Cursive

Amidst the doodling of the bottom half of a pointed flamenco dancer, a snowman, and a black-and-white withered tree, I rediscovered a treasure, my penmanship.  Sometime in the later years of high school, necessity for fast notes and quick attention compelled me to forsake my beloved cursive for chicken scratch print. With start-and-stop print, I can write, but cannot think; yet, with slow, long, and flowing strokes, cursive allows me to think freely, which perhaps explains why I perceive it as a consistent, aesthetic beauty.

TED

I learned of TED in the summer of 2007, and for several days and many restless August nights, I watched some incredible videos that unquestionably changed my perspectives. I remember anxiously awaiting TED 2008 to come in March, and all of the splendid videos to be later posted on ted.com. I was let down that the videos were not posted soon after, and, later, dejected that those videos never seemed to appear. A year later with another conference, I cannot help but feel that 2008 was a tour de anticlimax.

This is not to say that 2008 was bad, only that it did not have the pizzazz of the other years. Or perhaps, I have misremembered some of the 2008 videos as belonging to other years. Yes, that should be it. There certainly were some great ones. I suppose TED's past showcases of brilliance spoiled me.

Here is to another year, TED.

Into the Wild

Last night I learned that my father bought several books for my brother’s literature classes. This annoyed me, because such wasteful purchases should not be made until the crescendos of our economic dirges are all but murmurs – or, if ever. Indeed, my annoyance gave way to anger and self-pity when I realized that one of the books was the same book I gave to my mother for Christmas, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. How wasteful we still are! It sickens me. Recently I have forsworn buying books and instead opted for libraries; as such, everyone else should follow my lead. (Heh.)

So today, for fear that my brother would not read the books and waste my father’s money, I decided to read them. I started with a story that I knew but never approached, Into the Wild, the biography of a young man who left a modern life for vagabond travels and seclusions in nature. The author’s measured analysis of the young man’s life transcends the normal clichés of the genre. While most know the tragic fate of the traveler, the story is at its saddest when the traveler’s many acquaintances react to his demise. While the young man may have left civilization to become more human and embrace the solitude of nature, in his last days he notes that perhaps to be human is to share in these delights of nature. We should not pretend to be distant, stoic men, but men that love each other and let it be known. Otherwise, the dirge of the bells tolls for thee. 

To that end, I hope my brother reads Into the Wild and that we may let our thoughts be kown.