Practicality

I love how practical my dad is sometimes:

Me: Dad, I have some problems with this girl. You see *5 minute long story*
*30 seconds of silence*
Dad: You should just stop talking to her, it's simpler that way.
Me: But dad, I can't just do that, there's a lot more involved *another 5 minute long story*
Dad: If you stopped talking to her, you wouldn't need to worry about that.
Me: What about all the bad stuff that follows?
Dad: Who cares? You stopped talking to her.

Now I realize that my worldview and approach to relationships is significantly different than my dad, but at times, its definitely helpful to get the perspective of a 25 year restaurant owner. With that much experience, efficiency and effort become foundational in your understanding. Here's another good example:

Dad: What are you doing with those handle-bars?
Me: It's the perfect pushup. It's suppose to get me buff.
Dad: You should just massage my back - it'll get you strong too.

Now I'm not J. S. Mill, but I'd love to hang out at the gym and have my back be a forearm workout for the workout enthusiasts.

Random Thought

How funny would it be if women were cactus? Then they'd be like, "Don't hug me - I'm a cactus."

...its definitely time for bed.

I Will Pay You to Be My Friend

Two days ago, I decided to branch out of frosted wheat cereal and bought "Honey Bunches of Oats." What convinced me to make such a risky leap? Price cut. I placed in the rear of the pantry and did not decide to open it until this morning, when I discovered a heart warming story on the back of the cereal box: a history of how Honey Bunches of Oats came to be.

I felt like I was part of history. Each spoonful of 'honey-oaty' crunch made me feel like I was part of the Post Cereal historical enterprise, when in reality, I was probably just another consumer. But herein lies the irony: if we take a look at the rise of organic and fair trade products, we can see consumers being tired of being consumers. We like the whole idea of locally grown, locally baked, locally harvested, doing something good for the world, &etc. - but still, we never actually meet the people that grew, baked, and harvested.

Sure, it feels good to push 'for the little guy.' But the little guy is as foriegn to us as the big guy (e.g., Post). The chief difference is that we feel like we're part of a local community without the whole community aspect at all. If anything, that seems to be all the more dangerous. Our kitchens are filled with locally produced goods that only make us think we are part of the local community. What can be worse than decieving yourself? I'd rather someone else decieve me. This probably sounds like another banter against post-industrial revolution society - and it probably is. But the industrial revolution was never meant to make us decieve ourselves - it was never there to make real live people into consumables. Maybe next time we should be more focused on the cashier or bagger than our groceries.

Running Again

A misty morning - you hear the sound of chirping birds in the palm trees as the wind brushes along the slick-edged grass to form a subtle serenade. Your steps seem to be almost deafening as you clutch your sweaty hands. You would have noticed the dull pain in your abdomen much earlier if it wasn't for your focus on where you step - dog poop lines the field. As you approach the finish line, members from the PTA mist you with what appears to be water while your 3rd grade teacher punches a hole in the card that's pinned onto the back of your shirt. There is glory in elementary school Jog-A-Thons.

Largely due to the influence of my brother, running has taken up a substantial portion of my life. I still remember watching him chase cars (sort of like a dog, now that I think about it) or us racing back home from the local K-Mart. Back then, running was still fun - it wasn't a form of fitness - it wasn't a sport.

I'd like to think all that preparatory running gave my legs super-human strength, but in terms of genetics, Asians typically are at a disadvantaged height. All that training made me pretty decent in High School; but, only to leave me with a faint memory of what it felt like to run just to run. By the time college rolled around, I decided it was time to leave running behind after trying to juggle academics with athletics for only one lousy semester. Little did I know ("did you just say, 'little did he know?'"), running for fun wouldn't take shape again until college was nearly over.

I'd like to think parts of us are never meant to grow up.

Dr. So-and-So

I read this short excerpt from G. K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy this morning:

"A man was meant to be doubtful about himself,
but undoubting about the truth;
this has been exactly reversed."

Say this to the postmodern and you'll most likely get the response: "There is no truth." There's already been much ink split over postmodernism, so I'll spare the digital world with my ramblings about the subject.

