The World of Forms and Related Ideas

I begin this post with eagerness. Rarely do I have rants (or essay topics as I should properly call them), and even more rare is the opportunity to share them. That rarety of topics is the precise reason I institutionalized my opportunities to share them--this 'blog. Thus, when a time like this comes, I am prepared.

I will probably instigate argument at several points along my way through this post. I would herein introduce a new form of "footnoting," specifically designed for this medium as well as the impulsive nature of thought. See my last footnote, improperly numbered "1", for a brief explanation of "impulsive nature of thought."

Now, onto the monkeys. (see note 2)
I have recently been occupied with the philosophical notion of "forms." I'll share some context for those of you who don't know. Plato first propounded the idea of a world of forms, a world where its occupants were the ideal forms and they corresponded to the slightly less ideal occupants of this world we live in. We have many different cups to hold our tea--but there is only one in Plato's world of forms. That teacup is ideal, meaning that it fulfills its function, going no further beyond that, and in fact fulfills the purpose of all teacups. Every teacup we have aspires to be that teacup, in spite of its being too short, painted with flowers, or having a Starbucks logo. (see note 3)
Plato's world of forms not only applies to inanimate objects. The world of forms also contains many abstract concepts like beauty, knowledge, and virtue, some of which I will elaborate upon later. This "world of forms" might sound trivial at first. After all, who cares if there is an ideal teacup out there? (see note 4) I shall point out that where you stand on Plato's world of forms is fundamental to how you view the world around you, how you react to it, and even how you interpret it. But first... more history!
Aristotle, who came after Plato, agreed with Plato's ideas--but softened up Plato's position. After all, Plato claimed that such a world of forms does exist--whether or not we may reach it. (see note 5) Pretty tall claim, especially for a guy who doesn't travel anywhere sandals can't carry him. Aristotle said that such a place does not necessarily exist. Instead, the world of forms is a concept that we use to define and interpret this world. Aristotle settled with knowing that there is an ideal teacup by believing it could be attained here, on this Earth.
It wasn't until the medieval period that William of Occam (famous now for "Occam's razor" [see note 6]) took Aristotle's view to its ultimate conclusion: these ideals are only convenient constructions of our own minds. As in, our ideal teacup does not exist. Further, we only make up "ideal teacups" in our minds because all of our teacups share certain qualities--like holding tea, balancing just right so that we can hold our pinkie finger up, and having a good lip for sipping. The definition of "ideal teacup" changes with what we feel is particularly necessary for teacups to have. Not necessarily earth-shattering stuff? It is when you realize that Occam's ideas apply to more than just teacups... and when you realize the vast implications.
Since Adam first gave the hippopotamus its horrendous name, mankind has been preoccupied with labels. Occam's perspective on the world of forms is called "Nominalism." Plato and Aristotle's position is that of the "Realists." These names will probably be hindrances later, especially as quite a few of you know the very, very precise definition and a more accurate history than I have told. (see note 7) For now, like the labels have helped Adam's race, these names may help us.

We live in a world formed by nominalism. We rarely have a definition for what is a "good life," so we make up our lives and say that we are satisfied with them. I won't compare my life to yours, especially since we don't even use the same criteria for deciding what a good life is. That sense of "differing criteria" screams "nominalism." We choose the criteria according to whatever is convenient for us to use--not necessarily what is true. Now we fall down the spiral staircase of nominalistic thought, for then, how do you define truth? How do you define definition?
Nominalistic thought even pervades the small adages we in a society say to one another. In Spokane, businesses post sayings to attract business. (see note 8) One reads "If everything seems to be going your way, you're in the wrong lane." That sounds funny, sure, but what does it mean? That, even when fortunate events happen in your life, something is always wrong. Is that true? It's true to whoever wrote it. Maybe its not. Maybe it's just a funny phrase, and I'm taking it too seriously. Then, I ask, how seriously should we take the words a city of people read everyday?

I'm going to take this essay in a slightly strange direction, breaking the form of the essay, if I may be so bold. (see note 9) After all... it's not like my footnote format is conventional in any way; why should my post?!
So, the direction I am going--I will take this dichotomy of Realism and Nominalism and apply them to different spheres. I will relay my experiences in those spheres, indicating nominalistic thought and realistic thought as each occurs. I warn you, though... this could get messy. (see note 10)
Poetry. Unless you've had at least three credits of high school poetry, you'd consider the great masters of poetry to be the ones who can get the lines to rhyme. Look at Shakespeare--the meter, the rhyme, the quadruple entendres! He's a master! Look at Robert Frost--he's a master! This is a passage from Alexander Pope's Essay on Criticism, which is actually a long poem, about poetry itself.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
as those move easiest who learn to dance.
'Tis not enough, no harshness gives offence;
the sound must seem an echo to the sense.

