tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57029908272913773652024-03-05T06:59:18.849-05:00MetanonfictionMusings, Ramblings, Pseudo-essays, and RantsJames Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-19207229440429895742012-09-23T17:11:00.001-04:002012-09-23T17:12:28.790-04:00Orpheus Wounded <br />
So, longer than I would have liked, but another of from 750words project, and another creative entry. <br />
<h3>
<b>Orpheus Wounded</b></h3>
<br />
He was sitting down, cradling his guitar. It was a beautiful instrument, the wood full of intricate swirls, and it sounded better than it looked. He had found it in a pawn shop years ago, shortly before his fifteenth birthday, and fell in love with it immediately. Working nights at a local convince store, he had saved up enough money to purchase it a few months later. When he first took it home, he set it down to admire it for a bit before sitting down and strumming a few chords. He wasn't the best guitarist, but he was dedicated, and the new guitar filled him with the intense to play. He spent a large part of his teenage life, sitting on the edge of his bed, playing along to the radio, or spending hours trying to figure out his favorite songs. But that seemed like an entirely different life now.<br />
<br />
He moved the guitar to his side, contemplating the years. He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes as he told her he had enlisted. He remembered the (what seemed like gallons at the time) sweat dripping down his body during training exercises. He remembered the swirl of dust and sand kicked up by the rotors of the helicopter as his squad landed on the ground halfway across the earth from where he grew up. But try as he might, he couldn't remember the blast, or the screeching of bullets as his brothers pulled him to safety, or the flight to a military base in Germany. A defense mechanism he supposed.<br />
<br />
He stood, holding the neck of the guitar in his right hand. He remember the days and months afterwards better: the doctor explaining where he was and what had happened. He remembered certain things from the conversation "limited functionality", "newer models in the future", "a balance of form and function". While the technology for prosthetic limbs had been rapidly evolving over the last few years, it hadn't quite reached the levels that medical journals and technology magazines were in a frenzy over - well at least not for the general public. Sure, there were some successful attempts at allowing someone to control the prosthesis with their mind, allowing the person to pick up something as delicate as a grape and eat it without crushing it. But even if he went through the procedures to allow him to use such a prosthesis, well, it was state of the art, but here the art was lacking for what he really desired. The difference between picking up a grape and fretting a barre b minor chord is significant. There were models with rudimentary touch sensors, sure, but haptic feedback wasn't close to actual muscle memory or the feeling of the string under your fingertips. And while he used to be able to tell where his fretting had was based on his arm position, the feeling of his phantom arm complicated that significantly.<br />
<br />
Reaching the other side of the room, he leaned his guitar against the wall, sliding open the bottom drawer of the dresser, and removed a shoebox. So much of his life was tied up in music, from the nights he would spend on his girlfriends porch, performing his own cheesy acoustic versions of love songs, to the band he had formed in his junior year. The music was his soul escaping into the world, his connection to something deeper, something more meaningful, a language that spoke more accurately than any tongue ever spoken by men. <br />
<br />
He opened the shoebox, the small metal object inside catching the light. He was feeling hollow, he knew the words in his mind, but had forgotten how to speak. He feared that the longer he would have to wait for a suitable prosthetic to play, he wouldn't remember the words. That the poetry that he wanted to pour out through his music would be flat, a shadow of its former beauty. That almost hurt more than knowing he would probably never play again, the what could, or should have been.<br />
<br />
He raised the object in his hand, feeling the metal, cool against his skin. He had gone through the counseling, and knew the statistics. "Just stay positive, it may take some time, but patience will help in reaching 'peace'." Sure, but he had never been a patient man, and was stubborn enough to find his own way through this. If he would never play guitar again, then so be it, but he would never let his song be silenced. In his hands he cradled a microphone.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-53092308837734794412012-09-13T23:17:00.001-04:002012-09-13T23:18:04.269-04:00Fleeing<br />
I recently came across an article online extolling the benefits of writing frequently. Specifically, the author mentioned writing at least 750 words a day as a way to increase creativity, as well as providing some general motivation. Seeing as I've been a bit lax in writing recently (both this blog, and in general), I thought this was a interesting concept, and decided to jot down a short story. It took a bit longer than I anticipated, but I don't think it turned out half bad (criticism welcome as always). Hopefully, I will commit to 'paper' at some point a few of the other concepts I have floating in my head, but for now I present<br />
<br />
<h3>
"Fleeing"</h3>
He was running, fleeing. His steps slowed by the blanket of snow that covered the forest floor. The staccato crunch of compacted snow following each deep step. Though his pace was rapid, his thoughts were faster: a frenzy a questions, instinct taking over, driving him, controlling him. He maneuvered between trees, their trunks rushing by, their branches catching and pulling at him, trying to coax him to his end. This would not do. Although the muscles in his legs were burning, it was nothing compared to the heat in his chest. His heart felt like it was on fire, each pulse sending blood through his body, some of which was staring to seep out of the mounting cuts and scratches caused by the underbrush and more persistent branches. Each breathe was visible, hanging in the cool air, catching the light and glowing as a halo. A though flashed into existence in his mind for an instant: "It would be such a peaceful morning if not for, if not for. . . ." He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. The pain in his tightening leg muscles was nothing compared to <i>that</i>. His pace quickened and he leapt over a fallen tree crossing the forest path. Hopefully the obstacle gave him some distance from his pursuers - right now even inches and fractions of a second were precious. <br />
<br />
He landed, not pausing to see if his hopes were fulfilled; all that mattered now was survival. The thought echoed in his head: "All that matters now is survival." And survival required him to be fast. He use to always think he fairly fast for his size, but now in the face of death, he felt horribly sluggish. Whether it was the thick snow, or growing lax in age, he knew he couldn't keep this pace forever, he needed evade his pursuers. Soon. The snow wasn't helping in this endeavor, his prints easily visible in the fresh snow, with crimson dots betraying his state. He would have to find somewhere to hide. He ducked as he passed under a branch coated in icicles, feeling them scrape across his head, his back, their icy diamond tips now more ruby-like in appearance. The pain shooting through his body, but the thought again: "All that matters now is survival." And then an addendum: "because they are no longer here."<br />
<br />
"All that matters now is survival because they are no longer here" he realized, his eyes going wide. The horrible revelation pushing its way to the surface, through years of muscle memory and eons of instinct. His children, his family, gone. Their lives cut short by the foul things chasing him, with their vicious eyes, their loud fury. Had he been awake he would have been alerted by their stench, but instead he was violently torn from his dreams by screams of pain and howls of agony. He realized he was quickly outmatched and a though flared through his mind "survival". Although it seemed like hours, it couldn't have been that long, minutes perhaps, if that, but his legs disagreed with that assessment. Their protests were becoming louder, and then, they were instantly quieted in confusion. He was in the air, footing upset by a hidden root in the snow, compounded by his mind's wandering.<br />
<br />
He closed his eyes, bracing for impact as he collided with a tree. The sickening crack of branches as well as a rib or two filled his ears. He felt his back connect with the earth, the snow doing little to soften his fall. He had landed, but was still moving -tumbling, rolling down into a small ravine beside the tree. As he reached the bottom he opened his eyes, and for a brief second was captivated by the early morning rays penetrating the forest canopy, sending golden streamers across the forest's floor.<br />
<br />
The repose was brief. He didn't have much time now, he could hear his pursuers now reaching the top of the ravine. He would soon be joining his family. It felt just, as if anyone deserved the punishment that befell them, it should be him. After all, he knew of the warnings surrounding the area, and yet he convinced his family that it would be alright to spend the night, only one night while he prowled the clearing by forest, on the hunt for some to bring back. Now here he was, prey himself.<br />
<br />
"He's in the ditch," said one of the figures motioning to the battered body lying at the bottom, "I don't think he left us much of job."<br />
<br />
"Good riddance, I hope that's the last of 'em," replied the other. "I'm getting fed up with all the cattle we've been losing to these damn wolves," he continued raising his rifle, and lined up the shot.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-9589933635061151652012-03-27T18:32:00.000-04:002012-03-27T18:32:51.759-04:00Chiroptera AnthroSpend any length of time with me and I'll probably betray my nerdy background. There's a certain pride, or solidarity that nerds and geeks have. A collective passion for their own geeky subject. I guess in the 80s and 90s before nerd-chic came into being it helped to reinforce the identity of the group, and was seen as a badge. A vast collection of Superman comics; the ability to name obscure Star Wars characters after reading extended universe novels multiple times over; calculating the optimal equipment for your level 14 mage in weekly Dungeons and Dragons sessions. Nerd-cred. I'd posit that a basic element of human psychology is the sharing of group experiences in reinforcing and embracing both individuality and as a means to connect with others. With the appropriate of a variety of sub-cultures into the mainstream, there have been many backlashes. The much derided hipster attitude to me is an outgrowth of the loss of personal connection and sense of ownership that occurs when something, whether it be a band, movie, television show, video game, or some other media enters the mainstream. While one's ability to enjoy and consume that media is usually not hampered (in some cases it will though, for example the band that now plays larger sold out venues as opposed to smaller, more intimate events), the personal-ness of that connection loses some of its meaning. It's a funny contradiction, because a larger audience would permit more enjoyment of that property? Wouldn't it? In an effort to not cling to (a quite mistaken) sense of ownership of one of my favorite media subjects, let's talk about Batman.<br />
