The Kite Runner

Perhaps it is time to present another important aspect of writing: believability. How much suspension of disbelief can an author require before a story falls apart? This can be very well demonstrated by The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini’s historical fiction novel. It tells the story of Amir, beginning with his life in Afghanistan with his servant and friend Hassan. Although he moves on from this life in many ways after his departure from the country of his birth and his marriage, the memory of Hassan never quite leaves him, a fact which becomes clear when he goes to meet an old friend of his father’s. But I am not here to discuss the plot of the book; I am here to discuss what, in this story, stretches my own suspension of disbelief.

In a previous essay (On the Nature of Being Qfwfq), I mentioned that character flaws are an important part of every story; that they are, at least in part, what makes a story readable. The Kite Runner’s Amir certainly has flaws, because the main character of a book is required not to be flat and boring. However, consider his friend and servant Hassan. There is something slightly odd about him as a character, which may not be obvious at first, but think: when does Hassan show that he is not “perfect”? He always takes the blame for things Amir has done, he never seems to get angry, he offers Amir endless encouragement and defends him when it becomes necessary. For example:

“...he never told on me. Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbor’s dog, was always my idea.” (4)
“If he felt the sting of my tease, his smiling face didn’t show it.” (28)
“That was another thing about Hassan. He always knew when to say the right thing...” (37)
“Hassan held the slingshot pointed directly at Assef’s face. His hand trembled with the strain of the pulled elastic band and beads of sweat had erupted on his brow.” (42)

The last example is, perhaps, the most telling. Hassan is willing to defend Amir despite the fact that, as a Hazara, he is in more danger from Assef than Amir is. He is also quite obviously afraid of Assef, but he doesn’t allow that to stop him. All of this, as well as the later events that eventually cause Hassan to leave, make it clear that he is almost uncannily perfect; his arsenal of positive traits appears to have no end. This comes up again in Rahim Khan’s account of his reunion with Hassan: when first confronted with the idea of leaving, Hassan “said the village was his home now; he and Farzana had made a life for themselves there.” (206) But after Rahim Khan had spent a night in their house, Hassan informs him that they have decided to drop everything and go to Kabul to help him take care of the house. He gives no explanation, and nothing specific seems to trigger this change of mind--it’s simply another example of his lack of flaws. All in all, Hassan is not a very convincing character, simply by virtue of his virtues. This is not to say that it is impossible to have a believably selfless character, but Hassan isn’t it.

There is also an interesting correlation which I think may be more than just a coincidence. Near the beginning of the book, when Assef harasses Amir and Hassan, Hassan’s threat is as follows:

“‘...If you make a move, they’ll have to change your nickname from Assef “the Ear Eater” to “One-Eyed Assef,” because I have this rock pointed at your left eye.’” (42)

One might be a little confused by the decision to be specific about which eye, because it doesn’t seem to be an important distinction--at least, not until Amir again meets Assef.  Amir has come to retrieve Sohrab, and Assef forces Amir to fight him. Sohrab proceeds to defend Amir with his slingshot:

“Then Assef was screaming. He put his hand where his left eye had been just a moment ago.” (291)

Again, it doesn’t seem like much at first, just a bit of helpful detail. But when you examine the two statements together, you notice that in both cases it is the left eye that is threatened. Now, consider the fact that Sohrab is Hassan’s son, and that Hassan, from what we know of him, would probably have done the same thing to protect Amir if it became necessary. Besides being a reminder of Hassan’s unrealistic personality, this underlines how similar Sohrab is to his father. Take this with the fact that Sohrab is almost identical to Hassan, and you have a twist of fate that doesn’t quite ring true.

In fact, Assef seems to be a center of impossible coincidences. The most obvious of these by far is Amir’s meeting him while searching for Sohrab. Hosseini seems to realize how ridiculous this is, and makes an attempt to point it out while staying in character:

“The moment felt surreal--no, not surreal, absurd...My past was like that, always turning up...he was already here, in the flesh, sitting less than ten feet from me, after all these years.” (281)

Although this is an admirable effort to put the situation into perspective, saying that he, too, finds it difficult to believe, its real effect is to make the coincidence seem even more impossible. The way in which the revelation is structured leads the reader to wonder whether the author simply ran out of surprises; whether he constructed this scene just because he couldn’t think of another way to further the plot. A similar emphasis on unreality surrounds one of the direct results of Amir’s meeting Assef; Amir is in the hospital reflecting on his injuries:

“I kept thinking of something else Armand/Dr. Faruqi had said: The impact had cut your upper lip in two, he had said, clean down the middle. Clean down the middle. Like a harelip.” (297)

Here we have an example of an absurdity associated with Hassan, who had a harelip as well, though he was born with his. The situation seems to say that Amir has, in some sense, become Hassan--or at least, the two are now much more similar. Now, I must admit, fiction is not intended to be exactly like real life; if it were, we wouldn’t bother to read it. However, an author cannot insert something as bizarre as this and make the reader believe it. Even if it is accepted on one level, on another the reader will be thinking that maybe the situation is just a little too perfect.