This quote did make me think about the issue of therapeutic counseling however. Imagine with me, dear reader, the following plausible (but fictional) dialogue:

Derrick the Raging Alcoholic: Dr. So-and-So, I have a huge problem with alcohol. I think it's because I've grown up around an abusive father that drank all the time. I've come to appropriate that with what I think manhood truly is.
Dr. So-and-So: Well Derrick the Raging Alcoholic, I'm glad you told me that. It looks like you've grown up in a tough setting. Let's try to explore that a little more.
Derrick the Raging Alcoholic: We have to talk? Can't you just drug me with something?

The shift of postmodern humanity has subtly shifted the criterion from external to internal; or, in other words, moral rules (governmental, religious, cultural, &etc.) to the self. Inevitably, a focus on self means we spend the majority of our lives thinking about how happy we are, or how quickly we can fix the bad things to make ourselves more happy. Pain has become the new sin. "Good suffering" has become foolishness. Now, back to Derrick the Raging Alcoholic:

Derrick the Raging Alcoholic: So what you're really telling me is that I have to maturate and become a whole soul?
Dr. So-and-So: Yes. You're currently at Stage 5 (Early Adulthood) according to Erikson's psychosocial scale when you should actually be at Stage 6.
Derrick the Raging Alcoholic: What's the final stage?
Dr. So-and-So: Stage 8 (Very Old Age).
Derrick the Raging Alcoholic: Then what happens once I get there?
Dr. So-and-So: You die.

A progressive human development towards nothing? What a strange world we live in.

Botanical vs. Human Development

About 3-4 weeks ago, my roommate and I stumbled into a Jewel-Osco that had a series of herbs for clearance sales. To my delight, basil and rosemary were on the rack and I quickly gathered them up and gingerly thought of delicious potato and pasta dishes as I walked towards the check out. Since then, my herb plants have grown about three fold and I've gotten into the routine of checking on them the first thing in the morning:
I closely inspect each leaf for insects, and upon discovery, I smash them. Then, I take all the dead insect carcasses and put them into a pile to ward off other insects. Eventually, they become manure for the plants - a win-win-win (cf. The Office) situation.

Perhaps plants can teach us a bit about human development in terms of maturation and growth. Our 'insects,' whether they be issues that we struggle with or external problems we face tend to follow us, even if they are dead shells. Yet, every analogy has to break down at some point: we do not have chlorophyll, cell walls, and very rarely do we photosynthesize (unless you're a beach fiend). In the cause of human development, we have to allow those problems to serve as manure - or, in other words, help us grow and maturate.

Depending on your own worldview, 'maturation' will spark up numerous questions. What are we maturating towards? I'll leave that question to your own pondering. But from my own experience, maturation is a growth towards a presupposed 'perfection;' not a progressive abyss. And how do we know what that presupposed perfection is? Well here, I'll point you towards your local orthodox church.

April is the Cruellest Month

Contrary to the natural thematic flow of seasons, Spring and Summer has been an unexpected time of loss and grief for a majority of people I know - and, indirectly, myself. T. S. Eliot began his poem "The Wasteland" with these words:

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering	5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,	10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Why was birth and life so painful for him? Life will inevitably result in yet another death, leaving humankind with nothing but a shadow of substance. It is better to forget - to live in endless winter, than to suffer yet another loss.

This topic is never too fun to read about. I'd rather read stories about fuzzy chipmunks that frolic in beds of daisies, but not only does my masculinity repulse itself from such an image, my mind reminds me that those sorts of images are just that: imaginary. But herein lies the strange irony (at least to me). The mere fact that we can create images, that we can imagine, suggests that perhaps we were meant for more than this. Who said imagination has to be imaginary?

So here is my imaginary process for the day: I imagine a day when Chicago will no longer be an armpit of bitter cold and wind. In that day, it will no longer snow in April and the sun will actually come out in summer time. Books will be made of chocolate and its material will physically assume itself into a students mind upon consumption. What a rad world - I hope you agree.

For those that have suffered loss, whether you are a digital stranger or someone I have actually met: perhaps the greatest consolation is an image and expectation of hope - not just in matters of life in death, but things will be as they were 'suppose to be.' April will yet again be April, and our memories and desires will leave us awestruck, causing us to wonder what we would ever do without them.