So...
...yeah...
...infrequent posts.
I know. I feel like making a big deal out of it would be something of an ego trip, seeing as there are probably four people who actually read this blog (five tops). It's not like I'm turning my back on a starved and hopeful audience. And yet, I do feel somewhat guilty, if for no other reason than I'm not keeping up with this blogging project. I don't know if I have a good reason, but reasons there are.
The post on M. Ward was not written for this blog. I just wrote it one night for myself as an exercise (is it even possible to describe a song in words?). Then about a week later I remembered my emaciated body of blog writings and decided to throw the "Chinese Translation" piece up here to beef the damn thing up. On the other hand, it's not like I haven't been writing. Au contraire, dear reader, I have been writing more than ever. Most of it has been personal stuff. In fact, all of it has been personal, excluding a preview of an upcoming show here in Zürich that I wrote for a Swiss music blog. Personal in the sense that either it has to do with my development as a human being, or it was not written with an audience in mind.
What have I been doing? Well, lots of reading, lots of writing, and lots of discovering/listening to music. I think I'm probably listening to more music per day than I ever have before, and not just music that is already dear to me. At least a few new albums every day. The amount of music I listen to is a direct consequence of how much free time I have. When I was a freshman in college, I listened to a lot, explored a lot. The next two years...not as much. Having a girlfried -- shit, being in love -- takes up a lot of time. Those hours you used to spend spaced out listening to that band end up being spent in bed with the S.O. You can't walk around with headphones on all the time when you're in a relationship (ignoring your S.O. for extended periods of time is generally frowned upon), but you also can't be pumping experimental music through the speakers 24/7. God help you if the S.O. doesn't like the music you listen to.
But once you're free of the old Ball & Chain, once you've graduated college, once you're unemployed, and once you've got the option to sit around and do nothing, you find that me-time is no longer in short supply. In that time, you consider: just what the fuck am I doing with myself? Now, this could be a really scary question. This could push you into a panic. But I like waking up in the morning. I like thinking about those hours I'm going to have to myself, doing what I want to do, exploring music and writing, considering my next moves. I know this state cannot persist indefinitely, but I am not unhappy in it. Calling a timeout from the outside world, retreating into my bubble -- it helps. It has helped me to re-orient myself, to sew up my wounds and let my cares ebb away, to untangle the knot of pressures that has been oppressing me for the last I-don't-know-how-long.
And now that I'm breathing fresh air, my attention really is turned to the next step. At this point, I find two different paths beckoning. The first is some kind of journalism. I've done a good bit of writing about music, and I think this is something I could be very good at. The second voice is luring me to do some kind of international humanitarian aid. Peace Corps, in other words. I am young, I have some education, and I want to help. I also lack a lot of experience and the practical skills necessary to do just about anything (so it seems to me). Peace Corps, or something akin to it, would give me the opportunity to kill a lot of birds with one stone: go somewhere I've never been (and am never likely to go), help people, learn some skills, gain some experience that can help me in the future, and hopefully open these eyes up to how people live in other parts of the world. Writing might go hand-in-hand with such an experience.
It's funny. I simultaneously have an itch to get up and get doing something, but I also feel a certain amount of contentment doing what I am doing now (read: nothing productive to society). Since the beer is always stronger at the other party, the itch is what I'm really noticing most of the time. When I talk to friends and they ask me what I'm doing with myself, I tell them. Usually, they express some variation of the phrase, "I wish I could do that." And examining my situation from an outside perspective, I suppose I am in an enviable position. Not having to do anything, not being forced to do anything, able to take time out of the world to reflect on things. Not everyone gets to do this. But I'm always surprised when they tell me they feel jealous. I guess I expect them to scold me and tell me to get off my ass. I think most people in this situation would just feel bored. Case in point: my little brother, who wants nothing more than to haul ass back to Florida.
