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  >> Book >> Biographical >> ID #1785679  |   Show DetailsPrinter Friendly Page Tell A Friend
The Man Who Laughs . . . and Other Verbs
My musings, thoughts, reflections, regrets, accomplishments, dreams, fears . . . all here!
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The Man Who Laughs . . . and Other Verbs

In case you didn't read the title.



It's often said that the most dangerous thing a man can do is give the rest of the world his thoughts, for they are then no longer his thoughts but another's inspiration. Okay, I just made that up, so it's not all that often said, but I believe that. And let me tell you, you'll have enough of my thoughts the moment you turn from this author's note to the prologue, and since time is always passing by, every post will be the prologue to my present. I'll just let you know up front: I'm enjoying the book.
Bigsmile



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5.  History 101ID #728929 
Posted: 7-18-2011 @ 5:03 am EDT 
Edited: 7-25-2011 @ 11:14 pm EDT 

The Man Who Writes


I got a very interesting review today for my "Invalid Item" . I thought it odd that I had two reviews for the same item waiting for me in my inbox, both by different people though. I read the first one, a very kind comment of my writing and a suggestion to perhaps cut down on my extravagance to make it a little more reader-friendly. I perfectly agree. I love to write like that, but not many people like to read that kind of writing, the style I must have picked up from Victor Hugo (after whose The Man Who Laughs I named this blog) or Joseph Conrad. It's wordy, very abstract, and I love it: playing with the words, messing with sentence structure, bending and sometimes breaking the rules, and making illusions like Dostoevsky. It's fun for me, but not very much fun for most readers. It was a phase, and I'm trying to get out of it. Write for yourself but with the reader in mind, right?

That was a great review--honest, encouraging, and helpful. It pointed out some good points, and most importantly pointed out the lesser points. So I was looking forward to the next review. I opened it up, and here's what I saw:

         weird story it sucks to me

. . . Okay. . . . Thanks I guess? Well, I was curious by this time, so I checked out his port. I hate to stereotype, but it was just like I expected. In a sense, it reminded me of what I was like when I first joined WDC. . . .

Fancy flashback harp music!


I was in school, seventh grade. One of my close friends, Sofi, was giving me her email address so that we could send each other pictures from our trips. We're very distantly related (my great-great grandmother's sister-in-law is her great grandmother) by our Finnish ancestry, and I had just gone to Finland the previous year. She handed me the piece of paper: darkmoonrising@writing.com. "Hmmm," I thought pensively (yeah, redundant), "I wonder what 'writing.com' is?"

You see, I, like many of the people on this site, started writing at a very young age. I immersed myself in books almost to the point of solitude as a child, finding refuge and relief in the pages of a story, a story of a boy or girl just like myself who went on a fabulous adventure. As time flew by and water rushed under the bridge, I began to try my hand at writing--literally. It took a while, but I eventually filled up a notebook full of my silly little stories: a young hero saving the town from an enemy only he could see; a boy in a mythical land banding together with a misfit group of others to save the land from an evil sorcerer (now that I think of it, it was a lot like Lord of the Rings); and who knows how many others. And don't think I forgot poetry! I wrote verse upon verse of poems about flowers and battles and school and worship songs and whatever happened to pop in my mind. I thought I was pretty good, pretty talented. I was a writer!

It took me some time, but I eventually checked out the site I saw on the piece of paper she gave me. Of course, I had lost the address by this time, but I knew it had something to do with writings. So, I went to www.writings.com. Do not, I repeat NOT go there. It might have changed by now, but what I saw scarred my young mind for quite some time (I had already had the talk with my Dad, so at least it wasn't too much of a surprise!). I didn't know what to think besides what the heck is Sofi a part of?

Fortunately, that misunderstanding did not last that long. I called her later, and she gave me the correct website and told me that it was full of writers. I brightened at that. A whole website of people who liked to write and could read my writing and send it off to publishers and I would be famous! Yeah, I rushed to conclusions when I was younger . . . I still do.

