Time for a not-really thought experiment! What I want you to do is go over to your refrigerator, fruit bowl, local shop-and-save, backyard tree or produce box and get an apple. I don’t really care if you don’t like apples, or even if apples, for some bizarre reason, give you hives or a rash. Admire your apple for a moment. Is it a lovely new shiny apple? Is it large or small—a red delicious or a crabapple? Is it dented? How long ago was it separated from its parent tree? Is it a girl apple or a boy apple?
Okay, okay, enough aesthetic appreciation. The point is, even though this apple is shiny and red, the apple you brought for lunch today might have been bruised and dented from bumping around in your bag. What makes them both apples? Well, that would be the genetic make-up. What makes you recognize them both as apples? How many apples have you seen in your lifetime? How many do you have to see before you recognize an apple as an apple?
This is a concept known more or less as an idea apple, and it works for faces too. This is what allows people to recognize faces as faces and why computers have to be taught. The computers have to have an idea face programmed into them.
So, enough with computers and apples for a moment—they wouldn’t have mixed were it not for April 1, 1976, when Apple Computer Inc. premiered—take a bite of your apple. Think about it: you’re biting into all the apples you’ve ever eaten. Now look at it: you’re looking at all the apples you’ve ever eaten. Kind of funny, isn’t it, to think of all those apples streaming out behind you at that bite.
30 January 2008
24 January 2008
Midterms Day 3
I read Tolkien for fifteen minutes in the library today—Christopher Tolkien, who wrote the foreword of the Lost Tales, not J. R. R. Tolkien himself, for I never got farther that the title page; it turns out there is a required directed study hall midterm which consists of, since it is, technically, sixth period and seventh period (Biology) is the only midterm left to study for, seven students in a French classroom staring at the walls for an hour and a half, until the bell rings and those of us lucky to have rides (for we are all freshmen and cannot drive) with parents or with reluctant older siblings hurry to depart the building for the day in unaccustomed freedom, blinking at the midday light and eating, furtively, once we get home, omelets and banana cake in the sunlight streaming through the picture windows by the rosemary; until we sign out with trembling hand on clipboards with heavy, curling stacks of yellow paper, to wait in the lobby and stare at the sun as the clouds veil it, to wait for that one of the myriad cars that circulate, cumbersome, through the slush which will carry us home to arrive; until the rest leave the rooms lethargically—they have nothing to look forward to in the next three hours, only the loud, garish fetidity of the cafeteria, or else the laughing, yelling cliques in the gym playing 3-on-3 basketball; or until vans arrive to carry them to Labsphere, where they will clean the back room and lose gears and laugh at Mr. Benedict’s newly-shorn face.
It was there I sat, and for the ten minutes more it took me, read the last, precious few pages of To the Lighthouse. Then it was done, and I, incapable of studying in the presence of others for some stupid, egotistical reason, had nothing better to do than to bring out my notebook and write; I had brought no second book; I had not made preparations for an hour and a half of nothing to do; I had expected that I would be allowed to stay in the library. Though I know it will shock you words who follow my directions so readily—I am hesitant to proclaim my shortcomings to such loyal subjects—it is apparently not in my power to be rid of 6th period study hall with Madame K. Allen and my need to be there.
This being the case, I proceeded to my notebook, tucked by some will of providence into my bag at the beginning of the exam schedule and never looked at again, with my pencil in hand and asked myself, not entirely seriously—at least not as serious as I should have done:
Have I anything of worth to write today?
The answer, in retrospect, is probably not. There are only so many hours a person (me, at least) can write without slipping even further in the stream-of-consciousness and worthless reflections upon the ceiling tiles, and I am afraid I have used my hours for a few days yet. The power of words is intoxicating and should not be used too frequently (there; I have formed my best and most coherent thought of the endeavor.) And here, to the probable relief of any bystanders and certainly myself, I end, finding no more of substance in my notebook.
It was there I sat, and for the ten minutes more it took me, read the last, precious few pages of To the Lighthouse. Then it was done, and I, incapable of studying in the presence of others for some stupid, egotistical reason, had nothing better to do than to bring out my notebook and write; I had brought no second book; I had not made preparations for an hour and a half of nothing to do; I had expected that I would be allowed to stay in the library. Though I know it will shock you words who follow my directions so readily—I am hesitant to proclaim my shortcomings to such loyal subjects—it is apparently not in my power to be rid of 6th period study hall with Madame K. Allen and my need to be there.
This being the case, I proceeded to my notebook, tucked by some will of providence into my bag at the beginning of the exam schedule and never looked at again, with my pencil in hand and asked myself, not entirely seriously—at least not as serious as I should have done:
Have I anything of worth to write today?