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows
and how with smooth streams the smoother numbers flows,
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
the hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar!
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
the line too labors and the words move slow.
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain
Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise
and bid alternate passions fall and rise. -Alexander Pope

I included the second part because that's how my ex-roommate and I memorized it (see note 11). Da3vid, my ex-roommate, often challenged me just by pointing out several observations he's made. He introduced me to this segment of Pope's poem, and the whole sentiment echoed in me what I found so wonderful in several other poems. The sound of the poem must be good, yes--which is the cry of half of postmodern poets. The sense of the poem must be good, too--which is the cry of the other half. No one in a poetry class proposed to me that a really good poem has a sound that echoes the sense. I was always a fan of Shakespeare's sonnets. Even when I was surrounded by creative writing students who preferred Ginsberg or Cummings, I found something more appealing in Shakespeare, and then later Frost.
It wasn't so much the content. After all, many of Shakespeare's sonnets sound like each other, echoing themes of love and love and love. But I loved the mastery of his work. Frost's too. Da3vid expressed this, too, that somehow the more modern the piece of poetry, the less mastery seemed to be exercised by the poet.
Da3vid wanted to write a poem. He, a philosopher and science student, was not an expert in poetry. Still, knowing some about philosophy, he was able to reason a good portion. He chose to write his poem in "Terza Rima"... a form.
I do not think it is coincidence that, in poetry, a "form" is a structure of poem that must be strictly adhered to... or else it is not a poem of that particular "form." The structure of the poem must be carefully built in order to achieve this--and because Free Verse ( [properly] defined as poetry without meter, rhyme, or stanzaic structure) is the most popular, most academically vogue nature of poetry--form poems are considered very hard. I should mention here that Da3vid's poem turned out a success. I don't know what the result was with the girl whom he wrote it to, but I do know that I was able to proudly give him the title of poet. So was anyone else who read his poem.
I was told in one of my earliest creative writing classes that the goal of each poet is to set up a rhyme scheme or a pattern or some kind of expectation for the reader--and then to break it. Not surprisingly, I was told this by a professor who was a contemporary of Allen Ginsberg (I actually saw him conduct an interview with the acclaimed poet) and the Dada movement. I think of the word nihilism and terms like 'anti-art art.' Then, in a contrary vein, I think of an interview I heard of the poet [W. B. Yeats--I credit Rebekah Tucker for correcting my memory lapse] who wrote the Lake Isle of Innisfree ... and a story [Yeats] heard about another previously famous poet, like Browning, I think. Browning was attending a conference at a university and happened by a classroom where his poem was being read--and read horribly. The poet storms in, snatching the poem away. "It took me a devil of a lot of trouble to get that thing into verse--and in one reading you have just undone that work!" (see note 12)
So... while I was with Da3vid, I was taking a poetry course. One form we covered was the villanelle... which is a unique form that repeats two lines throughout the poem. It's a difficult thing to do, and easy to respect. You'd recognize it if you've read Dylan Thomas's "Rage Against the Dying of the Night." Anyway... the professor claimed that it was the hardest form. That any poem she saw in her class completed in that form deserved an A--if only for sheer effort. Not one to pass up an easy grade, I went for it.
Now, that was not my only reason to attempt the villanelle. I also used that form because I considered several poems we'd read in free verse extremely easy to do. The form was getting called "difficult" because no one was trying it. I had to do something. So I did it. I wrote a villanelle. The process took a little bit longer--some extra hard work making the same line mean a few different things each time you hear it--but I did it. I turned it in. I got an easy A in the class. ... and, if I remember right, my villanelle occasioned one of my most favorite compliments (see note 13). We all had to read our poems aloud to the class and receive discussion from the class in silence--just note-taking. Well, when I finished reading my villanelle, one girl spoke after a long pause. This girl in particular wrote free verse only, and with subject material that we as a class still didn't understand after she explained it to us. Anyway, she looked right at me and said, "I really like your poetry. Each poem has this timeless quality to it. It's cool." Everyone agreed. What I think she, and everyone else, found "timeless" in my poetry was the adherence to a form, whether made up or real.
These instances all pointed to a superiority of having a form to not having a form. The only support of Free Verse was that it broadened the definition of what could be a poem. Free Verse makes it okay for amateurs to continue writing bad poetry--no one can correct it. There is no way to fine-tune Free Verse... consequently, there is no way to master it.
Form poems get a bad reputation--I mean, the ones written by contemporary poets--because "forms are a formula for poetry." Half the work is done for you, they'd say. It's cookie cutter poetry. The nominalists, who say that a poem can be anything we define it to be, have stolen from us the concept of good poetry.

