More on failure

I watched a show on trans-orbital lobotomy and Dr. Freeman, the man who worked most of his career to pioneer/popularize it.

The show disturbed me for 3 reasons:

1. There were pictures of people with metal spikes in their eyes who were having the procedure.

2. Anything that screws up the brain makes me nervous.

3. People who get them and their family members didn't always get the chance to give permission.

4. The procedure fell out of favor with the larger medical community in almost all cases and Dr. Freeman spent the last years of his life searching out his old patients and trying to see how they did. I don't know how I would react if, during my lifetime, all my work was rejected. It would make me really sad. I would not have the courage to abandon my life's work in the face of compelling evidence that my well-intentioned work was actually quite deleterious. That I lack this courage makes me worried about if I'll ever attempt anything of import.

SCANDAL!

I went to a poetry reading. L. Gregerson was the name of the lady who came.

I had a physics class at the same hour as the reading and I had the distinct feeling that I was being unfaithful to physics. I can imagine the headlines in the tabloids: Archiblog snubs long-time interest, seen spending afternoon with other discipline.

The reading was truly excellent as far as I can tell, which to be perfectly honest isn't very far. When I listen to poetry, I have trouble parsing more than 5 or 6 words in a row. As the poet reads, I mostly think, "Ah, yes, those words in that order comprise a short phrase that could have some meaning." By the time this thought is done, though, I've missed several lines. It's almost like I'm just spot-checking each poem for syntactical errors.

I love the aura of the poetry reading. The poems are a sort of lyrical bath. I never absorb them, but I love how artsy I feel when I'm exposed to them. For a moment, I feel that my life is entirely cliche and that this lady, with her eloquent artsiness, has liberated me by endowing me with the vague aspiration not to be so cliche. It wears off, but I still like it.

The whole time I struggle with the urge to start writing "poetically" right then and there. Now, when I say "poetically," I mostly mean that when I think the words in my head, I imagine that I'm saying them with the sort of intonation a beatnik at a poetry jam would use. I also struggle with the uncontrollable urge to write "Hope. . . springs. . ." just like the guy in that Hyundai commercial did (you know: the one with the poetry slam).

I spend a lot of time looking at the people and trying to find evidence for many stereotypes I maintain for poetry enthusiasts. My stereotypes have mostly to do with personality. My evidence is gleaned entirely from their looks. It was quite easy to confirm all of my stereotypes.

I also spent some time trying to decide if I should have a crush on the English professor who introduced the poet. I didn't see a ring and she seems young. She is also well-spoken, educated and has a real job.

At the end, they gave us bagels and let us mingle with the poet. I'll confess: I was more excited to be able to tell my friends that I've eaten a bagel with cream cheese in the special collections section of the library (where normally no food is allowed) than I was to meet the poet (to whom I did not even speak).

Well,

So long for now,

archiblog

Failure and other thoughts from last Friday

Item: I saw a headline in the NYT: "French Bank Says Rogue Trader Lost $7 Billion." When I saw it, a huge grin creeped across my face. I eagerly read both articles about the unfortunate escapades of Mr. Jerome Kerviel.

What induced my euphoria? I'm not sure. I think part of it is that failure on this scale is truly exceptional--so much that it is almost cartoonish. Imagine reading a list of the world's failures: students fail classes, CEOs post bad quarters, alcoholics relapse, I did not win an essay contest I entered and Jerome Kerviel single-handedly and (so far) inexplicably subverts every safeguard in place to make thousands of unauthorized, unprofitable trades, thereby losing more money than the entire GDP of Cambodia. Remember: this is just one guy in just one year!

If it doesn't inspire you that otherwise undistinguished people in free societies can fail so abjectly, I don't know what does.

WARNING: Posts that seem short are actually quite long.

I just discovered that my last post (which I thought rather short) was really medium-length.

I was thinking the other day about roommates. There's a rumor that if one's roommate dies during the semester, one gets straight A's automatically. Needless to say, this has altered considerably my conception of the ideal roommate.

So, I guess this is a vindication for anyone whose ever been stiffed by a potential roommate because they do drugs, drive recklessly or are affiliated with a professional crime organization.

Hello World!

I send all my readers my most cordial salutations.

They say the key to writing a well-read blog is to write often. I, obviously, subscribe to the theory that less is more. Actually I write today to say that I'm taking my blog offline.

Just kidding! As I was writing, I wanted to feel what it felt like to type that sentence--not much different than other sentences in case you're wondering.

