There were a number of things I could've written about tonight, ranging from the common to the niche as the things common to me may not be to others. I could've wrote about the sudden rash of birthdays happening this time of year, but I suppose they happen all year round and I just never notice. I could've wrote about why relatively uninspired games are so addictive, but that perhaps comes simply from the necessity to alleviate boredom or risk brash stupidity. I could've wrote about the process of writing, but that is perhaps too postmodern for me tonight.
So rather than go into the fantastic detail about the way one selects words for best impact, or the way that Magic: The Gathering - Battlegrounds keeps pulling me back despite terrible controls, or the way that I'm slowly going broke from trying to make my friends feel loved, I will not write about anything.
Most people think of nothingness as the absence of matter and energy. It is, but also included should be the absence of thought and spirit. To believe that the physical world is all that exists is an appealing idea to many, but to me it seems absurd. Thoughts aren't physical, neither are emotions. They can have physical reactions in the owner, but they themselves are not something that you can touch or perceive physically. If you're the sort of person to believe that a god exists, then I suppose that would fall into this category as well. Same with a soul.
With this in mind, one can assume that nothingness might not exist. You can't perceive it, if you were to then you'd negate its existence. The mere action of being in the midst of nothingness fills it with a number of things, from the physical to the thoughts of its existence. You can't prove it exists, because proving it exists would undo its existence.
For this reason, nothingness could never become sentient. Should it ever realize what it was, it would instantly blink out of existence, or transfigure into a new being. Maybe that's how God/the gods/other primal natural force that created all came to be. It was an anomaly that realized it existed. If this thought process has any validity to it at all, it would suggest that God was nothing, but blinked itself into existence on its own.
If so, then what was the spark that pushed sentience? It had to have been something besides sheer will power, as nothingness has no will power. Nothingness has no distinguishing characteristics outside of nothing.
Some would argue then that just because nothingness can't be perceived doesn't mean it isn't there. They might argue that one cannot perceive the air, or the chemical reactions that make up a bottle of fizzy-pop (I just love that word). This is not true, as all physical and metaphysical things have an impact on the world around them, and can be known in this way. The gradual shift in my house's foundation will eventually sink it into the ground, but in the meantime it produces squeaks, knocks doors off of alignment, and a number of other things. The bacteria in the air could eventually try to colonize in my lungs, and produce an infection. Everything has an effect on everything else.
Then one could argue that we are nothingness' effect on the rest of the universe, in some backwards sort of way. This could be argued quite easily, but is disproven in the fact that if there is a rest of the universe, then nothingness isn't there. The fact that we are not part of nothingness makes us there, and in this way gives a relationship to nothingness. It shows that we are not nothing.
So when you feel depressed that nothing is going as you planned it to, you can take solice in the fact that you perhaps are going as nothing planned too.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Falaffel and the Oral Orgasm.
I realized earlier today that my readership is either much higher than I'd originally thought or bit.ly is inaccurate. Perhaps it's deathly accurate, and I'm only talking to each of the individuals in person or elsewhere. It's good to know. Whichever the case, feedback is always amazing. Please reader(s), feel inclined to leave some in some way. You won't be trolling if you go off tangent, nor will you be ignored. I reply to just about everything anyone ever says to me (until the natural end of the conversation, naturally), and I try not to just say "Thanks for commenting!" which would be pointless.
Now that that bit's over, a quick attempt at a long ago promised post. Names have been changed.
----------
We walked through St. Mark's Place in Manhattan, the seven of us. Myself, John, Ivan, Calvin, Sylvia, Caitlin and my love had made our way from the ferry, getting off the train near NYU. I've never been a very good New Yorker, despite living here my whole life. I only recently discovered St. Mark's (as both a street and location) the week before, going to SingSing for a friend's birthday party. On the way there I'd been thoroughly lost, wandering half a mile in the wrong direction, into the heart of NYU. John and Ivan came to this area frequently though, effectively saving my sense of direction.