I'll go very quickly through a discussion about painting. I want to rush because a correlation is made here in the fine arts. The Dada movement didn't only affect creative writing--it influenced painted art and sculpture. A slogan of Dada was "anti-art art." Because I grew up in a household with an artist (see note 14), I knew the difference between Monet and Da Vinci, Dega from Picasso. I like Impressionism, as a movement and as an influence.
The world of forms appears in art, too. In the Renaissance, realism was a term given to artists who drew anatomically "correct" people. Look at Raphael... Look at Rembrandt. Look at Michaelangelo's "David." Think about the painting of Aphrodite at the Lake (I hope that's what the painting I'm thinking of is called.) These all show people as they are. The only real contemporary parallel are comic books--for they draw a representation that very closely resembles the original. Not unlike Aristotle's approval of actuals that try hard to match the ideal. From realism springs impressionism, which broadened the definition of good painting. Monet, Van Gogh, Degas--these men sought to portray beauty in its purest shape, in its most sentimental aspect. They stripped literal form from their page... and then began to paint the form of "feeling." They threw out some bathwater, I think, and managed to keep the baby.
Then come the more abstracted paintings. We've all seen pictures that, but for the availability of a canvas and paints, we could do. White tiles with red tiles--swirls of color that signify nothing. Dada artists admitted they were not in the pursuit of beauty--they were in the pursuit of shock value. The broadened definition of what could be "good art" finally lost what art it had.

The interesting correlation I would make here between Poetry and Painting comes when nominalism is used to interpret art, rather than realism. Realists acknowledge that there is a form of good art and that they are always seeking what it may be. Nominalists suggest that we make up those definitions just for our own convenience. When the concept of beauty has its definition questioned, the arts themselves suffered in a strange way. (Those of you who like quotable statements should enjoy this.) With the form of beauty lost, there was a transition from art that was made by a few and appreciated by all TO art that was made by all but appreciated by few. We all can write free verse poems and paint abstracted figures. But it's a few indeed who can produce "Ode on a Grecian Urn" and "The Mona Lisa."
It's the talented who suffer now because they are no longer distinguished. Think about the film The Incredibles. A message that gets repeated is that if everyone had superpowers, no one would have superpowers. The things that make us special would be erased if EVERYONE has that same "special." This HAS happened on the level of poets and painters! The artist of no real value who lives closest to New York or L.A. becomes acclaimed as "better" simply because he is "popular." There is no way to claim one is better than another because we've un-defined what good art is. Yet--even yet!--there remains an ephemeral quality under the skin of the abstract painting or poem if the artist is truly skilled. We cannot say what it is, only that some comparisons show that other pieces do not have what this quality is. We don't know what to call the quality... so we say "quality." I'd propose we say it is good. It would be easier to see how skilled the artist is if he attempted something really hard.

Now we make the jump again to a different topic. Perfectionism. (We approach a critical stage of my composition--it is past midnight. Wife and child sleep. I don't know if I can finish this last stretch.)
I have always had a sneaking suspicion that there is a right way to do things, and a wrong way to do things. I imagined, when I first left home at five to go to school, that I would learn the right way to do things. At first, I did. Color in the lines. Sit quietly in class. Math rules, school rules. When I came across more than one way of doing something, I was still able to recognize that one way had advantages over another. You see, I believed there was a form of the action "to spell my name." From there, I concluded there must also be other forms of actions. Mowing the lawn. Doing the dishes.
When it came to composing an essay, I was so intimidated by the idea of trying alone to reason out the "right way" that I attempted to write a poem instead. (see note 15)
When it came to that, too, I intuitively stuck to a form. It took me the entire class period to write my poem because I discovered the form for myself--and I settled for nothing less than doing the poem right. How could I? To do the poem wrong would be to write a failed poem--I was already writing a failed essay! If I wanted any credit from the teacher, this poem would have to be good. And that's how I learned the creative artist's sharpest double-edged sword: Perfectionism. (see note 16)