Anyway, that's all I've got to say here for now. I'll try to post more from now on!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Chinese Translation by M. Ward
Reading a book at the table in my mother's living room, I had put on the three albums of M. Ward that are on my iPod. Finally it reached the song "Chinese Translation" from the album Hold Time, which must be my favorite song by him, and certainly the one I have listened to the most. My attention was diverted by the song, both because of my fondness for it and because of personal/recollective associations I have with it, which are quite strong. I actually felt my tear glands come alive, ready for whatever emotional expression might be called for.
I listened to the song intently, wondering what exactly attracts me to it. What are the auditory qualities that make it so pleasing to hear and so evocative of particular mental images and emotional textures? Is it futile to attempt to use words to convey the exact way a sound, a song, makes us feel? I feel a bit daring at the moment, so I think I will try.
The song opens with two guitars going in opposite directions, one up and one down a ladder of notes. Pause for a second. Then comes in the voice and the verse music. There are no sounds too sharp or penetrating. The instrumental and vocal textures are smooth and polished and pillowy, without any distortion but also without much treble, except that which comes from the light drumming. The drumming keeps up a beat which instantly calls up a feeling of movement. A steady chugga CHUgga chugga CHUgga, repeating regularly. The guitars which keep the rhythm are in a middle-deep pitch range, and in the sonic distance you hear a slide guitar. This slide guitar gives the impression of depth. A landscape. You can feel the distance between the guitars, which are in the foreground, and the slide, which gives a third dimension to the song. Little licks from the slide guitar flare up. You can hear quick picking on the guitars, but because the sound is so smooth (a mix of nylon and steel strings) and without rough edges, the song seems to progress both quickly and slowly. At moments, the slide, which has a thicker, more rounded sound, combines with the drumming to evoke the image of a train. The beat of the drums is complemented by the rhythmic tap-tapping of picks and fingernails on the strings of the guitars, offering more sonic intimations of movement and travel, like the patter of a hundred footsteps. The layering of the instruments, especially all the guitars and bass, enhances the perceived depth of the sound. In the last ninety seconds of the song there is a soft, pleasant howling on the air, like a swift but gentle wind blowing through this melodic landscape. The song ends the same way it began -- it is bookended by guitars climbing and descending musical ladders.
The impressive part is how well this conjured musical expanse is harmonized with the vocal work, both in terms of pure sound and lyrical content. M. Ward's voice is light, never overpowering, never harsh. Just like the guitars, it is soft at the edges. Nothing about it is going to cut into you. That Midwestern accent adds to the suggestion of open spaces -- longer, looser vowels. And of course, the lyrics themselves pertain to travels over vast distances, a cyclical, generational search for answers to some of life's big questions.
I'm not saying it's the best song ever recorded, or anything like that. But it is a masterful piece inasmuch as all the parts of the song work in harmony and create a unified impression on the hearer. It makes it so easy to drift away, to be taken in by the lyrics and transported in thought to the scenes that are described.
I listened to the song intently, wondering what exactly attracts me to it. What are the auditory qualities that make it so pleasing to hear and so evocative of particular mental images and emotional textures? Is it futile to attempt to use words to convey the exact way a sound, a song, makes us feel? I feel a bit daring at the moment, so I think I will try.
The song opens with two guitars going in opposite directions, one up and one down a ladder of notes. Pause for a second. Then comes in the voice and the verse music. There are no sounds too sharp or penetrating. The instrumental and vocal textures are smooth and polished and pillowy, without any distortion but also without much treble, except that which comes from the light drumming. The drumming keeps up a beat which instantly calls up a feeling of movement. A steady chugga CHUgga chugga CHUgga, repeating regularly. The guitars which keep the rhythm are in a middle-deep pitch range, and in the sonic distance you hear a slide guitar. This slide guitar gives the impression of depth. A landscape. You can feel the distance between the guitars, which are in the foreground, and the slide, which gives a third dimension to the song. Little licks from the slide guitar flare up. You can hear quick picking on the guitars, but because the sound is so smooth (a mix of nylon and steel strings) and without rough edges, the song seems to progress both quickly and slowly. At moments, the slide, which has a thicker, more rounded sound, combines with the drumming to evoke the image of a train. The beat of the drums is complemented by the rhythmic tap-tapping of picks and fingernails on the strings of the guitars, offering more sonic intimations of movement and travel, like the patter of a hundred footsteps. The layering of the instruments, especially all the guitars and bass, enhances the perceived depth of the sound. In the last ninety seconds of the song there is a soft, pleasant howling on the air, like a swift but gentle wind blowing through this melodic landscape. The song ends the same way it began -- it is bookended by guitars climbing and descending musical ladders.
