The status of the work

I’m drenched in philosophy at the moment. It has to do with the class I’m currently involved with – Educational Psychology – where I have to write a paper and give a presentation on “the benefits of philosophy in education.” That is no easy task because philosophy is something that has somewhat drifted out of the public discourse in education the past few decades, overtaken by the need for hard data in scientific models that include such recent programs as No Child Left Behind. I am struggling with the concept of what education means (philosophically) in our society and where its place should be in a democratic society. Some of these thoughts can be found in a previous blog about Plato and the soul.

But aside from philosophy at the moment, I have to say that my word is apparently no good. To the two possible readers of this blog, I had, when beginning this endeavor, promised to write a blog every day for a month. That has woefully not been fulfilled. I suppose, and this being a central issue in my life, that I should give full consideration before agreeing or jumping into something as arduous as coming up with a topic and then writing coherently (or at least somewhat) about it every day. It seems that between being sick after my return from Europe, and trying to move and get situated and settled in Missoula, and now being full immersed in a graduate course, I have not had the time necessary for the blog. In other words, the complete upheaval of life has gotten in my way of writing (per usual). But also! I must admit that I’ve been reading some of my second novel again, trying to get back into the groove of finishing the rough draft this summer. Or at least finish most of it. So in that respect, the blog comes second to the novel. Wish me luck with that. I may also be writing for a paper in Missoula, of which will keep me sufficiently involved in other stories as far as my writing is concerned. Of course I will not give up on the blog, and this is far from the last post. So to my handful of readers, I will talk to you again soon – but the blog-a-day marathon has, not surprisingly, at the moment anyway, been put on the backburner. Back to philosophy, but perhaps wondering this time why such a beautiful summer day has to be wasted from the inside of a classroom and behind a pile of books. Have a good weekend.

On flirtatious signals

We all give them, whether consciously or not. Take tonight when I was walking into a store and a girl who saw me approaching, smiled and then tried holding the door open for me, she let it slip close on accident and upon trying to grab it open again said, “Oh, sorry!” I said, rather automatically, while smiling, “Oh, you’re fine.” I was trying to imply that it didn’t matter whether the door closed or not, but realized, after saying it, that perhaps it came out as more of a flirt. Did I subconsciously say that because I saw her checking me out, because I secretly like the attention? Who wouldn’t like that attention? That is one drawback for me in moving to a new city, and this has happened in the past, one becomes somewhat more addicted to interaction and affection. This is not surprising given the sudden drop in hanging out with friends, seeing and talking to family, and other various social activities. Otherwise known as being holed up in an apartment that seems foreign; and where the only course of decent communication happens via a telephone, one can seem to become a little lonely, or desperate. But I’m not talking sex or anything like that, so please don’t misconstrue that conception. Though in other parts of this apartment, there are two people who are enjoying the various body parts they have been endowed with.

Moving on, I’ve come to notice that conversations intended to spark some kind of interest between two strangers are definitely fictions of the cinema. Besides, all we seem focused on now is online dating. Why look for someone at a bookstore, or talk to the person next to you? You don’t even know someone is standing there next to you because you’re too distracted wondering if anyone has responded to your online profile.

This blog is titled, “On flirtatious signals,” and so I shall dive a bit more deeply into that area. Going back to the example above, I know I’m not the only one who gives off flirtatious signals or who makes subtle, tacit signals known (is that irony?). There are many of us who are sending signals, mixed or otherwise, that we are not intending to send, simply because we’re lonely and long for the attention of a compatible soul; and again, that doesn’t necessarily have to do with any kind of romantic bend. But what if it did? Or what if you are aware you send signals but do nothing more? Wouldn’t that be a form of torture for the other person involved? I quite think it would be.

It is here where I’ll stop this particular blog. I feel words are failing me and I’m losing the point, of which one I might never have had.