So, I went to that website again, only without the s. Big difference--huge difference! I remember that it was the Third of July, and the rest of my family had already headed off to bed. This was before I bought my laptop, so I was sitting in front of the downstairs computer, clicking and typing away. Sure, I was still twelve, and it did say you had to be thirteen, but it was a month until my birthday, and I thought that was close enough--besides, Sofi had only just turned thirteen, and if she did it, I could . . . right?

By the time I clicked the submit button, it was about ten o'clock, July Fourth on the east coast. I immediately started reviewing people's writing, adding random spaces between paragraphs to make sure they were more than 250 words (I know, I'm a cheater . . . I hope WDC Support doesn't read this!). All of my reviews were petty, shallow, uninformative . . . but I thought I was a genius. I knew all there was to know, everything, and I was helping all these amateurs learn how to write. How utterly confused I was.

The next night, I added my first item: "Why Me?" . I thought it was perfect. And then I got a review. Apparently it wasn't, but who cares about MDuci 's opinion, right? Well, now I do! I started receiving reviews, and all of them told me something that I should consider, or change, or think about. That's not how it was supposed to go! I was the genius here! I was the perfect one! I was the one who should have been giving advice!

I finally revised it on my birthday, a month after I joined, just because I wanted people to stop telling me what to do. I was already bitter! But I didn't stop: I started writing poetry like mad, reviewing like mad (though I doubt any of those reviews were truly helpful), and posting stories like mad. And people kept telling me what to do. Imagine that.

Well, years passed by, and by the middle of my freshman year, I had forgotten about WDC. To be continued...
 

4.  Thank the DentistID #727251 
Posted: 6-28-2011 @ 3:47 am EDT 
Edited: 7-14-2011 @ 1:11 pm EDT 

The Man Who Smiles


I was downtown today for quite some time. I’m planning a book drive and exchange for my Eagle Scout Project, and it’s incredible how many loops and piles of paperwork you have to go through in order to put a sign up, advertising an event. And you have to pay a $250 permit fee, so that was thrown out the window. And even though there’s a completely empty and unused undercover basketball court, it can’t be used because there’s some machinery nearby that will not be moved in time for the drive. Okay, that’s a little upsetting.

But I didn’t find this out immediately. I had the fortune of asking my questions to a very nice lady at the city hall who tried all she could to help me, even bringing along another city worker to try to find some loopholes (like the fact that the “sign police” are not out on Saturdays, “but we didn’t tell you that!”). Unfortunately, they were not the final word on the subject, and I had to wait for two hours while they tried to get a hold of the man who knew who to ask to secure the area (I am deeply indebted to those ladies. . . .). And that’s where the story actually begins.

It was actually one of those rare sunny days in Seattle, sunny and warm. I was walking around downtown Woodinville, first just around city hall, then around the hall and the adjacent field, then around the hall, adjacent field, and the nearby apartment complex, all the while waiting for the imminent phone call on my dying cell phone so I could go home and pack for my two-week backpacking trip.

Pretty soon, I was really thirsty. I kept making larger and larger circles around city hall, and I was a little worried that I would get the call when I was at the apogee of where I would have to be. And, of course, the nearest food place (the gas station) was an intersection away. I just knew that the moment I walked across the street, I would get that call. I just knew it, but I did it anyway.

I waited for the walk signal, walked across, saw the signal turn to the red hand, and I got a call. Face palm, right? Well, actually no . . . it was just my mother. So I went into the gas station and looked for something good to drink. I had five dollars, and I found a Vitamin Water for less than that. So I went up to the counter, grabbed a 5-Hour-Energy (because I knew it was going to be a long night), and smiled at the cashier.

She smiled back. I asked how she was. She said she was hanging in there. And we laughed. She scanned the items, and I pulled out my five. Then she said those condemning words: “That would be five forty-seven.” I froze. Forty-seven cents. I blubbered something to extent that I would be right back with the change (I think I had some change in the car). But she laughed again and said that she would cover it, reaching into her wallet and grabbing a bill. I’m pretty sure I kowtowed a couple of times, muttering thank-you’s, and I left the store with my water and pure energy.