Our quest was simple: Mamoun's Falaffel. Another friend - who ironically was unable to make it - wanted to try them in an effort to get back to middle-eastern heritage through the stomach. I'd never tried falaffel before, though I'd heard amazing things about it. I knew it somehow involved chick-peas, but that was about it.
The busy street was apparently the center of Grenwich Village, though I'd never been able to go when I was younger. My parents were thoroughly terrified of The Village from when they were younger. They remembered the 70's and 80's, and remembered this area as a den of homosexuality and stabbings. I don't think they realized that thirty years is a long time for an area to change. I saw very little of either while there.
We passed a sex shop and a bar to our right, shortly there after hitting Mamoun's. The restaurant was literally half a basement, with a short set of stairs leading down to the two store fronts that sat under the building. In front was a small patio area with two tables under an awning with a plate-glass window backdrop. If one wasn't paying attention, one could completely pass it without ever knowing its existence.
The ladies in our group almost stereotypically splintered off to hunt a rest room at one of the local places, so the four remaining went inside.
It was narrow and poorly lit. The smell of fresh hummus and oil assaulted us as we opened the door. At the far end of the shaft of a room was the kitchen, counter, and the start of a very long line. The air was much warmer than the winter-bite outside, and music written in sliding keys created an authentic atmosphere. There were three very full tables to the side, almost taunting the line with the promise of deliciousness.
After a surprisingly short wait we were all loaded up with inexpensive chick-pea variants and sliced bits of lamb and pita with no place besides the patio free.
I got a shawarma (similar to a gyro, but the sauce is creamier and lacks the sweetness of a cucumber) and a side order of falaffel. Apparently they're meatballs made of chick-pea instead of beef. A mango juice eventually found its way to my side as well. Shawarma was quite tasty, but very different from how it was described to me ("It's a Middle-Eastern gyro," someone said). Should you ever have one, know that it is nothing like a gyro outside of being a flat bread with lamb.
Then I finally tried falaffel.
I went in for another order after the three in the side order were finished. I also got some to bring home and eat the next day for lunch.
I'm not fully sold on Middle Eastern food, but I went back again the next week. I've often contemplated going back on a more regular basis, but the commute probably isn't worth it from my house. I have found myself making excuses whenever I'm in Manhattan to try to go there though.
The group fully met up again and went home, none of the ladies really liking chick-peas and finding themselves far more interested in the street merchants. It's almost a bad joke how the stereotypes were embraced that night.
I'm sure this probably reads like an advertisement now. I don't care, the amazing that this evening was had to be shared. If you ever go to The Village, try them. They're probably considerably more healthy than all the terrible food you could've got elsewhere for twice the cost.
Now that that bit's over, a quick attempt at a long ago promised post. Names have been changed.
----------
We walked through St. Mark's Place in Manhattan, the seven of us. Myself, John, Ivan, Calvin, Sylvia, Caitlin and my love had made our way from the ferry, getting off the train near NYU. I've never been a very good New Yorker, despite living here my whole life. I only recently discovered St. Mark's (as both a street and location) the week before, going to SingSing for a friend's birthday party. On the way there I'd been thoroughly lost, wandering half a mile in the wrong direction, into the heart of NYU. John and Ivan came to this area frequently though, effectively saving my sense of direction.
Our quest was simple: Mamoun's Falaffel. Another friend - who ironically was unable to make it - wanted to try them in an effort to get back to middle-eastern heritage through the stomach. I'd never tried falaffel before, though I'd heard amazing things about it. I knew it somehow involved chick-peas, but that was about it.
The busy street was apparently the center of Grenwich Village, though I'd never been able to go when I was younger. My parents were thoroughly terrified of The Village from when they were younger. They remembered the 70's and 80's, and remembered this area as a den of homosexuality and stabbings. I don't think they realized that thirty years is a long time for an area to change. I saw very little of either while there.
We passed a sex shop and a bar to our right, shortly there after hitting Mamoun's. The restaurant was literally half a basement, with a short set of stairs leading down to the two store fronts that sat under the building. In front was a small patio area with two tables under an awning with a plate-glass window backdrop. If one wasn't paying attention, one could completely pass it without ever knowing its existence.
