Weblog

Thursday, 25 November 2010

  • Exploratory essay...

    An Exploratory Essay

    By Mitchell Neill

    "You can't wait for inspiration.  You have to go after it with a club."

                                                                                            Jack London        

     

    The “Infinite Monkey” theorem posits that a monkey given an infinite amount of time to bang on a key board at random would eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. This of course is pure codswollop, and the statistician who thought it up should be ashamed, and aught perhaps to devote his or her mathematical prowess to more worthy endeavors, like counting glasses of spilled milk, and by extrapolation, how much crying is done over them. In this contiguous reality, writing is work.  Good writing is hard work, even for the professionals, and only a small portion of that work involves actually dragging a pen across paper. Good writers are craftsmen and women who invest heavily in the tools of their trade. Mountains of reading, endless hours of research, practice, and ever increasing drifts of scrapped work can leave an author sweating into his or her sheets at night. In many true disciplines, first attempts fall well short of best intentions, and it is frequently at this point that many would-be authors throw their hands in the air, and decide that coherent and interesting writing is quite beyond them. When author Richard Bach said, "A professional writer is just an amateur who didn't quit" he was speaking of the most important tool in an author’s arsenal, and his most valuable asset---perseverance.

                Once an author has decided to write, he or she is obliged to choose a format. Be it the purest distillation of thought and emotion in the form of haiku, or the mind boggling detail and expanse of an epic novel, the format in which any given work is presented provides ground rules, or a framework upon which the author can hang ideas and arrange them in a manner that is both pleasing and coherent. For our purposes we shall explore that widely used (and most dreaded) form of academic exercise; the essay.

                Essays are at heart simple structures, and provide a safe place for authors to play where they can’t really hurt themselves. As distinct from poetry, essays must have an introduction, a body, and a conclusion. This simple construct serves to support the author’s thesis, that is to say, the idea that the author wishes to communicate to his or her audience.  For instance our frustrated statistician, having left Bobo the chimp, and his beleaguered typewriter to his own devices, may have gone on to investigate the minutia of spilled glasses of bovine lactation, and the lachrymose collateral damage thus derived, deciding that, by God, the world needs to know about it. 

                He would begin by pouring countless hours into research, gathering statistics, and exploring the collected works of giants in the field that he may stand upon their shoulders and expose the plight of sniffling babies and soggy table linens the world over. He would then organize this growing mountain of data into one of several formats; perhaps an idea map, a story board, or a more formal outline.

     Then the author must choose his audience. Shall he communicate to other scientists who aren’t fortunate enough to have found such a fascinating field of research, to exhausted mothers relegated to serving dry breakfast cereal to heart-stricken children, to the cattle who are the unwitting agents of this terrible negligence, or perhaps to the producers of household cleaning products, who may in turn leverage this new body of knowledge to better market their wares?

    Choosing a specific audience will dictate the style or “voice” that the author will use to convey his thesis. For example, the subtle nuances of complicated data sets and lots of fancy words could be lost on an audience of cattle whose daily life consists of finding food, eating food, and trying to avoid becoming food. Similarly a parent who’s daily activity consists of earning enough money to buy food, make food, and clean up recently digested food, cannot be expected to care deeply about the exponentially increasing glasses of milk that are spilled on tables that they themselves do not have to clean. Scientists however, crave data and complicated theories, from the most ridiculous to the most reasonable they will devour them voraciously, and then have blistering arguments about why it’s all so much balderdash and would best serve humanity in the bottom of the nearest recycling bin. Choosing the proper vocabulary and context for a specific audience will help ensure that the author’s intent and meaning are clearly understood.