The answer, in retrospect, is probably not. There are only so many hours a person (me, at least) can write without slipping even further in the stream-of-consciousness and worthless reflections upon the ceiling tiles, and I am afraid I have used my hours for a few days yet. The power of words is intoxicating and should not be used too frequently (there; I have formed my best and most coherent thought of the endeavor.) And here, to the probable relief of any bystanders and certainly myself, I end, finding no more of substance in my notebook.
23 January 2008
Midterm Meditations
1. I was speculating this morning on the myth of Romulus and Remus. I believe that Romulus is often considered to be rash and hot-headed while his brother was poor, persecuted Remus. The thing is, Remus must have been pretty rash as well to have jumped over the wall his brother, hot, tired and sweaty, had just spent the morning on. Maybe Romulus had done all the work and Remus sat around making daisy chains and snarky comments all morning. And then what happened? Romulus had to build Rome by himself! Suppose, perhaps, that the two brothers were very close: they had known no family but a wolf and a shepherd and, after all, where was the wolf? where was the shepherd when Romulus built his wall all alone? There are so many things we don’t know.
2. It was after my geometry midterm, today, at 9:00, when a few people were left finishing their proofs, that I got out my mother’s old copy of “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf, which I read for the next fifteen minutes. The book is so old and the binding has grown so stiff that in the course of the week I had read it it had split three times and was now in four parts; at page 265 it split again and I was left holding two section; I turned a page and a crevice opened up; the book fell flat.
It is a strange feeling to see someone watching you from the corner of your eye. It immediately bestows a rigid kind of self-consciousness upon you; one comes back to earth from whatever cloud of unconsciousness one was floating on; the upside of this is that the eye is, momentarily, dilated fully and measures you afresh for the first time in a long while against your surroundings. If it happens at the right moment it can gel your ideas marvelously. The downside is, of course, that it is very difficult to read properly when one knows one is being watched.
Nor is it, I found, after Nicole had turned in her midterm and we were released from the bonds of silence, when I turned to see what Tim was doing and whether he had done the proof (the answer, of course, being no, I remonstrated him, for he had missed a very nice proof indeed)—he was doing the crossword, which I attempted and failed to solve, nor is it easy at all when someone watches you, subversively, from eight inches or at most a desk’s length away. Again it tests your moral fortitude like some instrument in the scientist’s hand worries a butterfly's wing. Again it dilates the eyes, in fear, and although that moment is introspective in all technical respects of the word, it feels more extroverted than anything else in the world.
3. Among the realizations this extrasensory perception brings is a sense, marvelously, at fifteen, of having a whole history behind you—enough so that, like James, we must peel past layers to get at our infancy—and yet have the whole of life to live; like (and if I remember, this afternoon, around three, when the sun functions as a spotlight that illuminates its own in strong, dramatic rays, I will take a picture of) cupped hands holding water.
4. And what of the similarity between word and world? Is it a coincidence that the world cannot be fully conceived in a word—that it must be expanded upon? Tolkien, the etymologist, created the Ents who in their wisdom and longevity had proper words, like their word for Lothlorien, a phrase humming and golden and green; are our words thus shadows and abbreviations; are they, like we in C.S. Lewis’ mind, ghosts of their true meanings? Then what is this human power which allows us, in the course of a lifetime, to signify with so many little words so many great things? Like the writers before me I wonder at this contained energy.
5. Writers have the power of ephemeral creation. With their words they create, every day, worlds! What endows them with such god-like powers? And yet, who takes them away? For if I neglect my document; if in my haste I do not save it--it can so easily be ripped away; all the meanings and words and associations and the bright worlds which deign to be contained within them.
2. It was after my geometry midterm, today, at 9:00, when a few people were left finishing their proofs, that I got out my mother’s old copy of “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf, which I read for the next fifteen minutes. The book is so old and the binding has grown so stiff that in the course of the week I had read it it had split three times and was now in four parts; at page 265 it split again and I was left holding two section; I turned a page and a crevice opened up; the book fell flat.
It is a strange feeling to see someone watching you from the corner of your eye. It immediately bestows a rigid kind of self-consciousness upon you; one comes back to earth from whatever cloud of unconsciousness one was floating on; the upside of this is that the eye is, momentarily, dilated fully and measures you afresh for the first time in a long while against your surroundings. If it happens at the right moment it can gel your ideas marvelously. The downside is, of course, that it is very difficult to read properly when one knows one is being watched.
Nor is it, I found, after Nicole had turned in her midterm and we were released from the bonds of silence, when I turned to see what Tim was doing and whether he had done the proof (the answer, of course, being no, I remonstrated him, for he had missed a very nice proof indeed)—he was doing the crossword, which I attempted and failed to solve, nor is it easy at all when someone watches you, subversively, from eight inches or at most a desk’s length away. Again it tests your moral fortitude like some instrument in the scientist’s hand worries a butterfly's wing. Again it dilates the eyes, in fear, and although that moment is introspective in all technical respects of the word, it feels more extroverted than anything else in the world.
