Serious blog time...
There's this Ingrid Michaelson song called Breakable.
"We are so fragile, and our cracking bones make noise. We are just breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys"
How often we forget about that. I know I do.
Ever met those obnoxious folk who believe with every fibre of their being that the entire globe hangs on every gold plated word that leaves their lips? Who hasn't. They're the worst, and we all remember them, because they suck so much. Then, of course, you jump that massive edifice to the opposite end of the spectrum, where we have the ones that honestly believe they could run themselves off the road and no one would care. Sad, yes, but also a very important part of my point.
Sometimes we forget to be aware of ourselves. And without self awareness, how could we possibly be aware of those around us? I'm currently reading "The Book of Tea" by Okakura Kakuzo, which I'm fully aware is a very strange choice for pleasure reading. Kakuzo writes "Those who cannot feel the littleness of great things in themselves are apt to overlook the greatness of little things in others". There's no question about why the second aforementioned party is so obnoxious; it's a simple issue of self esteem. They have none. They failed to recognize their own greatness, and in the process have isolated everyone else in their lives, as well as the greatness those people have to offer. Chances are good that their isolated depression has broken many hearts along it's path. Probably, this lack of self recognition is responsible for a variety of missed oppertunity, lost loves, and missed potentially incredible friendships. By being unaware of their own greatness, our Silent Depression friend has probably snuffed a great deal of greatness in others.
While we hate to admit it, that little flame of greatness flickers in each of us. We like to believe we can fade into the background, but the fact of the matter is that we can't. We're connected.
Why do bank robbers wear masks? To remain anonymous, clearly. I'm sorry to burst humanity's bubble here, but none of us are anonymous. We have friends, families, classes, coworkers, neighbours, grocery store cashiers, and cars beside us on the freeway. We are far from anonymous, and far from invisible. We stumble through life like bulls in a China Shop, refusing to admit that we matter, and believing we can do whatever we want, because no one cares about us anyway. I'll say it once, and I'll say it with everything I have in me.
You're decisions affect everyone. Everyone.
Everyone gets lonely sometimes and looks to that one friend who always seems to be up for a little shameless flirting to put you back on your game, but when do we think about the emotions of that poor girl you flirt with? We seem to believe that our words don't matter and that she wouldn't care, but she probably does.
We think we're one of millions, of the thousand people I interact with on a daily basis, one won't make a difference.
Sorry to break it to you, but Ingrid's right, we're just fragile, breakable children, and it's time we stop walking around with hammers.
Maddi.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Stop With The Cats. You Make My Respect For You Commit Suicide.
Before I begin, I feel it necessary to say. Right this second, it 11:20. I WILL be finished this blog by midnight. Let nothing stand in my way!
What is wrong with my generation? We live in a society that takes both comfort and fascination from the ironic; the dilapidated, the counter productive, the bluntly honest, the utilitarian. My philosophy teacher pointed out to me today that art, architecture, fashion, music even, no longer has any use for the frivolous. It's all about utility and necessity, and - honestly - basics. The one remaining notion of non necessity in our culture is humor; the one thing that never goes out of style or out of practice - it gets old, but there's always new humor to replace the tattered remains of overused phrases and overtold jokes. Now for the stuff you're not going to like.
JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE THE INTERNET NOW DOES NOT MEAN IT MUST CONSUME OUR HUMOR.
Did you catch that? No? ... Here it comes again.
THERE ARE THINGS IN LIFE THAT ARE FUNNIER THAN LOL CATS. LIKE BROWN TOAST. LIKE SAFETY PINS. AND PEPTIC ULSERS.
Did you catch it that time? Good.
I'm not a cat person to begin with; I like the occasional cat that won't try to rip the heck our of my hands or claw my eyes out... Or slit my jugular. Which means that for their entirety of my life, I've taken a liking to maybe 3 cats. Maybe. Every other cat on the planet has my full permission to never again make contact with me. In fact, I encourage it. Lolcats has taken me from a state of indifference towards tthe general cat population to a state of hysterical rage. Instead of making a small effort to avoid cats, I now make a significant effort to ensure that I not only avoid the cat the first time around, but to never actually make contact with the cat again. They were never funny, they are not funny now, and no matter what the cat seems to be telepathically saying to you in grammar that would make Mark Twaine himself roll over in his grave, they will never be funny. Every time you post a Lolcat to your facebook, a couple of the respect points I've been storing up for you take the plunge, stare longingly at that happy dagger, and end it all. You make my respect for you commit suicide.