    Having decided upon his thesis and audience, the author has an array of tools or “modes of development” with which to present his thesis and connect the progression of his gathered evidence. Our author could for instance introduce his thesis with the mode of definition in order to clarify that a glass of spilled milk is not to be confused with the less common but equally messy cup that simply runneth over. Narration could be used to share with the reader the author’s own unfortunate memory of a glass of milk spilled into a brand new television set and how his father gave him a very good reason to cry about it. He could use exposition and argumentation to preempt the scathing rebuttals that are sure to come from his colleagues who are anxiously waiting for Bobo the chimpanzee to produce even so much as a charming limerick. He could use comparison and contrast to highlight the differences between the antiquated glass, and the newer shatterproof, spill-proof sippie-cup. He could use cause and effect to illustrate how the wonderful advent of the sippie cup could eliminate forever both the inherent waste in a glass of spilled milk and the trauma of the consequent crying. Our author being a thorough type, and not one to leave a job half done might use them all in concert to draw a conclusion that nobody had ever thought of before.

     A closing paragraph can serve a number of functions. Our author could illustrate how his body paragraphs tie into one unifying incontrovertible line of evidence that in fact there are glasses of milk, they can be spilled, and that this frequently causes tears. He can also provide further insight that may not have occurred to the reader. Cows really don’t mind making more milk provided there’s lots of grass, and no one tries to make hamburgers out of them, parents don’t really mind cleaning up milk as long as it’s reasonably affordable, and children are going to cry anyway, so it might as well be about something inconsequential in order to save clear headed thinking for the really important stuff. Or, having thought long and hard about it, he may depart entirely from his original intent and conclude that so often we as adults rush through our hurly burly world without taking the time for a good soul cleansing cry; that maybe the little ones have got it right, and if more of us would simply heave a tall glass of milk across the kitchen and let nature take its course, the world might be just a little bit easier to bear.

     

     

  • Free Her

    So, at long last I sit to write once again of peril in pleasure, loss in discovery, and alien familiarity. Dejavu all over again. Once again every step closer to myself is a step further from my love and my life. How can it be, that what once created, must now destroy? Where is the universal axiom that says every success must be laid waste by failure? What is the lesson to learn in this mess of abstinence hurt and loneliness? Every day I am swamped by a wave; of mixed signals, and rebuffs, immediate necessity abandoned in favor of mindless distraction, to the exclusion of all else. A growing backlog of justification, obfuscation, and procrastination, all from a woman I love and want more every day. In an alarming reflection of the past, the roiling clouds of conflict and confusion, are now and again pierced by a light and being so bright and beautiful that I cannot but wade through the turmoil and strife, in the hope that the clouds will clear and the woman I will love till the day I die, and dream of every night, will stand free, bright and clear, once more, once and for all.

     

    God, if you exist and can hear me, give me the strength to hold on, to help her through her pain and strife, for there is nothing I want more on this earth than to die old, and content in her arms. Free her to love without condition, and live without limits.

Thursday, 01 October 2009

  • living

    “Men do not quit playing because they grow old;

                                                            They grow old because they quit playing”

     

    Oliver Wendell Holms

     

                My grandmother is ninety seven years old. Without fail she walks forty five minutes every day, dresses and feeds her-self, applies make-up, and does her own hair. She is the personification of a “spry little old lady,” and the essence of Mr. Holms’s sentiment.

                In the past year she has been hospitalized four times, and each time she has been very near death. With an astonishing display of will, has stubbornly refused to surrender, day by day, refuting the inevitable, and denying the solace of rest.

                She smiles and laughs, and boggles along with the rest of us at her own tenacity. I’ve heard her wonder aloud what god has planed for her, so many decades after the last of her generation is dead and gone, and I wonder what it must be like to have lived through so many world altering changes. Radio, television, air flight, the internet, have each in their turn completely changed the fabric of her world. What is it like to wake a stranger in a strange land, time and time again?

                Anecdotal evidence says that there is no unifying secret to longevity. George Burns smoked and drank his way through one hundred and four long years; and my grand father died a quick and painful death at fifty six with out ever having touched a drop of alcohol.

                 My answer then, is to live. My answer is to live and play and love, with all of my might. Life is too precious, and too short to count the years; too short to count the regrets and the sorrows. I will instead count my blessings, my family, my friends, and time spent without the mundane calculus of years, marking only the gifts of now.

Wednesday, 30 September 2009

  • And then I woke up...