<br />
I was recently looking through old photo-albums again, along with watching old home movies, and I noticed something. I've been a fan of Batman since before I can remember. Literally. There are movies of me wearing Batman pajamas to bed before age two. And while I can't remember what began this initial obsession, I think the character of Batman, here in semi-serious consideration, has many social and psychological levels. Partially due to the amount of writers that have had some say in the Dark Knight's seventy-some year long history, but also because the son of Bob Kane and Bill Finger (I wonder who claims to be Thomas Wayne and who's Martha) has developed layers upon layers over the years into a vastly complex character. Digging through this psychological strata as a archaeological will have to be left to someone with a far more vast knowledge of comics then I do, I may be a fan, but in comparison to others, I am a mere amateur in things Bat-related. Rather, I will provide a more broad analysis, corresponding to what facets of the character have resonated with me as I've aged. I think on a fundamental level, any study will in some degree reflect the work of its author, and so this may provide just as many insights into my psyche as it does into the protector of Gotham's.<br />
<br />
Let's start with the basics and get the few people that have been living under a rock up to speed. Batman is a man who wears a cape and a mask, and patrols his home city of Gotham at night dressed as a bat using his wit and athleticism to prevent crime. To my knowledge, in all cases (side stories, one shots, reboots, etc.) Batman is the result of a young Bruce Wayne seeing his parents getting gunned down before his eyes in a random mugging. Depending on the time and writer, sometimes fear is a main weapon of the Caped Crusader's arsenal against crime, early on in his history he carried a gun, as a billionaire playboy, he also outfits himself with a variety of gadgets and sports cars. Sometimes he's portrayed as a superhero, sometimes a vigilante anti-hero. But despite the title of superhero (and an obscene bank account) he is portrayed as an man. He didn't get hit with radiation, or come from a different planet, and isn't the son of a powerful god. He's an average, well, okay, maybe exceptional man (the world's greatest detective would have to be just a little special). He's profoundly human.<br />
<br />
As a kid with a simple understanding of the world, it was simple. Batman is good, the bad guys are bad. Batman stops the bad guys because the police can't. He has a cool car, has a cool costume, gets to stay up late and run across building tops. And do you know how many action figures there are?! Like seriously, I know I have like 5 or 6 different variants of Batman (yes, I recently checked). He's got like a scuba suit, and a parachute suit, and one with fold out wings, or that lame one with Michael Keaton in a sweater with a detachable mask (when you're brother got the cool flippy head one), or the animated series Batman with a gyro-copter. You don't get the intricacies of vigilantism at age six, or due process, or the driving loss of his parents that pits Batman in his seemingly eternal struggle with crime. To a six year old, Batman just seems to be the adult you want to be: he gets to do what he wants, when he wants, and does it in a way that helps others. I've read in some forwards (of trade paperbacks) and analysis of the character that in some way, this ultimate childhood fantasy is really that. Bruce is a perpetual six year old, waging a misguided war on what took his parents who he can never get back. Much like the Two-Face of his rogue's gallery (which itself reads like the DSM-IV), the character in most cases is amazingly double-sided. He appeals to children as a awesome adulthood, when the character himself is stuck in perpetual childhood.<br />
<br />
To an angsty teenager, the character is an excellent example of a misunderstood and superior intellect. (And don't forget the self-centeredness; I mean sure, Bruce had his backbone broken by Bane, but can't be sharing that technology with the now wheelchair-bound Barbara Gordon). He is isolated, but because no one else can understand him. This isolation breeds extreme self-reliance, and consequently responsibility weighs heavy on Bruce. Like one of the inspirations for the character, Zorro, Batman is a manifest idea that things aren't the way the should be, and that steps need to be taken to improve society. He is also isolated to protect those he cares about, the secret identity has to be a secret. In a certain way though, the identity has switched. Batman is the true character while Bruce is the mask that faces the world. Here's a guy who gets it, one may think. He has a goal and he takes the steps to achieve that goal. He is a model of self-reliance. However, this begins to break down considering the support that often goes unnoticed, much like reality. In particular, Bruce's butler Alfred, a striking example of a father figure raised the young Master Bruce after the passing of his parents. Then there's the number of people to have borne the mantle of Robin, Batgirl, Commissioner Gordon, even at times the "superfriends" (lest we forget). (In recent issues, he even has an army of Bat-bots, it's so awesome, like they all have these jets built into their feet and- wait, sorry, almost got carried away there.) Again, the character lends itself to simultaneously opposed readings, at quite often the same author will use both of these traits in characterizing Bruce. It's an odd dichotomy, but one that can work in the correct balance. The lesson to be learned in self-reliance and motivation, but not at the expense of shutting out support.<br />
<br />
A more mature reading may bring to light the deeper social issues that have always existed in the Batman mythos. To deal with the most obvious facet first, the nature of vigilantism, and in a larger context a police and legal system that can't deal with the thicket of crime, and in may writings has been corrupted by it. While Bruce may see Batman as a necessity to combat the crime that runs rampant through Gotham, it's a very fine line between justice and a personal vendetta. And this fanaticism may actually be doing more harm than good. Sure, he may have good intentions, but waging a one-man guerrilla war against crime may actually cause an escalation in the seedy underworld's response. Not to mention all the legal rule bending that would have to take place to actually prosecute the people that he apprehends. (Or the property damage!) I feel this is similar to much of the political discourse that occurs nowadays. Sound-bites and misguided lip service that fails to address the real cause of problems. Sure, driving around a car shaped like a bat with a jet-turbine nestled inside of it is probably a fun waste some time at 3:30 on a Tuesday morning, but it fails to take into consideration the cause of crime. Sometimes this is addressed, most recently, Nolan's take with the Dark Knight shows how Bruce is aware that the city needs something more than what he can provide. While Bruce knows that Batman impacts the city, he's aware that more needs to be done. The character works as both a almost-fascist highly independent, self-sufficient, ends-justify the means uber-man as spouted by Rand, or as an apologetic temporary solution to a larger social injustice. And herein lies the the appeal of the character for me. The duality, and impressions that the character leaves with us are more akin to reflections. Staying true to my nerdy roots, it's much like Yoda plaintively said in 'Empire' when asked by Luke what awaited him in the cave on Dagobah: "Only what you take with you".<br />
<br />
When it comes down to it, I don't mean to suggest that Batman as a character is shallow or empty. No, rather, I think the character is deep enough that he elicits different responses from different people (or even different responses from the same person over the course of their life). Batman is an independent, individualist who does what he wants, but is a child at heart. He has a sense of right and wrong, but will cross over into grey areas to combat what he sees as injustice. He recognizes the obsession that some of his foes have, but has his own obsessions to deal with. He set a goal for himself, but only after his life was changed forever. As a character he has substance, but much in the same way he deals with his nefarious friends, he exists as a imposing figure, with edges that bleed into their surroundings. Edges that leave room for interpretation. And this is just one of many.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-44703523249062863862012-01-03T14:34:00.001-05:002012-01-03T14:36:45.422-05:00The Creator's ManifestoAfter many nights with friends contemplating and recounting our lives, emptying the daily burdens from our heads while filling our stomachs with drink, you come to the conclusion that people are more alike than you think. Or at least your friends are. While that probably goes without saying, but it still comes as a surprise when you see some deep part of yourself reflected in someone else. I guess it's part of human nature to close off part of yourself, lest you let your soul get changed by the world. But there has to be some escape, and I've come to the realization that *that* is the essence of art. In a general sense, sure, art may be a pretty picture, catchy tune, or engaging story, but there frequently can be something deeper: something imparted by its creator. I used to wonder why we spent time in English class analyzing stories, trying to determine what the author intended the hidden meaning to be. After all, couldn't there just be writing for the joy of writing? And I suppose there can be, but that's not really the point. Sure, some may put words to a page for the sheer joy of creation and the motive force there, but without giving those words I don't see a point. Maybe I like games too much, or seeing layered meanings in something, but I like to find life between the words, see some soul behind the paint, or hear some heart behind the chorus.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Which brings me to the artist, and why we create. (I think I'm an artist, ego alert) Sometimes it's to convey something to society, sometimes its for oneself, and other times for the joy in creating something (preferably with meaning). I've always been amazed at those who can do all of this at once, while weaving different threads for different people to latch onto in their work. Personally, besides that looming self doubt that every artist (I'm sure/hope?) has, my greatest challenge has always been taking the step and putting yourself out there through what you create. Talking with fellow artists recently, something one said to me has stuck out: you just have to put yourself out there, not for anyone else, but for yourself. The desire to hide yourself is a strong one. A kind of self preservation. It's easy to shrug off rejection or hurt when people don't know the real you, but to stand emotionally bare in front of someone twists the context. Call it an evaluation, or judging, or whatever, but that kind of exposure forces you to take a good look at yourself, maybe through someone else's eyes, but honestly nonetheless. I think that's what true artists do. I won't say truly good artists, because I don't really think you can bring in qualitative or aesthetic considerations into the discussion, that's the realm of critics. You're either an artist creating something, or you're not. Whether or not people enjoy or appreciate what you do is a matter of personal taste and opinion. Regarding critics, it is simple. Don't. Perhaps critically (meta-much) take their analysis and criticism in order to grow, learn and improve (as an artist, not necessarily aesthetically), but don't let it take the joy or light out of your work. Not to belittle anyone, but perhaps they're critics because they gave up on their own artistic passions. A critic causing an artist to withhold their art from the world out of fear is a sad thing indeed. </div><div><br />
