I believed I had an original idea

I believed I had an original idea but it appears I was trumped by Ira Glass. Ah well. An idea sprung forth from NPR and to its humble beginnings it is returned. Ashes to ashes.

However, I would like to note the eloquence of the theme "This I Believed" in comparison to Ira's theme "This I used to Believe". As my high school English teacher said, "Omit needless words." And so I will: blog closed.

I Believed that Texting would Prove Me an Idiot - Contributed by Samantha Ross

Yes, texting can be great. It opens doors for those who do not like to talk to people but who still like to be annoying. It makes it possible to say something simple without having to go through obligatory, polite chatter first. For me, though, it can be a hesitant process that fills me with self-doubt.

To text efficiently, you must misspell words—shorten them and change them to use the fewest characters possible. To misspell words on purpose, though, makes me feel a little sick. Sure I misspell words all the time, but asking me to do it on purpose is like asking me to stick a needle in a dead dog’s eye. I’d probably do it, but I’d definitely cringe. Misspelling a word makes me feel like an idiot—worse, it makes me feel that others will think I’m an idiot.

What if the recipient does not know that I know that “night” is not spelled “nite?” What if he thinks I really don’t know the difference between “to” and “too?” When texting, I may first type “too” in full, but then I fear that the recipient will think I’m a poor texter, one who is not savvy enough to create a shortened, fastly typed text. So, I’ll erase “too,” cringe, and type in “to.” Then, enlightened, I’ll erase “to” and type the number “2.” Clearly he will not think me so dumb as to mistake a number for a word, and now I’m using only one character instead of two or three. Brilliant!

But other misspellings are not so easily remedied. How best to shorten the lengthy word of "tomorrow?" I can't leave out an "r!" Best to just condense it to "tom" and confuse people when I type "I'll see you tom." (But I'm ann!)

Heaven forbid I will ever type “lol.” Why not just type “ha?” And is it possible to really feel the affection of a “luv ya?”

Texting is all about saying nothing with the fewest characters possible. Me, I prefer to say a lot with as few words as possible. And sometimes I prefer to just see how many words I can get out before somebody tells me to shut up.

I Believed Science Provided Proof

Growing up in the US educational system, we were taught that science provided proof. Perhaps it was never framed in that exact manner but still young boys and girls came away with that message. Class exercises centered around using the scientific method to arrive at a given result instead of using the scientific method as a way to explore a question. Science in American grade schools and high schools was mostly formulaic with little room for creativity or unbounded inquiry. This is perhaps why I was not personally drawn to pursuing a life of science in my younger years.

However despite believing that I did not have a personal calling to become a scientist, I still held a healthy reverence for science. How could you not when we are constantly bombarded by the media with results from researchers that "prove" this or "confirm" that? All researchers, as portrayed in the media, are labeled as experts and its hard to refute an expert when you have little to back up your opinions. So in other words, scientists were gods of knowledge. And everyone knows that you never question the gods.

So when I headed to college I pursued architecture as a career. It satisfied my creative side as well as my parents' practical side, so it was a win-win as far as career choices go. Through my education it became apparent that there were more happy accidents in architecture then deliberate manipulations of space. So every building that is built ends up being an incredibly expensive experiment in functionality and design. Shouldn't we be learning from every construction project? In the medical field they collect this type of information to better the whole field of medicine. So why is no one utilizing this wealth of information in the field of architecture? A better question may be... why is there a lack of research in the field of architecture?

Science is clearly the answer and the savior for the profession of architecture.

Believing that science provided proof, one would assume that you could just go to some scientists and ask for proof that what they deemed important and right was in fact true. It's like going to see the wizard and asking for a brain. Except in this case instead of a heart-felt lesson about self-confidence, the scientists laughed at us. Why did they laugh at us? Because apparently science DOES NOT provide proof. What do you say? Yeah, the earth is round and Santa Claus does not exist. Have a nice day.

It seems to be a little guarded secret among scientists that they believe other scientists are generally full of shit. Science seems to be more about the process than the result. It focuses on intelligent questioning and lots of skepticism. Sure, there will always be problems with methodology, reservations about the types of analyzes that were used, and disagreements about theory, but in the end this our best means of inquiry.