The ladies in our group almost stereotypically splintered off to hunt a rest room at one of the local places, so the four remaining went inside.
It was narrow and poorly lit. The smell of fresh hummus and oil assaulted us as we opened the door. At the far end of the shaft of a room was the kitchen, counter, and the start of a very long line. The air was much warmer than the winter-bite outside, and music written in sliding keys created an authentic atmosphere. There were three very full tables to the side, almost taunting the line with the promise of deliciousness.
After a surprisingly short wait we were all loaded up with inexpensive chick-pea variants and sliced bits of lamb and pita with no place besides the patio free.
I got a shawarma (similar to a gyro, but the sauce is creamier and lacks the sweetness of a cucumber) and a side order of falaffel. Apparently they're meatballs made of chick-pea instead of beef. A mango juice eventually found its way to my side as well. Shawarma was quite tasty, but very different from how it was described to me ("It's a Middle-Eastern gyro," someone said). Should you ever have one, know that it is nothing like a gyro outside of being a flat bread with lamb.
Then I finally tried falaffel.
I went in for another order after the three in the side order were finished. I also got some to bring home and eat the next day for lunch.
I'm not fully sold on Middle Eastern food, but I went back again the next week. I've often contemplated going back on a more regular basis, but the commute probably isn't worth it from my house. I have found myself making excuses whenever I'm in Manhattan to try to go there though.
The group fully met up again and went home, none of the ladies really liking chick-peas and finding themselves far more interested in the street merchants. It's almost a bad joke how the stereotypes were embraced that night.
I'm sure this probably reads like an advertisement now. I don't care, the amazing that this evening was had to be shared. If you ever go to The Village, try them. They're probably considerably more healthy than all the terrible food you could've got elsewhere for twice the cost.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Voyeurism doesn't work in society.
The things love can make people and groups do is amazing. This isn't just love for individuals, but love for anyone and everyone. Sometimes the drive to do great things for others is there all along, but it needs a push. Sometimes this love is masked in selfishness and promotion, but in truth, a kind deed is done in kindness.
A table for Alex's Lemonade Stand at Ubercon isn't there by accident, nor is it placed there as a gimmick. It's a genuine attempt to give back to an organization that helps a cause that needs helping. Childhood cancer is terrible, and even if it's a dollar a glass (or at least that's what I put in, it was supposedly less), it's not really about the lemonade. No one likes lemonade, let alone potentially expensive lemonade. It's the cause that matters, and that's what prevails.
A Boy Scout troop that stands outside of Pathmark for a day collecting boxes and cans is not doing it to promote scouting, even if that's an occasional side effect. It's an attempt to do right by the hungry in the community. Sometimes the younger scouts are annoying and fail in asking politely, but even the 11 year old that practically begs for you to give that can of beans is still doing something for the community.
The Comic Book Legal Defense Fund (CBLDF) goes out of its way to provide support to comic authors and artists when their rights as artists come under fire. They don't need to gather support for the artists, and it doesn't matter that most of them are in the industry themselves. It doesn't change the fact that they're defending the first amendment rights on behalf of all people, even if the opportunity only presents itself in a graphic literature context.
People need to do more, and we can all start in small ways. Volunteer for community outreach things, read a story to some kids in school. Donate to the Salvation Army when. Do something with PETA if you're into that sort of thing. Take a stance of defiance against injustice. Pick a cause and stick with it until it's either strong enough to stand on its own or until you can't anymore. The only way that anything will ever change is if enough people try to change it. Lobby for a cause you believe in. Don't be afraid to peacefully protest if you hate something.
If the population fought for positive change, then the world wouldn't be as scary a place anymore.