The Kite Runner does not by any means fail to get its point across, mainly about the struggle to overcome one’s past and the difficulty of stopping a chain of lies once it has been started. The story itself is riveting and generally well-written. I would certainly recommend it to anyone who hasn’t read it--but be prepared for an overabundance of impossible coincidences. Be careful of scenes that fall apart when given too much thought; they can be the downfall of an otherwise good book.

A Follow-Up on the Justin Beiber War

You know, my original intention wasn't to prolong the argument. I just wanted people to stop fighting. Clearly, that's not going to happen. I would like to back out of this argument, but first I must clear something up.

We have the right to express our opinions about whatever we want. You might not give a damn about him but we do. Just because you don't like him and don't listen to his music, it doesn't mean that the whole world is going to stop this because what you say. quite frankly you should eat your own words because you are not being tolerant yourself were not the ones getting all crazy and angry about the opposing side disagreeing with us. --Karen Chavez, in response to my own post

I was not denying your right to express your opinion at all. On the contrary, I was saying that everyone has a right to an opinion--which is the reason we should not be arguing. I suppose I may be nullifying my point by responding to your post, but the concept is a sound one.

As for the claim that I specifically don't like Beiber, may I direct you to this statement of mine?

I don't have an opinion on Justin Beiber...but I'm not a "hater" either. I find it extremely interesting that there is no middle ground, only the fans and the "haters".

I do not dislike Beiber just because I don't listen to his music. I simply don't care one way or the other.

Now, to your third point, that I am being intolerant and "getting all crazy and angry" about others disagreeing with me. As a matter of fact, this is impossible, because I am not in direct disagreement with anyone whose post I referenced. It's all right with me if you guys disagree with each other, but why can't you respect that other people have opinions just as much as you do? Why can't you just agree to disagree?

I will not escalate this further. There is no point in attempting to provoke me. My point is to prevent an argument, not to start a new one. Go ahead and continue arguing if you want, I guess, instead of learning to be understanding of others. I can't stop you, and I will not be a part of another unnecessary argument. So I leave you with the following thought:

Isn't a war just a larger-scale argument?

A Mid-November Morning's Ramble

Writing interesting stuff on demand is hard. I'll bet you've encountered this at one time or another--which is why most of what goes up here is random story chunks on which I need feedback (which, by the way, I don't seem to be getting). Writing boring stuff on demand is also hard, because writing anything on demand is hard, but it's slightly easier because on-demand brain-spew is usually rather dull from the point of view of anyone but the source.

So here I sit, writing a brain-spew post on demand in the least interesting way possible.

I wonder why this is. I know plenty of people, myself included, who can bang out a decent short story in about ten minutes with the right inspiration, but blank out completely when confronted with an assignment. If I were commanded to write a completely new story right now, with no specific range of subjects, I couldn't do it--partly because most of my story ideas have to marinate in the brain a bit before they get written (with a few exceptions), and partly because my current thoughts consist of Give me some parameters, dang it!

Why can't we generate something new and brilliant when commanded to do so? Why is it that we wake up in the middle of the night with brilliant ideas, but are incapable of this when someone tells us to? (Which is only a guess, because I don't have much experience with this. Incidentally, have you noticed that I really like parentheses?)

This is what happens when you let my brain loose to spew where it may. Perhaps I ought to have warned you, but I didn't think of it until just now. Sorry.

To drag out a nothing-post even longer, isn't it interesting how our writing styles tend to mimic those of our favourite authors to a certain extent? I'm not just referring to my strewing of "u"s here (although I must ask, what do Americans have against this innocent vowel?)--after reading a particularly good book, I unconsciously alter my writing ever so slightly so that it becomes similar. This sometimes happens with particularly bad books as well, in which case there is nothing to do but reread something by Terry Pratchett, or someone else amusing (and, often, British).

I think perhaps I ought to end this ramble before it becomes large enough to devour the entire internet, or possibly just the more accessible parts.

