Travel Writing: Entrée Quatre

(entry blasted into non-existance because it was so damned boring)

Travel Blog: Entry Three

I gripped the bicycle handles with the urgency of survival. I had a tendency to play it especially safe on unknown roads and in this case, the unknown was also foreign. The English countryside had a recognizable rural flavor to someone who had trekked winding Missouri roads. I often become impatient in the back of the pack, so I sped past my three friends as we made our way to Woolsthorpe, the ancient home of Sir Isaac Newton—“ancient” to a handful of young American students—just “old” to the English. At greater speeds, I became informed of the invisible resistance of air. It rushed past my ears the same way it had the first time I took my bike down a hill, losing none of the thrill. Every hill, turn and passing car presented a new minor challenge that made the ride what it was. It became quite easy to appreciate the concept of energy while pedaling up hills. We felt it not as the sinking feeling of filling up a gas tank, but the constant strain on our legs.

I hadn't had much time out of the manor prior to our ride. And whether or not people really have a need to experience the great outdoors every now and then, it certainly felt as though I was fulfilling this need. But what is so raw and natural about flying down a hill, paved through modern techniques on a fairly complex man-made machine? The inadequate cushion I sat upon wasn't a ripe pluck or fresh catch, yet it aided in my appreciation of nature. 

Upon arriving at Woolsthorpe, we begrudgingly handed over 5 pounds each to enter the property. After the feeling of authenticity delivered by the ride that took us off road and over fence, the house was dull and fake. Furnished with replacements and distractions, it was a severe disappointment. The only traces of the legendary mathematician's presence could be found in carvings on the walls. I thought of a prisoner trapped in a dull country house. No wonder he had so much time to think.

On the way home, we sampled the other side of the road under a sun that shone at a slightly different angle. The ride took a small toll on our bodies, but paid great dividends in beauty and experience. We saw a few fields of grazing animals; the initial wearers of authentic English wool. Some called out upon sighting us, but we weren't there to stay.

Unfamiliar Love Song

Billroy loved Delilah
Her fleece was white as snow
And every time she smiled, he would suck upon his toe

Billroy touched Delilah;
The hair upon her head
Her jaws unhinged and teeth came down and left him bleeding red

Billroy thought Delilah
Was lovely as could be
And there was no one lovelier as far as he could see

Billroy gave Delilah
A portion of his flesh
At which she screamed and down on him came heavy copper mesh

Billroy cried, “Delilah!”
“Whatever can I say?”
“Nothing.” she said, and left for dead the boy who lost his way

Billroy made Delilah
of thoughts and broken dreams
Imagination's done him in (at least that's how it seems)

Billroy stacked Delilah
Like books upon a shelf
If books were guilt and shelves were just a metaphor for self

Billroy loved Delilah
Although she was not real
And to this day he thinks of her before every meal

Writing Humor

(comic by Nicholas Gurewitch)

I often find myself sitting alone in my room brooding. I seethe and smoulder in solemnity and solitude, and write (often employing the use of literary techniques such as alliteration). All this brooding I'm doing doesn't come from the fact I've been wronged, spurned or even (dare I say it) gypped. Though social ills and political theatre can get under my skin, neither is it these that are my cause for brooding.

Writing Humor

Lesson 1: Brood for brooding's own sake

It is said that diamonds are forged in the harshest conditions. That's because they are. In much the same way, the most solid comedic elements of our society come from the most troubled minds. This is why many of your favorite comedians use cocaine and kill themselves and stuff. Taking this in mind, self-indulgent brooding is a fertile ground for effective humor. Ideal conditions include the following:

a. Separate yourself from others. (This is easiest to do when feeling sorry for yourself)
b. Turn your living quarters into an absolute wreck. (Try never folding clothes, and instead of emptying the trash, just buy more trash cans)
c. Make sure your shower is filthy, thereby removing the incentive to use it

Lesson 2: Build up a list of "influences"

Every successful humorist has "influences". These are basically writers, comedians and humorists who came before and shaped how you think about comedy and what is funny. In the past, influences could've have just been men (or in rare cases, women) who perhaps helped you to think in a certain way to come up with your own jokes and unique brand of humor. However, modern humor is a completely different game. Pretty much all of the good jokes have been told and there no such thing as "original" or "innovative" comedy any more. Shows like Saturday Night Live are merely the withered remnants of a bygone age of comedy. Legends like Robin Williams and Billy Crystal (their comedic thought fried by decades of coke abuse) are left to hand out meaningless awards and star in "movies" like RV and Flubber. 

So what use are "influences"? Influences are now great ways to "create" comedy through a process of cut & paste. Using comedic elements like puzzle pieces and jokes like glitter, you can turn your comedy into an ugly puzzle with glitter glued to it. I know it sounds bad, but the point is that no one will know the difference! Because not everyone is as clever as I am, I know that some won't understand this analogy. Basically, it can be summed up in two words: STEAL JOKES.