Further references:
Dear Zachary
CBLDF
Rock For Reading
Martin Luther King Jr.'s final speech
Alex's Lemonade Stand
A table for Alex's Lemonade Stand at Ubercon isn't there by accident, nor is it placed there as a gimmick. It's a genuine attempt to give back to an organization that helps a cause that needs helping. Childhood cancer is terrible, and even if it's a dollar a glass (or at least that's what I put in, it was supposedly less), it's not really about the lemonade. No one likes lemonade, let alone potentially expensive lemonade. It's the cause that matters, and that's what prevails.
A Boy Scout troop that stands outside of Pathmark for a day collecting boxes and cans is not doing it to promote scouting, even if that's an occasional side effect. It's an attempt to do right by the hungry in the community. Sometimes the younger scouts are annoying and fail in asking politely, but even the 11 year old that practically begs for you to give that can of beans is still doing something for the community.
The Comic Book Legal Defense Fund (CBLDF) goes out of its way to provide support to comic authors and artists when their rights as artists come under fire. They don't need to gather support for the artists, and it doesn't matter that most of them are in the industry themselves. It doesn't change the fact that they're defending the first amendment rights on behalf of all people, even if the opportunity only presents itself in a graphic literature context.
People need to do more, and we can all start in small ways. Volunteer for community outreach things, read a story to some kids in school. Donate to the Salvation Army when. Do something with PETA if you're into that sort of thing. Take a stance of defiance against injustice. Pick a cause and stick with it until it's either strong enough to stand on its own or until you can't anymore. The only way that anything will ever change is if enough people try to change it. Lobby for a cause you believe in. Don't be afraid to peacefully protest if you hate something.
If the population fought for positive change, then the world wouldn't be as scary a place anymore.
Further references:
Dear Zachary
CBLDF
Rock For Reading
Martin Luther King Jr.'s final speech
Alex's Lemonade Stand
Monday, January 25, 2010
For all of you!
I will now be posting every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday.
Besides obligations in my weekly life that eat the other days, this schedule will make sure I post on a set, regular basis. It will also improve the quality of the content, giving a day or two to write something more in depth than "I found a notebook and it made me sad. I should've been pimp, but instead I was a respectable human being in high school. Boo-hoo."
So yes. Starting tomorrow (Tuesday, if you're oblivious) I'll be posting as stated above. Posts will be long, engaging, and worth your time to read them. It will be bad ass.
In the meantime, feel free to use the tags to find stuff relating to your favorite kinds of posts.
Besides obligations in my weekly life that eat the other days, this schedule will make sure I post on a set, regular basis. It will also improve the quality of the content, giving a day or two to write something more in depth than "I found a notebook and it made me sad. I should've been pimp, but instead I was a respectable human being in high school. Boo-hoo."
So yes. Starting tomorrow (Tuesday, if you're oblivious) I'll be posting as stated above. Posts will be long, engaging, and worth your time to read them. It will be bad ass.
In the meantime, feel free to use the tags to find stuff relating to your favorite kinds of posts.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The itch that comes and goes.
It's technically tomorrow, I can post without seeming like a blog-whore in the timestamps.
All goes according to plan thus far, as the floor space entering my room turns from a narrow shaft to the computer and bed into a carpeted field of empty space. In this journey I've uncovered a dozen old essays, poems, and short stories from earlier in my college time. Some pockets of the collected crap in this room serve as a time capsule.
An essay about Korn, a journal of observations from campus-stalking/people watching, an old homework notebook. These things stand out more to me, mostly relating to the mandatory compositional writing course (111) from 2004. While some aspects of myself are still evident here, I am almost completely a different person. It's a slap in the face with a soft glove. It should be nice, but it's still a slap in the face.
I wrote a three and a half page essay about Korn, giving a half way decent bio of the band through their history. It's mostly opinion through the third person prospective, making it look like fact. There are some citations, but only enough to support the points I wanted to make. Giving it a critique now, I can safely say the following things:
-The style of writing does not sound fitting for an academic paper.
-My use of footnotes for fun was mostly a gimmick, and could've been easily (and more successfully) incorporated into the body of the paper. I blame Chuck Klosterman.