3. Among the realizations this extrasensory perception brings is a sense, marvelously, at fifteen, of having a whole history behind you—enough so that, like James, we must peel past layers to get at our infancy—and yet have the whole of life to live; like (and if I remember, this afternoon, around three, when the sun functions as a spotlight that illuminates its own in strong, dramatic rays, I will take a picture of) cupped hands holding water.
4. And what of the similarity between word and world? Is it a coincidence that the world cannot be fully conceived in a word—that it must be expanded upon? Tolkien, the etymologist, created the Ents who in their wisdom and longevity had proper words, like their word for Lothlorien, a phrase humming and golden and green; are our words thus shadows and abbreviations; are they, like we in C.S. Lewis’ mind, ghosts of their true meanings? Then what is this human power which allows us, in the course of a lifetime, to signify with so many little words so many great things? Like the writers before me I wonder at this contained energy.
5. Writers have the power of ephemeral creation. With their words they create, every day, worlds! What endows them with such god-like powers? And yet, who takes them away? For if I neglect my document; if in my haste I do not save it--it can so easily be ripped away; all the meanings and words and associations and the bright worlds which deign to be contained within them.
19 January 2008
Diatribe on Sentence Structure
On Wednesday night, at about nine o'clock, I realized I had an English assignment to complete about, since we are currently embarked upon a Poetry unit (to the distress of the class in general), Using Imagery. Since I have been reading far too much Virginia Woolf lately, here is the last, most pertinent part of my writing:
It’s a curious thing: whenever the seasons change from summer to winter, the summer seems so fine, full of unbounded freedom and sunny days; fair skies every day and storms enough to satisfy everyone. Conversely, during the summer I dream of skiing, of freezing noses and the smell and sound of snow. According to this theory, I should be wishing it was early April at the moment, with just a hint of color in the trees around my house: everything is melting and one smells that distinctive smell which was so prominent during the thaw last week. My favorite place to be during this season is my roof. On really hot days it can get unbearable—quite literally as bad as an oven—but the fairly disgusting smell that radiates off hot asphalt symbolizes the spring for me, and the afternoons I will spend on the roof, singing along to Eagles music and watching the bare blue sky. This is why, in some few months, I will set my ladder in the same depressions it made last year, in the soft dirt of the front yard, to lean against the roof and crack the edges of the shingles, to make my parents cluck with distress and move it, stealthily, when they think I’m not watching; to climb up it, despite their warnings, first in sneakers, then in flip-flops, and then, illicitly, in the cool of July afternoons, in my bare feet, the ridges of the aluminum pressing against each foot—placed, first firmly and then more surely, one after another—as I ascend to the roof with my music in hand.
The best place to vacation is by far Cape Cod, Massachusetts, Eastham to be precise (375 Glacier Hills Road), when the bike paths are open, of course, because the bike paths are always open; and gloriously paved and smooth—nothing justifies sweating as well as bicycling on a warm blue day on Cape Cod—and ready and waiting for us, the license-less travelers of the summer, to ride from edge to edge, beach to home, home to cousins (the source of all evil; the source of all happiness; the source of all lazy pleasures and bonfires by the lighthouse—oh, and don’t forget the store-bought cookies), to ride through sun and rain, dry shorts and swimming suits filled with sand, unburdened and laden with a skim board, two beach chairs, a pair of towels and the plastic bags to bring them back in, and a bag of potato chips and ginger snaps thrown in for good measure (that’s really the point of salt spray; ginger snaps never taste as good at home; and there has to be some redemption for the way it spitefully dampens the clothes and obscures the vision)—to ride on despite separation, despite sand, despite frost heaves (in Massachusetts, in August, for God’s sake—why? because this is New England), despite the fact that you’ve forgotten a water bottle.
Yes, this makes a total of 8 sentences, and yes, it is indeed a total of 2 paragraphs.
The sad thing is, (although my English teacher, being, I believe, pressed for time, failed to criticize my writing) if I had turned this into my Humanities teacher I would have recieved low marks because my paragraphs were not 5 sentences long. More depressing still was the reaction from Brennan, the junior who I ate lunch with on Thursday, when I told him--somewhat boastfully, I shall admit--that I had written a sentence the night before that was 223 words long.
"But that's bad grammar!" He protested, "You should be able to say a proper sentence in one breath!"
Let my opinion be known, now, while I am filled with this righteous fire: a sentence that is 223 words need not be bad grammar. By saying this you are, in my opinion, slapping Proust and Virginia Woolf and any other writer who feels compelled to follow a more lengthy style in the face. Shame on you!