Perfectionism, because of its characteristic pursuit of the ideal, falls well within realism's boundaries. Part of my dilemma is deciding what to do with it there. Because most of my society reckons perfectionists as sick in some way (because they strive harder than everyone else to achieve an ideal), I am loathe to defend it. I recognize unhealthy tendencies in my own perfectionism (see note 17). After all, the greatest criticism of perfectionism is that it runs a race that it can never finish. Yet, I wonder if there is any way to harness the constructive energies of perfectionism. Perfectionists, as writers, will revise and revise and revise until the masterpiece feels "complete"--which it never does. If forms describe the purpose and definition of a thing (like any written piece), forms would give perfectionists the ending, the finish line, they are looking for.
[I owe Forrest Tucker for the mental "spur" which goads me on to write further about perfectionism.]
One defining element of perfectionism is its struggle for a sense of control. Be it their sense of organization or their attempts to merge contradictions, perfectionists attempt to gain control of a world they perceive as falling apart. Forms, too, represent a control--a control of the same things our modern perfectionist attempts.
In the early medieval period, whoevers voice was loudest dictated the terms of certain forms, such as church services or building of common structures. This is the inherent folly of a realist's position, that it cannot assert the definitions of any certain form without establishing some margin of error. Suppose that my post becomes outrageously popular (see note 18). I therefore set the standard for what structure blogposts should have, what their average lengths must be, and so on. Suppose I come out and say as much--that your blogposts must have footnotes and bear organized paragraphs. At that point, I have constrained too much the definition of blogposts and established a form that may or may not be the "true" form of blogposts. (Some of this paragraph sounds like a watering down of my ideas. It is not. When it comes to matters of ruling people and leadership, I maintain my hesitation to ascribe any certain way of doing it. I once liked the idea that "he who rules least rules best." After all, my current manager at Starbucks is a micro-manager who too easily loses sight of the bigger picture. Yet, I understand that law must be made, that an order must be established and then upheld. These are grander things than I have considered and deserve to be a topic later. For now, I recognize that whether realist or nominalist everyone in power over others should make their actions with as much deliberation as possible.)
It will take many years of thought and academic scouring before realists can begin to claim the definitions of these many forms. For now, I consider Father Bear of the Berenstein Bears as a model for their research: "This is what not to do! Let that be a lesson to you." Our forms are so shattered that people will have to spend a lot of time considering what a thing isn't before we can agree on what a thing's ideal form is.

I enjoyed writing this post almost as much as having the ideas themselves. I hope for some good feedback so that I can continue forming these opinions. Perhaps I can even reach the truth of this matter--a reliable knowledge of forms that I can use to interpret my own life. This pursuit of knowledge, medieval as it is, comes to me as fresh and new. I don't want to believe my only definitions to use are the ones I make up. I know, when I glimpse an ashtray that catches ash so ideally, when I see an unfamiliar bird doing all the things birds do, when a bent nail refuses to go into a wall, when I see the last unicorn die, I know that there is a right and a wrong way of doing things. I know there is a good and a bad. And I know the side I strive to be a part of.




18) Just for the moment, okay?

17) For instance, I continually asked if my hair looked good. I didn't style it in any particular way, but I was obsessed with my hair just happening to be good. This was before I shaved it all off. I'm glad, too.

16) Daniel Leslie Peterson has an essay on perfectionism. Ask him for a copy!

15) This is the true origin of my first published poem "Mummy on the Loose."

14) My mother took her undergraduate degree in Art. Then, veering slightly, she took a graduate degree in Business. That, she has often admitted, was something she regrets. It also afforded a lot of living, though.

13) I do have compliments that stand out as favorites. Right now, because I shaved my head, I get a lot of "you have a nicely shaped head." The shape of my head not a matter I stay awake at night thinking about. When I do receive a compliment about a topic which causes considerable insomnia, I make a special note of it. I wish I had them numbered even. My most recent one is "Your handwriting looks like archaic, old writing. It belongs on a scroll, you know."

12) The coolest thing about that quote was that an Irishman said it. Say it in an Irish accent... layer on a good deal of age to your voice... and deepen your voice to sound resonant. I wish I could remember this poet's name because I'd like to give him due credit for his voice.

11) His name, when I met him, was spelled "David." But a while later, he added the silent 3... which of course is the most brilliant re-invention of self I've seen yet. Da3vid and I were roommates during my years in the University of North Texas. He and I were the sharpest minds around (though I maintain he is the sharpest of us both), and together he and I braved the wilds of undiscovered thought. It is to him I am indebted whenever I can impress someone by reciting the words of REM's It's the end of the world as we know it. Many of my fondest memories are of the times we spent together.

10) Really. Messy, as in, your own feelings about a lot of controversial or endlessly debatable topics will probably get churned. To mix a metaphor, you're churning your own butter--use it in your cake.

9) I don't see any reason to adhere to a particular form of blog-post anyway. It's not like any of you will say "No, no, no--that's not how to write it!" or even "Your blog post should have been more like this...". More of you may say that there IS no form for a blog post. That, you'd say further, is the exciting nature of technology--it opens up territories we have yet to discover! I hope later to have expressed myself enough so that I am at least justified in saying "That exciting territory is exactly why we need people to think about what form blog-posts should take or naturally do take."
[Further thoughts. There is a true irony in my position. As an advocate of forms, I will continue to do things that appear to break form. My interest in organizing this post well, for instance, is uncommon to most blog-posts. Does that mean it goes against the ideal form of blog-posts? Those who read this post must give the answer. Does this structure I am attempting to establish help to express myself clearly? If so, then I think that we have discovered one aspect of the natural form of blogposts, and can go on to advance it.]