Okay, I'm done beating up on internet humor now. This is just a little addendum to tonight's (this morning... It's 12:02. I didn't make it.) blog, but it must be said.
THE MOST POSSIBLE SEXUAL REFERENCES DOES NOT A FUNNY JOKE MAKE.
Just because you've managed to shout out to every reproductive organ on God's green earth does not make you funny. It makes you unintelligent, because you can't come up with anything funnier than sex. You're in fifth grade. Congratulations. I truly wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors, and don't forget to dress nice for Grade 8 graduation.
As in all my brutally harsh blogs, I have a few nice things to say. That is, if you've made it this far without becoming incredibly offended and flipping the tabs back to Lolcats. The things I find both funny and tasteful are, honestly, few and far between. As a woman, I will admit that I find most woman jokes incredibly funny, and not the least bit offensive, because I also get a good kick out of feminism. Offended yet? I hope not. I do have a few guilty pleasures when it comes to humor, the biggest of which are the jokes that the five year old in the grocery store line would tell you.
What do you call a line of rabbits walking backward?
A receding hare line.
What did the ocean say to the other ocean?
Nothing, they just waved.
(Alternate answer (thank you Reg!): sea you later!)
I know it's silly, and it may make me five years old, but when the witty words emerge from the mouth of a five year old girl in the mall, there is absolutely nothing funnier. Don't lie to me, you know it's the truth. Anything in that tiny baby voice is absolutely hillarious.
Okay, I've reached the end of this thought, and the end of my night. It is now 12:15, and I'm only 15 minutes past my goal. If you did read this blog and were incredibly offended by
a) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards cats,
b) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards Lolcats,
c) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards dirty jokes and those who tell them (and those who laugh, you're just encouraging it), or
d) my firm and unchanging appreciation for a good woman joke,
I would say I'm sorry, but I really am not, and I don't want to lie to you. I wasn't that mean, I do hope you'll get over it, and please still be friends with me. If you cared enough to read my blog, I care enough to fake an apology in person the next time I see you. Thank you for reading, at any rate.
It's 12:22...
Blessings,
Maddi.
What is wrong with my generation? We live in a society that takes both comfort and fascination from the ironic; the dilapidated, the counter productive, the bluntly honest, the utilitarian. My philosophy teacher pointed out to me today that art, architecture, fashion, music even, no longer has any use for the frivolous. It's all about utility and necessity, and - honestly - basics. The one remaining notion of non necessity in our culture is humor; the one thing that never goes out of style or out of practice - it gets old, but there's always new humor to replace the tattered remains of overused phrases and overtold jokes. Now for the stuff you're not going to like.
JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE THE INTERNET NOW DOES NOT MEAN IT MUST CONSUME OUR HUMOR.
Did you catch that? No? ... Here it comes again.
THERE ARE THINGS IN LIFE THAT ARE FUNNIER THAN LOL CATS. LIKE BROWN TOAST. LIKE SAFETY PINS. AND PEPTIC ULSERS.
Did you catch it that time? Good.
I'm not a cat person to begin with; I like the occasional cat that won't try to rip the heck our of my hands or claw my eyes out... Or slit my jugular. Which means that for their entirety of my life, I've taken a liking to maybe 3 cats. Maybe. Every other cat on the planet has my full permission to never again make contact with me. In fact, I encourage it. Lolcats has taken me from a state of indifference towards tthe general cat population to a state of hysterical rage. Instead of making a small effort to avoid cats, I now make a significant effort to ensure that I not only avoid the cat the first time around, but to never actually make contact with the cat again. They were never funny, they are not funny now, and no matter what the cat seems to be telepathically saying to you in grammar that would make Mark Twaine himself roll over in his grave, they will never be funny. Every time you post a Lolcat to your facebook, a couple of the respect points I've been storing up for you take the plunge, stare longingly at that happy dagger, and end it all. You make my respect for you commit suicide.
Okay, I'm done beating up on internet humor now. This is just a little addendum to tonight's (this morning... It's 12:02. I didn't make it.) blog, but it must be said.
THE MOST POSSIBLE SEXUAL REFERENCES DOES NOT A FUNNY JOKE MAKE.