The impressive part is how well this conjured musical expanse is harmonized with the vocal work, both in terms of pure sound and lyrical content. M. Ward's voice is light, never overpowering, never harsh. Just like the guitars, it is soft at the edges. Nothing about it is going to cut into you. That Midwestern accent adds to the suggestion of open spaces -- longer, looser vowels. And of course, the lyrics themselves pertain to travels over vast distances, a cyclical, generational search for answers to some of life's big questions.
I'm not saying it's the best song ever recorded, or anything like that. But it is a masterful piece inasmuch as all the parts of the song work in harmony and create a unified impression on the hearer. It makes it so easy to drift away, to be taken in by the lyrics and transported in thought to the scenes that are described.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Moby-Dick and other Big Books
Yesterday I was traveling all day, flying from Fort Lauderdale to Chicago to Los Angeles, then taking a shuttle from L.A. to Anaheim. The best part of being in and out of airports all day is that you have a whole lot of time to read...and nothing much to distract you. So I got the chance to sit still and finish reading Moby-Dick, (one of) the biggest fish in the sea of American literature.
This was a great book. Great Book, too. I think I see what all the fuss is about. It's one of those books that has furnished characters and ideas that are known to almost the entire reading public of our language. Captain Ahab, one-legged, crazed, and obsessed with revenge. The titanic White Whale, lordly and ancient, an unconquerable foe. Most people familiar with these characters know them because they are archetypal figures that are regularly alluded to, even in common speech. But, as always, there really is nothing like reading the work itself. The language is rich, the sentences long and grammatically elaborate. In fact, the whole book is rather wordy. But the metaphors, the images, and the (exhaustive) descriptions are dazzling. And every time you get bogged down by a dull passage or exchange, you can be sure a striking, even haunting, passage is forthcoming to rouse you and irradiate what seemed so plain a moment before.
[After a few pages of description of the flukes of a sperm whale]
The more I consider this mighty tail, the more do I deplore my inability to express it. At times there are gestures in it, which, though they would well grace the hand of man, remain wholly inexplicable. In an extensive herd, so remarkable, occasionally, are these mystic gestures, that I have heard hunters who have declared them akin to Free-Mason signs and symbols; that the whale, indeed, by these methods intelligently conversed with the world. Nor are there wanting other motions of the whale in his general body, full of strangeness, and unaccountable to his most experienced assailant. Dissect him how I may, then, I but go skin deep; I know him not, and never will. But if I know not even the tail of this whale, how understand his head? much more, how comprehend his face, when face he has none? Thou shalt see my back parts, my tail, he seems to say, but my face shall not be seen. But I cannot completely make out his back parts; and hint what he will about his face, I say again he has no face. (350-1)
Just beautiful. The allusion to Moses on Sinai, the comparison of the whale with God, and the way the narrator complicates that juxtaposition by saying the whale has no face -- just great stuff.
Also, the attitude of the narrator--and Melville himself--towards whales and whaling is fascinating. He has a profound reverence for the creature. He finds it in many ways superior to mankind, more like a god. He expresses pity for individual whales that are killed, and he realizes that whaling is an industry of profit. Yet he defends the practice, denies that it threatens whales as a species, and certainly does not spare us the gory details of the trade. Even in those gory details (for example, describing how blubber is stripped from the body of a dead whale), however, he never stops venerating the beast.