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

An Introduction to the Encyclopaedia Fantastica

Alternate title: "Constance is Starting a Pointless Project"/"Soon Every Post Will Have a Classification"

Some of you may know that a lot of my free time is spent making up weird, random creatures, mostly in the realm of dragons but sometimes involving other species as well. Most of these creatures have enough information attached to them to fill a small book, and most of them never get a story into which I can insert this dreck. So I have decided to write an Encyclopaedia, which is like an encyclopedia, but with an extra "a" and a superior air[1].

Periodically, you will see posts which consist of a drawing (done by yours truly, and therefore probably not of much interest, but oh well) accompanied by an outline of the information found in an encyclopedia, with reference to that species. I will keep this up for as long as it takes for someone to get bored and complain.

Note: The Encyclopaedia Fantastica contains only those creatures I have conjured up to exist in this world. Those native to my imaginary world, Terre[2], are supposedly being catalogued elsewhere as soon as I get around to it.

Enjoy?

---

[1] And British. Look up “anglophile”, why don’t you.

[2] If you speak French, you will know that this is a total cop-out name for a world, because “terre” is French for “earth”. Hey, you try coming up with a creative name for your own planet while juggling as many imaginary countries as I do.

A Commentary on the Justin Beiber War

I think you guys will both be very lonely if you keep trying to singing Justin Bieber's songs, because if you do then (one) you will be devastated and live a pessimistic life when he dies and (two) you'll probably want to sing his songs for a living or something, but you would barely get any money and end up as a hobo on the street. ASTI probably accepted you to cure you from singing those songs all the time. You really need to rethink your life.    --Jesse Valdez

I like Justin Bieber and I don't have to change. What if you like ballet, should you stop being so attached to it because no other guy is doing ballet? Why don't you think that over?  Jesse thinks he can stop Sam and I from signing Justin Bieber. I do not think that ,that is going to work. So do please try again.
--Billy Lau

I want to respond to this post to defend all the Beiber HATERS!!!!!! yeah WOOT-WOOT! people have to understand that every celebrity has people that dis-like their signing voice and everything that may have to do with them, including and in this case it would have to be the voice. --Ivan Arreola

It appears that, throughout the school year, there has been an ongoing war about people liking Justin Beiber or not. Above you will find excerpts from those posts I have been able to unearth. I believe this can be used to demonstrate a long-standing concern of mine--so you Beiber-soldiers listen, and listen well.

For myself, I don't have an opinion on Justin Beiber. I have never listened to his music, mainly because I find that most contemporary teenage music is...well, I don't care for it. Obviously, this keeps me miles away from the class of "Beiber fangirl", but I'm not a "hater" either. I find it extremely interesting that there is no middle ground, only the fans and the "haters". I think this says a lot about our society, actually--but more on that in another post.

Each side in this Beiber-war seems to be trying to make themselves seem right, to subjugate the other side's opinions. Jesse says that fans of Justin Beiber will end up as hobos and need to rethink their lives; Ivan mocks Beiber's singing voice; Billy, later in his post, tells Jesse to "go back to 8th grade to learn your amendments". Karen Chavez, in a post I have not quoted above, claims that "if you say you hate him and that his voice sounds like a girl,you know that you secretely like him and secretely listen to his music".

You know what? I don't give a damn about Justin Beiber. He's a singer, and some people like him, and that's fine for them. Some people don't like him, and that's fine for them too. I'm sick of everyone trying to force their opinions on everyone else. Why can't we just let people have their own preferences? Is a little tolerance really too much to ask?

Stop arguing about Justin Beiber. It doesn't matter. No matter how essential you believe it is that everyone in the whole damn world be in love with Beiber, or that everyone hate him, it still doesn't matter. So give it a rest, because we're tired of hearing it.

A Reflection

    As you may have guessed, considering that this itself is on my blog, this year’s English assignments have been submitted through said blog. Originally I had intended to write random posts as topics came to mind, interspersed with a few of my collected story beginnings, but throughout the first quarter the majority of my posts have been “Unfinished Writing”. I think this is because I have recently had a continuous stream of ideas. In looking over my blog posts, I have found interesting variations in the inspiration for these beginnings, as well as a very different tone from the highly structured essays I have also written.
    My story beginnings are not, as you may expect, inspired by any mysterious and deep part of my soul. I doubt many writers really have one of those. The ideas for most of them came out of nowhere, a thought I had at lunch, or something I read recently, perhaps. Sometimes they originate from characters, which in turn may spring from anywhere. But I think the most common origin is simply when I hear or think of a phrase that intrigues me. Take, for example, The Time of the Plus:

The Time of the Plus: The time in Metronium when all the clocks stop, new buildings suddenly appear where none were before, the Sternix reappear, and the Plus herself comes into power. Once well-known among Metronians, this legend has faded from the minds of all but a few.