Lesson 3: Societal stereotypes are your ticket to Laughter City

Yes, Laughter City. I would have used "Laughter Town", but I didn't think it expressed the importance of this lesson well enough. And "Laughter Metropolis" would have been a bit overkill if you ask me. 

If there's one thing we're all taught to laugh at from an early age, it's stereotypes. From sex to race to religious background, stereotypes bring everyone together. Sure we talk about individualism and defining each other separate from larger collectives, but it's usually followed by a wink and a nudge. I remember when my mother used to tell me not to judge others by their sex or race. But she always said it with this whiny tone in her voice; (typical woman).

The power of this tool is evident in such shows as "The Carlos Mencia Show". This show proves that even the most low-functioning members of society can procure lucrative television contracts by sticking to the faithful principles of generalization and stereotyping. 

Lesson 4: Know when to end

Familiar Love Song

She laughs at all my jokes
Stupid people make us sigh
I swear we sat so close
...my iPod touched her thigh
Her presence gives me hope
That someone such as I
Could have a girl to help me cope
With all this withered pride

Self-indulgence runs like diarrhea
Down my pants-leg to the sea-ah
Her and me-ah, her and me-ah
Take her to the pizzeria
Oceans make a whole page crack
Pretending I'm not coming back
Don't go back, don't go back
Pain is black, black, black

She stomps upon my toe
At the playground, makes me laugh
My momma has to sew
Cuz my T-shirt's ripped in half
She can draw her elfin bow
And I will wield my magic staff
Cuz imagination's fun to grow
Walkin' down a wooded path

Adventures end when you're the hero
Without scores, you're left with zero
Drink your beer-o, drink your beer-o
Play her fiddle, play like Nero
Songs will make a white page red
Sorrows bucket, douse your head
What she said, what she said
I'm still thinking what she said

I'll impress her with my wit
I will caw, she will coo
We will shoot the breeze a bit
So glad finding one like you
Toss ourselves into the pit
And fulfilment we'll pursue
But we'll find that when we've quit
Only hatred has ensued

Bedtime made only for sleeping
In the mourning, hear the weeping
We're all sleeping! Stop your peeping!
Once alone, commence your creeping
Loneliness will leave the page
And at once you'll show your age
Goodly sage, honest sage
Teach us not to feed our rage

Trust

Trust.
Who do you trust?
Trustworthy, consumer trust, banking trusts, trusting personalities.

The living man thinks. I was alive today, and thought about trust. I trust some to borrow or loan. I trust others to watch over my things. I trust still others to personal information. But what of complete trust?

I define complete trust as the ability to have complete confidence in someone's integrity. I've learned that such trust cannot reasonably be extended. There is, however, a practical amount of trust you can put in your fellow man. Following the economics of trust and virtue, there is even a way to sort out who can be placed in your top-tier of trust. These people are your best friends, your spouses, the executors of your will. These are whom you share, confide in, and pray with. They are few and far between.

Or at least they should be. Throughout life, an individual should learn how to carefully determine who deserves this trust. To the experienced individual, trust is something to be given slowly and carefully because trust cannot be shed like snakeskin. New layers don't harden quickly, but trust lost can become a scar and possibly damage the individual in a myriad of ways.

Trustworthiness doesn't always imply that a person is prompt to meet appointments or always comes through with the potato salad at get-togethers. Trustworthiness is a matter of representation and perception. Does the person represent the truth of who they are? How well can you perceive what they represent? These questions are answered through experience with the individual.

Can you trust yourself? Only you can answer that question, but don't be so quick to trust your answer. Examine it. I trust myself, though not completely. Only abstract concepts can truly be given complete trust, as long as you can trust yourself to understand them.

The top-tier of trust is one that rarely changes, and is hard-earned. Mine has 3. It feels crowded. If anyone else isn't in that top-tier, it's because I don't know them well enough or I know them well enough not to place them there.

For your own sake, watch this tier closely.

Travel Writing Blog: Entry II

Today I thought about what it is to be observant. A lot of people will tell you that it's the ability to notice the little things. I disagree. There's no doubt in my mind that to be truly observant is to notice the big things going on around you. As a child, I would hunch down in the back yard and follow the path of a single ant carrying a unit of grain into its underground home. I was noticing a very small thing. However, it was only when I loosened my focus and surveyed the scene through a wider perspective that I really became observant of what was going on. A slightly bigger picture showed me several ants following that same path, carrying their own grain into the hole. What I saw then wasn't just a lonely creature storing his goods, but a collective of worker ants serving a more noble purpose—serving each other and serving their queen.