    Clarence Cleverly; the dark obsession…

     

                Even in childhood, Clarence Cleverly knew he was different. Special. At first he reveled in his differentness; he was comfortable within himself and happy to have found his purpose in life. Before long, however, he came to recognize; in embarrassed and stammering explanations from his blushing mother, and furious glowers and terse words that would eventually dwindle to angry indifference from his father…they hated him. They hated the very part of him that he loved the most. Hurtful words from classmates on the playground and disgusted shock form teachers who simply weren’t prepared to handle Clarence and his “special needs”. As the world turned away from Clarence, Clarence turned to the world of his own making; the world that had been his home, for as long as he could remember; the world where Clarence could be himself, where he could be safe, where he could be happy; the world of Kitty Kingdom.

     

                Years later, long after his father had stopped trying to take him to sporting events, and long after his mother had had developed  a terrible chocolate milk habit, Clarence had unapologetically  turned away from societies norms, and  thrown himself head long in to the world of “Kitty Kingdom”. Living in his grandmother’s basement had given Clarence the privacy to indulge himself to the fullest: Kitty Kingdom houses and cars, Kitty Kingdom bed sheets, blankets towels, and underwear, wallpaper, carpets, even Kitty Kingdom” toilet paper, every kitty kingdom movie and the complete collection of all fifteen seasons of “Kitty Kingdom”: the TV series (special collectors edition with directors commentary). Countless hours were devoted to amassing his collection. He had made sketchy backroom deals with the most disreputable sort of scum, broken international trade laws, and spent his fortune in lawn mowing money to own what was rumored, in the seedy underbelly of the figurine collecting world, to be the largest in existence. Clarence’s collection lacked for only one crowning glory, The “Holy Grail” of the “Kitty Kingdom” Pantheon: The flawed Kitty Kingdom snow globe. Only fifty had been produced before the line was halted…The heroin of the Kitty kingdom world and the subject of the now legendary snow globe, Pretty Kitty was flawed…Her eyes were green instead of blue. The snow globes were quarantined and slated for destruction. It wasn’t until years later when rumors of flawed Pretty Kitty snow globes began to surface that the executives from Cat Fanciers Inc. knew there was trouble. A massive multilateral multi agency search was mounted. Sixteen months, twenty seven arrests, and twenty five successful criminal prosecutions later, all but three of the fatally flawed Pretty Kitty Snow globes had been hunted down and destroyed. Clarence had sworn an oath to have one of the three

     

                Clarence had hunted for years; he had even sold off several of his more valuable duplicate Kitty Kingdom” collectables to finance the search. Each item sold, and each year that passed left Clarence more desperate. He had found one in a Russian Mafia boss’s art collection, and was told in no uncertain words that it couldn’t be bought at any price. They warned him that if it turned up missing, they would know exactly where to look.

     

                After thousands of hours of interviews and research, and thousands of dollars in bribes, Clarence discovered that the second had been broken while being smuggled across the Gobi Dessert, destined for the palace of the ridiculously wealthy Sheik Shellac. Upon hearing that his coveted prize had been destroyed in transit he ordered each and every one of his three hundred caravan guards to have  his forehead tattooed with a grinning edifice of Pretty kitty…with green eyes.

     

                Broke, berefed of hope, and thoroughly bummed out, Clarence returned to the United States. Rumors had it that the third globe was somewhere in China, but every lead had turned to smoke and only led to another “hot tip” that would only cost a little more money. Clarence was going to have to mow lawns for years before he could take up the trail again. It was time for some of grandma Grezeldas cookies. Grandmas cookies always made everything better. Milk and cookies, and the price is right turned all the way down on grandmas ancient wood cabinet television. This had been the salve to Clarence’s wounded soul for as long as he could remember. The sound of a tall wall clock clunking away, and grandma’s knitting needles marking the quiet minutes, and stitching peace into his heart one loop at a time…And amongst the tidy clutter on grandma’s china cabinet,  there, between the funny bird that would repeatedly dip his little mercury beak into a cold drink, and the cast iron golfer with the jaunty hat, who would putt pennies into the bank; a snow globe. Clarence’s world stopped spinning. A second look, and he was sure, there could be no doubt…Pretty kitty had green eyes…Clarence’s world began to spin -The wrong way-  In a tremulous voice that seemed to come from a great distance Clarence asked “Grandma, where did you get that snow globe?” she chuckled while she knitted “Isn’t it precious? I found it at that Eddy Edison’s garage sale last week. I was there with Prissy, and I just had to have it…only cost me fifty cents!” 