Just because you've managed to shout out to every reproductive organ on God's green earth does not make you funny. It makes you unintelligent, because you can't come up with anything funnier than sex. You're in fifth grade. Congratulations. I truly wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors, and don't forget to dress nice for Grade 8 graduation.
As in all my brutally harsh blogs, I have a few nice things to say. That is, if you've made it this far without becoming incredibly offended and flipping the tabs back to Lolcats. The things I find both funny and tasteful are, honestly, few and far between. As a woman, I will admit that I find most woman jokes incredibly funny, and not the least bit offensive, because I also get a good kick out of feminism. Offended yet? I hope not. I do have a few guilty pleasures when it comes to humor, the biggest of which are the jokes that the five year old in the grocery store line would tell you.
What do you call a line of rabbits walking backward?
A receding hare line.
What did the ocean say to the other ocean?
Nothing, they just waved.
(Alternate answer (thank you Reg!): sea you later!)
I know it's silly, and it may make me five years old, but when the witty words emerge from the mouth of a five year old girl in the mall, there is absolutely nothing funnier. Don't lie to me, you know it's the truth. Anything in that tiny baby voice is absolutely hillarious.
Okay, I've reached the end of this thought, and the end of my night. It is now 12:15, and I'm only 15 minutes past my goal. If you did read this blog and were incredibly offended by
a) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards cats,
b) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards Lolcats,
c) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards dirty jokes and those who tell them (and those who laugh, you're just encouraging it), or
d) my firm and unchanging appreciation for a good woman joke,
I would say I'm sorry, but I really am not, and I don't want to lie to you. I wasn't that mean, I do hope you'll get over it, and please still be friends with me. If you cared enough to read my blog, I care enough to fake an apology in person the next time I see you. Thank you for reading, at any rate.
It's 12:22...
Blessings,
Maddi.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Put Some Pants On. No, Really, You're Scaring Children.
I live in the same city I've lived in my whole life. I was born in the local hospital, and I've been here ever since, so I know it's possible to raise a child here with an average modesty-o-meter.
Modesty.
"modesty? What's that?" you may ask. Well, let me tell you, it's something we seem to have forgotten about over the years. Modesty is the ticket to success. it's the ability to walk up the stairs without holding your kilt down. It's a sense of self respect. It's leaving something - anything, really - to the imagination.
There are a few issues in particular I wish to attack, the first of which is this: TIGHTS ARE NOT PANTS, AND SHOULD NOT BE WARN AS SUCH. Leggings are pants. Tights are not pants. Leggings, yes, tights, no. The difference is this: tights are see-through. I can see it all, and believe me, I would give anything to unsee it. I don't want to see all of your personal business and what not, and you need to cover it up! It's not hard, just throw on some pants. Or a towel, either works for me.
The second is this: If I can tell what colour your bra is, something isn't right. I understand that straps fall down, and sometimes the pink sneaks out from underneath, but if your shirt is A) see through, or B) incredibly low cut, I will say something, and it will not be pleasant, so I sincerely recommend you don't force me to play fashion police. As well, lace was made for underthings. If your top is either half or completely lace, it needs something over top of it. There is no exception to this rule. Ever.
My third and final modesty critique is this: buy clothes that fit. If you're busting out of all the wrong places, you have an issue. If you can't sit down because your pants are too tight, you have a problem. If those jeans could've been painted on, you have a problem.
Ouch, right? I just eliminated half your wardrobe in one fowl swoop! Go get a BandAid and come on back, because I have nice things to say from this point on... Mostly.
One of my nearest and dearest friends in the entire world is a model of high fashion as best one can be in a town of people who wear pajamas to the grocery store, and her name is Aulona. Since I've known her, fashion has always been her thing; if you have a wardrobe issue, you talk to Aulona. When picking outfits, you talk to Aulona. For personal shopping assistance, you talk to Aulona. The woman has enough fashion magazines to heat a homeless man for life. Aulona is one of those girls that could be a European supermodel; tall, thin and beautiful. And crazy stylish. She's the only person I know who can wear a fur vest, ultra skinnies, unthinkable colours and 5" heals to school and somehow get away with it.
Aside from one very, very small pair of jeans in grade 11, Aulona has never worn anything to make me question her sense of propriety. I tell you this first of all, because I love Aulona, and second, to prove the simple point that you can look good - great, even - without looking like you just got off the street corner, and without flashing any undergarments to anyone. It is more than possible, it's doable! So do it!