The truth is I write for two reasons:

1. I very much dislike my last post and I'm a tinge embarrassed to direct people to it. It's kind of whiny and self-indulgent. It demonstrated excessive insecurity and was written way too late at night. It's not that it's immoral or insincere, it's just that it's a voice I don't usually use (or is it a voice the world's not ready to hear? no, I don't think so). It's still up, but anyway.

2. I am writing an essay for an essay contest. It doesn't have to be long, but I'm suffering from writer's block.

I know what you're thinking: "But Mr. Archiblog--isn't it ironic that you divert yourself from your inability to write by writing something?"

Yes, it is, but I'm sure you're all actually thinking: "Mr. Archiblog, why don't you just submit some playful banter about whatever comes into you're head. It's certainly good enough for the likes of me based on the fact that I'm reading this very paragraph this very instant."

Well, thanks.

Onto other news:

I found a place to live. What's that? You weren't even worried? Well, considering that I was barely worried myself until about a week after school started, I don't blame you. I did feel a little bit like the Palestinian people: displaced and perfectly willing to accept without hesitation offers that were available in the past, but are no longer possible.

I feel like I should post something and I can't wait to find out what

Well, I've been reading my friends' blogs and enjoying them, so I figured I should update mine. Forgive me if this post is pure drivel, as the title suggests I'm not really sure where I'll go with this little burst of verbiage.

It is late and almost completely dark in this room. I feel like I should try to be funny, but I'd rather pity myself. No audience wants to read self-pity, so I'll try to spare you, but I might not.

So, comment readers. Do you ever feel like you should disappear? Do you ever want to fade into quiet obscurity? Pack your personality away like a carnie folding his tent? Do you ever fear that no one will ever love you honestly? That whatever success and acceptance you've achieved is an elaborate illusion that defies falsification? That a group can accept you but that a single person never could--as if acceptance was the result of some kind of herd mentality or as if your contribution to the sociality of a group is so peripheral that you would never form part of a couple, but could only make sense within the context of a huge group?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, you're not alone! At least one other person has answered yes to at least one of these questions.

I think part of it is that I found a niche of sorts within the social structure of the Jerusalem Center and now that niche is gone. My role within my family is becoming increasingly murky as I age and my social status during this next semester is also quite unclear. I'm sure I'll find something, but maybe that something is aloofness.

I sometimes imagine being entirely withdrawn. I love to think that whatever I would think in my solitude would be of such immense importance that interaction with other humans would be a burden worth avoiding. I love to think that I would have the emotional strength to alienate a lot of people and still be happy.

I don't believe this to be true, but everyone else had relationships to write about and I've only got prospects! Aloofness is a sure shot, dating someone depends on a lot of things that are mysterious to me. D*g!

Talents

This is the full text of an essay read by the author of this blog at the BYU JC variety show on Friday, November 23, 2007. The text has undergone a few minor editions since then. It is intended to be read out loud by the author. MP3 available soon probably.