8) I have to say, despite how corny or ill-put the business sayings are, they are often better than what I have seen printed on church street-boards. "Sharpen your life with the Bible!" "Exekiel knows what's best." "Answers inside. Jesus knows." [Thank you, Forrest Tucker, for one of the funniest I've seen, "God has your picture on His fridge."] It's a strange idea that wit equates to short, quotable quips. Perhaps we can blame all those people who tried to copy Mark Twain's success with short quotes. I do not put bumper stickers on my car, not because I do not believe in a given slogan, but because I do not believe my personal philosophy and beliefs can fit neatly on my car's bumper.

7) If you do, please supply them in the comments box. I like learning, even if it is a correction of my own suppositions.

6) I have often had a problem with Occam's razor, which simply put, means "the simplest explanation is often the correct one." Perhaps I have a problem with it because I'm a fiction writer; it's my business to create problems with excessively complicated explanations. But then, I also think about Sherlock Holmes. If you've ever read a story about that detectivest detective, you'd see several examples of Occam's razor. A certain hat is relatively large, larger than most hats. Thus, Holmes concludes, the hat's owner is an intellectual. "It's a question of capacity. Surely with a head so large, there must be something in it." That's an example of Occam's razor cutting through the rigamarole of interpretation, supposition, deduction. However, if you look at any of his cases, you'd see that these simple problems have incredibly confusing explanations. The case with the large hat, for example, is about a stolen diamond found in a goose's crop that happens to be sold in the London market.
That happens to be fiction, too. Which probably confirms my earlier suspicion that writers are ideologically at odds with Occam's razor.
[Further, there has been conjecture about the difference between Occam and the variant spelling "Ockham." I did a minute amount of research to come to an informed opinion. The town William is from is listed in the English survey as Ockham. Google.com lists approximately 200,000 more sites that use "Occam" than "Ockham." I owe Craig Thompson for his insight into variant spellings and pronunciations: "Use which ever affords you the more opportunities to correct people." Ockham is the name of the town, after all. But--in an exercise of fraternity--I will continue to use "Occam" as the spelling.]

5) I entertained the idea for a while in 2003 that Plato was describing "heaven," as Christians define it. That might not be accurate. We shall see.

4) I do. [After a request for some explanation as to why I care, I wrote this: The ideal teacup represents much more, just as many small matters collected together amount to one large revolution. The form of a teacup may shape the masses that drink tea.]

3) I am indebted to Brooks Hansen for best illustrating Plato's forms in the book The Chess Garden. It's definitely a book worth several readings. I could form a bookclub around it, but I have so few people who would A) be interested in the book B) be interested in meeting often to discuss a book C) have enough insight to attempt understanding it. Thus, almost as much as I am indebted to Brooks Hansen for the book, I am indebted to Daniel Leslie Peterson for reading it with me. [Further, I am indebted to Richard Weaver for his influence on my thoughts. Without his book Ideas Have Consequences, many of these thoughts would only have taken the form of small nags in my brain, questions without any real form at all. I also owe Dan Peterson a thank-you for reminding me to credit my sources!]

2) When I was a child and my family took me to the zoo, I would tolerate seeing the reptiles in their glass cages. I would accept that we needed to steer our course near the lions. I even pretended to act excited at giraffes. But the main goal of any excursion to the zoo was the monkeys. I love the monkeys in a zoo. Still do. Some people can watch the shopping network for hours. They might be losers. I can watch the monkeys in zoos for nearly hours... and I am certainly no loser.

1) My brain works in a way I do not understand, which is why I want to say it works in a "strange" way. This is not to exclude the several of you who, no doubt, believe your thought-processes are well within the boundaries of "normal." Instead, I would propose that our thoughts come to us in a way very UNlike our creative activities in the world outside of our minds. As we make an object, parts of the whole appear. The potter's pot takes a shape before his eyes. Yet, as we have a thought, the thought comes in its entirety--not in parts of speech or in a fuzzy image lacking definition. When I ask "What is the first little phrase of the Gettysburg Address?", those of you who know the answer know the answer in its entirety. "Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers blah-blah-blah." When I am asked to form an idea, as if for a painting, I do not mold the different parts of the idea. No, the whole idea comes as an inspiration, like an actor from the wings of a stage, like a deer from the labrythine woods, like a suspect in the foggy streets of London. These ideas come without our bidding them sometimes. When we will for them to come, they do not always come immediately. Facts, word spellings, locations of bars and cafés--these do not come immediately. That is why I consider the nature of thought as "impulsive."