Teenagers of Brantford, I beg of you; have some self respect and learn to dress yourselves like you were created for more, because you were! Remember that the next time you go shopping. Or just take Aulona with you, she's pretty honest.
Love and blessings, Internet.
Mads.
Modesty.
"modesty? What's that?" you may ask. Well, let me tell you, it's something we seem to have forgotten about over the years. Modesty is the ticket to success. it's the ability to walk up the stairs without holding your kilt down. It's a sense of self respect. It's leaving something - anything, really - to the imagination.
There are a few issues in particular I wish to attack, the first of which is this: TIGHTS ARE NOT PANTS, AND SHOULD NOT BE WARN AS SUCH. Leggings are pants. Tights are not pants. Leggings, yes, tights, no. The difference is this: tights are see-through. I can see it all, and believe me, I would give anything to unsee it. I don't want to see all of your personal business and what not, and you need to cover it up! It's not hard, just throw on some pants. Or a towel, either works for me.
The second is this: If I can tell what colour your bra is, something isn't right. I understand that straps fall down, and sometimes the pink sneaks out from underneath, but if your shirt is A) see through, or B) incredibly low cut, I will say something, and it will not be pleasant, so I sincerely recommend you don't force me to play fashion police. As well, lace was made for underthings. If your top is either half or completely lace, it needs something over top of it. There is no exception to this rule. Ever.
My third and final modesty critique is this: buy clothes that fit. If you're busting out of all the wrong places, you have an issue. If you can't sit down because your pants are too tight, you have a problem. If those jeans could've been painted on, you have a problem.
Ouch, right? I just eliminated half your wardrobe in one fowl swoop! Go get a BandAid and come on back, because I have nice things to say from this point on... Mostly.
One of my nearest and dearest friends in the entire world is a model of high fashion as best one can be in a town of people who wear pajamas to the grocery store, and her name is Aulona. Since I've known her, fashion has always been her thing; if you have a wardrobe issue, you talk to Aulona. When picking outfits, you talk to Aulona. For personal shopping assistance, you talk to Aulona. The woman has enough fashion magazines to heat a homeless man for life. Aulona is one of those girls that could be a European supermodel; tall, thin and beautiful. And crazy stylish. She's the only person I know who can wear a fur vest, ultra skinnies, unthinkable colours and 5" heals to school and somehow get away with it.
Aside from one very, very small pair of jeans in grade 11, Aulona has never worn anything to make me question her sense of propriety. I tell you this first of all, because I love Aulona, and second, to prove the simple point that you can look good - great, even - without looking like you just got off the street corner, and without flashing any undergarments to anyone. It is more than possible, it's doable! So do it!
Teenagers of Brantford, I beg of you; have some self respect and learn to dress yourselves like you were created for more, because you were! Remember that the next time you go shopping. Or just take Aulona with you, she's pretty honest.
Love and blessings, Internet.
Mads.
Friday, 7 October 2011
Rant Of The Century! Fasten Your Seatbelts, People...
Here's the deal. Hallways are made for walking. If I catch you standing in the middle of a hallway, surrounded by a million of your little grade 9 friends, blocking my path to a class I'm already late to, I will give your name to all my grade 12 friends, and we will eat you alive. You need to move. Its not that hard. I understand that it's hard to get to your locker at peak traffic hours, but there are corners all over the place; stand behind one and wait a while instead five people deep in front of your locker, where you're going to get pushed a whole lot more, and you probably will get trampled, pre locker excursion.
Secondly, when you're walking down the hallway in mad traffic, and there are people on all sides of you, and it finally dawns on you that instead of walking towards the portable stairs, you meant to go to the civics classroom, on the other end of the hallway, it is not okay to 180! I don't understand why you don't understand that if there are people in front of and beside you, there are probably people behind you too; therefore, when you turn around, you will not be met with a clear path and smiling faces but 120 angry, and already late students, unwilling to let you through. When you figure out that you're going the wrong way, you need to duck into a corner, an alcove, a classroom, anything you want, I don't care, and creep back out into the correct direction. It takes 4 extra seconds, and ultimately may actually save your life. I know that grade 9 is hard, I did it once already, but the faster you learn this the easier life will be. I promise.