I don't have an overarching point to make about the book. I really, really liked it. The more powerful bits of symbolism weren't hiding between the lines or buried where only a literary scholar could dig them up: Melville is up front with his symbols and metaphors, and he explores them openly and at length. Case in point, a full eight pages are dedicated to discussing the sundry symbolic interpretations of the whiteness of the whale. I liked this candor. When symbols are too subtle to make an impression on the reader, that indicates that either the reader is too ignorant or the author too pretentious.
On a related note, I was having a discussion with Craig after exhorting him to read The Brothers Karamazov, and I articulated an idea I thought was worth writing down (not because of its profundity, but because it helped me understand my reading own proclivities). Why do I like to read big books that take forever to finish? Why begin a 600- or 900-page book when I could read three or four 200-page books in the same time?
Well, I think what I really enjoy--other than feeling like a badass for having read a big book--is how it becomes a sort of ritual. When you have a long, slow-moving book that takes you weeks to read, you get accustomed to the idea of chipping away at it steadily during your downtime. Kind of like watching a television series. I have found that if I am doing something stressful or irritating, it's a cozy thought to think about wrapping up, going home, and continuing on in the story. You get a long time to think it over and chew the cud. It's just a different experience from powering through books, especially shorter books.
This was a great book. Great Book, too. I think I see what all the fuss is about. It's one of those books that has furnished characters and ideas that are known to almost the entire reading public of our language. Captain Ahab, one-legged, crazed, and obsessed with revenge. The titanic White Whale, lordly and ancient, an unconquerable foe. Most people familiar with these characters know them because they are archetypal figures that are regularly alluded to, even in common speech. But, as always, there really is nothing like reading the work itself. The language is rich, the sentences long and grammatically elaborate. In fact, the whole book is rather wordy. But the metaphors, the images, and the (exhaustive) descriptions are dazzling. And every time you get bogged down by a dull passage or exchange, you can be sure a striking, even haunting, passage is forthcoming to rouse you and irradiate what seemed so plain a moment before.
[After a few pages of description of the flukes of a sperm whale]
The more I consider this mighty tail, the more do I deplore my inability to express it. At times there are gestures in it, which, though they would well grace the hand of man, remain wholly inexplicable. In an extensive herd, so remarkable, occasionally, are these mystic gestures, that I have heard hunters who have declared them akin to Free-Mason signs and symbols; that the whale, indeed, by these methods intelligently conversed with the world. Nor are there wanting other motions of the whale in his general body, full of strangeness, and unaccountable to his most experienced assailant. Dissect him how I may, then, I but go skin deep; I know him not, and never will. But if I know not even the tail of this whale, how understand his head? much more, how comprehend his face, when face he has none? Thou shalt see my back parts, my tail, he seems to say, but my face shall not be seen. But I cannot completely make out his back parts; and hint what he will about his face, I say again he has no face. (350-1)
Just beautiful. The allusion to Moses on Sinai, the comparison of the whale with God, and the way the narrator complicates that juxtaposition by saying the whale has no face -- just great stuff.
Also, the attitude of the narrator--and Melville himself--towards whales and whaling is fascinating. He has a profound reverence for the creature. He finds it in many ways superior to mankind, more like a god. He expresses pity for individual whales that are killed, and he realizes that whaling is an industry of profit. Yet he defends the practice, denies that it threatens whales as a species, and certainly does not spare us the gory details of the trade. Even in those gory details (for example, describing how blubber is stripped from the body of a dead whale), however, he never stops venerating the beast.
I don't have an overarching point to make about the book. I really, really liked it. The more powerful bits of symbolism weren't hiding between the lines or buried where only a literary scholar could dig them up: Melville is up front with his symbols and metaphors, and he explores them openly and at length. Case in point, a full eight pages are dedicated to discussing the sundry symbolic interpretations of the whiteness of the whale. I liked this candor. When symbols are too subtle to make an impression on the reader, that indicates that either the reader is too ignorant or the author too pretentious.
On a related note, I was having a discussion with Craig after exhorting him to read The Brothers Karamazov, and I articulated an idea I thought was worth writing down (not because of its profundity, but because it helped me understand my reading own proclivities). Why do I like to read big books that take forever to finish? Why begin a 600- or 900-page book when I could read three or four 200-page books in the same time?