What Good Angst Is

Today I had a brief encounter that left my reserves of patience empty.

While I wait for word from E.W.U., my mind grows more weary with thoughts of failure. Doubtful thoughts, questions like "What if," refuse to leave me alone. Even though I am accepted into the Creative Writing program as a student, I'm still in limbo about the teaching position, which is the key element on which everything hinges. The teaching position would pay for schooling as well as provide a minor stipend (even the university's poor pay is equivalent to several raises from Starbucks). Without the teaching position, I would be unable to attend the school.
I was about to write that "my future depends upon acceptance." As most of you will be quick to point out, that is not true. Now, a more accurate statement is "The future I have been envisioning depends on acceptance." My future, as the Lord has shown again and again, lies in the hands of the Almighty. The work I've done in the past several months might not culminate in a teaching position at Eastern, but, as Lynné is always quick to point out, "God will have something better for you if you don't get this." I've done a lot of things that led nowhere--applying for Wheaton College in my third year of undergraduate work, writing a screenplay and submitting it for ABC's annual competition, numerous submissions to magazines that returned only rejections. Yet, in spite of these things, I am able to sit and enjoy my life. That, if you listen to the Ecclesiastor, is a miracle of God.
So we come to my point. I am angst-ridden with waiting. Whenever I reason through the process of waiting on the Lord, I often forget the angst of waiting. You see, my reasoning goes like this: God promises you big things, sometimes in exchange for an act of faith, and all you must do is wait. Waiting, incidentally, is a remarkably easy thing as it requires one to do absolutely nothing. Standing guard requires the soldier only to be ready to act--not climb, kill, or run. "Just stand and wait," to quote a Milton sonnet. So when God asks you to wait, all you must do is pre-occupy yourself with some other matter, trivial or not, until the moment comes. Then, you must act.
That is my reasoning about patience, but the angst part comes when you depend on the Lord's coming through. My trouble is I am becoming resentful of my job at Starbucks. (All of you who work in the service industry who read my 'blog must be aware of the possibility of such feelings. Despite what amazing things I can do with my li'l paycheck, I am often aware of what more I could do with a bigger one, or one that requires less work than Starbucks. When I moved to Spokane, I took a two dollar pay-cut--which meant that I received the same paycheck working part-time in Texas as I did full-time in Spokane. I know some good people who proudly work the service industry, partly because they like it or because they like a freedom it affords them. I have neither of those feelings. The only bulwark against my resentment of my chosen job is that it is familiar, it has been the one that paid the bills thus far. That resentment, coupled with the realization that many of us twenty-somethings are not in higher-ranking jobs because the Baby-Boomer generation is, in their older age, keeping its occupations longer than previous generations. My tirade on this point has ended.) With such deep-seated resentment, I look ahead to a golden future at E.W.U. Lynné will sometimes daydream with me. She'll say, "You know, when you're teaching, it'll be better." I know we're setting some expectations a little high, but it also keeps me in the faith of God's good work being fulfilled.
I therefore imagine that angst is a fuel for the spiritual worker. I don't know how to look at it since I don't see any passages about Abraham wringing his hands about his descendents. I don't know of any Biblical tale where the protagonist has "emotional worries" about whether God'll come through. Even Jonah has profound reasoning behind his cowardly flight. So where do we, we children of modernists, go to understand this emotional strife and its role in our lives?
I honestly don't know. That's why I leave the question out there. Leave a little note saying you'll pray for me. Leave a little note saying "Just pray" (which I think is the only recourse we worry-worts have). But leave some thought.