But do not for one second forget that it does not provide proof.

"What we observe is not nature itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning." -- Werner Heisenberg (Physics & Philosophy, 1963)

I Believed that a Little Bit of Alcohol Enhanced One's Writing

After reading that last post, 'I believed I was Comfortable with Death', I no longer believe that a little bit of alcohol enhances one's writing.

I Believed I was Comfortable with Death

GENERAL WARNING: ACCORDING TO THE BLOGGER, THOSE CURRENTLY BELIEVING IN AN AFTERLIFE WITH NO QUALMS WHAT-SO-EVER SHOULD NOT READ CONTENT OF THIS SORT BECAUSE OF THE RISK OF DETRIMENTAL WORLDVIEW EFFECTS.

There was a time when I believed that death was a part of life and as such, was something with which I was comfortable. I revered the wisdom of friends like Angie whose sincere response to the question, “Are you afraid to die?” was “No, what's there to be afraid of? It'll just be like when George Washington was alive.” For a fraction of a second it sounds naive, but ask yourself, “What was it like when George Washington was alive (not historically – for you personally)?” Was it good ? Was it bad? Bet it wasn't either. That used to make me feel better. Similarly, Sammi still insists that she's not worried about dying when she's blinded under white water in a kayak because if she died it would just be dying. She's much more concerned about the possibility of getting hurt. She has a point - especially in terms of the George Washington factor.

Lately though, the George Washington factor has taken on a new flavor. See, the thing about the George Washington factor is that it only works when framed in a personal way. It provides no defense against the mind boggling absurdity of the fact that death is fundamentally different than leaving, or for that matter, than never being seen again. For instance, my mother's former boss had some sort of personal crisis a year ago, quit her job, and moved to New Mexico. Given that I never had any sort of relationship with the woman, she should have essentially been dead to me the day she left. Well, she died today and now she doesn't exist - which is very different than someone I met once now living in New Mexico.

This is a little hard to take, but it's even harder if you factor in history's most creepy parlor trick. The year before my father's suicide my family took this quaint little European vacation to France, Italy, and Spain. All sorts of history to experience. But for me, many of those experiences weren't quite what I expected. I had heard a lot about the “energy” that haunts settings of atrocities of long ago (think personal testimony from Auschwitz 1998) and was expecting it around every marbled masterpiece with a bloodied past and each piazza that witnessed an infamous execution. In fact, I was eager for it. But time and again it eluded me – even on The Bridge of Sighs.

Finally though, we stumbled upon Castello Estense in Ferrara Italy, a moated medieval castle surround by one of Europe's best preserved ancient city walls. Though, in actuality, there were no historical occurrences that would even register on the odious European events scale, we were practically the only human beings touring the fortress that afternoon. As such, every artifact seemed to have a certain intimacy about it much like the way you can almost feel the knife in your childhood back during a really good round of murder in the dark. When we came through the corridor to the Prison of Parisina I was certain it would happen. I mean look at it (thanks Wikipedia):

The Prison of Parisina was a prison within a prison, a sub-cell of the usual jail and torture chamber. It even had a good story. Once upon a time, Parisina, the second wife of the Marquis of Ferrara, fell in love with Ugo, her step son. They were discovered, imprisoned, and beheaded (around 1400 AD). Their candle smoke etchings can still be seen on the ceiling of the chamber. In that prison I touched indentations in ancient walls worn from leaning shackled bodies and visualized the doomed hands - scared and beaten - that wrote upon the walls. And eventually I was overcome by something blood chilling and invisible.

It was history's creepiest parlor trick. Despite all this macabre, I was suddenly acutely aware that the worn walls were just worn walls, void of any sort of supernatural energy. No essence remained. Nothing was left of Parisina or Ugo. What was it like when Parisina was alive? Was it good ? Was it bad? Bet it wasn't either. And the chill became an emptiness and the emptiness remained. And what is emptiness but non-existence? And what is non-existence but death?.