</div><div>As to why we create? As much power as science has, I think there's a small part of life it can't answer. The deep nagging question we all have. And while everyone seems to have a different way to phrase it, and a different means and way to answer it, it's still there. I think on a subconscious level that's why we create. Sure, I'm amazed at the fact that we as a species have discovered enough about this universe to build a telescope that can see light that has traveled a longer time than the country, the continent, the Earth, the solar system, or indeed, even our Milky Way galaxy has existed. Much less the science behind simply creating its components, or putting the thing into orbit. But that's discovery. We didn't create the fundamental laws of the universe. We may have create the formulas we express and calculate them with, but we merely found them. Like a child pulling up rocks in a stream and finding all sorts or creates, albeit it in a (sometimes) more organized and formal way. No, creating something is different. It's a chance to leave a mark upon the world, even thought it may be small and subject to the decay of time; there's still a joy to be had. That's why we create. </div>James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-56564303226717944042011-12-04T03:15:00.000-05:002011-12-04T03:15:15.254-05:00Solus Vox DesertusThe very fact that you are reading this serves to undercut the argument I am about to make, but it's still a point I think is very relevant to many things that many people do. It is oft-repeated that people are social beings, requiring social nourishment and contact to bring meaning and context to our lives. And while simply being in the presence of others does fulfill some of this need, the role of communication cannot be over-emphasized. I have touched on the importance of language before, but here more generally communication is what I'm referring to (as any psychology undergraduate can tell you, there are a whole host of non-verbal tics, clues, and signs that our brains pick up on without us knowing). Communication is required for understanding, which is required for trust, which is required in general for most human interactions. From the basic 'social contract' theory of government (where we rely on our fellow citizens to obey laws and rules that we also follow), to deeper levels of trust, such as that between friends, family and lover.<br />
<br />
Communication is a necessary ingredient of social interaction, but I feel that the context, content, and expression is changing rapidly in the modern world. During my formative teenage years I read near back to back Orwell's <i>1984 </i>and Huxley's <i>Brave New World</i>, and while both (to some degree) deal with the interaction between the individual and society or the government at large, another important component of these stories is the use of language and communication in society. There was a passage in particular in Huxley's tome that struck a very deep chord with me, something I've felt to this day. A conversation is occurring between two characters, with one expressing: "I'm thinking of a queer feeling I sometimes get, a feeling that I've got something important to say and the power to say it - only I don't know what it is, and I can't make any use of the power." While that may play to smug feelings of uniqueness and importance we may have (I'm not the only one am I?), it also crystallizes a key component of the modern internet society.<br />
<br />
Mass communication has shifted the balance of communication, from conversation to dictation. A news anchor reaches millions of people, and the disparity between what is received to what we can contribute I believe has started to create a sense of vexation in society at large. A longing need to be heard. So what has been the response? More one sided communication, but on a much larger and personal scale. We have abandoned the content and context of communication for the satisfaction of being heard. But I'm not sure we are really being heard. Much like John the Baptist, I feel like we are all simply crying out to a desert. This isn't to say that there aren't sympathetic listeners, but rather that the driving need to be heard is something that modern forms of communication don't sate. We have facebook status updates, 140 character tweets, text messaging, live-journals, emailing, blogging, and video journals on youtube. Context of the communication aside, the proliferation and adoption of these services shows how deeply we want to be heard.<br />
<br />
I won't pretend to be immune; in fact it'd be quite foolish considering you're reading this on a blog at the moment, but it seems we all want to be famous. We all want to have people know about us, and hear our story. Like Gilgamesh who had his name passed on through the generations, fame can be seen as a shortcut to immortality, a chance to leave something that will last. However, this itself is foolish, because as time goes on, our heroes are legends start to get crowded, they become recycled and stereotypical, with a few archetypes appearing here and there. We want to be heard because we are hearing constantly, and much like the feedback received from a microphone left in front of a speaker, the noise will just get louder and louder.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's hypocritical to make the remark, but I felt it had to be said. So here dear reader, a toast to clearer, deeper, and meaningful two-way communication. And if no one reads this, I guess I'm just another person shouting in the desert, and I apologize for the racket.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-36124512689528490522011-04-17T23:37:00.001-04:002011-04-18T14:39:31.244-04:00Iron OxideRust. Like a scab, it signals decay. Creeping out of nowhere, but announcing its presence with its earthly hues. My hometown is full of it. Rusty train lines, crumbling brick, fading paint. It's slipping into decay. The ground beneath it is hollow, drained of its precious coal, what was once the town's lifeblood. Now the closed mines are like open sores, draining chemicals into the streams. The stream beds are caked with chemical deposits, and Trout Run should have the word "Stocked" appended to it. Throughout my childhood you could smell the sulfur around the water, assaulting the senses with all the repugnance of rotten eggs. The streams are now clear, not just of their yellow coloring, but also of the life that they once supported. The country needed coal, and the town provided it. The country needed steel, and the area provided it. But no longer, and my town is dying.<br />
<br />
On some level I always knew, however part of me never wanted to believe it. I saw my future there - some future. But, the last time I was back, the truth hit me. I didn't realize how much I dislike it. How stifling it felt. How depressing, small, and disconnected it seems. Don't misunderstand me. I may have some misgivings about growing up there, but I am who I am because of that town. Anywhere else and I wouldn't be me. You grow up in a small coal town and you learn early the difference between anthracite and bituminous coal. You get used to the large boney piles of waste coal and dirt. Become accustomed to streets of identical company houses. Of hearing stories about how the town used to look in its heydays. "We used to have seven grocery stores. Can you believe it?" "This town had three movie theaters. Three!" Become oblivious to the absurdity of the same family names appearing again and again; a lineage that isn't going anywhere. Or even enamored by its quirky charm. <br />
<br />
Perhaps its part of the reason I held onto it for so long. It was safe, and maybe I thought I could save it. I never really got a chance to look at it for what it was though, until I left. A fresh perspective. A place where rusty train tracks and abandoned buildings aren't the norm. From my house, you could, and can, still hear the trains that pass through. They used to stop. No longer. My town is dying, and its doing it too slow and quietly for anyone to care. It didn't quite come as a shock, I mean I've always known, but accepting it was the hard part. For a long time, it's been a huge part of my life. And while its helped shape me into who I am, I realize that its not all I'll be. I held onto it to avoid having to actually question what I what out of life. Where I want to go, and what to actually do. A hundred, or even fifty years ago it would've been an easy call. My soul would've been owned to the company store, while I toiled underground. Or I would've been drenched in sweat from the heat of the steel furnaces. Laboring like my grandfathers and their fathers did. However, I don't have that burden. Mine is that of choice. A gift. A wonderful, wonderful, gift. One I've been content to let gather dust - but no longer.I want more. That much, I know. I've realized that this world is larger than I've given it credit. I've come to realize something. You can leave the small town, but the small town never leaves you. Part of my soul will always be a covered with a bit of coal dust and rust. Not as a sign of decay, but as a one of creation.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-53496474862268822992011-04-07T03:51:00.005-04:002011-12-04T02:23:32.505-05:00File Under 'A'One of the biggest boundaries to meaningful connections between people is how we usually fail to fully realize the depth of other people. Speaking from experience, I know I have the awful habit of tagging people. Sorting and separating, labeling. A deeply held organizational desire, or something more malignant? To some degree, beginning interactions like this facilitates understanding and helps people generate a template of others to later cover with details. But at a certain point, it becomes restrictive. We're people. We breathe, we eat, we sleep, we are unique in at least some regard. Why should we be so surprised then to find out that the bouncer at the local bar volunteers at the homeless shelter, that the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iwww3CIr3tk">taxi cab driver has an amazing voice</a>, or the cashier at Walmart practices law. Our first impressions while maybe sometimes right, never reveal the whole picture. We all have talents that we're proud of to some degree or another, and at one point in time I thought mine was drawing. <br />