Tumultuous Joy

As some of you are aware, I have redressed my interest in graduate school and have intimated my interest to the local university of Eastern Washington U. Though my application process was arduous, I directed myself to that process with fervor and excitement. The program I am applying for (Creative Writing) holds particular interest to me since the writing sample--a collection of the student's previous work--is the key element in the application. Its quality (or lack of) determines the student's admission.
Just today, not more than a few hours prior, I received a letter of acceptance from EWU's graduate office. Some of you can appreciate my satisfaction at such news. This letter arrives at a critical juncture for myself--and my family. At present, I am working at Starbucks with an eye for more profitable employ. My prospects lessen as my intentions, for I am developing a stronger sense of what life I would prefer, what endeavors I deem worthy to apply myself. There is only one way to put the question. What then is my God-given endeavor?
It remains the same. To pursue the talents that my Lord has provided and to do the work He has there given me to do. Therefore, I pursue graduate school as it affords me the opportunity to exercise my fiction talents as well as my teaching talents. Though the acceptance letter, here photographed, mentions no word to the Teaching Assistantship I have applied for, I am confident such an appointment will be made. My application, after all, explicitly intertwined my interest in graduate school with the Teaching Assistantship they offer to students interested in teaching undergraduate students.
I must say I am pleased with these turns of events. My primary glee comes from the satisfaction of being chosen. Their election was based on the writing sample I provided--which I felt none too confident at the time putting together. The writing sample was a handful of my popular pieces (an elongated The Color Green and Vengeance) combined with some of my award-winning stories (A Hero's Life, as revised with Dan Peterson's help, and a fairly new story called An Expecting Couple, written long before Lynné and I were wed and expecting). The selection process was based entirely on two professors and their endorsement of my writing. Thus goes the compliment, that two professors of English Composition found my work worthy, not just to publish or post, to recommend its author to study under their prestigious university. The compliment does not go unnoticed, but is consequently deferred. Who but the Lord guides the reading eyes of those holding my writing? Who but the Lord chooses the life of His servant? And who but the Lord would deign His servant worthy of tending and growing this most mysterious gift? None, I tell you.
So please, this fifteenth of March or whenever you read this, share in my smiles. Stand upside-down.

Obliviate!

For those of you who aren't in the little club of Harry Potter fans, the title of this post is the magical (latin-derived) word for the spell of forgetting. More properly, "obliviate" is a spell of confusion, built up from memory loss. And, after work today, I feel as if I had that spell cast on me.
How many of us do things for other masters? How rarely are we working for ourselves, being our own taskmaster? It seems that we are very good at paying bills to other people. We quiver at the thought of being late for a credit card bill. Do we blink, though, when we forget to set aside our earnings or do our own dishes?
That is, we reason, because I can afford to be an easy master to myself. 'After all, I have to deal with Boss X all day long, and really, I prefer not having him follow me all day.'
I suppose the result of that lax attitude is the decline in self-discipline. What is self-discipline other than the habit of obeying yourself? To discipline others is to instruct and be obeyed--to do this to yourself should be simple. After all, your arms and legs follow your commands; why not your behavior?!
Because we tire. Our other masters--Boss X, the water company, medical insurance--drive us and drive us hard. After all, they say, it is for our own benefit. 'You want your paycheck, don't you? Your water? Your health to be paid for when you need it?'
So the picture of our un-self-disciplined lives is thus:
We work for others so that others work for us.

Yet... I wonder. I wonder if, like a poorly sealed set of pipes, this basic assemblage of society loses labor or forgets its excess or... for lack of a better word... leaks. Isn't there something extra going on when you charge off to work an 8 hour day? Driving is an issue of extra--no one pays you to drive to work, but you pay someone. This well-publicised issue can cover over other things. What about your daily habits to facilitate the ease of your life? Like coffee in the morning? Like a movie at home because you're tired and need your brain to unwind? Like pizza delivery since your arms and legs, so driven by Boss X, won't heed your instructions for dinner? We pay for these things so that we can continue working for others.

Farmers might have something great going on. After all, they live on top of their food. They sell the excess. If you can run a diverse enough field for a season, couldn't you feasibly get away without buying food? Your family might gripe, though. I can hear some of the complaints already. "But Dad! The Joneses get pizza every night! I'm tired of fresh bread and cheese." "But we're not keeping up with the Joneses," I would like to reply. Maybe I will one day.

So the struggle in our society is not for proper leadership. One can blame the government for the media, the media for the obesity, the obesity for the stupidity, and on and on. But the truth is that we do not accept our own responsibilities. Our stupidity is ours to change. Our media is ours to listen to (or ignore). I began this post with half-a-mind to say things tantamount to "each man truly IS an island and we should celebrate isolationism." That might be a bit extreme.

Instead, I would suggest that we look at the responsibilities we give away to others and try taking them up ourselves. Look for the small ones. Becoming entirely independent from society is difficult, but look at the things you can learn to do for yourselves. Can you make clothes? Can you figure out your own mechanic work? Can you develop a solution to one of your needs that was previously met by someone else? Do it.
Do it because you'll be doing them a favor--not just yourself. Decreasing their workload gives them a break, a pause, a chance to regain their sanity. This isn't an age where people can stop at work and reflect on life. If we pause at work, it's merely to breathe and gather our wits, not reflect. Maybe one day, when our work has changed to something more meaningful, we will be able to reflect as a society. Some real thinking will be done--maybe even some forethought.

That continues to be my hope.