I am observant. I have the ability to look past the minutia of my surroundings and see the bigger picture. I see the common good in the common people who all depend on each other to improve their communities and reach their goals. I see the collusion of unseen forces that show themselves in the most subtle of ways. Today, what I saw—what I noticed—what I observed could very well be a most unsettling prospect if you choose to take my word. It was within the Isaac Newton Shopping Center in the town of Grantham that I made my observation. Starting with the simple, minute matters of my observation, I will say that I saw an elderly man sitting quiet and still among the ever-noisy movement of any place where men come to trade. This was the same elderly man that I had seen during many other short trips into town to pick up supplies. He sat in the same spot, wore the same suit, and tapped the same cane against the tile in uneven intervals. The sky produced an overcast glow through the fogged windows above, and the man seemed perfectly content not to subject himself to God's weather. There may be nothing extraordinary about these observations in and of themselves, but as I mentioned, the true observer looks past the object, beyond the physical, and into the bigger picture. 

What business had this man, sitting in that spot every day? Could it be that he was only seeing a devout people-watcher? Doubtful. The man's head surveyed the ever-changing crowd of shoppers with the motion of an impact sprinkler, though without all of the obnoxious sputtering. To satisfy my internal query, I thought of where I was—I broadened my perspective. There I sat, across from this man in the middle of a shopping center of an English town, when it suddenly dawned on me. English town... CCTV, Big Brother, The Nanny State... The United Kingdom is well-known for its widespread use of government surveillance! And to draw connections that now seem obvious, I discovered in my mind the underlying nature of this man's motives. He was, no doubt, an agent of surveillance. A man of experience who is now too old to be anything more than an eye on the street... or at least in this case, an eye in a shopping center. And this is no doubt a shopping center concerned with the prospect of shoplifting or vandalism in a country stricken with the fear of terrorism, whose people are urged to be ever vigilant. I also noticed that many patrons of the shopping center were at least familiar with the man; waving or tipping their hats as they hurriedly walked by. He is clearly a recognizable and familiar force of deterrence within the community.

Who does the man work for? I cannot say. Though his mannerisms, trim suit, and excellent posture all lent themselves to the traits of a government worker. As I made my attempt to discover more, I noticed the man looking back at me. I had been watching him for some time and perhaps he did not like being on the receiving end of such a relationship. I quickly redirected my attention to the large clock that hung above the commons of the shopping center. It was 3:20 PM. I had only a few minutes to collect my things and make my way to the bus stop.

Back in my dormitory, I still cannot understand how such long amounts of time can be spent by this man, just peering into the lives of others—seeing just a few minutes of their hectic day before they scuttle on by. What observations could he be making? What assumptions? What conclusions? Yes, I too am observant, but such a constant practice of observation may lend itself to fantasy or self-deception. I've determined that the nature of true observation lies in the ability to put things in the perspective of our greater reality. Anything less is just a dash of nutmeg wasted on the kitchen floor.

Travel Writing Blog: Entry 1

The Manor

Strolling down a gravel road through the English morning mists, I take a moment to pause and give a glance to where I had come from; that massive structure of stone and brick—a monument to… what? In all honesty, I don’t know. Though eager to form an opinion, I missed the history tour and will continue in my ignorance to admire this building for what it is—a brilliant work of architecture. But, is it? I ask myself this question because I just can’t help it. Though I had decided I would get some fresh air, the house calls me back inside to take another look. I seem to remember one of my fictional heroes, an architect himself, decrying the illogical obsession with tradition in architecture, and the beauty of function over form. Like an apple dipped in caramel, the interior of Harlaxton Manor seems to have been dipped in marble statues (some real and some false), intricate tiling, numerous winding staircases, and gilded designs of wood and plaster. And like a caramel apple, all this stuff seems to attract a lot of nuts… but then—I always take a metaphor a step or two too far. I shake off the poetic daze I’ve allowed myself to fall into and walk lightly into the State Dining Room. Ahead of me is a massive marble table, with a large enough surface, that you could sacrifice a lamb on it. Looking up, I see molding that looks like icing on a cake that has too much icing. It’s becoming apparent to me that I am just not well educated enough to appreciate such a complicated structure and all of its gaudy ornamentation. No Missouri boy who hails from a field of boxes known as the “suburb” could possibly “get it”. Then, thinking of how the architecture of a building reflects the values of its architect and its tenants, I recall some of the things I was taught, growing up in Missouri. A penny saved is a penny earned—Put only on your plate what you know you can eat—Frugality is a virtue. This building flies in the face of all of these things! Back in my simple dorm room—no doubt stylistically converted over the years—I look at the plain, smooth desk and tightly-knit blue carpet—the frameless mirror above the modern porcelain sink—the stainless furniture of condensed particle board… and for a moment, I’m back home.