Last one, and this is a biggie! Mass. I am not Catholic, nor have I ever claimed to be Catholic, nor do I ever really want to be Catholic. But for the teachers and students that are, talking in a Mass about, oh I dunno, the hot girl in English, or how much you absolutely loath Mr. Annear, is not okay! You have 75 minutes at lunch in which to talk to your friends, and let's be honest, you talk through every one of your classes anyway, so I don't understand why you feel the need to stomp on someone else's sacred ritual by not keeping your mouth shut for an hour. AN HOUR! That's not even a long time! And wouldn't you rather be told by a grade 12 with a little bit of righteous anger than a teacher with 30 years of power trip built up behind all that crazy white hair? I'm holding the long end of the stick out to you; take it!
I will never understand why grade nines are the way they are, but they are. I was, we all were, and everyone will be at some point, but grade 9 does not have to be synonymous with the things it's normally synonymous with! Take your intelligence back, grade nines, learn the rules, follow the rules, and don't get eaten alive. It's the smarter option, and that you can trust me on.
Okay, I'm done.
Maddi.
Secondly, when you're walking down the hallway in mad traffic, and there are people on all sides of you, and it finally dawns on you that instead of walking towards the portable stairs, you meant to go to the civics classroom, on the other end of the hallway, it is not okay to 180! I don't understand why you don't understand that if there are people in front of and beside you, there are probably people behind you too; therefore, when you turn around, you will not be met with a clear path and smiling faces but 120 angry, and already late students, unwilling to let you through. When you figure out that you're going the wrong way, you need to duck into a corner, an alcove, a classroom, anything you want, I don't care, and creep back out into the correct direction. It takes 4 extra seconds, and ultimately may actually save your life. I know that grade 9 is hard, I did it once already, but the faster you learn this the easier life will be. I promise.
Last one, and this is a biggie! Mass. I am not Catholic, nor have I ever claimed to be Catholic, nor do I ever really want to be Catholic. But for the teachers and students that are, talking in a Mass about, oh I dunno, the hot girl in English, or how much you absolutely loath Mr. Annear, is not okay! You have 75 minutes at lunch in which to talk to your friends, and let's be honest, you talk through every one of your classes anyway, so I don't understand why you feel the need to stomp on someone else's sacred ritual by not keeping your mouth shut for an hour. AN HOUR! That's not even a long time! And wouldn't you rather be told by a grade 12 with a little bit of righteous anger than a teacher with 30 years of power trip built up behind all that crazy white hair? I'm holding the long end of the stick out to you; take it!
I will never understand why grade nines are the way they are, but they are. I was, we all were, and everyone will be at some point, but grade 9 does not have to be synonymous with the things it's normally synonymous with! Take your intelligence back, grade nines, learn the rules, follow the rules, and don't get eaten alive. It's the smarter option, and that you can trust me on.
Okay, I'm done.
Maddi.
Saturday, 17 September 2011
The Thing From Another World
The Book Of Awesome has acted as a catalyst for a new social trend; leading not towards the traditional, the finer things in life, but in fact the very opposite: the simple. While at first this seems an excellent movement, grass roots in nature, I do believe it is in fact tragic. There's nothing wrong with small pleasures: seeing the bus turn the corner towards you on the coldest day of the year, correctly guessing which pocket your keys are in on the first try, finding the remote, etc, but I hate the thought of what this could mean for society. Instead of a society appreciative of all things, large and small, we are in fact moving towards a society that expects little more of itself than small pleasures; too simple minded and simply pleased to really appreciate the finer things in life.
Today, I received an invitation to a party, as well as an invitation to enjoy the company of an old friend over a Starbucks. I say this not to inform you of my raging popularity, but to segue into the tale of what I actually did with my day. After a quick cup of tea with the most lovely people in the world, my mother and I made our way, very slowly, to Hamilton, where we endured our final uniform shopping trip of my high school career and laid on probably close to 20 matresses before finally choosing one for my soon to be refurbished bedroom. Two Tim's stops and a trip to the grocery store later, we were home to make my favourite food in the entire world: French onion soup. We made our soup, enjoyed our soup, and now find ourselves sponging our way through an evening of laughhter and vintage sci-fi flicks. While at first this day may seem a large collection of simple glories, we must remember perspective. Instead of following the oh so recent cultural norm of looking to the small glory, we must remember to evaluate as a whole: a brilliantly busy day with my mother that turned out to be an incredible gift. It's all about the big picture.
