Chrisonomicon

I was shocked, not only at the disagreement, but at how violently it was expressed, unnerved by the skewed perception that these respondents have of American history and, dare I say, American values. It suddenly occurred to me, however, that I've lived in somewhat of a bubble of like-minded individuals -- coworkers, friends, and webloggers -- who all share my anti-war sentiments and that perhaps I had set myself up for such a response by blinding anticipating a wash of agreement.

The glimpse of these people's perspectives frightens me. However I must decisively agree to accommodate their opinions for that is the crux of such freedom afforded thought and speech. And, yet, when an opinion threatens my sense of identity as an American citizen -- even my sense of well-being -- where is a line drawn? I refuse to give in on this matter.

Apparently this whole thing started when Jim Flanagan made a connection between a talk given by Sun Microsystems' Guy Steele and a group of French artists (for some reason, the description of the group's founding reminded me of the rules of Fight Club). I'd say that Steele's paper is less artistic wordplay and more a systematic approach to semantics, however. (It's very similar to FORTH, a programming language that relies heavily on defining new words based on previously defined words, creating a pretty compact application that basically folds in on itself.) Neat stuff, though. Writing an entry using only one vowel (With nihilistic insight, I, Chris, will pimp this minxish gimmick) or other similar system of rules seems like a good exercise for creativity.

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Maybe it's because I've been hooked on Six Feet Under the past few weeks (I'm glad you're watching it too), or the looming possibility of war, or having read J.R. Norton's The Smiling Archipelago, or the balding of my tires, or all of the above. It's not that I've been thinking of it in a bad way, no. Death isn't good or bad (well, nothing in the universe is good or bad, it just is). But, I mean, death as in: I wonder if I'll have a chance to look back once more or if it will be flash-bang sudden. Will I have a chance to contemplate it before it happens? Will I be scared? Will I be relieved? In a way, I'm sort of anxious to experience it, even though you can't really experience death the way you experience the taste of spicy food or the thrill of weightlessness on a theme-park ride, since death implies an end to experience. So, I naturally wonder what no experience feels like, which is a completely contradictory.

And work is calling me out to Mexico next week, but I'm working on a new layout that should be done before I leave. I'd be interested in hearing your opinion.

I didn't entirely wake to NPR's quiet report that Fred Rogers, kindly neighboor, had passed during the night, and couldn't understand why I was having such ridiculous and terrible dream, but as the room came slowly into focus and Bob Edwards's voice continued to march forward, I realized that the idea wasn't absurd, alternate-universe dream-fodder. Mr. Rogers will no longer grace our kids' television screens. This has drawn a line between the children of today and generations who'd travelled on that ridiculous little train to his makebelieve puppet world and sing along, patiently observing the ritual of familiar white tennis shoes and red cardigan. 'Tis a sad, sad day.

One thing was missing, though: I had found, mostly though random surfing and slackage, a particular link that when added to the links toolbar, offers a convenient and useful shortcut to Merriam Webster's online dictionary, vastly accelerating the hunt for word definitions (their site can be rather sluggish, as any word snob knows). Stewart at Sylloge offers the following:

(And with a little ingenuity, a similar link for your thesaurus needs (although it's use is by no means guaranteed): m-w thesaurus.)

This from a man who's work I trivialized in high school, a man who visited his headmaster as much as I did and learned German from Albert Einstein, who "had devised a coherent system for living":

A system to which I'd readily subscribe. (And although I've often lamented the fact that the appeal of original thought and creativity is dulled by the knowledge that someone will have always been there before you, it's a comfort to know that when wielding an opinion in opposition to "nine-tenths of the population," some has been there before you.)

M and I talked about buying a house and moving in together on a phone call after episode 8. I'm telling him about meeting with an old friend of mine tomorrow to discuss mortgage options when the words slip out of my mouth like fish, a sudden pulse of regret running through my veins, but then I realize: almost no weekend in the past eight months has seen us apart. I'm looking for a house, he's looking for a house; why don't we look for one together? The prospect is thrilling. I could really picture it, flood-gated possibilities unleashed. His Hallmark moment was mentioning a garden, lawn mowing, domesticities -- I pursed my lips to contain clichéd picket fences -- and when we bid goodbye, I left with a sense of satisfaction. My heart had met my head and for what seemed like the first time, they shook hands.

But then, sometimes I wake up. My mind expands into a space I didn't know existed, a vacuum of thought or perhaps space that exists for the sole purpose of being filled by thought, and I approach the back of his green 4-Runner with tires that have been worn thin by miles and miles of merciless pavement, the dust and dry mud forming fractal patterns on the rear bumper, the back panel, the glass frosted by morning, bitter exhaust forming fractal patterns in the air around my face, and Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk pushing through the vehicle into my head.

