::Have Some Random Babblings

The Moment That Nature Gave Me

2006-10-05T23:55:00.000-07:00

I have a theory, a geometric model, enveloping space, time, the shape of the universe and eternal progression which dominates my ideas about how memories are made and recalled―sometimes before the occurrence of the actual event (known to the French-speaking evolutionary degenerates of this planet as déjà-vu). This is, in my mind, of the most solid nature that an idea of such a variety can possibly be. This theory is all-inclusive, and explains (among many other things) why it is that some occurrences are indelibly etched into the slate of our memories.

An early summer Sunday morning. A beautiful new day caresses the waking world with the warm embrace of its life-giving rays. Across the world, the faithful embark on their pilgrimage to worship Quetzalcoatl in their myriad of modes and after the idol of their minds. Sea life in the northern hemisphere returns toward the surface to feed on the lower rungs of the food chain. In a remote, untamed corner of Northern Ontario, a young boy I know very well goes down to Little Marsh to enjoy the morning, before his day of rest is whisked away by a gathering of the saints and busy social parents, very soon to be in a town far, far away. He follows a very methodical formula, as he picks his way between the lichenous rocks and the mossy trees, to a slight cliff, under which the sacrificial stick lies waiting.

Every body of religious peoples throughout time are neatly sewn together by a common thread. This filament that ties the rites of the Monolithic People to the Born-Again Christians is sacrifice. Sacrifice demands surrender. Sacrifice takes no prisoners. Sacrifice has fed the Gods since the beginning of man, and in doing so has endowed the people with the rich gift of self-denial and self-control. There is no other price for this most precious of personal commodities.
The stick is a gnarled emblem of earthen sacrifice. Under it’s heavy shadow, many amphibians have returned to sing praises to that God who gave them life. This morning, the Holy Water Sprinkler sings its usual hymn, accompanied by the slimy-fingered, harp-plucking heavenly choir, whose ranks swell anew with converts, rising to the sky, embracing the new day. Every good choir needs balance in parts: no one likes an all tenor choir, and bass after heavy bass are added its numbers. A moment of silence is observed. All is quiet.

Life is linear in flow, but memory runs both forward and backward through the segment that is your mortality (a backwards flow is running against the current of your life, which is why most memories aren’t known until they happen), and when a point in your existence is reached in which you are incredibly happy, incredibly afraid, or when you come to a decisive crossroad in your life, the impact of the impression sends a shockwave through your soul and an indelible memory is formed.

The moment of silence is broken by a monstrous release of adrenaline and the pounding of a human heart as two sets of eyes meet: one blue, the other compound. While this young man I know is very brave, he is a little squeamish around large insects, and this was a very large insect. In fact, this is the first time in a very long time that a beast of this type and size has been seen outside of Borneo and the Amazon Rainforest.

While sacrificial sticks are more than a match for bullfrogs, every boy in Northern Ontario knows that giant bugs are, among other things (such as hungry), Ninjas. This is why our young friend does not offer the stick his best heave and, with a wave, send the creature to listen to the croaking choral recital. The boy and the bug continue to stare at each other. Time stands still as they exchange gazes, and nature holds out a golden platter, upon which, on a small square of it’s own paper is written a note: “Life is a dangerous place and your existence is very fragile. Tread lightly.”

This reality is what nature gave me.

A well written Englilsh paper

2006-09-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

Paper 1
The Environmental Repercussions of Golf Course Development

I’ll be the first to admit that I am something of a golf hater. I really don’t feel an affinity of any make or model for the game, and I openly extend my sentiments to the rest of the world at large. This is my bias.

My position in regard to golf courses, golf culture, and Golf Proper find deep roots in my rearing, my abilities, and my exposure to the game. Primally, sports in general were not a priority in my family. Once or perhaps twice (that I can remember), my parents took me to the great and spacious field behind Crosby Heights (the English school) and made me swing my big, blue, hollow plastic bat at its oversize, white, cavernous, spherical, plastic counterpart, but that was about it. Athletics of any sort were not important to our familial unit (save perhaps those of the pure running and jumping variety); more emphasized were reading, writing, drawing, sculpting, painting, classical music, and not so classical music (Thompson Twins, Brian Ferry, and A-Ha come readily to mind); kite construction and kite flying were a muse, talk over dinner was rare genes and plant breeding.

My first introduction to the game of Golf was in the second grade. My family had moved “up north” to Sault Ste. Marie, and we were living in town for the winter in a development adjacent to a golf course. I had no concept of the game; why would anyone would wishfully wallop a small white ball as far from themselves as is humanly possible with an overpriced, lanky composite of alloy and organics, then curse and stomp and break things in a childish manner? The balls themselves were an endless fascination to me: what use could a hard plastic spheroid with anywhere from 330 to 500 geometrically perfect dimples have to serve humanity, and why were they everywhere in my neighborhood? I can honestly say that I believed golf courses to be glorified dog walks. And the day that I got yelled at by a murder of angry doctors because I had the tenacity to pick up the cool orange ball I found was baffling. Golf became a four letter word in my vocabulary, and I decided I knew enough.