Goin' Postal

I felt like this when we got the letter from the U.S. Postal Service. I'm not sure how Lynné felt, but it couldn't have involved smiles.

Try to follow these events carefully, and see if you can come to any other conclusion than the one we figured: the Sleimans in Washington getting screwed by the Post Office.

Lynné hand-knit a wedding shawl from her own hand-spun thread. I would post the picture, but I can't get a digital version of it. Trust me, it's beautiful. More than that, it represented over three months of work. Not just any three months, mind you. Lynné was pregnant(with morning sickness) during the move to 922 York Avenue, #2... and this shawl was her work in the spare and off-time (between bouts of sickness). It was intended for one of my best friends in Texas, Jessica Cleckley; specifically, for her wedding. Even more specifically, a wedding we wouldn't be able to go to since it was scheduled on a day too close to LilyAnne's due date. This shawl was a little bit of us, our hearts (and Lynné's own sweat) to be on our friend's special day.

In August '04, to make sure it arrives in time for Jessica's dress fitting, Lynné mails the wedding shawl. We don't figure there's much hurry, but we are very anxious that it arrives. We make sure it is sent by "delivery confirmation." I can remember Lynné wondering aloud (worrying aloud, that is), "What if it does get lost in the mail?" That's why we insured it for $300 dollars. After all, even if it does get lost... we'll get the claim money. Isn't that what everyone thinks when they purchase US Postal Insurance?

By late August of '04, the tracking number for the wedding shawl, via an Internet site, indicates that the package has arrived. Oddly enough, there's no signature box. Yet, when we talk to Jessica on the phone, she says no shawl has arrived. We have her investigate while we investigate our end. Our side turns up nothing, except a form for claiming a lost item. Jessica's side brings up the most fruitful (and condemning to the Postal Service) information. That is, her regular postal employee was out sick... that there is no signature for an item requiring a signature... that the shawl, package and all, is nowhere they can find.

One baby and one wedding later, Jessica Locklear sends the Sleimans a letter saying she didn't receive it. Here is an exerpt from her letter.

"I cannot describe the value my husband and I place on that gift [the wedding shawl]. Not only is the piece worth a great deal due to the fact that it was entirely handmade, but there is also the sentimental value. It was made specifically for my wedding gift, to wear on my wedding day. .... And more than any other item I wore or carried on my wedding day, the shawl was to me going to be the biggest heirloom of all to pass down to my daughters, and granddaughters for their wedding days. Now, not only has my wedding passed, but it also seems we will never see the shawl again."

Pretty scathing, isn't it?

Lynné and I put together the package to give to the Post Office Claims desk. We thought that since the shawl didn't arrive, we hoped to use the insurance money to buy her something that we know she would really like (such as a spinning wheel). Just so that you all know, you cannot turn in this form to just any post office. In each city, there is one claims office. We wait in line, hand over the picture of the shawl, the letter, and our hopes for the claim. No one in this office really wants to conduct the business we're doing. We, after all, would have much rather preferred to have the shawl arrive. They, we guess, never really want to pay up the insurance they sell. We ask the lady as we hand her the forms, "Do you think it'll work out?"

"I don't know," she replies. "It's kind of questionable."

Final event. Today. The arrival of a check from the United States' Postal Service. We did not get the Insurance Coverage of $300. We did not get the cost of insurance, $4.20. Instead, we received the cost of postage, $1.09. This face says it all.

We are pretty frustrated. Jessica Locklear, the newlywed, suggested I take the Postal Service to court. After all, what case can they make? They accepted the $300 risk of loss, they lost the shawl, they refused to pay.
But, here we delve into some paranoia of Youssef's mind, what are the chances of actually winning? And if we win, what will the government pay? Only $300 to me, and my lawyer's fees? Will there be a precedent set--that all postal services must make good on their insurance claims--or will a different precedent be set, that the government can do whatever it wants because its bigger, stronger. Think about that draconian picture... and think of the weaker man's reply, "There must be some other recourse. Let's use FedEx or UPS from now on." If the postal service can bully us around, pickpocketing anyone who is dupe enough to pay for insurance, why can't we bully them around? I feel like the little nerd who, after so many pushes, has finally thought of pushing back. So what if Bruno, the 8th grader who shaves, breaks my nose, humiliates me in front of the class? Despite my pain, I've unmasked his tyranny before the other students. So what if this government appendage escapes on a technicality, that they didn't say they would pay the 300... that 300 was only a limit to the value of the item... that 1.09 was all their underwriters could find in their frigid hearts to give to the honest request? Despite our pain, we've unmasked their tyranny before the other citizens.
Together, we can put the USPS out in the cold where it has left so many of us.


I have been able to digitize a picture of the shawl. Enjoy.