Well, I think what I really enjoy--other than feeling like a badass for having read a big book--is how it becomes a sort of ritual. When you have a long, slow-moving book that takes you weeks to read, you get accustomed to the idea of chipping away at it steadily during your downtime. Kind of like watching a television series. I have found that if I am doing something stressful or irritating, it's a cozy thought to think about wrapping up, going home, and continuing on in the story. You get a long time to think it over and chew the cud. It's just a different experience from powering through books, especially shorter books.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tigergate
Okay, so this whole Tiger Woods drama continues to play out in the media. In a way, it's the perfect story.
Tiger is an international icon, one of the most successful and successfully marketed athletes of all time (probably fighting with David Beckham for second place behind Michael Jordan). He's young, he's good looking, he's fiery on the course, and he's likable. He's won with dominance, he's won in dramatic fashion. He is sponsored by some of the biggest, most recognizable brands in the world (Nike, Gatorade, Gillette, AT&T, Accenture). He has a beautiful wife and two young children. Oh, and he's earned over one billion dollars from winnings and endorsements, making him by far the world's richest athlete.
And beyond all this, he has a meticulously crafted public image. He appeals to so many different groups: he represents youth, social progress, consummate skill and athleticism, passion and grit. Put simply, he has been propped up as the ultimate Good Guy, and to this point that reputation has been untouchable.
Honestly, I am not very much interested in the actual story of what's happening in Tiger Woods's personal life. That is to say, whether he been unfaithful to his wife, whether he is a bad father, what happened with that accident. To me, it is a family drama like any other -- I'm sorry that all of them have to go through what is certainly a painful process, but I'm not going to spend my time seeking the details and playing armchair psychologist. What I am interested in, however, is society's reaction to the Scandal of it all.
This story is being reported from many different angles by many different outlets. Sports media have an obvious interest in the ramifications for golf, which has never before benefited from having a superstar like Tiger. He has raised the profile of the sport to new heights. Gossip media, ranging from tabloids to celebrity magazines like People feel they have a stake because of Tiger's star power. Magazines like TIME and Forbes take an interest in his status as an American icon and one of the richest, most powerful men in sport.
The mixture of celebrity, gossip, sport, wealth, etc., makes this a story with unbelievable appeal. And if there's one thing Americans love, it's heroes. Boy, do we love our heroes. We cherish the story of the man or woman who comes out of the blue to win it all. We love athletes that perform under pressure. Hell, we love just about anyone who overcomes great odds to succeed. We love winners.
But if there's one thing we love every bit as much as a success story, it's the Fall. You know what I'm talking about. Good Guy soars to heights of Prosperity-and-Bliss, then is betrayed by his own Iniquity and experiences a precipitous Descent-into-Ignominy. We love to tear our idols down. Those bastards that thought they could keep pulling the wool over our eyes, making us believe they were perfect, happy, and better than us. They had all the success in the world. Tiger had fame, fortune, family, youth, health, and a sterling reputation. But his own Vice led to a great Fall, and his world will never be the same again.
It's the oldest of all stories and the one whose retelling will never lose its appeal. So I expect the various media organizations to wring every possible drop out of this story for years to come. Writers will turn the public into the victim, stridently decrying Woods's deception: How dare he make us believe he was so good? By a couple years from now, everyone will have had a turn at victimhood -- the public, the PGA, the Woods family, the media, Tiger himself, and the baby Jesus. Long tracts will be written about our shattered trust, about the responsibilities of celebrities to their fans, about the proper limits of media inquiry into the lives of athletes. All facets of the story will be covered in print media, digital media, television and radio media. Who knows, a movie might already be in the works (if you think some studio executives haven't already commissioned scripts on the Rise and Fall of Tiger Woods, you may be giving humanity too much credit).
But my feeling is that some years from now, if and when Woods gets back to golfing, we'll see the resurrection of his public image. As I see it, we are in the second act of a tripartite cliché:
Act I: The Rise.
Act II: The Fall (current).