Well, that’s basically the back story. Fundamentally, I met a very nice woman who was willing to give me forty-seven cents. But, of course, I’m going to make it into so much more. Call it melodramatics. But I’m going to talk about smiling. Smile

I like to bike. I’ll bike down the hill that I live on to a wonderful trail straddling the river (well, it’s a slough, but that doesn’t sound very appealing). I bike to enjoy. I’m not one of those avid road cyclists in their fancy suits on sleek bikes and reflective glasses, rushing around every corner. I’d much rather look around, look at the slough, the trees, the clouds that are always there, the others on the trail. I like to look at other people, look them in the eye, connect with them for a moment, and give them a smile. And do you know what’s amazing? Most of them smile back. And that makes me want to smile, knowing that something I’ve done has caused them to smile. Some of the regulars on the trail that I pass often start smiling when they see me coming! It’s an amazing feeling, smiling, making someone else smile. It’s so . . . so . . . human.

I think I get this from my dad. He’s the one who you’d be in an elevator with and would not want to get out when your floor comes up because you’re in the middle of a great conversation. So now I do the same thing. I saw a girl reading a Finland travel guide (I’m very Finnish), so I stopped by and had a great conversation with this incredible young lady. It’s so . . . so . . . human. It’s what we were made for: relationships.

A monthish ago, I was coming home from my cousin’s graduation, and I was craving a Starbucks while in the Edmonton airport. Luckily there was a Starbucks, so I got in the very short line. Ahead of me were three very gregarious ladies who had obviously spent their life at Timmy Horton’s instead of Starbucks. I couldn’t help but listen in on their conversation, which went something like this: “Wait, does that say ‘tall’?” “Why yes, I believe so!” “And that’s the small one? Then why did they call it ‘tall’?” “I don’t know, but it looks small.” “Does ‘veinte’ mean large?” “Who knows what veinte means. But the sign looks like it’s pointing to the bigger one, the one bigger than, umm, ‘grande’.”

At this point, I decided to help them out. They seemed a little confused. I pitched in, informing them of the sizes and answering other questions they had (although I have no idea the difference between an Americano and a Cappuccino). In any case, we had a very nice conversation, talking about Starbucks and graduations and my future. We had some laughs, shared some smiles, and then the barista asked what they wished to order. It felt great, somehow, to communicate, to smile with these people that I had never met before. It felt so . . . so . . . human.

Anyway, I ordered my usual Chai tea latte with a pump of peppermint, and then I suddenly realized I only had greenbacks, none of this Monopoly money they use (kidding! Pthb). So I asked the barista if it was okay, which of course it was. But one of the ladies I had just been talking to said exactly this: “Oh, what are we doing? Here, let me pay for your drink. It’s been some time since I’ve had such a lovely conversation with such a kind, young man.” Yeah, she said that! It made me feel so good that I was able to make my way into their lives—with a little smile.

So, what is it about a smile that just makes you feel good? Well, actually, there are a ton of reasons. First of all, smiling makes you appear to others more confident, more approachable, more friendly than a scowling Scrooge. Smiling literally is contagious: when someone smiles, others see the smile and unconsciously copy it. Smiling helps relieve stress and even helps fight against the flu (something about the muscle stimulation and the fact that you are more relaxed when you smile. But that’s just the beginning.

When you smile, your brain emits endorphins, natural pain killers, which make you feel happy. By doing so, it reduces the levels of cortisol in your brain, the hormone that makes you stressed. But the most interesting thing about smiling is this: Smiling makes you happy. Yeah. Think about that for a minute. Sure, when you’re happy, you smile, but by smiling, you can make yourself happy. Darwin was actually the first to suppose this, something called the “feedback loop”. Your brain evaluates your mood, according to this study, by the facial muscles. Instead of your brain telling you that you should be smiling because you’re happy, your brain thinks you should be happy because you’re smiling! Weird, right?

There was a study done in 1988 by a Professor Fritz Strack where they showed cartoons to various people, asking some to show regular emotion and others to show none. Those people who smiled while reading the cartoons found them funnier than those who were not supposed to smile.