<div>Looking back, perhaps my artistic senses were a little skewed, I mean, sure I could stay in the lines with my crayons as a child, and could draw shapes. But much of my 'work', was most likely me copying (but not tracing, mind you) pictures from Highlights magazine, video game player's guides, or drawing books. You could tell what 'it' was supposed to be, but something was always slightly off. The dimensions a little skewed, the colors a little desaturated, the lines maybe just a little too squiggly. My originality perhaps really only shone through in the amount of mazes and schematics that covered my notebooks and folders. There are times in your life you look back and wonder "what if?" I remember taking one of those mail-away art tests from the TV at the insistence of my parents. A few months later I received a call asking me I'd like to take some local classes. I declined. Maybe I had a promising future in architecture. I always liked the straight lines and edges of drawing buildings. I had a mind for layouts. I was math oriented. A blonde Howard Roark? Maybe not, but I can pretend, no?</div><div>However, one thing is for sure, I sure as hell wasn't no DaVinci. To emphasize this point, let's take a look at some self portraits through the years. However, first I'd like to take this time to thank Mrs. Pribish for thinking this was a good project, and keeping our drawings from year to year. To this day it remains one of my favorite things about elementary school. Secondly, I considered putting some copyright statement here, but honestly, if you end up making money off of a 2nd grader's self portrait, then obviously you are a marketing genius, and deserve every cent you make.</div><div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b>First Grade</b></u></div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AEHRtqzBa9iOsFCMmM648q7svjykdcyi-MnF5DFuQcoyNY7KaU-AszckVJ5UTtrpdVt3lBP4zn8PDcYeBNsSM9CIqlP3rgQp1sG-HdQbWL3qMYclk6bs0n9MxQgTRjCctfQJnLOu_iY/s1600/scan0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AEHRtqzBa9iOsFCMmM648q7svjykdcyi-MnF5DFuQcoyNY7KaU-AszckVJ5UTtrpdVt3lBP4zn8PDcYeBNsSM9CIqlP3rgQp1sG-HdQbWL3qMYclk6bs0n9MxQgTRjCctfQJnLOu_iY/s320/scan0009.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I sorry ma'am, but it seems your son has a giraffe neck. Also jaundice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I think this is good for a first grader, I'm actually kind of amazed by my attention to detail. It may be hard to see, but I actually colored my tear ducts, however, I obviously know nothing of human anatomy, because they are on the wrong side of my eyes. Or maybe I had that medically corrected as a child. However, I am slightly concerned with my mouth. Do I have lockjaw? Did I forget to color my mouth? Do I have one gigantic tooth? The world may never know. Even at this young age I was contemplating the dichotomy between happiness and sadness, represented here by a lemon-yellow sun and an ashen cloud. Also, to people that don't remember or didn't know me as child, at one point in my life I had male pattern baldness and wore a bright yellow toupee.<br />
<div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Second Grade</u></b></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhleL-HgVKx_pR00XcvxdUg1wnv2U_c5gaSnyqogrpLgCoM48tTIOGGpUIrSqDUnrhanuf7Lmgb11C245Rrnw27XIvyWBnulJEy5sG9mHswmzjCGzWfOppNJAXnMzILOz8jr9ZQLI07xU8/s1600/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhleL-HgVKx_pR00XcvxdUg1wnv2U_c5gaSnyqogrpLgCoM48tTIOGGpUIrSqDUnrhanuf7Lmgb11C245Rrnw27XIvyWBnulJEy5sG9mHswmzjCGzWfOppNJAXnMzILOz8jr9ZQLI07xU8/s320/scan0002.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I honestly have no idea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Yeah. Uhhh, would you believe me if I said I became really interested in Picasso? No, well it was worth a shot. I'm not sure if this is a self portrait, or some kind of drawing about people with heads shaped like potatoes. <s>I'm sure if I had brought this home, my parents would've thrown out our fridge, just so they'd never have to come with an excuse as to why they wouldn't shame our kitchen with this monstrosity.</s> I'm sure if I ever brought this home and asked to put it on the fridge I would've been out on the street. I mean, that's only rational thing to do when your firstborn comes home believing this is something they should be proud of. One final thought, what's with the ominous 9 in the background (sky)? Let's just move on, this picture is really starting to creep me out.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><u><b>Third Grade</b></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b><br />
</b></u></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinuZdlTbOH84Fxh2AwG0-JIr43GpwoVpYstotqUv6OiP1nyIehMF1QUc3H_EfF6-7yHRs-AKU239kOZ606-83IydYjMzLxcov_DrQoAp8ZUw6WSbhY9Z6KzLQzm291x20ouH1mir0sGQQ/s1600/scan0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinuZdlTbOH84Fxh2AwG0-JIr43GpwoVpYstotqUv6OiP1nyIehMF1QUc3H_EfF6-7yHRs-AKU239kOZ606-83IydYjMzLxcov_DrQoAp8ZUw6WSbhY9Z6KzLQzm291x20ouH1mir0sGQQ/s320/scan0003.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think this picture sums up the next 13 years of my life: "Hello, my name is JR, and I like video games"</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Apparently for some time during my childhood I didn't see another person's head for at least two years, and thought it was shaped like all sorts of weird things. Here we can see I was experimenting with cubism; which is maybe perhaps slightly better than the offense I committed against the art world in 2nd grade. I don't know why I was so scared to use any of the paper in this drawing. Maybe I was unaware the upper half of the paper actually existed, or maybe I was trying not to draw attention to the fact that even thought my head is shaped like a square, the sides still aren't even straight. I'm not sure what's happening with my eyes in this picture. I didn't have to wear glasses as a child, but it seems I didn't know this fact at the time. Also, my nose looks like it belongs on Beavis and Butthead. Maybe I do have a shot at this art thing after all, does anyone know if Mike Judge needs any animators for the new episodes? One final note: I never owned a NY Jets jersey, I just liked the color green. And video games, if that isn't clear, and I'm very good at them too. I mean look. I'm not even looking at the TV! I probably got the high score and put in "ASS" as the initials. Just kidding, I probably used "JRK". Isn't it cool, my initials tell so much about me!<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Fourth Grade</u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TkZM_T_HP__ZhwLRCZ3yUyUc6mdHVbEAX5nGjrLwAyLvLUXMq60zuMBCwip08dr1iVD3rgLZ7_9OZYH1no1sMdawwVDBNfe4xqdzXQR_TOI1E9GyQX2NiKap4FLIZD8bgJXF7mIUbNA/s1600/scan0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TkZM_T_HP__ZhwLRCZ3yUyUc6mdHVbEAX5nGjrLwAyLvLUXMq60zuMBCwip08dr1iVD3rgLZ7_9OZYH1no1sMdawwVDBNfe4xqdzXQR_TOI1E9GyQX2NiKap4FLIZD8bgJXF7mIUbNA/s320/scan0004.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm completely serious.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Okay. I don't think I could run out of things to say about this picture. Apparently I thought I had become the lesbian captain of the high school football team on vacation in the Rockies or something. While I have a striking jaw line, there's just something unsettling and feminine about this one. I am however glad to see that my bleach blonde hair hadn't taken on the darker hue it now has. My eyebrows on the other hand.... Sadly, I think this is one of the best out of all these self-portraits. The head shape may be slightly off, but it's fairly accurate, or at least it is for a version of me 11 years older than when this was drawn. The ears may be too high too, and my skin looks like some kind of wax statue, and there's no shading to speak of, it's pretty much downhill from here. See, maybe it's probably a good thing I had a back up plan, I don't think I could survive on what an artist makes, especially when your best work occurs before you have run out of fingers upon which to count your age.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Fifth Grade</u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRl1PBwJ5UuQ2lJm-f8J1R_KBVJ_XaXVZLVIpljppX4jfjFRrLe2httEnySVgjeCRprESQrcd9qRD0QmGfR1Mpdnon1yeQMyg9Gny2Qs9tsREpLl9YkC3d5o-_pmNTQMi2BTs4eUSHxrU/s1600/scan0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRl1PBwJ5UuQ2lJm-f8J1R_KBVJ_XaXVZLVIpljppX4jfjFRrLe2httEnySVgjeCRprESQrcd9qRD0QmGfR1Mpdnon1yeQMyg9Gny2Qs9tsREpLl9YkC3d5o-_pmNTQMi2BTs4eUSHxrU/s320/scan0005.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't be fooled by the green hockey stick and basketball, he's a nerd.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I told you I like green, right? Like, a lot? I think I used no less than 4 different green crayons for this drawing. I also thought it would be good to save in pictorial for all future generations what I looked like with braces. I'm stealing some elements my earlier works at this point, it's clear I've hit my peak as an artist. So I've brought back my 1st grade giraffe neck, although now it's cleverly disguised with a shirt with a collar right out of a Dr. Suess book. And the Mr.Potato head ears from 2nd grade are making their triumphant return. While I think the white stuff in my eye is supposed to be a reflection on my eyes, it makes it look like I'm looking creepily to the upper left corner. Oh well, there's always next year I suppose. </div><div><br />
</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Sixth Grade</u></b></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBamTnAaceFEK8wkjGDVSh2DulR2hnzeW6Oohyphenhyphentz0vNgRYHjC3-ruaDtzYOgC3otX8BqHCQf6hd39pCj7cChpNeJmThA_EDgJAjiPTUV1Llji7NJpHmQ5VwZmnvS84Ys8617s41oxlzrQ/s1600/scan0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBamTnAaceFEK8wkjGDVSh2DulR2hnzeW6Oohyphenhyphentz0vNgRYHjC3-ruaDtzYOgC3otX8BqHCQf6hd39pCj7cChpNeJmThA_EDgJAjiPTUV1Llji7NJpHmQ5VwZmnvS84Ys8617s41oxlzrQ/s320/scan0006.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As per state and federal law, I'm required to tell you . . . </td></tr>