Act III: The Redemption.
We as a public have been enthralled by Tiger's meteoric rise. Now, the audience savors the deliciousness of his disgrace. But we all know that humanity is imperfect, we all know deep down that he is still a human being, even if he was regarded as something more than that for a long time. And this, I think, is why Tiger is going to be back -- because we love the story of Redemption. We are yearning for Act III, wherein the repentant sinner is reformed and claws his way back up the mountain. This, too, is one of the oldest, most formative stories of our culture. Even Michael Jackson, who languished in a state of perpetual fallenness while he lived, was granted the status of Redeemed upon his death.
I feel pompous predicting it, but it seems almost inevitable to me: Give it a few years and (if he starts winning at golf again) the media coverage surrounding Tiger Woods will be celebrating the redemption of a man who has passed through the fire and overcome his shortcomings to regain some amount of personal peace and prosperity. The old story of betrayal and fall will grow stale and there will be nothing further to profit from it. The public may love seeing its idols disgraced, but it also wants to forgive, and this is where the money is going to be. The American media may be brutal, but when it sniffs money, you can count on it to discover its forgiving side. He won't be the same icon he once was, but Tiger will be back.
Tiger is an international icon, one of the most successful and successfully marketed athletes of all time (probably fighting with David Beckham for second place behind Michael Jordan). He's young, he's good looking, he's fiery on the course, and he's likable. He's won with dominance, he's won in dramatic fashion. He is sponsored by some of the biggest, most recognizable brands in the world (Nike, Gatorade, Gillette, AT&T, Accenture). He has a beautiful wife and two young children. Oh, and he's earned over one billion dollars from winnings and endorsements, making him by far the world's richest athlete.
And beyond all this, he has a meticulously crafted public image. He appeals to so many different groups: he represents youth, social progress, consummate skill and athleticism, passion and grit. Put simply, he has been propped up as the ultimate Good Guy, and to this point that reputation has been untouchable.
Honestly, I am not very much interested in the actual story of what's happening in Tiger Woods's personal life. That is to say, whether he been unfaithful to his wife, whether he is a bad father, what happened with that accident. To me, it is a family drama like any other -- I'm sorry that all of them have to go through what is certainly a painful process, but I'm not going to spend my time seeking the details and playing armchair psychologist. What I am interested in, however, is society's reaction to the Scandal of it all.
This story is being reported from many different angles by many different outlets. Sports media have an obvious interest in the ramifications for golf, which has never before benefited from having a superstar like Tiger. He has raised the profile of the sport to new heights. Gossip media, ranging from tabloids to celebrity magazines like People feel they have a stake because of Tiger's star power. Magazines like TIME and Forbes take an interest in his status as an American icon and one of the richest, most powerful men in sport.
The mixture of celebrity, gossip, sport, wealth, etc., makes this a story with unbelievable appeal. And if there's one thing Americans love, it's heroes. Boy, do we love our heroes. We cherish the story of the man or woman who comes out of the blue to win it all. We love athletes that perform under pressure. Hell, we love just about anyone who overcomes great odds to succeed. We love winners.
But if there's one thing we love every bit as much as a success story, it's the Fall. You know what I'm talking about. Good Guy soars to heights of Prosperity-and-Bliss, then is betrayed by his own Iniquity and experiences a precipitous Descent-into-Ignominy. We love to tear our idols down. Those bastards that thought they could keep pulling the wool over our eyes, making us believe they were perfect, happy, and better than us. They had all the success in the world. Tiger had fame, fortune, family, youth, health, and a sterling reputation. But his own Vice led to a great Fall, and his world will never be the same again.
It's the oldest of all stories and the one whose retelling will never lose its appeal. So I expect the various media organizations to wring every possible drop out of this story for years to come. Writers will turn the public into the victim, stridently decrying Woods's deception: How dare he make us believe he was so good? By a couple years from now, everyone will have had a turn at victimhood -- the public, the PGA, the Woods family, the media, Tiger himself, and the baby Jesus. Long tracts will be written about our shattered trust, about the responsibilities of celebrities to their fans, about the proper limits of media inquiry into the lives of athletes. All facets of the story will be covered in print media, digital media, television and radio media. Who knows, a movie might already be in the works (if you think some studio executives haven't already commissioned scripts on the Rise and Fall of Tiger Woods, you may be giving humanity too much credit).