It’s a curious thing: whenever the seasons change from summer to winter, the summer seems so fine, full of unbounded freedom and sunny days; fair skies every day and storms enough to satisfy everyone. Conversely, during the summer I dream of skiing, of freezing noses and the smell and sound of snow. According to this theory, I should be wishing it was early April at the moment, with just a hint of color in the trees around my house: everything is melting and one smells that distinctive smell which was so prominent during the thaw last week. My favorite place to be during this season is my roof. On really hot days it can get unbearable—quite literally as bad as an oven—but the fairly disgusting smell that radiates off hot asphalt symbolizes the spring for me, and the afternoons I will spend on the roof, singing along to Eagles music and watching the bare blue sky. This is why, in some few months, I will set my ladder in the same depressions it made last year, in the soft dirt of the front yard, to lean against the roof and crack the edges of the shingles, to make my parents cluck with distress and move it, stealthily, when they think I’m not watching; to climb up it, despite their warnings, first in sneakers, then in flip-flops, and then, illicitly, in the cool of July afternoons, in my bare feet, the ridges of the aluminum pressing against each foot—placed, first firmly and then more surely, one after another—as I ascend to the roof with my music in hand.
The best place to vacation is by far Cape Cod, Massachusetts, Eastham to be precise (375 Glacier Hills Road), when the bike paths are open, of course, because the bike paths are always open; and gloriously paved and smooth—nothing justifies sweating as well as bicycling on a warm blue day on Cape Cod—and ready and waiting for us, the license-less travelers of the summer, to ride from edge to edge, beach to home, home to cousins (the source of all evil; the source of all happiness; the source of all lazy pleasures and bonfires by the lighthouse—oh, and don’t forget the store-bought cookies), to ride through sun and rain, dry shorts and swimming suits filled with sand, unburdened and laden with a skim board, two beach chairs, a pair of towels and the plastic bags to bring them back in, and a bag of potato chips and ginger snaps thrown in for good measure (that’s really the point of salt spray; ginger snaps never taste as good at home; and there has to be some redemption for the way it spitefully dampens the clothes and obscures the vision)—to ride on despite separation, despite sand, despite frost heaves (in Massachusetts, in August, for God’s sake—why? because this is New England), despite the fact that you’ve forgotten a water bottle.
Yes, this makes a total of 8 sentences, and yes, it is indeed a total of 2 paragraphs.
The sad thing is, (although my English teacher, being, I believe, pressed for time, failed to criticize my writing) if I had turned this into my Humanities teacher I would have recieved low marks because my paragraphs were not 5 sentences long. More depressing still was the reaction from Brennan, the junior who I ate lunch with on Thursday, when I told him--somewhat boastfully, I shall admit--that I had written a sentence the night before that was 223 words long.
"But that's bad grammar!" He protested, "You should be able to say a proper sentence in one breath!"
Let my opinion be known, now, while I am filled with this righteous fire: a sentence that is 223 words need not be bad grammar. By saying this you are, in my opinion, slapping Proust and Virginia Woolf and any other writer who feels compelled to follow a more lengthy style in the face. Shame on you!
18 January 2008
AdventureQuest RPG
This is not exactly how I'd hoped to start out a blog, but oh well:
I started playing AQ the other day because I liked the promotional graphics they had on deviantArt. After maybe 2 whole hours of playing, I'm a level 13 mage (this entails, as far as I can see, more intelligence, but since AQ doesn't really do anything with your statistics it's really fairly pointless) named eTinuviel.
AdventureQuest is a small, flash-animated "RPG" game that is, in theory, free, but has an upgrade available if you are willing to pay $14. On the negative side, it's not really an RPG, because there is no actual interaction with anybody: there are a few NPCs that you can "talk" to and accept quests from, but the entire substance of the game is buying spells and weapons and using them to beat monsters.
On the positive side, however, it's perfect for people like me with an internet restriction. AdventureQuest is easy to play in the background while you check your email, and it gives you a basic idea of what playing an RPG is like. It's like a [Game Boy] video game with better graphics.
I started playing AQ the other day because I liked the promotional graphics they had on deviantArt. After maybe 2 whole hours of playing, I'm a level 13 mage (this entails, as far as I can see, more intelligence, but since AQ doesn't really do anything with your statistics it's really fairly pointless) named eTinuviel.
AdventureQuest is a small, flash-animated "RPG" game that is, in theory, free, but has an upgrade available if you are willing to pay $14. On the negative side, it's not really an RPG, because there is no actual interaction with anybody: there are a few NPCs that you can "talk" to and accept quests from, but the entire substance of the game is buying spells and weapons and using them to beat monsters.
On the positive side, however, it's perfect for people like me with an internet restriction. AdventureQuest is easy to play in the background while you check your email, and it gives you a basic idea of what playing an RPG is like. It's like a [Game Boy] video game with better graphics.
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