-I made a contrasting point between "nu-metal" and grunge, but I can now counter it by pointing out that neither genre's notable musicians could actually really play their instruments. They knew some power chords and could strum them in time with the snare. Neither was exceptionally revolutionary.
-I had a lot of ambiguous quotes/places for quotes. This was probably because I didn't realize that my friends were quotable people.
-I was too much of a fan boy for a band that only writes singles and filler.
All that said, I enjoyed rereading it, and I don't hate my writing all that much from this time period.
The observational journal, however, is another story. Since it's all observation/stream of consciousness-ish, I can't really rip it apart too heavily for the writing. I can, however, wholeheartedly say that even my ways of thinking have changed. My eye for detail has only gotten stronger, and my opinion of chicken ceaser salad has twisted from one of disdain sans dressing to one of overall displeasure compared to anything with ginger dressing and oranges.
It makes me want to write again, and more frequently. Not just blogging (not that I don't love giving you something to read, but I'd rather do something more in depth most of the time), but essay, story, and poetry. I miss it all so much. After this project is finished, I think I will. For now though I'm enjoying all the history I'm discovering.
I have much more to dig through. Based on trends, I will soon find elementary school work.
All goes according to plan thus far, as the floor space entering my room turns from a narrow shaft to the computer and bed into a carpeted field of empty space. In this journey I've uncovered a dozen old essays, poems, and short stories from earlier in my college time. Some pockets of the collected crap in this room serve as a time capsule.
An essay about Korn, a journal of observations from campus-stalking/people watching, an old homework notebook. These things stand out more to me, mostly relating to the mandatory compositional writing course (111) from 2004. While some aspects of myself are still evident here, I am almost completely a different person. It's a slap in the face with a soft glove. It should be nice, but it's still a slap in the face.
I wrote a three and a half page essay about Korn, giving a half way decent bio of the band through their history. It's mostly opinion through the third person prospective, making it look like fact. There are some citations, but only enough to support the points I wanted to make. Giving it a critique now, I can safely say the following things:
-The style of writing does not sound fitting for an academic paper.
-My use of footnotes for fun was mostly a gimmick, and could've been easily (and more successfully) incorporated into the body of the paper. I blame Chuck Klosterman.
-I made a contrasting point between "nu-metal" and grunge, but I can now counter it by pointing out that neither genre's notable musicians could actually really play their instruments. They knew some power chords and could strum them in time with the snare. Neither was exceptionally revolutionary.
-I had a lot of ambiguous quotes/places for quotes. This was probably because I didn't realize that my friends were quotable people.
-I was too much of a fan boy for a band that only writes singles and filler.
All that said, I enjoyed rereading it, and I don't hate my writing all that much from this time period.
The observational journal, however, is another story. Since it's all observation/stream of consciousness-ish, I can't really rip it apart too heavily for the writing. I can, however, wholeheartedly say that even my ways of thinking have changed. My eye for detail has only gotten stronger, and my opinion of chicken ceaser salad has twisted from one of disdain sans dressing to one of overall displeasure compared to anything with ginger dressing and oranges.
It makes me want to write again, and more frequently. Not just blogging (not that I don't love giving you something to read, but I'd rather do something more in depth most of the time), but essay, story, and poetry. I miss it all so much. After this project is finished, I think I will. For now though I'm enjoying all the history I'm discovering.
I have much more to dig through. Based on trends, I will soon find elementary school work.
Seven year snapshot.
I sift through an old shoebox. The contents of this box vary from a broken vial with a loose cork plunger to old figurines to pay stubs to the dozens of nondescript papers. I look mostly for things with my name and address that should've been shredded years ago. This is an act of mixed paranoia and housekeeping.
I find old lined notepaper with stylized flames watermarked into the background. 2003 our 2004, about. There are notes from a class, telling me what "parsimonious" means. A long, detailed list of rare Magic cards I no longer own and the prices they would've cost if they weren't stolen. I wrote this in early 2004, I think. I find a love poem about a girl crushing on a boy in someone else's handwriting. I can't place who the script belongs to, but I realize I was the subject. I most likely didn't realize this in high school, as I missed a lot of little things like this at the time.