This story began when my father said something about “The time of the plus is here”, although I no longer remember the exact phrasing. I do know that there was never any specific meaning to it, and so I began to wonder: What if the Plus were a very powerful person? What if the Time of the Plus were the time in which that person becomes even more powerful? Maybe the Plus is a legend, and maybe there could be clocks in it… So you see, my stories are often just embellishments of other people’s interesting turn of phrase.
    Then there are the stories that begin with a character. The prime example of this is Malt, the novel-in-progress, an excerpt of which I posted on my blog. An excerpt of an excerpt, if you will:

Who was Maxwell Malt?
Oh, everyone had heard of him, of course. You weren’t much of anybody in Eastport if you’d never heard of Maxwell Malt. Some called him a magician, others the superhero of the day, and still others the “people’s hero”, whatever that meant. He had done amazing things. He had saved the city and its surrounding area from bizarre villains countless times, including, once, an army of giant animate teddy bears. Everyone knew it. Most people had witnessed his heroism firsthand. And yet the question still circulated the streets daily.
Who was Maxwell Malt?

Malt is, essentially, about Max and the resolution of some of his identity issues; the story is driven entirely by the character, because he is so vivid in my mind. Maxwell Malt appeared in his entirety in a very strange dream I had involving, yes, an army of giant animate teddy bears. The character was so complete from his first appearance that I knew he had a story in need of telling. To get there, I combined the mysterious air that surrounds everything in dreams with the fact that most superheroes have a secret identity, and this strangeness was the result.
    One of the reasons I feel comfortable posting my weird stories on my blog is that it’s an easily moderated medium. I am often afraid to show my writing to people because I worry that it isn’t any good, and no one likes to be criticized. On a blog, however, all anyone can do is post a comment, and those comments I find offensive or don’t care for can be deleted quite easily. So far I haven’t had to do this, which helps to improve my opinion of this whole blogging thing. Without the blog, I might never have exposed my writing to others, and thus never have gotten feedback of any kind (though, admittedly, my current comments are all from Mr Sutherland). Those comments that have been posted have improved my own opinion of my writing, which is always a good thing in my opinion.
    There is one very big difference between the blog post assignments and other, more structured papers I have written: assignments submitted through the blog are looser. Without a rigid structure, it is easier for a writer’s voice to get through, and people are more comfortable saying what they think. My one truly aimless post is a testament to this:

I think about a lot of weird things in my spare time. I swear this isn't my fault; when my mind is allowed to wander, it comes back with the strangest ideas. But one that I have continuously analyzed and wondered about is this: Is reality defined by a person's perception of it?

If I were to write a structured essay about my tendencies toward existential crisis, it would sound much less like I do when engaged in conversation, and that would make it more difficult for me to get my point across. In fact, in a structured essay I might not choose this subject at all, because of the possible problems with being understood. Also (and I in no way speak for everyone), when writing along very specific guidelines, I tend to come across as excessively stiff and formal. Usually my writing style mirrors the way I speak, and it sounds much more natural. Perhaps this is an improvement, perhaps not.
    As for my goals for my future writing, I need to get better about revising things. My “official” method of writing is stream-of-consciousness scribbling or typing, later to be gone over and all its badly-written parts cut out. Or, at least, I intend to go over it. I often forget about revision and put my first-draft story up on my blog for the world to see. Afterward, of course, I reread it and find it to be severely lacking in some area or other. For example, the first two paragraphs of this story:

There were hundreds of different clans and provinces and other self-governing colonies of dragons in Attria, some of which were constantly at war or just disagreement; others pretended that certain colonies didn’t exist for the sake of peace. Dragons are not, by nature, cooperative with those unlike them, resulting in a tangle of boundary lines to confuse even the most accomplished of cartographers. The colonies were not receptive to new dragons emigrating from other colonies, and their leaders rarely had any kind of meeting because of the everlasting tensions between them.
But Draigfest was different. Draigfest happened in the very center of the valley, where no colony claimed territory, and it was a festival, or possibly a convention, for those dragons that weren’t really concerned one way or another with the misdeeds of their neighbours’ ancestors and were curious about the other colonies. Some, over the years, had even built up long-distance friendships with other dragons.