On the point of living

“What is the point of living?” one might ask. Certainly, one has known someone who has asked that question. Another similar-veined question posited is, “What are we here for?” Of course we can’t say with any certainty the answers to those questions; but we can get approximate as much as collective thought and our own consciousness allows. Plato said, “The noblest of all studies is what man is and how he should live.” Scientifically speaking we know what man is. Man is a composition of bones, muscles, flesh; man is a mammal capable of analytical thinking; man is, fill in the blank, but these miss the point philosophically, and with what we’re primarily concerned with at the moment.

We should turn to education, a monstrous creature that is concerned with pumping out ‘civilized’ robots who are content to earn money for food, shelter, who can, with any luck on school geography and socio-economic status, read and write proficiently, but who are lacking in morals, wisdom, reason, logic, mature thought and spirituality. Students who have no idea about what Plato terms ‘the good life’; of course we’re not thinking of ‘good’ in such modern, narrowistic views, but rather, the true virtue of the soul. We, as a society, and especially with education, should be asking the tough questions, What should people believe about life?, How should we live it?, In what state of society can the good life be best lived?, How can we create such a state? Or, even a more simple, less idealistic (aka beginning) approach would be, With all the technology, how can we have a better quality of life?
We have technology, we have vast, deep knowledge, and we work more than any civilization in history. We are depressed, lonely, isolated. We kill ourselves over money and fame. We have no sense of direction, so we ask ourselves, “What is the point of life?”

Our education system is pounding out educated zombies of, what I call, unlife; people who mistake knowledge for living; people who are ill equipped to deal with the destiny of humanity. This has consequences and those lie in the politics of the day. As Sir Richard Livingstone says so purely, “Our political thought is admirable so far as it goes: but it approaches its task from a narrowly intellectual angle, as though only adequate knowledge and exact thought were needed. Unfortunately, the problem is also, and predominantly, moral and spiritual.” Perhaps if our politicians focused on the latter two, we could have avoided a number of demoralizing actions, among many other things, in past presidential administrations. Those words quoted above, by the way, were written in Britain almost 70 years ago; funny how some things parallel. The past, however, is done, some souls are destroyed, the good life gone; but we can yet save the soul of future generations, and restore some concept of what ‘the good life’ is all about. But first one should probably read Plato’s Republic and then begin by asking the following question, How can I restore my soul and, or, keep it alive? But perhaps I ask too much, so back under the rock I go.

Jose Saramago

I was informed today that my favorite author, and a seemingly all-around genteel, intelligent, and humane man, Jose Saramago, died today. Though he was 87, he was, in my mind, and no doubt his, too young to leave this earth. The world will be robbed of his words of wisdom. However, one must not think like that. As we have decades of his words, we have articles, books, blogs and speeches. His words, to consider and weigh each and every one, would take a lifetime alone. We, this world, are lucky and fortunate to have had a Jose Saramago. Sure he had his faults, but there is nothing wrong with that. He believed in this idea called humanity. He worked toward a better future, not just in his work, but in his political actions, his associations, his foundation. I am in the midst of reading Saramago’s latest nonfiction book titled, “The Notebook”. It was written not even a full year ago, in fact, some of it was written last August. In the book he discusses his mortality. Jose Saramago had previously died and nine hours later they resuscitated him back to write many more blogs and another book or two. It appears that this time he won’t be resuscitated. Though I’ve read many Saramago books, and encourage everyone to read at least one, I have many more to go. Though he never knew of me, I knew of him, and his life, words and work, are more than enough to make me feel that all is not lost on our species or on me; we could use a few more Saramago’s in this world. Thanks for everything, Jose Saramago. Your blog, to which I translate almost every other day, your books, your strength and determination to face death, with your dear Pilar at your side, are ineffable to me. I look forward to the many more hours we will intellectually share. Rest in the peace you deserve.