I encompass our entire history with thought and realize that despite having plotted the y-intercept and determined slope, projection into the future is futile. I am here, now.

'Cause this is the first song but definitely not the song. I know that you are liquid, for I'm the governess of alone. The things I've imagined we'd do would really quite astound you -- I don't do 'em, I just feel 'em -- and two times two is chicken. I am your state of mind. So why can't you be exactly like me? Exactly like me.

Like Madonna, so emotional, no car wreck, suicide, stairway so unclimbable, no house to hide inside. Your house, your house, your house I will explore: your cold marble floors and secret doors, the fine lines of your architecture. And if you need me, I'll come and see thee, and be your visitor. We'll play kissy kissy and have a baby and figure out: What we live for.

I am your state of mind. I am your state of mind. So why can't you be exactly like me?

He tagged along most of the weekend, and I found a strange sort of excitement in breaking the rules with him, doing things I'm not supposed to be doing like avoiding homework, cooking with my deep fryer and skipping the gym to watch cartoons and play with M. Fighting Saturday afternoon traffic, we went to the home improvement store and the frustration and anger and tension that had built up jockeying for position in my car soon abated when, upon our first step in the doorway, breathlessly he exclaimed, "Whoa, cool." My eyes swept over the thirty-foot-tall array of power tools and lumber and switches and gadgets, and took in the smell of all that wood and dust and metal and a smile spread across my face, too, as I glanced over at him, sharing in his thrill. There was so much stuff and no adults to tell us what we could and couldn't touch or do. We were the adults now. The store was ours.

We walked through the store in a trance, his amazement contagious as he touched everything, turned unusual objects over in his small hands, listening, distracted, as I explained everything as simply as I could. We returned with the new pendant light I had bought for the kitchen and he with a handful of paint swatches to play with while I installed tracks in the ceiling, bobbing along to the contagious lyrics on a CD that Aaron had sent me, and when the bobbing and installing was finished, my walls decorated with enough colors to constitute fifteen gay pride flags, we meet up with M to rent another movie and eat junk food.

I couldn't get over how much fun I was having with this kid. I wondered where he's been all these years, why I hadn't ever spent this kind of time with him, and where he was going when I returned to work, returned to life. I took him to my nephew's first birthday party today and on the way home we talked about life and growing up and how it all happened so fast.

"When I grow up, I want to be like you." I chuckled at the thought and put my arm around his shoulders.

Chris,

Thanks so much for your interest in the [our publishing company], After reviewing your sample chapters I find that our only option would be to publish your book through our co-op publishing program. Chris although quite heartfelt your novel is definite that of a first time author. That said, not to discourage but in the hope that you will continue to improve your gift. Chris co-op publishing is designed to help young authors get their material out and also our editors would help you take what you have and make it more marketable. I am including the program and a contract for your review, if you intend to pursue this avenue please get in touch and we will walk you through and help you grow.

Warm regards,
Paul
Director of Marketing/Sales

posted Wednesday, February 5, 2003

This Is Me

A fog of snow descended, enclosing the mile between my apartment and work inside of an almost dreamlike sphere hemmed in on all sides by light trapped in the suspended powder. And as spectacular as it was, I suddenly realize that I wrote about snow yesterday. Ten years from now I'm not going to be interested in weather patterns. The thing to notice, however, is my tendency to write about the weather when I'm trying to avoid something.

And I am avoiding many things that I should be writing about, issues that need sorthing through, problems that have whispered to one another behind corners and through walls, walls that have appeared overnight or in the absence of a glance. They remain in the dark because I am afraid of exposure. I feel so intensely — and, yes, perhaps unjustifiably — vulnerable by laying the words down, by merely placing the letters in order on the screen.

But then, I realize it's okay because I've been there before, the words have already been written. Over the past few years maintaining this site, I've had some surprising insights from strangers whom I've never met, yet who know my deepest thoughts simply from having read through my journal. So, tonight, I decided it was time to do a little digging myself. And I've discovered that I'm still alive, that I've had these issues and problems and thoughts and whispers before. But what do I do with these memories and how can I learn from them to improve, advance, better-faster-stronger?

posted Tuesday, February 4, 2003

Ego

Days like this bring clarity with the cold, the sun greeting me without its usually warm hands and the wind sleeping behind the mountains, fists curled loosely by its face. Despite clear skies and brisk winter air, all I can do is look down as my steps fall between sporadic patches of snow and raise clouds of dust from the parched ground, for sometimes clarity only makes you aware of other problems and in the end you’re left again in the blizzards of obscurity.