I believed I was comfortable with death as a part of life, but the metaphysics of nonexistence defeat me.

I Believed I Saved Money by Shopping at Thrift Stores

I've been told that I do not post frequently enough. For this reason, I'm posting a quick and dirty entry for you (you know who you are).

I believed I saved money by shopping for clothing exclusively at thrift stores but my Wells Fargo spending report has convinced me otherwise. Apparently I've spent well over $150.00 on second hand clothing this summer alone. That's a lot considering most items are priced below $5.00 – at least 30 new (to me) articles of clothing since June.

I Believed I Would Write Great Things

It started early. On February 28th, 1984, a month shy of three years of age, I first wrote my name. Despite that it was comprised of three (or perhaps two given that the 'N' was redundant) all caps letters - ANN - the work was met with great acclaim within certain circles of family and friends. Not but a few months later, my mother took dictation as I composed the following poem.

Verse 1:
The blustery wind and the puddles looked at the splashing waves.
Verse 2:
The sand of beach and the sunshine that was hot and the boat that was clearly red.

In retrospect, I realize that Verse 2 lacked the poetic merit of Verse 1, complete with its anthropomorphism reminiscent of T.S Eliot's poem, "The Winter Evening." In fact, Verse 2 altogether lacked a predicate. Nevertheless, with a slight stretch of the imagination, it hinted of William Carlos Williams' poem "The Red Wheelbarrow," and is still admired today for the fact that it could exist simultaneously as a sentence fragment and a run-on sentence.

...And so destiny begged the question: Were these words prophetic of budding genius? Those close to me were quick to answer a resounding, “Yes”. Thus, I was encouraged to write and I came to believe I would write great things. I wrote Kokopelli in the fourth grade amidst a juvenile fascination with local archeology and lore. This, I believed, would be my first major literary contribution.

Kokopelli
Kokopelli on your sandstone panel
Dance and play your music
Until the sun rises
Then leap into your petrified figure
On the ancient sandstone wall.

Claiming to be impressed, my father and my fourth grade teacher helped me submit the poem for publication. Nearly a year later, I received a rejection letter. The Western travel magazine, Arizona Highways, claimed not to be accepting reader submissions. But belief is a stubborn thing and I continued to write with an unswerving faith in my literary destiny. I expressed this conviction in a poem:

If I Could Be
If I could be a hawk, I would fly.
If I could be a coyote, I would run.
If I could be a fish, I would swim.
Since I am not, I will write.

And write I did. What follows is a small sample of the many lackluster works I produced between 1991 and 1993.

Earth
The earth is a colorful ball. Like a marble.

Riddles
1) For days and days what is dim as night?, But when rain falls, shines bright? (wobniar)
2) What hides its head when daylight spreads, yet in the night it shines its dim light? (noom)

Honky Goose
The chill of winter has come
All the geese flew south but one
His name is Honky, Honky Goose.
He is the last to leave. The caboose.
Honky is waiting for Christmas to come.
Then he plans to fly South like the other ones.
But the ice is freezing rapidly.
And his feather aren't as thickly layered
as his friend the duck. But with a
bit of luck Honky can stay and see
Santa on that very special Day.

Amagin
Let’s amagin a world of peace.
Where every tree is shaded green.
And the sky above is blue and clean.
Where nothing is gloomy and all is brite..
Here darkness never reaches and all is lite.
In this world of harmony no one is ranked lower and all is free.

I believed I would write great things, each work surpassing its predecessor. I believed myself to be the child prodigy destined to one day write the ever illusive "Great American Novel". My name would grace the cannon of American literature throughout my lustrous lifetime, and when at last I died, I believed I would take my rightful heavenly thrown, seated squarely between Shakespeare and Steinbeck.

And even now, looking back over this sample, a trend of literary quality is clear. But its direction defies my prediction. There is no escaping the obvious. "Verse 1" is superior to "Verse 2". "Verse 2" surpases "Kokopelli". "Kokopelli" dwarfs "If I Could Be". Alas.

To plagiarize a lyricist with real merit - "I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now."