In the same manner, I have begun to evaluate the concept of "quality time". I have friends who seem to have the wise idea that quality time can happen in an instant and continue as long as one wishes, which in fact is not true. I have come to understand that quality time does not come into being without it's necessary predecessor: quantity time. It requires years of attempt and incredible persistent to get to a place where ten minutes can become quality time. One does not exist without the other, just as simple joys should not exist without the finer things in life and the trials of life serving as their experiential ancestors. Does that not make a bit of sense?
I'm not trying to say that there isn't a place for the shiner beacon of hope that is the city bus on a cold winters day, or suddenly remembering where you left that other shoe, but I do believe we need to remember the big picture: where is it that the bus is going? Aren't you glad you bought those shoes in the first place? The fantastic day that is built from an hour over a pot of onions, a sci-fi flick, and what seemed to be endless shopping. Big picture people, big picture.
Today, I received an invitation to a party, as well as an invitation to enjoy the company of an old friend over a Starbucks. I say this not to inform you of my raging popularity, but to segue into the tale of what I actually did with my day. After a quick cup of tea with the most lovely people in the world, my mother and I made our way, very slowly, to Hamilton, where we endured our final uniform shopping trip of my high school career and laid on probably close to 20 matresses before finally choosing one for my soon to be refurbished bedroom. Two Tim's stops and a trip to the grocery store later, we were home to make my favourite food in the entire world: French onion soup. We made our soup, enjoyed our soup, and now find ourselves sponging our way through an evening of laughhter and vintage sci-fi flicks. While at first this day may seem a large collection of simple glories, we must remember perspective. Instead of following the oh so recent cultural norm of looking to the small glory, we must remember to evaluate as a whole: a brilliantly busy day with my mother that turned out to be an incredible gift. It's all about the big picture.
In the same manner, I have begun to evaluate the concept of "quality time". I have friends who seem to have the wise idea that quality time can happen in an instant and continue as long as one wishes, which in fact is not true. I have come to understand that quality time does not come into being without it's necessary predecessor: quantity time. It requires years of attempt and incredible persistent to get to a place where ten minutes can become quality time. One does not exist without the other, just as simple joys should not exist without the finer things in life and the trials of life serving as their experiential ancestors. Does that not make a bit of sense?
I'm not trying to say that there isn't a place for the shiner beacon of hope that is the city bus on a cold winters day, or suddenly remembering where you left that other shoe, but I do believe we need to remember the big picture: where is it that the bus is going? Aren't you glad you bought those shoes in the first place? The fantastic day that is built from an hour over a pot of onions, a sci-fi flick, and what seemed to be endless shopping. Big picture people, big picture.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Smtimes U Peple & Yur Gramar Driv Me NUTS
The original version of spell check was created by William J. Tobin in 1978. He invented it for a company called Software Concepts, Inc. and in doing so, revolutionized typing, which was more or less a revolutionary concept to begin with. According to recent statistics, in the US, 76% of the population are computer OWNERS, not just users. In todays society, conjested with unimagineable technologies barely dreamed of in 1978, i believe we've reached an impass. Those on one side, the side forever taken by the human race, include Charles Dickens, Emily Bronte, Robertson Davies, and of course, William J. Tobin. On the other side, we find ourselves in the faces of such people as Bill Gates, Tony Faddel and Steve Jobs. On one side we hold tight the classical English literature that guided our nations through war, famine, draught, genocide, tragedy, victory! The poems, novels, biographies that, while they may have been written decades prior, still hold truth and value, and promise! On the other side... Well, they have cell phones.
Maybe I'm being dramatic. That's a silly statement, i know I'm being dramatic, because I'm always dramatic, but I'm very fired up about this! I fully believe that if Charles Dickens ever read some of the posts i find on my News Feed, he'd roll over in his grave. What have we come to? It seems that the easier attaining information, sharing information, and being lazy becomes, the less interested we are in the foundational English that our society thrived from for centuries. To be literate is to be enriched, but our society has redefined literate, and it no longer equates to enrichment, but in fact, quite the opposite. It now equates to text messages and Billboards, which in turn equates to lower functional literacy rates and lower educational standards. It, ultimately, will redifine success in the business world, the literary world, and the general public. Now, is that really what you want?