I have always, so far as I can remember, been aware on some level of issues of sustainable development and gene pool management, and at some point in my pupaescence, golf was adopted into my Green Schema. I was informed that golf was a malignant blight upon an unblemished landscape, a green artificial desert on an otherwise productive piece of God's earth, a great, water siphoning, monocultural Mount Olympus, made to distinguish and entertain the lifestyles of the powerful, the rich, the famous, and those given to too much leisure. This, I readily admit, I have pretty much accepted vacuus disputatio, and it has, in large part, become the money tree of my bias. Honestly, who can develop over a prairie dog town, or suck the Colorado dry and not flinch when the Pied Piper of environmental responsibility comes to town to play? Is it really better to be free in Hell than a servant in Heaven?

If it involves a ball, I am a liability, not an asset. As golf and round things are inseparably connected, I will be an atrocity at best, and a tragedy of Greek proportions on average (from the place you hit the ball from to the little hole in the heftily manicured short grass). To date, my only use on the course is that of pack animal and even then, I tend to be more irate than most. I would, as it were, rather eat the grass than chase the ball. I did, in fact, try golfing on multiple occasions (where multiple = multiples of 1 ≤ 3), but oh! the complaints! Just because my ball has a wicked backspin and savagely burns across the surface of the grass, hewing an earthen trench in its wake doesn't mean it was a bad shot! Heck, in Olympic diving that would have been spectacular!

My positive experiences on the course have been far outweighed by the negative. I have been chased and yelled at, have fallen and gotten dirty and wet, have slipped and sprained my ankle, and have almost been caught and punished for indecent exposure on a golf course. I had the most frantically run mile of my life on a golf course, after hiding behind a twig of a pine with two other runners while hiding from an advancing and retreating security guard, patrolling in his trusty steed, the dreaded half-bed, internally combusting Ranger. Compare, if you dare, such occasions with the few positive experiences and tell me now if I am not justified in my prejudice!

I did have a lot of fun in Fort Kent, Maine feeding the fish between the 7th and the 8th holes. They were beautiful, shiny, writhingly alive, would-be fillets of Rainbow Trout, and at the low, low cost of $0.25, one could obtain a half-handful of pellets and feed the swarming mass of shine and splash. And their visual display of flocking algorithms was as compelling as the thought of their broiled flavor. Like a school of minute sharks they swam, and in a frenzy of foaming water and a cloudy, muddy, aqueous suspension, they devoured your offering, and none could deliver.

There is something to be said for wide-open spaces. There is also something to be said for tightly clipped grass, hygienic and sterilized like the Oval Office. Something deep within me yearns to ultimately control the world, even to the length of the grass and the slopeage of hills, or the flow of the water and the growth of the trees. To be able to so clearly distinguish between desert and grassland like there is no Savannah. And so I am torn, but not too much or too deeply.

I don't know your name!

2006-09-10T22:02:00.000-07:00

Names are my bane. My own personal Hrunting. My cursed ring. They're the cumulative fire beneath my behind that makes me sweat great, salty, heart-pounding drops of "oh scrudd, what's her name again?" The battle never ends, and skirmish after skirmish, my assailant swings blow after heavy blow to my delicate social graces. Let us take, for example, this evening.

A typical Sunday wind-down. Sunday dinner, followed by an evening church social. I admit that my intentions in attending Ward Prayer weren't entirely pious; I was going to Shanghai a beautiful young woman into going on a date with me on Friday (incidentally, that's not happening). Don't ask her name of me; I cannot procure it even under extreme duress. Heck, I'm doing good just remembering her hair color. Upon arrival, I set up chairs and an invisible basecamp. Ryan, my wingman, flies at a close 4:00, ready to give coverfire if the occasion requires. SHE doesn't show, so I'm left to fraternize with the rest of the assembled congregation in a "getting to know you" activity, which of course, requires my learning Joe Black's name. I think it was something like "Ryan James ..." where ... is his last name, but I'm not entirely sure, because Ryan's name is really James Ryan, so I am left to ponder my poor memory and perhaps nomenclatural lysdexia. Names, followed closely by what you're all about.

Incidentally, I didn't really learn anything about "Ryan James" anyway, as we spent our "getting to know you" time talking about someone else in the room: Me. So, when crunch time came and I was to introduce my sturdy companion, I could do nothing but concoct a fable about his being related to Rick James (bang, you're dead) and how his dad was an international spy. I mean, that's kind of a tough trade off. I think it would be kind of cool not to have a name and have a dad who is an international spy. I guess he thought it was okay too, because he didn't give me wicked stink eye or anything.

But my whole drive is this. It stinks not to remember names. Especially when one wants to date the bearer of said unknown name.