Now about stress. Several things happen when you’re stressed: Your pulse increases, your brain releases that cortisol, your digestive system slows, your blood sugar increases (thanks cortisol), your breathing quickens, and you stop smiling. Well, Dr. Mark Stibich from Columbia University, has been studying longevity in humans, and he has come to the conclusion that you can counteract the effects of stress by taking longer breaths (like in yoga) and by smiling. This stimulates your brain into thinking you’re in a happy mood, and your stress will reverse. Amazing what a smile can do.

I go to downtown Seattle occasionally, and I find it incredible how many people I pass by who are fundamentally going through a secluded wormhole to get from point A to point B. They just walk on by without a care, without even noticing what they’re doing. I find that slightly depressing. Every moment should be filled with something, something to cherish, to enjoy, to live for . . . to smile at. Sure, there are billions of people out there. But think of how much good one little smile can do. It can change someone’s day.

Smiling is just so . . . so . . . human.

 

3.  Day 3: Polysaccharides In, Nothing OutID #726596 
Posted: 6-19-2011 @ 9:49 pm EDT 
Edited: 6-28-2011 @ 3:43 am EDT 

The Man Who Eats


Today, being Father's Day, we had a feast. My mom, who happens to be an amazing cook, baked some salmon with milk and onions, warmed up a couple of potatoes with condiments galore to add at our own discretion, garlic loafs with oil and vinegar for dipping, a wild rice mixture with steamed broccoli, and blueberry batter cake with vanilla ice cream and peanut butter cookies (that I made for my grandpa, his favorite) for dessert. It was a full house, the local nine family members and my brother's girlfriend, but what was even more full by the end of the family gathering was our stomachs. I don't know about everyone else, but I had a baked potato with the works and a slab of salmon on top, nestled next to some slices of the garlic loaf on one side and the rice mixture on the other. And let's not forget about dessert. Let's just say that my mom knows how to cook. A homemade (what isn't?) blueberry batter cake with some family-recipe rhubarb crisp, straight from the garden.

And though it's a week later that I'm continuing this, I feel like I'm still full! I mean, if you looked at my plate, piled high with this assortment of savory foods, you'd be surprised it would all fit in my gut! In fact, I am always surprised that all the food from all the family gatherings I go to manages to fit inside of me.

Now, let's get something straight: I'm not obese, nor am I a swimsuit model. I'm somewhere in between. And I like food! I like the art and science of gastronomy, the delicate blends of herbs and natural flavors that make you go "Mmmmm" with contentment and perhaps a little pleasure. There's just something about good food that makes me (well, basically everyone) excited, happy, and eager to start masticating. Yes, masticating.

It feels good, right? I'm a big stress eater, for instance. When I'm stressed (which is quite often), I grab some graham crackers and the tub of peanut butter and start spreading and chomping. A large percentage of the population does this, or something similar. Take the Ice Cream Binge for girls who get dumped, or the guy who breaks his leg and becomes a Popcorn and Soda Couch Potato. It just feels good to eat. Everyone say "Amen!"

Conducting research on this "why" was pretty easy. I remember reading and writing a short synopsis of an article relating to this in my cooking class (best class ever!). Without getting too scientificy, here's the reason: The hunger hormone, ghrelin, is produced in the lining of your stomach and tells the brain that you're hungry. When you start eating, these ghrelin hormones start triggering neurons in the brain that give you the sensation of pleasure and the expectation of reward. It's really not a stomach thing at all; it's all in your head. These neurons end up producing dopamine and seratonin, making you feel good and craving to repeat the process again. Luckily, the ghrelin ends us diminishing once you're full, though it takes a while to trigger in your brain, so you stop eating . . . until you're hungry again.

This is why we eat. There's a different "why," being to survive; but this is the "why" of the reason we take so much time out of our life, why we center most of our lives around food. You get up, you eat. You get a lunch break. You have dinner parties. We eat, eat, eat. Why? Our brain gives us a sense of reward when we do!