Discovering one's talents is like looking for gold coins in a sewer—if you find some it's well worth the effort, but once you've got the gold, you don't really tend to emphasize how you found it. Our fall starts, our early failures and the effort and time it takes to develop real talents often go unmentioned. This essay is dedicated to the notion that sometimes the process of discovering talents can be interesting, even compelling. So, with the following true stories from my life, I'd like to explain a couple of talents that I won't be performing tonight.
Soccer
Like any soccer team comprised entirely of seven-year-olds, my soccer team followed the ball around the field like a school of fish. My style of play was the exact antithesis of this. At the start of each half, I would trot out to my spot and stand there for the entire half. I alone was a pillar of enlightened soccer playing: the only child on the whole team to take the coaches' admonition to stay in your position so literally, so precisely, so narrowly that even the near proximity of the ball could not entice me to leave my spot.
One time, the ball was coming straight to me and I decided to produce some tension by spreading my legs apart only to close them at the last minute. Thus, I thought to stop the ball both stylishly and effectively. Seized by a vague, but inexplicable desire to imitate an evil cartoon butler, I planned to say something like “where do you think you're going?” or “Not so fast!” or “I have you now!” or “you’ll never get away from me!” The ball rolled between my legs several seconds before I got around to closing them. I was no soccer prodigy.
Spelling
After winning a spelling bee in 2nd grade, my career in competitive spelling looked promising. That is until, in a fifth grade spelling bee, I misspelled the word “monkeys.” Incidentally, that same day, I also discovered that I did not have a knack for losing graciously. I started to walk away as if I were about to leave school grounds. With tears streaming down my face, I muttered an angry diatribe against everything that came to mind. My plan was to elicit the sympathies of my mother and my teacher who would catch up with me and console me before I got too far. I would then resist but let them take me back; maybe they'd even give me a treat or something. They didn't. My mother saw right through my shenanigans and waited back at the school. I turned around and threw my arms into the air, desperately hoping to persuade someone to pursue me. I neared the sidewalk, realizing that I'd soon have to actually leave school property or bring the whole episode to a humiliating close. The gate that I neared was not just between the playground and the sidewalk. It stood between mere petulance and insubordination, between the safety of the school grounds and the danger of the streets, between a silly stunt and an inexcusable violation of school rules. I turned around. With no more tears and no more muttering, I walked back ashamed. I haven't spelled competitively since.
Bargaining
Sometimes we discover our deficiencies later in life. For example, bargaining is a skill I discovered I don't have just this semester. The now-well-known purchase of my ud in Egypt illustrates. The ud is an Eastern instrument that is the ancestor of the lute. After watching a merchant’s underwhelming demonstration of ud capabilities, I waited for the merchant to retrieve another ud from his stock. I needed to leave and I really didn’t want to buy a ud, but I was deathly afraid of doing anything that would bring my honor into question. So, upon the merchant’s return I hoped to end the negotiations like a man by politely asserting that I did not want to buy an ud. I wavered. I decided to end the negotiations using the slightly-less-manly method of saying that I didn’t have enough cash to make a good offer. He said he accepted Visa. Under duress, I settled for the even less manly technique of making a semi-reasonable offer that I thought he’d never accept. We left, thinking we were done, but as we walked away, he shouted to us that he accepted my offer. To my chagrin, I was now honor-bound to purchase the product—the imminent departure of our bus notwithstanding.
I soon discovered that “accepting Visa” in Egypt means that the merchant is willing to run with you to an ATM 3 blocks away. I dropped my things and ran on my recently-injured ankle with only the merchant whom I had never before met to accompany me. I retrieved the cash and ran back holding the money in plain view in my right hand. I was much slower than the merchant. My Visa card broke in half.
Now the proud owner of an ud, I looked at it closely for the first time. It was missing three strings and there was black gunk on the back of it. The decorative inlays were already falling out. I wondered if I could use such an ugly instrument. Using the ud never actually came up though. You see, just two days later at the Taba border crossing, my aspirations of learning the ud met an unceremonious end.
Things were going badly after the ud fell from the x-ray machine on the Egyptian side, which knocked loose more of the decorative inlays and cracked the back of it. My ud fared still worse at the Israeli bag-inspection station. I looked and the tuning pegs seemed to be less symmetrical than I had remembered. I looked again at the ud and realized that one of the tuning pegs had broken off. I attended to my other bags as they were inspected by Israeli border officers. I looked again at the ud and noticed that the entire pegbox of the ud was mounted at a suspiciously shallow angle—almost as if it were about to break. I looked for a fourth time at the ud. You take a look: maybe you'll notice the same thing I did. [hold up hopelessly dilapidated ud here]
If I ever become an accomplished ud player, it will not be with this ud. If I ever become an accomplished negotiator, this incident will not be on my resume.
But a failure to demonstrate natural ability early in life is hardly definitive. I recall an occasion when the State of Florida made elementary school kids submit a writing sample to be scored by some testing agency. My essay was about Christmas. It started with an inspiring and well-crafted paragraph on the importance of receiving gifts. The materialism of this first paragraph made me feel a little guilty, so I dutifully discussed the birth of Jesus in my second paragraph. Having assuaged my guilt and exhausted all of my ideas on the subject of the nativity, I unwittingly completed the chiastic pattern by further elaborating on the importance of receiving lots of gifts in my third paragraph. It was personal. It was sincere. It was both secular and spiritual. I thought it was good.
The reader who scored my essay, however, did not agree. Mine was one of the lowest scores in the class. I was deficient. I was a shame to school administrators and state governors. I was evidence that American schools were failing to educate their children. I was practically illiterate! I thought perhaps my fervent explanation of the religious aspects of Christmas had provoked some kind of religious discrimination from the grader. It hadn't. A cursory reading of the paper, however, readily reveals that what I thought was witty and articulate was a mash of mostly incoherent ramblings organized into three ugly, overlapping paragraphs, none of which served to support the vague assertions I made in my conclusion. Many sentence fragments.
The story does not end there. If you came today to watch me play soccer or spell or purchase a quality good at a reasonable price, I'm sorry to disappoint. But if you wanted to hear the reading of an original essay by a kid who only recently felt sufficiently confident to write for pleasure and share his work, well, you just saw it.