Sickness

When I said I was going to write a blog every day, I didn’t account for the fact that I might actually get sick and have a headache that would make staring at a computer screen, let alone typing something coherent, all but impossible. I am still not better, and though much better than last night, I am somewhat pushing myself to write this. Frankly, I’d rather be sitting on my bed with my eyes closed. The doctor said I had a sinus infection, so nothing too serious. Though I can’t help but think that if we didn’t have modern medicine, could this sinus infection, which has somewhat ravaged my head, ears and lungs for a week, continue to reek havoc on my body until it all but shuts down and I no longer have concern for life. Or perhaps, it wouldn’t kill me but maybe make a month or more of my life miserable and bed-ridden. Human scientific advances, no thanks to religion at all, has made it possible for us to have the level of comfort we think we humans have always been afforded. On the flip side, human advances have caused us to become slaves to jobs, always thinking of the quickest fixes, which are almost always, of lesser quality, and, in regards to health, usually more harmful. I have an army of medicines and the fever has broke, not too late either, as I start my career as a master’s student on Monday in Missoula. The housing situation is still a bit up in the air, but there is a nice place I’m applying to. The girl says that she’s not too quiet. I smiled and knew something good was to come. In other quick news, it was my mother’s birthday today. She has one year left until the half-century mark. Perhaps it’s not too early to start planning her blow out party. I promise that future blogs will be of some decent thought; in the meantime, I am going to leave you with a quote on this rather beautiful Saturday night, “Let yourself be led by the child you were.”

Different Directions

Today my brother moved out. He took with him his belongings sans a horror of a cat and headed east toward Bozeman where he’ll be interning (with pay, a luxury to which I can’t claim) at a site some miles out of town where they are studying the planting of carbon dioxide within the earth. That is my complete knowledge on the topic. Today, however, was spent on this end, looking for an apartment: day four. I had two apartments that were going to work and both were taken. What I didn’t realize is that the best was yet to happen. Not only do I think I’m getting my dream apartment, it comes with my dream apartment complex, and I’m teaming up with a freshly-planted Californian roommate on it. He likes micro-brews; I like singing loudly. With any luck, and some fortune from the goddess of such, Fortuna, I will land this place tomorrow on what is quickly becoming my routine of driving to Missoula.

Speaking of singing loudly, what is it with postings for roommates that state in such quantity, “I’m a quiet person, looking for the same.” Or as someone just wrote me, “I’m a boring, quiet person.” Well, great. You sound like someone I want to live with. Every time someone tells me their quiet, I get a mental picture of a plush arm-chair with a heavy-eyed man sitting there falling asleep. The problem here is that I’m not quiet. I never have been and it’s just not a personality trait I can consider part of me. I blare (good) music, and sing my heart out to it; I dance in my living room and run up and down my hallway. I run to my car even. Frankly, walking gets old. I hum while eating cereal. I talk to myself. I think out loud and have sudden outbursts when I’m happy. My laugh could shatter eardrums and my simple smile talks. In short, I’m a quiet person’s worst nightmare. Of course, the difference is, I don’t throw ragging parties and I’m not up until the wee hours of the night being loud. Actually, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open past twelve. Night is my quiet time; but by day, I’m loud and full of life. It’s a secret that not many know – except those disgruntled past roommates. But who wants to room with someone who blatantly admits to being rambunctious and overly energized (aka loud)? I know I wouldn’t. So when someone writes me saying, “I’m a quiet person looking for the same.” I reply with, “What a fortunate coincidence, I’m quiet too.” Deep down I know there’s more loud people like me.

On money, teaching and graduate school

I’m not happy. At all. I was happy – yesterday. But I’m not happy today. I was very close to getting an amazing two bed, two bath apartment I discovered yesterday in a wonderful community. I called on it again today to follow-up and ask a few more questions but was met with the unstilted words that it was rented as of this morning. Their next one won’t be available until July 2nd, and for someone who starts their first graduate class on Monday, June 14, that poses considerable difficulty. The only option that will potentially allow me a place to live by Monday is to go into a two bed, one bath place, with a six-month lease, with a girl whom I really don’t know anything about. But that’s okay. But really, I’m not extremely happy with things as my heart was set on my dream apartment that was stolen from me this morning. I will get there soon though.