In the past summer, I've carved out the time to read a few novels, none of which i didn't like. I read The Joy Luck Club, The Kite Runner, Rachel's Tear (The Spiritual Journey of A Columbine Martyr), Gone With The Wind, and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Five novels in two months is not really an accomplishment, but it's certainly not something to scoff at, either. While it might sound a little unrealistic, i read these books in the midst of a four season Scrubs marathon, a ten season Friends marathon, moderately intense church comittments, and a part time job. Oh, and there's a two year old in my house. You don't need to cut out every other aspect of your life to make a little time for a book.
So, i challenge you, blog reader, facebook user, texter. Read a book. Any book, just one, more if you'd like. Read a book and absorb everything you can from it. Enjoy the grammar and the propriety. Welcome the foreign world and the foreign characters, and love every second of it. Then, translate this book to your life. The next time you go to post a new status on Facebook, proof read it. Or, if spelling isn't your thing, there's this really neat button on your keyboard called a Shift button, which allows you to access entirely new realms of punctuation outside of a period and comma, imagine!
Bottom line, we truly have reached an impass here. Either we learn to entwine modern technology and literary theology, or we don't, but think of what we lose if we don't make the effort; Is centuries of progress really outweighed by the tiny piece of plastic that your friends live in?
Blessings,
Mads
Maybe I'm being dramatic. That's a silly statement, i know I'm being dramatic, because I'm always dramatic, but I'm very fired up about this! I fully believe that if Charles Dickens ever read some of the posts i find on my News Feed, he'd roll over in his grave. What have we come to? It seems that the easier attaining information, sharing information, and being lazy becomes, the less interested we are in the foundational English that our society thrived from for centuries. To be literate is to be enriched, but our society has redefined literate, and it no longer equates to enrichment, but in fact, quite the opposite. It now equates to text messages and Billboards, which in turn equates to lower functional literacy rates and lower educational standards. It, ultimately, will redifine success in the business world, the literary world, and the general public. Now, is that really what you want?
In the past summer, I've carved out the time to read a few novels, none of which i didn't like. I read The Joy Luck Club, The Kite Runner, Rachel's Tear (The Spiritual Journey of A Columbine Martyr), Gone With The Wind, and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Five novels in two months is not really an accomplishment, but it's certainly not something to scoff at, either. While it might sound a little unrealistic, i read these books in the midst of a four season Scrubs marathon, a ten season Friends marathon, moderately intense church comittments, and a part time job. Oh, and there's a two year old in my house. You don't need to cut out every other aspect of your life to make a little time for a book.
So, i challenge you, blog reader, facebook user, texter. Read a book. Any book, just one, more if you'd like. Read a book and absorb everything you can from it. Enjoy the grammar and the propriety. Welcome the foreign world and the foreign characters, and love every second of it. Then, translate this book to your life. The next time you go to post a new status on Facebook, proof read it. Or, if spelling isn't your thing, there's this really neat button on your keyboard called a Shift button, which allows you to access entirely new realms of punctuation outside of a period and comma, imagine!
Bottom line, we truly have reached an impass here. Either we learn to entwine modern technology and literary theology, or we don't, but think of what we lose if we don't make the effort; Is centuries of progress really outweighed by the tiny piece of plastic that your friends live in?
Blessings,
Mads
Saturday, 16 July 2011
The Wright Brothers Were Right... Flying Is Absolutely Incredible!
I feel sandwiched in between the clouds. Above me there's a paper thin layer of snow white, hiding a crystal clear sky. Underneath me is a much thicker cotton ball layer of clouds, covering miles and miles of farm land, rivers, sky scrapers and people. We seem to be in an odd space between the two layers, soft and blue, and what a space it is.
To normal people, flying is tedious and frustrating. They make you empty your stuff, they charge you fifteen dollars for a bag of Skittles, and they steal your gold flecked, only sold in mid-Western Austria, 189$ a gram facial cream, because its 130 ml and it doesn't fit in your over-stuffed government issued plastic baggy. But to me, flying is the most romantic, exciting, magical experience ever to be enjoyed.
The clouds under the plane look like a flat, perfect sheet on a crisp, newly made bed, with tiny little pin-prick wrinkles, like mini mountain tops. What about that is frustrating? It truly is an experience I find to be enchanting, in a word. I know it's crazy, but it's true. I love flying! My flight took off at 6 35, and is 3 hours from it's destination. Instead of seeing that as the most boring three hours of my life, I think of it as a fantastic opportunity. I can finish my book, start the next, engage in potentially life changing conversation with my neighbor, play some Bubble Shooter, write a letter... The possibilities are truly endless!