(Although I write to save bits and random scraps from my life, I have noticed this site turning into more of an outlet for my ego. It’s making me rather sick of myself, sick of listening to myself talk, sick of hearing the words typed and retyped in my head until they reach a raw intensity that blazes out of my fingers and onto the page and the writing doesn’t stop there. Ideas sear themselves in circular patterns on the walls of my mind, spiraling, repeating until I release them, only then given relief in the form of another smoldering, echoing whisper.)

Sometimes, I ask myself how problems would change when ego is removed from the picture.

posted Monday, February 3, 2003

Patiently Evaluating

It snowed last night and stuck, remaining throughout the day as a gritty, white reminder that we've gotten away with such mild weather this winter. And it is winter, despite the tepid, indecisive Colorado fronts that tell me to wear sweaters in the morning and t-shirts during the day. It's all about layering but I'm getting tired of being mistaken for a bloated walrus. Swearing it's the clothes only incriminates me more, strengthening my resolve to move south someday very soon.

Dad and I went to dinner at Boulder-based Noodles & Co., one of my only favorite/tolerated fast food restaurants and talked about dating and women (who I seem to understand better than him, surprise surprise) and how I had discussed a similar issue on dating with Cale earlier in the day about not necessarily playing hard-to-get or relinquishing yourself to games of feigned disinterest, instead focusing on simple patience, which he seemed to understand and accept. And then later discussing the need for patience, especially in relationships among older people, as I would imagine the urge fairly strong to rush that initial getting-to-know-you phase to get on with your life, to do the things you've been dreaming of doing with this fantasy person, because it seems as though time is running out. And you simply can't rush these kinds of things.

Then I went to the library, only to be greeted by a dismal selection, followed by the gym where I found a slightly-improved-but-nevertheless-equally-disheartening selection as well. Then again, life isn't always about options. I'm re-evaluating my current inventory.

posted Monday, February 3, 2003

Favorite Chrisonom-icon

I now have an icon that will appear in several browsers when you bookmark the site, thanks to Jonno, who is now fully, happily returned to the blogsphere. He created two icons I can choose between, shown to your left. He's cool like dat.

posted Monday, February 3, 2003

The Fun World of English Lit

Thank you, Cale, for the collection of bizarre quotes garnered from English literature, appended today with:

I have seen his master at work in this little spot, with his coat off, and his dibble† in his hand: it was a scene of tranquil virtue to have stopped an angel on his errands of mercy!
--Henry Mackenzie,
The Man Of Feeling, 1771

† A tool for making holes to plant seeds in a garden.

posted Saturday, February 1, 2003

Columbia Lost

Seven

I was too young to remember that morning in 1986, so often referred to on the news today, but as similar as the events are in tragedy, in technology, in (presumed) circumstance, and in the repeated visuals — divisory white lines sliced terribly, gracefully, through forever-blue skies — I would keep in their sacred box old memories and reflect upon, bear the weight of, this event on its own accord, know their stories as they fell from the sky (those who've passed before have had their moment and using this event as a reason for rememberence only serves to overshadow this event, these lives), harbor out of respect economic and political speculation, and restrain from diving in on the innards of the tragedy like surgical vultures, at least for the briefest respite. We owe great people this much.

Update: An article on the life of Indian astronaut, Kalpana Chawla (while India mourns her death); a pre-flight article on Israeli astronaut, Ilan Ramon; comprehensive Metafilter comments on the crew (1 and 2); also, interviews with family members shed light on crew members. So very sad. And yet, sadder still is the crash of a train in Zimbabwe this morning that killed 40 and leaves hundreds wounded, further illustrating the sheer weight of broadcast media coverage as tragedies of the world fall underfoot. I often question which is the deadlier train.

posted Friday, January 31, 2003

Ripped

I've spent the better part of the week dedicated to a new workout routine as indited by trainers-on-paper Villepigue and Rivera, honing my armamentarium of curls and lifts and pulls and rows, and complementing my wonted weights with an additional early morning run and ab ~~jellification~~ routine. Of course, the plan looks prettier in theory than in practice. Each morning has found me in bed ten, fiften, even thirty minutes later than the previous, despite my attempts at turning in at a reasonable — and by reasonable I mean ungodly — hour, taking naps when appropriate, eliminating caffeine from my diet, and sacrificing virgins to Hypnos. But overlooking lack of sleep and motivation, I'm feeling ripped-the-fuck-up.

And just in time, too. (That is, if you can handle a little competition.)

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