But my feeling is that some years from now, if and when Woods gets back to golfing, we'll see the resurrection of his public image. As I see it, we are in the second act of a tripartite cliché:
Act I: The Rise.
Act II: The Fall (current).
Act III: The Redemption.
We as a public have been enthralled by Tiger's meteoric rise. Now, the audience savors the deliciousness of his disgrace. But we all know that humanity is imperfect, we all know deep down that he is still a human being, even if he was regarded as something more than that for a long time. And this, I think, is why Tiger is going to be back -- because we love the story of Redemption. We are yearning for Act III, wherein the repentant sinner is reformed and claws his way back up the mountain. This, too, is one of the oldest, most formative stories of our culture. Even Michael Jackson, who languished in a state of perpetual fallenness while he lived, was granted the status of Redeemed upon his death.
I feel pompous predicting it, but it seems almost inevitable to me: Give it a few years and (if he starts winning at golf again) the media coverage surrounding Tiger Woods will be celebrating the redemption of a man who has passed through the fire and overcome his shortcomings to regain some amount of personal peace and prosperity. The old story of betrayal and fall will grow stale and there will be nothing further to profit from it. The public may love seeing its idols disgraced, but it also wants to forgive, and this is where the money is going to be. The American media may be brutal, but when it sniffs money, you can count on it to discover its forgiving side. He won't be the same icon he once was, but Tiger will be back.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Space Travel
How timely!
Over the last few weeks, I have brought up to my friends my desire to one day go to outer space. Yesterday, in fact, I talked to Jessica about how I hoped space tourism would become affordable during our lifetimes. I don't know if everyone has this instinct to explore, but it's something I've been getting more and more in touch with. Can you imagine it? If commercial space flight actually reduces travel times the way it is projected to, then we could see a revolution over the next 20 years.
Over the last few weeks, I have brought up to my friends my desire to one day go to outer space. Yesterday, in fact, I talked to Jessica about how I hoped space tourism would become affordable during our lifetimes. I don't know if everyone has this instinct to explore, but it's something I've been getting more and more in touch with. Can you imagine it? If commercial space flight actually reduces travel times the way it is projected to, then we could see a revolution over the next 20 years.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Inauguration
This being my inaugural post on an actual "blog", I suppose it is germane to create a statement of purpose.
This blog, as its name indicates, has no specific theme. As I've matured a bit (at least I hope that's what's been happening), I've felt a greater inclination to write out my thoughts. Now, there are some thoughts you want to keep private, some thoughts you want to share with just a few people, and some thoughts you wouldn't mind sharing with anyone who might be interested. For the first, there exist private journals. For the second, we have our close friends. And for the last, we have this sprawling digital sea, the Internet. This blog will serve that last purpose -- a place to record those thoughts I wouldn't mind sharing with anyone interested.
Things I expect to be writing about:
Cheers!
This blog, as its name indicates, has no specific theme. As I've matured a bit (at least I hope that's what's been happening), I've felt a greater inclination to write out my thoughts. Now, there are some thoughts you want to keep private, some thoughts you want to share with just a few people, and some thoughts you wouldn't mind sharing with anyone who might be interested. For the first, there exist private journals. For the second, we have our close friends. And for the last, we have this sprawling digital sea, the Internet. This blog will serve that last purpose -- a place to record those thoughts I wouldn't mind sharing with anyone interested.
Things I expect to be writing about:
- My thoughts on matters political, social, and philosophical.
- My thoughts on books I've been reading.
- Personal reflections on life, growth, personal relationships platonic and romantic, etc.
- Little thoughts, daydreams, fun facts, videos.
- My traveling experiences.
- Music.
- Anything else I damn well please!
Cheers!
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