the teachers at that school. I made one friend, who I think was named Eric. Very similar to me. That all more or less ended when my mom came back up to Montana to more or less reclaim me. I didn’t want to go, I was perfectly happy with my life of decadence, but she insisted to the point of calling up CPS to remove me from my grandmother’s home. That was the end of my twelth year.
So, I came back to Maryland. My mom, on the first day, impressed on me that she was very serious about things, going so far as to tie my hands together to demonstrate what would happen to me if I dared lift a finger against her (something I had never done). Properly intimidated, I went about life as best I could. I was enrolled in the local middle school (mom had moved out with and married Jim while I was in Montana), where my previous woes more or less continued. Other kids thought I was weird because I’d take off my shoes in class and wouldn’t do much work. I was also kinda chubby at this point. Too much general lethargy in Montana. So, after I got into a scuffle during P.E. (it was wrestling, and some kid had punched me after I was down. No lie, he punched me in my open mouth. The ol’ Ow! he bit me, bit. More scuffling after) I was sent of to a special school for the emotionally disturbed. I want to say it was called “Discovery” or some such. There, I was treated to some of the easiest classes I’d ever attended, where participation counted more towards a grade than actual correct answers. Also had a weekly therapy session, where I did very little beyond play fetch with a dog and answer the occasional question. At home things weren’t all that great. A few weeks after I arrived, my mom quit her job (Because, you know, she now had a rich engineer hubby to take care of her), and devoted her life to watching me, not cleaning (seriously) and spending her time on craigslist or freecycle picking up various doodads to fill our garage with. On the Jake front, I was quickly banned from eating in the living room, one of the least enforced rules I’ve seen in my life, because I had spilled some soup on the carpet. Things are going a bit out of chronological order here, as they all happened in another place and time and mindset, so bear with me if I stop making sense. At this point in time I was denied my main source of fun, namely videogames, all my consoles and stuff were still in Montana. All I had, for some reason, was a computer in my room with internet access. This was enough for me, more or less, except that access was extremely curtailed, and was on a permission basis only. I would have to nag my mom or Jim to let me on, and there were other various strange stipulations. Jim is a somewhat temperamental man, and he would sometimes refuse me access if I was too pushy. I believe I had computer privileges taken away for some amount of time for turning on the computer prematurely.
Well, I’m not sure why I wrote this. It feels good and right and all to get it out, but I’m not sure If I’m just expressing myself, or digging for sympathy. Like a lot of things, it’s probably a little of both. I don’t really tell this to many people I know, with maybe three people having some of the general idea of it. It’s true, what they say, each time you tell it, the easier it gets. Anyway, if you feel (probably rightly) that I’m just inviting you to a pity party, I hope you can forgive my vanity of holding one.
Obviously, there's more to the story, but neither my mind nor my heart is into writing the rest of it. I still feel terrible posting this, so ingrained is my self hatred for "attention seeking" or whatever. I dunno. It's complicated. Actually, I'm on the verge of deleting it again.
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