     

                It wasn’t until after the police had stuffed him into the little padded room that Clarence realized that he had broken the last flawed Pretty Kitty snow globe.   

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

  • English is just all right with me......

    To the Honorable Tom A. Coburn

    172 Russell Senate Office Building

    Washington DC 20510-6303

     

    Dear Senator Coburn,

                I am writing to you to voice my opposition to your proposed bills S991, and S992.

    I will begin by reminding you, with all due respect, that English is the most spoken language in the world, indeed it is required curriculum in many industrialized nations. I would add that one may travel, as I have done, from one end of this vast nation to the other, and have communicated in English, without difficulty, with all manner of individuals from all manner of cultures and countries from across the world. I can only wonder what experiences you have had, what mysterious lands you have traveled in this country that have led you to believe that there exists a danger, a threat, dire enough to muster the might of the worlds most powerful federal government, and to rouse the attention of mightiest bureaucracy on the face of the planet, to defend a language that is spoken throughout the world.

     

                I submit to you sir that the day we, as born citizens, and as a nation, can agree on the contents and meaning of the Constitution and Bill of rights, is the day Beelzebub will need earmuffs. In fact, I challenge you to walk through the streets of any city in this country, and ask the first fifty people you meet to explain the constitution and the bill of rights. I doubt you will find ten of them who can discuss our founding documents without “misconstructions.” How can we as a nation support the notion that a new citizen should be required to define documents that are, as I write this letter, being argued, and disagreed upon, and amended in courtrooms and state houses from the highest to the lowest across this land. What hypocrisy to insist that hopeful applicants for citizenship understand founding documents that learned scholars study for decades, and are scarcely understood by the average born citizen. This does not strike me as meaningful or coherent immigration policy, but rather, nationalistic chest-beating.

     

                I ask you sir, what is wrong with a government document printed in a different language? Where is the harm in our government providing any and all information that an immigrant may need in as many languages we can provide? What danger does a foreign language, or better yet a foreign language speaker, present to the national security of our country? Any terrorist can parrot doctrine, that’s what they do! Any red blooded American can commit the darkest treason. Is it that you truly believe that segregating the language of our government and its citizens will make us safer? Pure isolationist sophistry! In fact, if your intention is to make us safer, I am convinced that we must move in exactly the opposite direction. To understand a people’s language is to understand a people’s culture. Safety lies in knowledge and understanding and community, not ignorance and intolerance and isolation.

     

    Sincerely,

    J. Mitchell Neill

HeavyHanded1

  • Visit HeavyHanded1's Xanga Site
    • Name: HeavyHanded1
    • Gender: Male
    • Member Since: 11/7/2008

Archives

Don't worry - your calendar is here… to see it in action just click "Save" above and refresh the page.

About Me

  • My mother is a hippie and my father is a marine, that means I can kill you with free love. I've lived all over the states and in Mexico. I am deeply spiritual but most religion is repellent to me. I believe that if you don't lie, cheat, or steal, then you're square with god. I am very happily married, have a thirteen year old daughter.I have been massage therapist for eighteen years. I have been an actor stunt man, rock and roll roadie, stage manager, animal handler, restaurant manager. I'm an avid swordsman, and love a good brawl but I've never been in a fight. I love my guns and know how to shoot, but I'd never hunt on a full stomach. I believe if you don't quit, you can't fail. And I believe that even small changes make a big difference....

Groups

[no groups]

Pulse

Recommended

[no recommendations]

Chatboard (1)

  • AlterEgo909
    Happy New Year! Long time no see!