Now let's move on. You've eaten. You're stuffed. You cleaned off your plate, potato skin and all. After a little while, you begin to feel those pangs down in your gut, the pangs that you'd swear were your ribs pushing out and your stomach and intestines expanding to fit all of that food you ate. That's actually pretty close to what actually happens, though a little melodramatic. Then you can't get up because to bend forward and elevate yourself is just too hard! Sure, it felt amazing a couple of minutes ago, all that dopamine in your head giving you a sense of pleasure, but after that wears off, you're left with the reality.

I understand we don't always eat like this. Many of us are very health conscious and are sure to, in the words of Dinotopia, "Eat to live, don't live to eat." But most of us go through episodes like the one I just mentioned many, many times, either at restaurants, family gatherings, or during a stress binge. Guilty! You feel good for a moment, but then it all comes crashing down.

So, let's see it from the other side. Let's go through the looking glass and, instead of taking the immediate pleasure, go through a little pain to get there.

You've probably heard it said that your stomach should be the size of your fist. Or maybe you heard two fists. I don't know, and I don't know how accurate that is, but they've got a point. We've lost our portion control! Thirty years ago, a bagel had a diameter of three inches. Now, it's six! When you go to Olive Garden and order the Five Cheese Ziti al Forno, you sometimes forget that you've already had three breadsticks and two plates of that amazing salad. Then the Ziti comes.

What I'm getting at is this: We think about food so much of our time. Yet, when we're actually eating, we go into a sort of trance and just shovel it down our throats! We forget about food when we're actually eating it! Sure, the first two bites are incredible, but then you start to ignore all the subtle flavors and the rich, savory, moist cheeses. I think we've forgotten a very important thing about food and that ghrelin: When we stop hearing those little voices inside our head (the ghrelin hormone) saying "It's time to start eating," it's time to stop eating. Sometimes, we get so involved with the seratonin and dopamine high that we forget to stop eating because it just feels so good. We're living to eat here, and that's not good.

Now, I'm not planning on going all Jamie Oliver on you. Yes, he's a good cause, promoting healthy eating. That's great. But I think there's a bigger issue at play in our society. We eat way too fast, and therefore way too much, not paying attention to when we're actually full (which is a lot sooner than you'd expect). Take this for example: I'm a lifeguard at a small pool that is a part of a sports club. Twice a week, a group of fairly overweight people come to the pool to participate in what is called water aerobics. This is great! They've seen an area in their life that needs to be changed, and they're doing something about it. Now, the interesting thing is, over the course of two years seeing these same people come in twice a week for their workout, none of them looks any different. Then one day, I hear one of the regulars start talking about what he's eaten that day, along with his frustration at not losing weight. No wonder! He's trying to disarm a bomb when he's neglecting the sirens warning of a complete self destruct!

Food is very central to our culture. Basically every time we get together with someone else, we eat something, usually a lot of that something. We've forgotten to enjoy our food! I have this stereotypical view of the French where I see them sitting at a cafe with their friend, chatting over an espresso and a finger sandwich. Or the fancy restaurant where the waiter serves them two prawns basted in herbs, accompanied by an asparagus and shredded carrot. Whether this is accurate or not is beside the point. The point is, eating is not their primary purpose, it's fellowship! Maybe we just need to put down the fork, swallow the pork, and engage with one another. Take a bite, notice each subtle flavor, enjoy it!

I mentioned a while ago about how we should take the pain to feel the pleasure. Now I'm getting to that. When you eat a lot, the seratonin and dopamine (in case you forgot, these are the pleasure chemicals in your brain that are released whenever we do something necessary for survival, like eating) go crazy until the gherin finally depletes enough for them to stop influencing you. That makes you feel good, though, right?

Well, that's true, but how long does that last? Not very. But there is another way to make you feel good. Being healthy not only decreases your chances of medical issues but also helps you psychologically. You find it easier to cope with stress, you tend not to fall victim to anxiety and depression as easily, you find you have more energy and are sleeping better, you just overall feel good.

Now for the climax question: Would you rather feel good for a little while and then fall back again, only to repeat the process; or would you rather feel good all the time? Okay, that's a little over the top, but you get what I mean! I'm no nutritionist or doctor, but I would rather feel good as a result of being healthy than bounce back and forth as a result of eating.