I have a degree in English, essentially, and it’s as worthless a degree as ceramics. Ceramics, for all I know, might even be more worthwhile. So I decide, as any well-trained citizen would do, to apply to graduate school in an area I like. This happens to be teaching. This area, while I am creating happy, well educated citizens, also gives me some time to write. It seems a win-win.

Graduate school is utterly expensive. The numbers don’t add up to me. From browsing the list of open teaching positions, the base salary (for MT), aka starting, is approximately $24,000. Some positions are higher, others lower depending almost solely on location. But in order for me to be “qualified” to teach, I must complete two years of graduate school at roughly $3,500 a semester in tuition X four semesters. But for me, there are also three summer sessions at about $2,000. This is not including insurance or books. So let’s say I can get my actual masters for 20K. That’s not bad. Not too bad at all. Of course, we’re back to living. I’ve found that in order to live in a decent place I need to have a roommate and still spend 500 a month. Missoula is expensive. Twenty-four months times five hundred is twelve thousand dollars. Not including food or entertainment, as well as other expenditures such as gas and car repairs, I’m already past thirty thousand dollars. Remember the starting salary here in Montana? So in order to teach, a profession that seems to be something of a charity act already, I need to go into a debt of at least 32,000 dollars. But that’s not true. Regardless of wishful thinking, I am not that wealthy, so, bring on the student loans! Of course I’m hoping for subsidized, I don’t even want to think about unsubsidized loans, and by the time I graduate and have to start paying interest, things start really adding up. I am already working for over a year for free on the actual degree. So how long will I be chained to educational debt in order to pay on the interest of the near 30,000 student loan? This all seems absurd. Add to it, the fact that apartments do not reflect any actual value and in this economy. One would think there would be some reality inflicted into equations of rent. And why do almost all rental companies seem shady? Is it part of their business model? But I digress back to my main point: where’s the common sense in anything anymore? If one were to stop and think, one would quickly be saying, “This makes absolutely no sense.” I could rationalize a bit more the idea of going into debt for a law degree or medical, because the rates they charge seem to pay off loans rather quick. But teaching? Teaching elementary students in Montana?

It almost appears that quality teachers aren’t wanted. To this end, I propose something European. Here in Montana let’s say, we should have governmental grants or scholarships to financially help students with the career choice of teaching. The scholarship should be awarded almost automatically, with unequivocal force, to any student who declares to spend their life, or even part, teaching the state’s youth. Sure it should have some stipulations, such as, by receiving this grant, you agree to teach for a period of x years in Montana. If you don’t fulfill your teaching obligation, you have to return the grant. It’s simple and it’s something to get quality teachers in Montana without strapping them with needless debt in a profession where the ceiling barely touches 50-60K a year – and that’s after thirty years of recess duty; thirty years of shaping the future of this state, country and by extension, where this country will stand among the world. Teachers really do shape the world and we give them no incentive to do it effectively.

I find a bit of hypocrisy in the fact that almost, without waver, every would-be politician, as well as their elected counterparts, state education as one of their fundamental issues to address and change. Yet the only change that happens is the continuous loss of funds and further budget cuts. Perhaps those elected politicians who stated ‘the need for quality education’ as one of their issues while running can step up and begin to work toward that end, and this is the perfect beginning, for to get quality education you need quality educators. And frankly, because I have to go into the same amount of graduate debt regardless of chosen profession, I may consider going into law. The world needs another lawyer anyway, right?

But those politicians and CEOs of academia know something: a secret that I am about to divulge. Everyone who becomes a teacher doesn’t choose that career for the money. We do it for the fact that we can make a difference, for the fact that we can brighten a child’s life and illuminate it as well, and yes, there’s a difference in those. We become teachers in tacit protest of the world of greed; because we don’t need millions when we can connect with a child. Can a lawyer say that?