Idly I throw the poem into the recycling box. Old memories are nice, but seven years is much longer ago than I'd like to say it feels. The realization that I could've potentially been with nearly anyone of my choice doesn't feel all that nice so far after the fact. While it's a sign that I was grounded more in the things that mattered to me, and should be taken as a good thing, I don't have the time, need, or use for sentiment right now.
The rest of the box is carefully sorted, discarded, and then the box itself is broken into manageable sections to be recycled. The space it occupied will be better used for my old Yamaha PSR-6, or the hacked X-Box a friend gave me to make space. Perhaps it'll just stay open, ready for whatever should be in its place.
Sometimes history needs to be discarded. Sometimes it should just be recycled.
I find old lined notepaper with stylized flames watermarked into the background. 2003 our 2004, about. There are notes from a class, telling me what "parsimonious" means. A long, detailed list of rare Magic cards I no longer own and the prices they would've cost if they weren't stolen. I wrote this in early 2004, I think. I find a love poem about a girl crushing on a boy in someone else's handwriting. I can't place who the script belongs to, but I realize I was the subject. I most likely didn't realize this in high school, as I missed a lot of little things like this at the time.
Idly I throw the poem into the recycling box. Old memories are nice, but seven years is much longer ago than I'd like to say it feels. The realization that I could've potentially been with nearly anyone of my choice doesn't feel all that nice so far after the fact. While it's a sign that I was grounded more in the things that mattered to me, and should be taken as a good thing, I don't have the time, need, or use for sentiment right now.
The rest of the box is carefully sorted, discarded, and then the box itself is broken into manageable sections to be recycled. The space it occupied will be better used for my old Yamaha PSR-6, or the hacked X-Box a friend gave me to make space. Perhaps it'll just stay open, ready for whatever should be in its place.
Sometimes history needs to be discarded. Sometimes it should just be recycled.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Magical Friendships (Heart)
I've been rereading a few books from the old Magic: The Gathering series, from when a storyline still mattered. Specifically I'm rereading the Ice Age trilogy by Jeff Grubb (Gathering Dark, The Eternal Ice, and Shattered Alliance). They came out in 1999, at the beginning of my obsession with this game and the books that explained the storyline. I didn't realize it when I was thirteen, but the concepts covered in the stories thus far (still need to do Shattered Alliance one last time) are incredibly complex and relate to a number of things outside of this tiny corner of the nerd universe.
They've made me realize a few things:
-I don't know if I fully trust anyone based on intentions alone.
-Relationships are fragile, temporary, and can only exist while living.
-Relationships of all kinds - not just the popularized definition which only refers to romantic relationships - should be mended when injured, not discarded like a broken toy.
-I identify more with old men in regards to thought patterns and logic, without it seeming antiquated in execution.
-I hate publishing trends for phasing well written books like these out in exchange for much of the crap I sold when I worked in a bookstore.
The last is probably the most important on a larger scale, if I really wanted to talk about our culture, but that's not what I'm aiming for. I care about the way people work with each other, not the way they take advantage of one another for monetary gain.
The following partial synopsis contains spoilers. The books are eleven years old and harder to find now, but if you ever plan on reading them (you should if you don't mind fantasy) you shouldn't read the next few paragraphs.
A character named Jodah inadvertently becomes magical in his biology, aging significantly slower than the average human. Incidentally, a side effect of aging is the accumulation of memories, of which an overabundance will drive one mad. I understand this concept, and the writing presents it in a believable way. More importantly, he is able/forced to experience the loss of loved ones and friends hundreds of times over, as they die while he stays mostly the same. His only advantage over reality is that he can start over without the guilt weighing as heavily on his conscience as he would had they aged with him in his way. The guilt will still be there, and grow worse as time goes on, but at least the person it relates to won't be there to salt the wounds.
Maybe that just drives the damage deeper.
End spoilers. Pansy.