I'm not sure if you're up for challenges, but let's try it, say for the next three weeks: First of all, don't start eating until you hear those ghrelin hormones start talking. Don't wait until you're starving, but start when you actually begin thinking about how nice it would be to have something to eat. Next step: Eat slowly, savoring each bite, each flavor. Chew. Chew. Chew. Put down your utensils, and actually communicate with the person next to you without having to put your hand in front of your mouth to save your friend from the artillery that would surely spew forth. Enjoy it! And finally: Stop when you're full. I don't mean the kind of full where you have to unbutton your pants, but the full where you're satisfied, when the dopamine and seratonin are making you feel good. Don't keep eating because it feels good: Stop because it feels good.

How does that sound? Whether you're a Zumba trainer, a Jazzercist, Bob and Jillian, an overweight individual, or someone like me, try it out. Interestingly enough, the brain releases the same chemicals when it's thirsty as when it's hungry, so bring a bottle of water around with you and try drinking some more too! And when you're hungry, eat whatever you want! Just don't forget to stop. Sure, light up the barbecue and have some rib-eye, or enjoy some KFC. Just . . . eat to live. Don't live to eat.

So, hopefully if you made it this far, you'll at least consider taking up the challenge. See how you feel in three weeks. Was it worth it? I think so. I'll let you know. As soon as I finish the rest of the rhubarb crisp.

Mmmmm, gotta love ghrelin!
 

2.  Day 2: A Different Type of SparkID #726550 
Posted: 6-18-2011 @ 11:52 pm EDT 
Edited: 6-19-2011 @ 1:21 am EDT 

The Man Who Loves


Today I wrote my first romantic poem. It was pretty bad. If you want, feel free to read it: "Invalid Item"  and you'll discover why I am probably the least "qualified" person to write a romantic/love poem. Because here's the basic fact of it, the blatant reason: I've never been in love. I think that's a good excuse, right?

Now, let me just get this straight: I'm not talking about those middle school crushes where it seems as though every moment you aren't gawking at that girl across the room as she busily does her seatwork is a moment wasted and done so in pain. No. That's childsplay, pun definitely intended. I'm talking about the kind of love that the ancient Greek would call ἔρως, or érōs if you want the Anglicization of that. And for those of you too lazy to open up a new browser to type that into Wikipedia, I'll give a quick definition of that ἔρως here: It is primarily love related to sensual desire and longing, usually reserved for dating and marriage, and intimate love; but, as Plato so kindly defines on a deeper level, with contemplation it becomes an appreciation of the beauty within that person. Thank you Plato. Now it doesn't sound so shallow.

That is the love I'm referring to, the love that brings two otherwise separate souls and makes them one; the love that makes churchbells ring and wine glasses be crushed; the love that makes the sun shine brighter, the birds sing louder, the day seem chipper. That's the love I'm talking about, the love that leads you to walk down the road with your hand in another's, and for some reason that's enough.

If you aren't on the same page as me by now, you should probably stop reading, because I'm moving on. At last. Now, chances are high that you reading this have experienced this ἔρως with someone or other. You've probably cuddled, hugged, whispered, rubbed shoulders, or some other things that would make this blog no longer E rated. And chances are, these made you feel good. It probably made you . . . happy, made you enjoy life a little more. Amazing what your hormones can do!

Okay, time to get to a point. I've never been in an ἔρως relationship before, though I have been offered . . . shivers . . . that's another story. A very long story. . . . shivers again . . . But there's another factor I need to get in before I continue. Sure, I would love to have a special someone attached at the hip that would make these cursed clouds go away (just kidding, I love the clouds . . . hence Seattle) and make the birds chirp louder and make me feel better. But do I want that, or do I want to love them?