I believe there are all of three pronouns between those two paragraphs. This is a result of not revising the story; had I done so, I would have realised that the word “dragon” is repeated a tedious number of times. This sort of thing happens far more often than I would like. If I could get better about revision, my writing would definitely improve and no one would have to read the gibberish my mind spews on autopilot. And speaking of revision, reviews from others would probably also be quite helpful; I know of several people who will give me honest criticism and whose suggestions have improved my work in the past. After all, every decent writer needs an editor—and I hope to be more than merely decent.

Of Mice and Men

    Conflict is one of those things required to make a book readable; no one wants to read about characters for whom everything always goes perfectly. There will always be a central conflict, though it may be difficult to determine, as in John Steinbeck’s novella Of Mice and Men. This book outlines the story of two migrant workers by the names of George and Lennie. One of the main issues we see, although there are many, is that Lennie has a child’s mind despite his considerable size. He seems not to know his own strength, which results in the accidental killing of creatures such as mice. This, along with the conflicts detailed below, contributes to the novella’s central conflict, the constant battle between the two migrant workers and society.
    Our first demonstration of this conflict is very near the beginning, when George and Lennie are discussing their future. They are, at the time, on their way to another in what appears to be a series of ranches, where they intend to work. George decides that they will stop for the night because they still have some distance to go--the fault, apparently, of a dishonest bus driver--and after a certain point Lennie brings up their plans for the money they will earn. From what George says, the reader understands that they intend to raise enough money to buy their own small farm so that they will no longer have to work for someone else. His explanation begins with a description of others who live the way he and Lennie do:

“‘Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no family. They don’t belong no place. They come to a ranch an’ work up a stake and then they go inta town and blow their stake, and the first thing you know they’re poundin’ their tail on some other ranch. They ain’t got nothing to look ahead to.’” (13)

George continues from this with an explanation of why he and Lennie are not like them and how they will eventually have the aforementioned small farm. The message is clear: society both demands and expects that they will give up on this dream of theirs, just like everybody else who works as they do. Their intention is to break this apparently long-standing mold and actually manage to achieve the future they want. This may not appear to be an actual conflict, because it is simply George stating what he believes to be true, but in fact it is more than that: it is an internal struggle against people’s expectations. The same conflict is displayed much later on as well, when Lennie presents their dream to the stable buck, Crooks, who doesn’t believe that they will ever actually manage it any more than anyone else has:

“‘They come, an’ they quit an’ go on; an’ every damn one of ‘em’s got a little piece of land in his head. An’ never a God damn one of ‘em ever gets it...They’re all the time talkin’ about it, but it’s jus’ in their head.” (74)

This brings up the interesting question of the reason none of them ever attain their desire. Perhaps it is that society forces them to. It is assumed that they will fail, and no matter how hard they try, they cannot help but live up to this depressing expectation--which goes on to reinforce the idea that none of them will ever succeed. George and Lennie, however, actually manage to convince some of the naysayers through the strength of their conviction that they will be different--although this doesn’t last forever.
   At the beginning of the novel, it is mentioned that something happened in the town of Weed which caused George and Lennie to lose their jobs; this seems to have been caused by Lennie, although it is not originally mentioned how. After what seems to be about a day working on the new ranch, George elaborates on this occurrence to Slim, whose position is identified as “jerkline skinner” and who wants to know more:

“‘He seen this girl in a red dress. Dumb bastard like he is, he wants to touch ever’thing he likes. Just wants to feel it. So he reaches out to feel this red dress an’ the girl lets out a squawk, and that gets Lennie all mixed up, and he holds on ‘cause that’s the only thing he can think to do. Well, this girl squawks and squawks...That girl rabbits an’ tell the law she been raped. The guys in Weed start a party out to lynch Lennie.’” (41-42)