</tbody></table>This has to be the result of me getting lazy and describing myself to a sleepy police sketch artist who happened to be there for career day. I refused to believe anything else. Notice how the artist took the time to render each and every ridge around the edge of my shirt, and my hair is halfway decent. However, he must have ran out of time before he had to give this picture some depth, or maybe he wore down his pencils drawing my house in the background. Whatever the situation, it sure was nice of him to take some time out of his busy schedule to entertain some 6th grader.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Seventh Grade</u></b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZITDNDI-qR7akhkrwoj8DoQcJdA8rn72gszYSzeKWaXDN6CC_6nZGABHMgk9YoDymzvldHGRQKErQ-TJ10MORQXYeysKwqoDMb978GVlagq4pOedz9cjTXuKV7kpc6l11VAnfDnHtxU/s1600/scan0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZITDNDI-qR7akhkrwoj8DoQcJdA8rn72gszYSzeKWaXDN6CC_6nZGABHMgk9YoDymzvldHGRQKErQ-TJ10MORQXYeysKwqoDMb978GVlagq4pOedz9cjTXuKV7kpc6l11VAnfDnHtxU/s320/scan0007.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why yes, I have seen a person before, why do you keep asking that?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I never quite mastered ears. Or noses. Or where eyes go. Or how not to make a person look like a lifeless mannequin. But there is <i>color</i> in this one! It seems without the help of that sketch artist, I fell back into the habit of drawing people with straw hay for hair. And the collar on this shirt has gone into full overdrive mode. For every that's going wrong in this picture, the lips don't seem to be completely horrible, so I guess that's something. I feel like there's a lot of promise here, but something went horribly wrong in the execution of this drawing. Maybe I skipped breakfast. And did I tell you how I like green? Just in case you didn't notice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, that concludes the series of self portraits through elementary and middle school. As you can see, the world is clearly a worse off place because I'm not sharing my artistic skills with it. I'm sure there are hundreds, literally hundreds of dollars worth of commissions waiting for me. Better get in line now, because now that these have hit the internet I'm sure everyone's gonna want an original 'Koban' over their fireplace. Please, cash or check only, no money orders.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u>Honorable Mentions: Summer 2010</u></b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXHGAdffqhyphenhyphene3UIl6csStDGS2sI_htknQpuGLisUaRHKIsyRWoTIvOLkadoxQhaRBzawM-jPPKSqDhKAcdrezpn7v18wxMlGsCNoOiQkJ4i8WmIyfW6IgcxBcOiQFK07o_Bk_Ft9FWUI/s1600/scan0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXHGAdffqhyphenhyphene3UIl6csStDGS2sI_htknQpuGLisUaRHKIsyRWoTIvOLkadoxQhaRBzawM-jPPKSqDhKAcdrezpn7v18wxMlGsCNoOiQkJ4i8WmIyfW6IgcxBcOiQFK07o_Bk_Ft9FWUI/s320/scan0008.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meh.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So, thinking back on this series, I decided how I'd render myself now. Yeah, make of it what you will. Moving on.</div><div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>First Grade Collage</u></b></div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzD95c-3oKlTFHEV7_U6xJo0PpAmeocsmID8vUhwa7RB2Yn_jgHkGqOXRp9eSVnRiwWrAWNqCNl8Rih2cDLcgWK_sPf3yE2WZVaUzjeYVZsaUDcB7zPQz9WwOgWDxExWOOPT0XunD8DE/s1600/1st_grade_collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzD95c-3oKlTFHEV7_U6xJo0PpAmeocsmID8vUhwa7RB2Yn_jgHkGqOXRp9eSVnRiwWrAWNqCNl8Rih2cDLcgWK_sPf3yE2WZVaUzjeYVZsaUDcB7zPQz9WwOgWDxExWOOPT0XunD8DE/s320/1st_grade_collage.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's glue.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><div>MOMMY, I MAKE ART WITH GLUE AND CUT PAPER! WHY YOU RUN AWAY? YOU NO PUT ON FRIDGE?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Photoshop Render: 2008</u></b></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZK6WEb3hgwpCvWOBiXRwpre0za5D82TQJ9iOxmD5qqExVT5uZ7KKFB_0RDOM2WvcPkzGyWukmaf-aSN0Vhfb36izImEoQeK8WuzYzF6TNu2KP4S3ycVSL9Nh19Je5ze_6njGLbXOncI/s1600/n833410524_4160341_5209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZK6WEb3hgwpCvWOBiXRwpre0za5D82TQJ9iOxmD5qqExVT5uZ7KKFB_0RDOM2WvcPkzGyWukmaf-aSN0Vhfb36izImEoQeK8WuzYzF6TNu2KP4S3ycVSL9Nh19Je5ze_6njGLbXOncI/s320/n833410524_4160341_5209.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The key to Photoshop is to use more layers. No, even more. More. And stop.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Fourth Grade, yeah, the future called, it wants that 'JR's Best Art Award' now.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
</div></div>James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-10508033703960222162011-02-25T00:01:00.000-05:002011-02-25T00:01:04.006-05:00Y A B150N?As I walked into the room it was the first thing I noticed. I suppose he purposefully chose that spot so that all that entered would have their eyes drawn to it. I'm certain of it. He was a man of the theater and was always concerned about placement. Like most things he said or did, you always knew there was a story lurking just under the surface. Some nugget of information that you knew he wanted to share, but would rather have you reach on your own. He admired Socrates, and if you spent enough time around him you started getting the feeling that Socrates never drank the Hemlock, but instead sneaked off, and had somehow ended up here. He told us about Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Joyce, Chekov, Hemmingway. He was an English teacher, although looking back, he never taught us. This isn't to say we didn't learn. No, we learned plenty, however, he never taught us as much at point us towards the path of experience. Much like the twisted figures in Plato's cave, we sat there. He didn't breaks our bonds, or drag us from the supposed safety of our gloomy world. Rather he simply handed us a key, and told us of another world.<br />
<br />
While labeled as an English class, sitting in his room was one of my earliest, and probably many of my peer's experience with Philosophy. Or classical music. Or archaeological psychology. Or dadist paintings. Or obscure 50s science fiction. Or Sixteenth century Sonnets. Or obscure stage shows. Absurdly enough, which would be appropriate for his class, when we had a substitute we ended up doing more actual work than when he was in. But we learned much less. We would sit and listen to him explain the significance of lions in <i>Old Man in the Sea</i>, or how the opening notes of Beethoven's 5th were a reaffirmation of life, or the importance of when Henry Jones senior called his son Indiana instead of "Junior", or the use of clothes, cloth and rope as imagery in MacBeth - these days were always more informative than doing a crossword trying to fit characters from the Divind Comedy into the grid, or filling in the blanks with the names of Greek and Roman historical figures. The class should have been called: "Subtext: Finding the Meaning in Life."<br />
<br />
Class was easily derailed, but it never seemed like a minute was wasted. One minute we'd be analyzing hartless hinds, and how it was a phrase that worked on multiple levels, and the next we'd be discussing <i>Waiting for Godot</i>. I don't think any of us appreciated, or even now fully appreciate the role he played in preparing us for what waited us after we stepped outside of class. The thing that always struck me was his perceptiveness. He seemed to be able to read people as well as any book, even when it seemed like he wasn't paying attention. Connections seemed to float out of the air, and his class was the only time I've ever witness students learning during roll call.<br />
<br />
It didn't take long for the question to arise. But that was how he designed it. The poster's location was no mistake. Neither was it's crude image. Something that used to roam the Earth before men developed culture. As this was the beginning of culture. A picture of a bison. "Why a bison?" read a classmate, the words sitting lazily beneath the representation of the creature. "Why not?" was the reply. We had barely finished roll call, which took two days, but the discussion that followed would set the standard for the rest of the year. He walked over to the chalk board. <br />
<br />
"A" "B" <br />
<br />
Alpha, bet. The foundations of language. He flipped the "A", and extended the crossbar, turning it into a crude bison head. Next he rotated the "B", modifying it slightly to make it look like a primitive hut. Somewhere in a cave thousands of years ago, someone decided to engage in prehistoric grafitti. Indeed, history wouldn't exist without this grafitti. From a picture of a bison, it became simplified to just a crude head. A mark of trade. The hut became a mark of population. The beginning of culture. The beginning of the written word. The beginning of history. All because of some marking in a cave. Much like the Promethues who discovered fire, or realized the potential of the wheel, the artist who decided to decorate the inside of that cave altered human history - by creating it. <br />
<br />
Much like fire or the wheel, language is a tool. We often don't think of it as such, but we implement it and it modifies us. Language subconsciously rewires how we view, interact, and interpret our world. Even right now, you most likely are hearing yourself read this in your head. Or have an inner monologue about examining yourself reading this passage. It plays a key role in the conceptualization of one's self. Much like any other tool, it can be used in a variety of ways. Like the exacting precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel in a dictionary, to the flowing of prose, to the butchered semantics of text type; language reflects its use and user. Function following form, or vice versa? Perhaps neither. While it may be obvious to most that it bridges the gap between individual consciences, language also plays an equally important, if perhaps not more interesting role. It creates the framework around which we analyze our own mind - our thoughts, dreams, realizations, hopes, desires, musings, and beliefs. If is both a tool of simplification and complication. Pulling in two different directions it helps boil abstract concepts down to a form that can easily be shared between people, as well as taking a simple concept and showing the complex detail that isn't apparent upon a cursory glance. Since time immortal, poets, painters, priests, and the general public have been concern with a simple four letter word. The Greeks recognized its complexity and created alternate words for the variations. While everyone may be referring to the same thing in much the same way, the individual experiences and conceptualizations may differ. However language allows these divergent principles to be brought together. It functions as our consciousness' lens to the external world and a bridge to others. And all from such humble beginnings.<br />
<br />
"Why a bison?"<br />
"Why not?" he replied.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-1875733631716423412011-02-16T03:17:00.000-05:002011-02-16T03:17:23.167-05:00If you take the high road and I take the low roadIf there ever was an important lesson to learn in life it's this: ultimately you're responsible for yourself, and really only yourself. I don't mean this in an hyper-individualistic sense, but rather that as individuals, we are ultimately responsible for our own choices and decisions. However, herein lies the frustration. Autonomy carries with it a limiting factor. Just as you are the captain of your own destiny, those other ships twinkling in the night have someone else at the helm. Persuasion, trickery, coercion, and deceit are fundamentally limited as they ultimately rely on the consent, mistake, acceptance, or acquiesce of another. Conflict is a product of individualism. It's inevitable. Rarely do people's plans mesh perfectly together; and if they are - pinch yourself, you're probably just dreaming. It's not a bad thing. Much like wind disturbing water makes it seem like the sky is dancing on the water's surface, variety makes life all the more interesting. A lot more interesting than the alternative, lockstep restriction.<br />