While thinking about this I realized that we can't all simply "start over" whenever we cause detriment to our relationships. Our friends are there for us only as long as we are alive and keep the actual friendship alive. Once it dies, it is dead. No rekindling into a zombie, no rising from the dead. Much like real life, it stays dead.
This can relate to many things. An old flame? Once it's snuffed, it's gone. Former friend that bonked your girlfriend? The damage can never be undone, outside of letting go and determining what matters more. Even when relating with strangers in the workplace, you must keep on good terms. The dead don't buy things (no one will get this reference). Every person you've ever interacted with, to a degree, has a relationship with you. The kind you have is entirely up to you, and how you play it out.
This doesn't mean I'm going to reach out to the man that raped a close friend and shake his hand, nor does it mean that I'm going to hold back from speaking my thoughts even when they might not be what someone wants to hear. It does mean that I will value all of my friends more than I would anything else though, and the people that matter to me will continue to matter/matter more than previously. It's a bit like elevating a pedestal that was already above the others.
More important than all this, I will make an active attempt to not let small things bother me as much as they potentially could. I will go out of my way to be the best individual I can be for all around me, human condition withstanding. I wish I could remember how Shattered Alliance went, though the title alone seems contradicting to the theme I present here. It's fine for the context of Eternal Ice.
They've made me realize a few things:
-I don't know if I fully trust anyone based on intentions alone.
-Relationships are fragile, temporary, and can only exist while living.
-Relationships of all kinds - not just the popularized definition which only refers to romantic relationships - should be mended when injured, not discarded like a broken toy.
-I identify more with old men in regards to thought patterns and logic, without it seeming antiquated in execution.
-I hate publishing trends for phasing well written books like these out in exchange for much of the crap I sold when I worked in a bookstore.
The last is probably the most important on a larger scale, if I really wanted to talk about our culture, but that's not what I'm aiming for. I care about the way people work with each other, not the way they take advantage of one another for monetary gain.
The following partial synopsis contains spoilers. The books are eleven years old and harder to find now, but if you ever plan on reading them (you should if you don't mind fantasy) you shouldn't read the next few paragraphs.
A character named Jodah inadvertently becomes magical in his biology, aging significantly slower than the average human. Incidentally, a side effect of aging is the accumulation of memories, of which an overabundance will drive one mad. I understand this concept, and the writing presents it in a believable way. More importantly, he is able/forced to experience the loss of loved ones and friends hundreds of times over, as they die while he stays mostly the same. His only advantage over reality is that he can start over without the guilt weighing as heavily on his conscience as he would had they aged with him in his way. The guilt will still be there, and grow worse as time goes on, but at least the person it relates to won't be there to salt the wounds.
Maybe that just drives the damage deeper.
End spoilers. Pansy.
While thinking about this I realized that we can't all simply "start over" whenever we cause detriment to our relationships. Our friends are there for us only as long as we are alive and keep the actual friendship alive. Once it dies, it is dead. No rekindling into a zombie, no rising from the dead. Much like real life, it stays dead.
This can relate to many things. An old flame? Once it's snuffed, it's gone. Former friend that bonked your girlfriend? The damage can never be undone, outside of letting go and determining what matters more. Even when relating with strangers in the workplace, you must keep on good terms. The dead don't buy things (no one will get this reference). Every person you've ever interacted with, to a degree, has a relationship with you. The kind you have is entirely up to you, and how you play it out.
This doesn't mean I'm going to reach out to the man that raped a close friend and shake his hand, nor does it mean that I'm going to hold back from speaking my thoughts even when they might not be what someone wants to hear. It does mean that I will value all of my friends more than I would anything else though, and the people that matter to me will continue to matter/matter more than previously. It's a bit like elevating a pedestal that was already above the others.
More important than all this, I will make an active attempt to not let small things bother me as much as they potentially could. I will go out of my way to be the best individual I can be for all around me, human condition withstanding. I wish I could remember how Shattered Alliance went, though the title alone seems contradicting to the theme I present here. It's fine for the context of Eternal Ice.
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