The Storm

I’ve had, since starting this blog two days ago, lots of ideas on things to write. But here’s my topic that hijacked them all tonight: writing. I was talking to my friend Rachael today and I brought up the fact that I’ve been close to finishing my second novel for near a year now. By close I mean if I actually sat down and got to work, I could have a rough draft done in about two weeks. But I can’t seem to sit down and actually work on it. Part of it is definite laziness. I’d rather read or ride my bike than sit in front of a computer and type. Which, since you’re an astute reader, you’d be wondering why I’ve thus taken on the task of a blog? Well, it’s simple: I want to get back into the habit of writing. Sure my wrists start to hurt, my eyes get watery, my head starts to bob, but… but I am writing! I am feeling accomplished, I am feeling egocentric, I am feeling like what I am doing might actually someday make a positive difference in the world, at least with my novels; and that even though I’m wasting my time (we all are, aren’t we?), at least I’m not hurting the world through my egregious ambitions. I’m a firm believer in the adage, “All the world needs are things of beauty.” So why not create beauty instead of ugliness? Of course, this blog isn’t really creating beauty, is it? No. Probably not in any measurable way. But it’s forcing me (I’m forcing me) back into the habit of writing after my extended break. The worlds of fiction are swimming deeply in my head and I need to start putting some down to paper again. But I’m scared. So this blog is my attempt at wading slowly back to the deep end. One reason I took a break from writing was because I spent three years of my life, possibly more, writing and rewriting a novel. It was backbreaking work, and though rewarding, it was also full of disillusionment on my part. Not the writing so much as the process and the expectations. But what in my life hasn’t been part disillusion? Furthermore, I have been universally denied (with one waitlist) into creative writing programs. Sure they judged my short fiction. Sure I knew that going in. And at least I tried, right? I realize that my short fiction is weak. I realize my long fiction is weak. I realize my abilities as a writer are something of a novice, which makes it that much harder to work towards something that will again, be eventual hurt and disappointment. But isn’t that life? So by extension, isn’t that the writing process? I suppose all this is part of my disillusionment, which, some may call dreams, others hopes, and yet others, nightmares; that is what defines the people who create beauty from those who create ugliness from those who don’t create anything at all. But we all have our place. I hope mine is to someday create something of beauty. That could even be my eulogy: “Justin lived, died, but most importantly, added beauty to this oft-most cruel, unfair, harsh world.” In the meantime, I must try and write when I can; to that end, because I often let everything get in my way, I propose to write a blog every day for at least one month. That is the goal. Some will be funny, others more tending to the serious side of life; some personal, others more general. Though writing, writing is what this is all about. Writing is what I’m about. In fact, without the idea, the notion and concept of being a writer, of living that illusion (disillusion?), I am lost in the sea of tides. My anchor is writing, of weaving thoughts and words together in hopeful climatic harmony; of not being too cliché or boring; of making someone think (if only myself); of attempting my vain goal of releasing things of beauty into the world. Join me if you wish. Writing is a topic to which I will doubtlessly return.

Apartment hurting, er, hunting

It is quite amazing to me how hard it is to find a decent apartment that actually matches its price. Take today in Missoula, Mont., where I found myself apartment hunting. The first place I visited was a modest, but quite standard price in Montana, studio for $425. It was one of the dirtiest places I’ve ever had the displeasure of considering, for even a millisecond, worthy of my future home. The building was built in 1920, and while that was used quaintly as a marketing appeal (“Look at the beautiful wooden floors and hands craftsmanship!”), it was actually just outdated. The hand craftsmanship, if there ever was any, had probably faded in 1960, when the last update on the place was done. I would feel uncomfortable walking in there without shoes. Nor would I live there if someone paid me.

So on I moved to a place across town, a little more expensive and placed in the basement of a married couple’s new residence. After driving up a mountain, and upon politely knocking I hear a ferocious attacking of the door and stentorian barking from the inside. I back up from the door. After a few minutes of me hearing them putting the dogs outside, the door is opened and I am allowed inside. The room is decent-sized, new and clean but the bathroom is across the hall and the whole thing is viewable from the front door. Basically, they claimed privacy, but there’s not a lot. Also, apparently the dogs will sleep downstairs, next to my room and bathroom. Upon getting to the upstairs, I see the dogs, two large German Rottweiler’s jumping into the back door and still barking, so loudly I can hardly imagine the glass door actually being there. “They’re really big teddy bears,” the lady says. The man walks out back and smokes as the dogs are jumping up on him and barking, he’s shoving them down. “They just take a little adjusting.” Apparently.