Let me explain: I'm not the most teenagery teenager. I can never find my cell phone. I don't swear. I use grandiloquent designations when diminutive ones would suffice. I listen to classical music. I got my first pair of jeans a couple of months ago. The list goes on, but I'd rather not. And to top it off, I've never changed my Facebook profile to "In a relationship" (well, I have, but that's part of that . . . shivers . . . long story). Sure, a large number of teenagers haven't, but let's not focus on that. The point is: Why do I want a relationship so bad? Is it that I actually desire them, appreciate the beauty within them, could not live without them? Or because I want to hear the birds a little better.

Now let's see if I can gather my thoughts and direct them. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the "feel good" parts of relationships. Couples who cuddle and hug experience less stress, have a lower blood pressure, get sick less (well, there's always mono), and has even shown to ward off Alzheimers, though how they managed that study I have no idea. But the point is, a relationship built simply off those good feelings is not one that will last. I don't know how to put it any other way, but that's a selfish love. And as I look around at my former classmates and briefly Facebook stalk them to see how many relationship changes they've had in the last six months, I see that this selfish love is rampant. They're spending time with someone else so that they can feel good. And when those fleeting feelings are over, voilá, the text is sent. They miss those feelings of a new relationship, so they get another. It becomes a disease. It's like pouring gasoline over firewood to get it lit. It's not the right way to light a fire! You set the gasoline on fire and it seems to go very well--the fire is bigger than you are! But what happens next? It dies down, really small, so small; and after that momentary bonfire, it seems as though all hope is lost, so you douse it! But the heat felt soooo good, right? So you want to do it again and see if it sticks this time. Nope. There's something missing.

This has happened to a really good friend of mine many times. I'm not one to judge, but I'm going to judge: She felt what it was like to be the recipient of the warmth of the bonfire, and she grew attached to the feeling. Now, whenever that feeling goes away, it's over. And, instead of letting a natural relationship to develop, she immediately jumps right into the ἔρως, or I guess the selfish love. She's missing something. It's called a relationship.

Let's go back to the Greek stuff again. So, there's four different words for love. The first is στοργή, or storgē, which is almost like a "if I must put up with it, I will do so" love, or an acceptance of a situation, but nothing deeper. Like your family. Pthb The next is φιλία (philía) which is the brotherly love or affection, like a good friend or mentor. The next is the ἔρως which we've had enough talk of. And then the infamous agápē, the ἀγάπη that I Corinthians 13 talks so much about. I really think the Greeks had it right. Let's take a quick scenario:

Luke is in a bar. He's twenty-one so he is allowed. Someone he's never seen walks in and jingles the little bell over the door that you see in all the old movies. It's a girl, also twenty-oneish. She sits down a seat down from him. He smiles at her (she's pretty cute, right?) and she turns around and sees this handsome young man smiling at her. They've made it to στοργή! Luke buys her a drink (because that's what he saw in Cheers), and Maddy (that's her name) scoots over a seat so that they can talk without shouting. They talk until two when they are kicked out because it's too late, so they decide to meet each other at Starbucks the next day. Wow, they've already progressed to φιλία! They meet the next day, see a movie, have dinner, and repeat. Pretty soon, they start holding hands, brushing aside hair, hugging, even sharing lipstick. If you get what I mean. Wink Not long after that, it becomes Facebook official. They've reached ἔρως. Now, is that enough? Sure. That's fine. Luke and Maddy desire each other. They long for each other. They recognize the inner beauty of the other. Yeah, that's great! They have a great foundation and many successful relationships stop there. But there's one more love waiting: ἀγάπη. That's the tinder, the stuff that catches fire and keeps it going, that eventually lights those pieces of firewood to full blaze (I don't quite know what they stand for, but oh well, my analogies never quite work out). It's the ἀγάπη that sets everything apart, that makes these sometimes selfish loves into something out of a fairy tale with a happily ever after. Well, actually not, because they seem to only know each other for a couple of hours before they get married in fairy tales.

So, here we have it. The punchline for an extremely unnecessarily long blog. There has to be that unconditional love, that ἀγάπη for the other in a relationship. Sure, desiring the other is great, wanting to be with her is magnificent, appreciating her inner beauty is better. I want that, I want to need and be needed. But if it stops there, you're missing something. This is true love, a deeper love, a sacrificial love. The love that will literally move mountains. Because you love her.