<br />
Besides, there's not much we could do about it anyways. Imagine how astronomical it would be to get everyone to agree on everything. Just to put it in perspective, imagine how hard it would be to get yourself to agree on the same thing after some period of time. Unless you happen to own a time machine, have been travelling at near light speed, or were frozen (all very unlikely), you are probably a different person to some degree from only a few years ago. Duplication of thought- imagine what it would take. Thought processes are the product of electrical and chemical reactions in our brain. These reactions result from and impress upon the external world in a intricate interplay. To end up with the same result would require the same external stimuli perceived in the same way, and processed by the same system. But our minds are products of the past, so that would have to be accounted for to. See where I'm going? If not impossible, improbable. Highly improbable. The amazing differences between people can be easily summed up in our eyes. While the iris is such a small area, the extreme uniqueness only serves to underscore our individuality. (So technically David Bowie counts as two people, although it should be more considering how many phases he's gone through)<br />
<br />
So the challenge: surviving and thriving in a world with inevitable conflict. Realize that you can change your own future by the choices you make, and try not to get bogged down because of others choices. Ultimately you have to realize that others are going to make their own choices, according to whatever wishes, plans or schemes they have. The paths that people take will always be different - as different as the people themselves.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-40138063278092354242010-12-20T01:37:00.000-05:002010-12-20T01:37:46.248-05:00ShadowfaxThere was no fanfare, no ticker tape parade, no special announcement or interruption in the regularly scheduled programming. But I felt a need to celebrate when my car's odometer reached 50000 miles. My car could have theoretically circled the Earth twice, with a little mileage left over - and I know its traveled emotional miles with me as well. It seems like a car is one of the few places that I can truly feel alone anymore. You can watch as the world slips by as you travel down pavement that ribbons off into the distance. The freedom is exhilarating. On trips I always love the feeling sitting in the back of my mind, like shadows I'm scared to acknowledge for fear of them dying in the light. "Just skip your exit. Keep on driving. Explore. See where you end up. See where this road goes." I imagine myself cutting all ties with everything up to that point, and just starting over. A simple reset. That car is much more than a vehicle. It's been a bed, a dining room, a concert hall, an observatory; my silver steed. From getting me from where I am to where I want to be, here's to another 50000 miles.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-78134957263924977072010-12-01T00:40:00.000-05:002010-12-01T00:40:12.815-05:00The Au StandardHad this been a decade ago, he probably would started out by asking "Paper or plastic?" But I had brought the canvas bags, so there was no need. He asked if I would bag my own groceries, and said I could choose what to group together. Whatever I thought, it would help me to get back to my car, and my apartment sooner. He was an older guy, probably in his late 40s, but he seemed energetic working the check out line. He asked what I was studying. "Oh, I'm a law school student." He asked what they had us studying. "Cases, and lots of cases." He seemed surprised. He told me he thought we would spend more time looking at statutes. I explained we did that in one of the classes, but the majority of the time was spent on cases in most of my classes.<br />
<br />
I learned that this man had represented himself in over forty lawsuits, worked for Penn State in some way regarding Physical Education, and was part of a Olympic history non-profit group (that he was currently representing in a suit against the International Olympic Committee). He got me thinking; here's a guy with an amazing life story scanning my milk and eggs. The first question one might think of is: "how many other people are there out there like him?" A think perhaps a better question is "why should it take an exceptional story to recognize someone?"<br />
<br />
Stop and think for a second about your own life. Ever person knows their own story. Where one has been, what one has done, the struggles that one has to endure, the accomplishments, the heartbreaks, the friendships, the failures, the victories. Try to realize now that every other person has their own story. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. Not just your friends and family, and the people you associate with, but every single person. The people we encounter everyday have their own stories. The postal worker who drops your mail off everyday, the barrista at the coffee shop that knows your order, the bus driver who drives the shuttle you used to stay out of the rain, the guy playing bass in the band at the bar, the girl stocking shelves, the cop sitting at the side of the road with a radar gun. Furthermore, so do the stars on tv, the politicans, the actors on the silver screen. Even the ones we will never encounter in our lifetime. From the screenwriter living in a tiny flat in London, to the ranch hand working in Argentina, to the impoverished kid running through the streets in any number of crowded, overpopulated, polluted cities that circle the globe. 6.8 Billion people.<br />
<br />
6.8 billion people. And how many do we actually see as other people? We automatically disregard unfamiliar faces, and fail to see them as people, and treat them as they deserve. The postal worker is an idiot who doesn't know not to fold our mail, the barrista is an airhead who can't make a decent cup of coffee, the bus driver never did anything worthwhile with his life, the bass player smokes two packs a day and couldn't make it as a rock star, the girl stocking shelves is a teen mom, the cop sitting at the side of the road is an ass on a power trip. We're quick to judge. It's human nature, we say. I saw a study that shows that a person can really only really conceptualize of about 150 other people maximum. That falls far short of the amount of actual people. It's human nature. <br />
<br />
So what? Is that supposed to be an excuse? A justification? A weak cop out is all it really is. The world could be such a better place if we could realize the simple fact that we're all people. Too often we forget this simple fact. And it really is simple. The "golden rule"; treat others as you would like to be treated. How many problems could we eliminate if we followed this in even a fraction of our lives. If we treated people like people. Perhaps, it's a matter of perception, and we simply need to realize the truth and broaden the scope of our understanding. We rarely take the time to truly understand anyone. How many people do we actually know, and how many people actually know us.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's the beginning. If I can understand myself, I can understand others, and others can understand me. The realization of understanding can perhaps lead to a view of the bigger picture. Seeing the trees, and the forest. It could make the world a brighter place. Hold the door for someone. Smile at the person passing you on the street. Let someone merge into your lane in traffic. Hit an elevator button for someone. Treat people as people. See people as people. Understand that every single person we come across has their own story. It could turn a simple "once upon a time" into a "happily ever after".James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-80190499999054875052010-11-15T20:46:00.001-05:002010-11-15T20:46:43.239-05:00Pheidippides BoundI am impatient. I have numerous projects left half finished, and have many dreams collecting dust. My father once told me that things come too naturally to me, and the contrary principle is when I encounter something that challenges me, I simply quit. It's part stubbornness, part arrogance, and partly a lack of pacing. Case in point, in the spring of 2002, I was in eight grade. It was my first year at the high school, and we had an interesting algebra teacher. He was (is?) a member of the National Guard, working as a cook. Late in the school year, we were discussing rate of change, and he used speed as an example. As he had to stay in good shape, he bet our class that he could out run the whole class in either a mile or two, I can't remember which. Considering it was a class of twenty 14 year olds against a man who has since retired from teaching, it seemed like an interesting proposal.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I still remember the morning. That third period we walked up from the back of the school to the track that had been completed a few years prior. It was a brisk morning in either late April or early May. We lined up on the starting grid. He set a stopwatch to the side, and gave us a count down. Three. I can feel the anticipation racing down my spine. Two. Here will be my chance to stun everyone. One. It will be amazing. Go. I take off in front of everyone else. I am in a full on sprint. I make it less than halfway around the oval before it feels like my lungs are going to explode. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I can't remember if I even walked a mile, my mind has sorta repressed the aftermath. I do however remember puking between classes, and feeling lightheaded for a while. I had tried sprinting in a marathon, hoping some innate talent would save me. My hopes ran thin.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Senior year, 2005. It's November, and I've recently spent the last two weeks in a frenzy of activity. Nights filled with play practice, weekends consisting of working on set pieces, time between classes spent learning a dance for senior night at the football game as well as learning a new song. I decided that the added activity was great, and started going to the after school weight lifting sessions, mostly populated by football players and the track team preparing for the upcoming season. I told myself, you'll join track. Get the months of practice in now. And for that winter, I did.</div><div><br />