The third place was also in a basement. It was dark, but that wasn’t the real problem. The floors raised and lowered at gradual degrees all through it, as did the very low ceiling. I had to duck down the hallway twice just to get into the place. Then in the apartment, I felt not only claustrophobic, but like I was tripping on acid in the room of mirrors or something from Alice in Wonderland. Why did this room shrink as I walked to the window, I wondered. Why is the closet door shorter than my chest?

All those places respectively rose in price too. This reminds me of the classic problem: live in squalor but afford it or go into debt for something comfortable?

Or find a roommate who is never home.

The hunt sadly continues tomorrow.

Orange Juice Kills

Coming back to America, your home, after an extended stay in a foreign country, or countries in this case, should be one of the best feelings ever. Should be. Why is it not? Because airport security, industrially abbreviated as TSA, threw my orange juice away. I was on a flight from Paris to Chicago operated by the lovely Air France, when I was given an orange juice with lunch. Though I had already some Pepsi with lemon, my new favorite taste by the way, and wasn’t in favor of orange juice at that precise moment. But I though it would be a perfect drink before my flight in Chicago, so I kept it for later, and seeing as I had already went through French airport security, I didn’t foresee an issue with that. Or rather, knowing what I already did about American aviation security, I did foresee an issue, but was hoping to bypass it by feigned ignorance, and concealing said liquid.

It didn’t work. Oh, hell, I thought as they pulled my bag aside, rather quickly pulled out the orange juice and told me I had to throw it away. I said I wanted it. The older man who held my orange juice in his hand said I could go out of the security area and drink it. I considered it. But then I figured that I’d win by not giving him the satisfaction of helping me; I think he wanted me to drink it, especially after I told him I was given it from my eight hour flight from France, and the sad look in my eyes when he said I had to get rid of it. He said it didn’t matter that it came from another flight, I couldn’t take it through the airport but I could go drink it. I shook my head. Welcome to America, I thought, when I couldn’t even keep an orange juice given to me on my previous flight. An astute reader should judge that I’m really not that concerned with orange juice in particular, and though I like it, and wanted it, I’m really going to use this as a weak set-up for my disdain for the government that oversees our esteemed TSA agency. For meanwhile, in places of far more importance, oil is spewing up the ocean floor at thousands, or is it hundreds of thousands, of gallons a day, sickening animals who simply wanted to live. And where was our government in permitting an off shore oil well to be set-up with no emergency plan in place? Meanwhile, our so-called health reform makes a mockery of our citizens and the government’s ability to pass meaningful legislation for those citizens, which is, from what I recall, the point of a democracy; something about “by the people, for the people” is its tenant that goes more unnoticed everyday. But we are so much safer for the fact that my orange juice has been thrown out and my one pleasure of the morning gone into a large plastic bucket full of wanted liquids that posed serious threats to our country’s wellbeing.

My point, if there is one outside of general apathy toward our current ruling power, is that our country has spent more time and wasteful resources on a mockery of getting to fly, which, as I may point out, perhaps irreverently, terrorist attacks in the air have killed far less than any current war our country is engaged in, which continues to go on, with no, or little, consideration to those lives. My points in this post are probably too scattered to stick, but when discussing the government, a scattered entity in itself, which doesn’t even have continuity with its missions: does it want to save lives or kill more? Or is it just to make our lives more miserable by denying juice to people who have already been through security and already have flown eight hours and still have another eight to go before arriving home?

I hazily remember reading something that the now banned in Texas, secularist Thomas Jefferson said. To summarize, it went, If a government no longer works towards the ends it was set-up to do, [democracy for the people, by the people yadda yadda], that the people have the power and authority, as well as the duty, to dismantle it and start again. Have we lost that power? Or have we ever truly had it?