This is not at all where I expected this to go. I guess, to go full circle, I should say that I don't want to be in a relationship for that selfish love, not just the ἔρως. I don't want to be, as Florence + The Machine puts it, "Addicted to Love". I want to be addicted to the person I'm in love with. Which might be why I can write a love poem (however terrible it is right now) for a girl I probably have never met. Because it doesn't matter who or what or how or why or where she is. It matters that if I'm in love with her, I will be in ἀγάπη with her.

Yes, I want to be in love. I want to have someone to always be with, someone to have and to hold, to cherish and treasure. But I want a little more than that. I want to go through all four verbs. And end on the last one. I want to ἀγάπη them. Nothing else will do. Call me a hopeless romantic (the other type of romance this time!), for I might just be completely skewed in my views of love, but this is how I view it.

Now I just have to change my name to Luke, get handsome, and turn twenty-one quickly! And find a good bar. . . .
 

1.  Day 0: The SparkID #726371 
Posted: 6-16-2011 @ 4:28 am EDT 
Edited: 6-19-2011 @ 12:20 am EDT 

The Man Who Blogs


Let's just start out with this: I'm a hopeless idealist. I even took that Jung personality test, from which I concreted the fact that, being INFP, I am in fact an idealist. I'm a dreamer, some may say a hopeless romantic in the baroque sense of the word. I see circumstances, events, conditions in the way I wish them to be seen, most often skewing reality. You could say I have a romantic illusion of what something might be, of what could be, of what something--in my mind--should be; and yet it hardly ever works out that way. You could say that I see my glass overflowing when really the cup is not even under the spring. Yes, disappointment comes very easily, more commonly than failure, for even a success can be a disappointment for me. It's all those romantic ideals, the dreamer inside me, imagining the best, yet for some reason the will cannot understand the severity of those desires. There's a missing nerve somewhere between the imagination and the resolve, some link that's been broken, and signals cannot seem to make contact. And that leaves me with who I am, this romantic idealist, hopeless idealist, hopeless romantic. Or maybe just hopeless. *Rolleyes*

All this is just to say that this endeavor to blog, to write out my thoughts or adventures or whatever else on a regular basis could very well be just one of those illusions, a spark so to speak that flies out when contact is made between my thoughts and this medium, but is very likely to be snuffed out in a moment with no determination or resolve to land in and make a flame. That's not too bad of an analogy, is it? I love to use analogies, but most of them are much to stretched to make any sense. You'll find that out if you keep reading, no doubt.

To add to this, there's the whole factor of sentiment. I am a firm sentimentalist, though not entirely by choice. I have a desire to make every moment, every object, every occasion somehow special, memorable, Hollywoodish. An obvious example would be the mostly depressing tradition of the New Years Resolution. A less obvious example would be the nondescript pebble I have on dresser that was supposed to commemorate some special place or occasion that I cannot seem to remember. And a big one that just passed by: high school graduation. Each of these in the moment were the most important thing in my life, a new beginning, a change of ways, a fresh outlook. Each of these, and so many more, held so much weight in the course of my life because of my sentimentality, my INFPness, my hopeless romantic idealness. And that is the reason why I have decided now to start this blog. Sure, I'm a week and a half late from graduation, but it's been a hectic two weeks. As if this is going to help!

Anyway, here's the spark. And here's some reasoning behind the "why now." I can only hope the spark will land on some nice tinder and fan into flame. Though not too big of a flame, because I can ramble. Take a look at "Invalid Item"  and you'll immediately see why I have that fear. Don't get me wrong, I love to ramble, but I'm afraid the one or two people who stumble across this will quickly turn away.

So there you have it. This is me translating my thoughts onto paperish material. Of course, writing this at one in the morning was probably not the best idea, and I dare not read back through for fear of the atrocity of my writing, but that would be cheating. Revision is for your thoughts that you want to present in a masked setting, like a story. These are--and will be--my unmasked thoughts, gleaming into the cybernet unhindered.

I don't think I'm ready for this!

~Chris`
 


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