</div><div>A few times a week, I'd head across the parking lot to the elementary school, with a change of clothes packed in my book bag. My lifting partner was a female friend, it made things easy because we lifted roughly the same amount, however it does become slightly awkward. We would do the lifting routine, and then do a few laps around the school in the halls. Usually with wrestlers who were bundled up in multiple jackets, trying to sweat off some pounds before weight - in. When there was no snow outside, we would head up to the track and jog there. The wind was the worst. A clearing on top a hill isn't exactly the best place for a track. In fact, one night that December a friend and I decided we would go running. It was probably 8, and the lights were on. I hadn't taken gloves or a hat, but we ran. When I got home, my grandmother was convinced I was going to catch pneumonia. The rest of the night I coughed, wheezed, and generally looked like a zombie.</div><div><br />
</div><div>My dad saw an ad for a family membership at a gym in town. He applied and I turned my attention in the nights towards that. That spring rolled around, and I was chosen for a part in the musical. There was a meeting for the track and field team, I skipped it. The coach stopped me in the hallway and asked me why I hadn't attended. "Oh, well, with the play and everything, I won't have much time, and so I thought I'd save you the trouble." He looked slightly confused, but accepted this and walked away. The time commitment wouldn't have been that big of a deal though, I think it was an excuse to give myself an easy way out. I continued working out at the gym until summer rolled around and I simply stopped.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It is now the first year of college. A friend and I have convinced ourselves that we will restart the routine of weightlifting from high school. We made our way across campus to the sports center. We went in, and decided it was going to be leg day. I went to the leg press machine. That was always my favorite. When you start lifting weights, and are doing bench press with only the bar, being able to load upwards of 300 lbs on the leg press machine and actually do it, makes you feel like you can accomplish something. We loaded it up. I was going to go first. I delocked the safety, lowered the weight and . . . got stuck. I couldn't muster the energy to get one single rep. He grabbed the weight, and helped me push it up, I locked it into place. And we laughed it off. Well, I guess that's what happens when you don't like for almost an entire year. We went to the treadmills for a bit and finished the session. I never went back to that gym.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Summer of 2008. This is the year I tell myself. You have an awesome phone that you use to track your progress and do double duty as a music player. I spend the initial part of the summer building on what I learned a few years ago. My two best friends and I decide we will jog nightly. We go one night. It is a beautiful night. The stars are putting on a grand display, and from the lofty Portage track we can see all the twinkling lights on the surrounding hills, as if some of the stars decided to take a terrestrial vacation. We finish the first lap, I can feel it building. The second lap, I really want to stop. The third lap: "Guys, I can't make it, Keep going, I'm just going to walk." I start jogging by myself a bit in the mornings, trying to catch up to what they can do. As it gets close to school, the high school football team starts their morning practices on the field. It becomes odd jogging by them, I quit. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Okay, they're in school now, you'll have the track to yourself. You got your dream schedule, you don't start until 10 any day, you can wake up early do you routine, and then get ready for class. I start researching exercise plans and decide to start HIIT. This seems like it will be an efficient way to get in shape quickly. The first week goes as expected. The second week, this is becoming tedious. I don't think I finished the third week. Around this same time, I start using various dumbbells in the garage. I make a makeshift bench by using some garden kneelers on a patio bench. My father takes note of this and decides he also will start lifting, he sees a bowflex-type machine at a local pawn shop, and purchases it, placing it in our grandmothers basement.</div><div><br />
</div><div>While I stopped the HIIT, I start lifting. For Christmas I get a proper dumbell set, and I manage to stay on plan for almost half a year. I have a dedicated schedule. Five nights a week. At 8 or 9, I walk across the street, descend the stairs to the basement, and do the day's activities. During this time, I'm cast in a show where I end up only wearing a hospital gown over a pair of underwear on stage. Thankfully for all involved I have been working out. I feel much better about my body than I have in a long time. Then summer arrives, and the structure falls apart.</div><div><br />
</div><div>January 2010. I'm cast in Jesus Christ Superstar. I find out the costuming direction: more motivation. I begin my plan again. I've tweaked it with new knowledge. Things are going good. I start out at 20 minute jogs, two months later, I've doubled that to 40 minutes. Summer arrives, I manage to stay on schedule. I go on vacation, and come back to a new job and more intense play rehearsals. Priorities change. Law school is approaching. I'll put it off until then.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It is 7:00A.M. November 15, 2010. The alarm goes off. Snooze. The alarm goes off. Snooze. The alarm goes off. Snooze. It is now 9 in the morning. Not only do you not have the time to do your morning routine, but you'll have to go into rush mode to get to class on time. You remember an article you have recently reread. Humans being are outclassed physically in every regard by other animals besides one: distance running. The human body doesn't cool itself through panting, but rather through sweating. The largest muscle in the human body, the gluteus maximus, is primarily only used in running. Narrow hips, strong knees, big Achilles tendons, all point to the same conclusion. Our body is designed for distance.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There is a principle in architecture: form follows functions. So all that's missing is a way to implement that function. Balance the key needs of meeting goals but not over exertion. Pacing. Could I hunt down a antelope on the hot African savannah? No, but I can go for more than a sixteenth of a mile without the need to vomit. In the focus on the big picture, I frequently miss the little goals that I've crossed and get frustrated. I come to a wall and quit, without realizing I've blasted through multiple ones already. Look back to 2002 and see where you come. Look forward to 2018 and imagine where you can be. Don't focus on the goal and lose sight of the journey, because you'll miss the sights, and more importantly the mile markers. It may not be an innate talent, but it's a latent skill. When it comes to matters of the mind and body, man is both the sculptor and the clay, and the sculpting process is not easy nor painless. However it is not without merit. The journey of a thousand miles, begins with a single step, and while every step seems small the all contribute to the goal. The key is patience and persistence, as Pheidippides knew well.</div><div><br />
</div><div>- - - - - - - - </div><div>Further reading: (for those interested)</div><div><a href="http://people.westminstercollege.edu/Departments/Science/The_Natural_World/Lesson_Schedule/Born%20to%20Run.PDF">Born To Run</a> - The main article </div><div><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/27/health/27well.html">Marathon Injuries</a> - refers to the main article, in application to modern Marathon runners</div><div><a href="http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2009/02/runningtoes/">Running and Toe Size</a> - supplemental information about the main article</div><div><a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/did-humans-evolve-to-be-long-distance-runners/">Humans designed as slow movers</a> - A Rebuttal argument to the "Born to Run" article</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-63534759056180832342010-11-13T00:49:00.000-05:002010-11-13T00:49:03.261-05:00PhillyI recently heard something to the extent that "you are an average of the five people you associate with the most". And I know who has been the biggest impact upon my life. When I was growing up, I had never an idol. I never had a poster of Michael Jordan on the wall, nor were there posters of rock stars from the most current hot bands. I never needed these posters, because my support and motivation shared a room with me. My best friend. My brother. And he definitely has left his impact upon me.<br />
<br />
Our parents like to say that we have our own language, like twins do, and this statement has some degree of truth to it. It's English, but our own shortened, mixed up form. Comprised mostly of all the random, and usually stupid, sayings that we have accumulated over the years. If I were sitting on my bed at home, I could turn over and say to him "Leaving a whole bunch of questions that don't need to be answered," and he would probably smile, knowing what I was referring to. This speaks to the fact of how much time we've spent together. In fact, we shared a room until I left home to study law. <br />
<br />
I always took for granted the knowledge that I got to spend a sizable portion of my life with my best friend almost 24/7. Every night was like a sleepover. We would frequently go to bed at night, and have random, pointless, yet meaningful conversations that were the perfect way to close days. That's not to say we didn't have ways to irritate each other. You spend enough time with someone, and you find ways to press their buttons, and heaven only knows how much fun it was to get on each other's nerves. He probably deserves a medal for putting up with me. Being the younger brother, he always had to play second fiddle to my choices. When we went trick-or-treating on Halloween, I got to be Batman, and he was Robin. When we used to play video games as kids, before online multiplayer, or co-op became all the rage, he had to wait until I exhausted my live until it was my turn. I still remember when I was about eight when I was facing off against the end boss in Donkey Kong country. Having gotten as far through the game primarily due to luck and many restarts, I had no idea how to vanquish the foe, and ended up having to restart many times. I remember chastising him for not cheering hard enough. I'm lucky he has such a cheery disposition and would put up with up with me.<br />
<br />
People often ask me how hard law school is. They'll ask about the upcoming finals, or the required reading, when honestly the hardest thing has been not seeing my best friend every day. Three years ago I remember dreading his graduation because I was expecting him to go away to college, and leave me an empty room. Luckily, we got another two years when he decided to commute, as I did, albeit to a different school. Now that I've left thought, I feel as though I abandoned him. It was bound to happen eventually, and it's a start to a brand new chapter of my life, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. <br />
<br />