On the way into security, I noticed a sign... Rowdy passengers will be reprimanded! This sign led to a thought, which rolled around in my head a little bit, and turned into a question. It rolled around a little more, and eventually, like a pearl in an oyster, is ready to make an appearance. You're 5000 feet in the air: is being rowdy really the smartest choice at this moment?
My best friend has a massive and unthinkable fear of anything in the air, which basically boil a down to airplanes and elevators. She truly cannot handle being on an elevator. I made her come with me to a doctor's appointment one time, and forced her to take the elevator up to the office, and I truly thought she was going to run the second light shown through those constricting steel doors. Airplanes are 100% out of the question. I do admit though, her fear is logical. "Why, in the name of all that is good in the world, would I get on a 6 million ton aluminum fridge that flies with FIRE?" its a good question, I admit. Why would you?
I'll tell you why. He's almost 2 and a half, and his name is Phillippe. He has curly, gingery brown hair and beautiful eyes, and named his toy dinosaur Roar. Or, a better reason, a 28 year old woman whose loved you since you were born, who used to give you all her old clothes, and paint your nails, and teach you which products would really get rid of the zit on your chin. That's why I'm sitting in a 6 million ton aluminum fridge that flies with fire, 5000 feet off the ground and counting, because I love my family more, and let me tell you, when i see my sister and my beautiful nephew, and get to wrap my arms around them, which is something no phone company, no skype call, and no facebook message will ever offer, it will be completely worth it.
So, Ashley, suck it up baby girl. Get on the plane, because its not about the flight itself, it's about whats waiting on the other side.
To normal people, flying is tedious and frustrating. They make you empty your stuff, they charge you fifteen dollars for a bag of Skittles, and they steal your gold flecked, only sold in mid-Western Austria, 189$ a gram facial cream, because its 130 ml and it doesn't fit in your over-stuffed government issued plastic baggy. But to me, flying is the most romantic, exciting, magical experience ever to be enjoyed.
The clouds under the plane look like a flat, perfect sheet on a crisp, newly made bed, with tiny little pin-prick wrinkles, like mini mountain tops. What about that is frustrating? It truly is an experience I find to be enchanting, in a word. I know it's crazy, but it's true. I love flying! My flight took off at 6 35, and is 3 hours from it's destination. Instead of seeing that as the most boring three hours of my life, I think of it as a fantastic opportunity. I can finish my book, start the next, engage in potentially life changing conversation with my neighbor, play some Bubble Shooter, write a letter... The possibilities are truly endless!
On the way into security, I noticed a sign... Rowdy passengers will be reprimanded! This sign led to a thought, which rolled around in my head a little bit, and turned into a question. It rolled around a little more, and eventually, like a pearl in an oyster, is ready to make an appearance. You're 5000 feet in the air: is being rowdy really the smartest choice at this moment?
My best friend has a massive and unthinkable fear of anything in the air, which basically boil a down to airplanes and elevators. She truly cannot handle being on an elevator. I made her come with me to a doctor's appointment one time, and forced her to take the elevator up to the office, and I truly thought she was going to run the second light shown through those constricting steel doors. Airplanes are 100% out of the question. I do admit though, her fear is logical. "Why, in the name of all that is good in the world, would I get on a 6 million ton aluminum fridge that flies with FIRE?" its a good question, I admit. Why would you?
I'll tell you why. He's almost 2 and a half, and his name is Phillippe. He has curly, gingery brown hair and beautiful eyes, and named his toy dinosaur Roar. Or, a better reason, a 28 year old woman whose loved you since you were born, who used to give you all her old clothes, and paint your nails, and teach you which products would really get rid of the zit on your chin. That's why I'm sitting in a 6 million ton aluminum fridge that flies with fire, 5000 feet off the ground and counting, because I love my family more, and let me tell you, when i see my sister and my beautiful nephew, and get to wrap my arms around them, which is something no phone company, no skype call, and no facebook message will ever offer, it will be completely worth it.
So, Ashley, suck it up baby girl. Get on the plane, because its not about the flight itself, it's about whats waiting on the other side.
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