While I accept that life changes, that doesn't mean I have to forget about where I came from. It's why I keep a picture of the two of us as kids in my wallet. Multiple times throughout the day I'm reminded of him. The Greek language has four words for love, which I believe is far more useful and descriptive. Philadelphia, the 'City of Brotherly Love', derives it name from one of these words if you haven't guess yet. Philia. The word mainly refers to familial love, such as the sort between brothers. All in all, I consider myself blessed to have such a great best friend, and even better brother.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-38172656938097044242010-10-21T23:46:00.000-04:002010-10-21T23:46:47.357-04:00A Charge to KeepIf you were to check my wallet, you'd find the typical fare. Some wrinkled ones, a crisp twenty, a guitar pick, some change, various plastic cards, and identification. You will also find a picture and a small slip of paper. The picture is not tonight's topic, but rather that rather plain piece of paper. This is one of the heaviest things I carry. It reminds me of days unlived and in some ways sums up a great mystery of life. For all the importance I assign to it, it is fairly innocuous. It is approximately five and a half centimeters wide, by a centimeter and a half tall, with a thickness of approximately .01 centimeters (according to google). Have you guess where I obtained this slip of paper? If not, let me provide you with more information. On the back there are three lines, the bottom line supposedly lists my "Lucky Numbers". Did that tip you off? How about the first line that reads: "Learn Chinese - Strawberry" with the appropriate characters under it. This slip of paper came from a fortune cookie.<br />
It is very heavy.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we as people become so involved in the world, we forget who we are; how we came to be; why we are. This small paper serves as a reminder to what I could be, and is a constant reminder to strive for what I may become. The text on the front isn't particularly poetic, I could for instance imagine it in the form of a haiku, or a poem, but I feel it none the less as a brand across my spirit. It has become the fuel for my inner fire, burning with the intensity that lit up Nero's face as played his fiddle among his burning kingdom. It has become the wind that fills my sails, taking me to exotic locales. It has become the waves that crash upon the shores of my mind, both calming and frightening.<br />
<br />
Hard work without talent is a shame, but talent without hard work is a tragedy.<br />
<br />
Can you sum up a person in fourteen words? No. Can you capture in essence of their being in as many words? I doubt it. Can you find a phrase that reveals so much with so little? I believe so, or at least find a way to develop a greater understanding of that individual; and those words cut to the core of my being. I admit that things come to easy to me, I usually laugh and make a joke of it, but this undermines the importance of my thought. I was probably the guy in high school that you cheated off of, but I didn't care, because I wasn't having a hard time, and as long as you didn't drag me into it, I was perfectly fine with it. Or maybe I was the one that you slipped a few dollars to, and in return I'd let you look at my math project so you could see all the shortcuts in the assignment. Or maybe you borrowed my notes, copied them and realized that you could skip class and keep asking for my notes. Before you think anything else, know that I am sorry for what I allowed to happen. Maybe you squeezed out an "A" on that English exam, maybe you saved a few hours calculating the volume of various shapes, maybe you could sleep in because you didn't have to go to your 9 AM; but at what price? I cheated you out of the chance to find your potential as much as I haven't explored mine. I've had very few people call me out on this, but I thank you for when you do. You remind me to take up the challenges, and view them not as something to merely pull myself over, but to bound over, seeing how far my legs will take me. Living to my potential instead of potentially living. Remember that there are no short cuts in life, and the miracle medicine is most likely snake oil.<br />
<br />
Why do we fear challenges? Perhaps it's the effort involved, maybe we're content to hide under the covers when the opportunity for greatness presents itself. Or maybe it's something deeper. It may be easy to live within our limits, staying away from the edges, lest we find out the size of the box within which we live. The fear of failure. Reaching a boundary that represents the edge of our potential is terrifying. This confrontation serves to mark off who we are and our dreams, from what we desire and who we can be. But even these limitations are really just travesties, marking off boundaries in our spirit. If we took the effort to reach these walls, we'd find we have the strength to scale them. Where would be if no intrepid individual decided to see what he was truly capable of? I shudder to imagine the scene.<br />
<br />
What is true greatness? The strength to scale the wall? No, the fortitude to try and find that wall. We may recall the epics, myths, tall-tales, urban legends, plays, songs, and stories of greatness. We come to believe that it's a quality possesed by the few. Heroes that shaped the modern age through their efforts. Whether leading an ragtag army against inconceivable odds, discovering some scientific principal, or crafting a beautiful work of art, we see these people as fundamentally different from us. Perhaps they were to some degree lucky, or were shining paradigms of humanity that we could all emulate, but the fact remains that they had to take the first step towards their walls to test their ability to climb, run, and light the torch of human achievement. We shouldn't be intimidated by their achievements, but rather inspired. Rather than remain safe in the comfort of obscurity, we should find solace in the fact that their achievements can be replicated.<br />
<br />
We all have our limitations, but the worse kind are artificially imposed. True greatness is the wholeness of being we can experience if we find our true limits and expand our spirit to fill every niche. If we learn to bridge ourselves, than we can learn to cross the supposed divide that exists between individual people. I won't pretend that this will be easy, but that's what's exciting about it. We can construct a future for ourselves that we can be proud of, not because it's perfect, but because we had the strength to take part in it.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-5861805570410668582010-10-20T22:37:00.000-04:002010-10-20T22:37:56.730-04:00Of Stones and PondsThis begins the first post of my new discourse with you, reader, whomever you happen to be. I have been an on and off blogger/journalist since 2004, and I intend to see how this work shall compare to my earlier material. The major impetus for this renewal came less than a week ago, while sitting in the woods by myself communing with nature. I would hesitate to liken myself to Thoreau, waxing eloquently about the importance and majesty of nature while sipping tea beside a lake in Massachusets, but that seems to be the partial inspiration. Another impetus is the cathartic nature of writing itself, coupled with the fact that at some point down the road, I use these memoirs as a touchstone to reorient myself to specific points in my life. Which brings me to the topic of this post's ramblings:<br />
<br />
One's past.<br />
<br />
I find I frequently return to this topic in many of my musings and ramblings, perhaps obsessively, but for this reintroduction it shall provide a fair topic. As beings infused with the ability to sense the three physical dimensions, the fourth dimension, or time, merely appears to pass before our consciousness (perhaps my next topic). However, at any given state in your life, you are the product of the past. Consider, without evaluating or judging, the choices you have made in your life. These choices influenced the past for you in a certain way that brought about the person you are today. As a result of this change our interaction with the world changed in some degree or another, and in some way we have interacted with our universe. Approximately five years ago I attended a concert less than miles from where I currently sit. It took about an hour and a half to get to that concert. Had you told me then that I'd be sitting at a desk reflecting upon that moment five years later, I'm not sure what I would think. Additionally had you told me that information, the world we currently live in would be quite different. Any number of factors responsible for bringing about the current state of the world would have been altered, and in some perceptible way things would most likely be different. If you don't know what I mean, go watch <i>Back to the Future</i>, it's alright, I'll wait.<br />
. . . . .<br />
You back? Okay. Where were we? Oh yes, time. The thing about time is the amazing things that can happen in such a short amount of it. Consider a typical Sunday afternoon during fall. Somewhere in the country is probably a football game, and occasionally the result of a game will come down to the leg of one man. This man will be attempting to kick a ball perhaps 40 yards or so, in an effort to win the game for his team. Maybe you have his number and decide to call him shortly before the game. Perhaps you got in an argument. Maybe that argument has him rattled. Perhaps his nerves cause him to lose his concentration, and he ends up missing the posts, and his team suffers a defeat by the narrowest of victories. As a result, bets placed on the game go one way or the other, and the world is impacted. Now, not every choice or action we take can be isolated in such a way, or indeed viewed in such a direct light. For instance, maybe the kicker had indigestion because he had a meal that was improperly prepared. But none the less, it doesn't make them any less important.<br />
<br />
Much like a stone tossed into a pond creates ripples that spread across the surface of the water our actions spread out across the world and change the face of the future. To that end, we are reinforced by our past and continually reinventing the future in every moment. Right down to the smallest division of time, if such division is in fact possible. With so many stones being cast into the water, the placid surface of that pond is a constantly changing tumultuous pattern of interfering waves and roils. To that end, everything appears chaotic, and one loses the trees because of the advancing forest. Remember though that the trees do exist, and every moment a new one takes root in the soil.<br />
<br />
I had hoped to keep this brief and concise and hopefully on point, but for the time being, I see this as an acceptable reintroduction. Here's to the planting another another tree, the cast of a pebble into a pond, or the conscious choice to take one path as opposed to another.James Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5702990827291377365.post-49627962994142699792010-10-20T21:44:00.001-04:002010-10-20T21:44:52.658-04:00Placeholder<br />
-<br />
May be used to archive older textJames Kobanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00284604147331146253noreply@blogger.com0