This time it is Lennie who is up against society; the majority of people do not understand the way his mind works. He, with his inability to understand the implications of his action, attempts to touch the girl’s red dress just because he likes it, without any sinister motive. The girl assumes that he, probably like many other men, is making unsolicited and unwanted advances, and reacts as if this expectation is a concrete fact. The men of Weed take this girl at her word, because it is likely that they know her and don’t know Lennie, and certainly don’t understand Lennie or his mental difficulties. Based on this disconnect, they decide to take their revenge and lynch Lennie. It is clear that they do not succeed in this attempt, because Lennie is very much alive when the story takes place, but the fact that he might have been lynched serves as another example of the ways that society is fighting him, and George by association.
   Now we come to the end, the final manifestation of their struggle. The trouble begins when the rather...dishonest wife of Curley (the boss’s son) goes into the barn to talk to Lennie. He begins to talk about how he likes “to pet nice things with [his] fingers”, and Curley’s nameless wife responds by offering her hair as something for him to pet. After a few moments she tells him to stop, which confuses him--much like the events in Weed--and causes him to hold on. She screams, he tries to stop her and ends up accidentally killing her. When she is discovered, both George and Slim understand that Lennie didn’t do it on purpose, but Curley flies into a rage and will not listen to reason. Another worker on the ranch, Carlson, is in agreement with Curley, and finding that Lennie has taken his gun, is even more livid. The two of them, accompanied by Slim and George, set out to hunt Lennie down and make him pay for his mistake. George, however, splits from the rest of the group and goes to where he knows Lennie will be. He talks to Lennie about the dream that he now knows will never be, and then he shoots Lennie in the back of the head to prevent him from suffering. He does this because he knows that Curley would make Lennie suffer if he were allowed to catch up with him. This is demonstrated by an earlier statement of Curley’s:

“‘That big son-of-a-bitch done it. I know he done it...I’m gonna get him. I’m going for my shotgun. I’ll kill the big son-of-a-bitch myself. I’ll shoot ‘im in the guts.” (96)

To Curley, it doesn’t matter that Lennie doesn’t know his own strength, or that killing Curley’s wife was an accident. He refuses to believe that it could have been an accident because he already dislikes Lennie for other reasons, and because he cannot accept that others think differently than he does. In a way, Curley might be representative of society; he does everything within his power to control his wife, he antagonizes Lennie because Lennie is different from him, and he doesn’t bother to think about whether Lennie’s actions might have been accidental before deciding that he deserves to suffer. It follows, then, that the boss’s son is the embodiment of all George and Lennie were trying to fight.
   As demonstrated above, George and Lennie are engaged in a continuous conflict with the pressures of society, which control their lives up to and including the time of Lennie’s death. This could be said to mirror our lives today, even though we have long since escaped the Great Depression; more so now than ever, society demands that we conform to a certain mold, and as in Of Mice and Men, anyone not following expectations will find themselves ostracized. George and Lennie’s doomed attempt to attain their dream is an example of an attempt to break the mold, and it raises the worrying question: are all such attempts destined to fail?

Getting Existential

I think about a lot of weird things in my spare time. I swear this isn't my fault; when my mind is allowed to wander, it comes back with the strangest ideas. But one that I have continuously analyzed and wondered about is this: Is reality defined by a person's perception of it?

Perhaps I should explain. The world around you, what you see and hear and feel, what you experience through your senses--this is your reality. This is what you expect the world to be like, and if it were any different, you would probably find it extremely confusing. Your reality may insist that elephants are firmly bound by gravity, and if you saw an elephant floating by, this would be unusual. And you, like most of us (most of the time), assume that the reality which you live in is the same one everyone else experiences; but what if it isn't?

What if everyone's reality is fundamentally different from everyone else's? What if your perception of the world is nothing like the way it actually is?

For example: I perceive you as being what I think of as human (unless you are a superintelligent dog or cat sneaking onto your human's computer, in which case I commend you). My experience of you--sight, sound, smell--is based entirely on the assumption that you are human, and I believe that your existence follows all the rules human existence must. But what if this perception is inaccurate? What if you are, in fact, a very small salamander? This fact is not true in my reality--so which reality is actually real? (This also works if you flip it around: maybe you perceive me as a salamander when I am not.)

Take it a few steps further. If I say "Hello" to you, I may perceive that you also say "Hello" to me. But maybe you're not saying that; maybe you're saying "Go away" or "Sqhvuak wiejin" or something equally incongruous/in some unheard-of language. In fact, you might have heard something completely different from what I think I just said. Or maybe you're not really there at all. Maybe I just think you're there because it makes sense in my reality. Maybe the entire universe is something I'm imagining--it's not really there, but I think it is.

Maybe I'm not really here. Maybe I don't exist--I just think I do.

This is the point where you should stop thinking, or your brain might melt or implode. Therefore I leave you with my question still unresolved. What do you think?

The Nature of Money

I have often wondered if civilization as we know it is merely a series of thought experiments continued so long we believe it is real. Rokhsor Yusufi has given me an opportunity to explore this possibility:

People are so obsessed with money that it is slowly taking over the world. Money is nothing but paper so I do not see why we need to ruin our bodies and waste our time trying to bring green sheets home to your family. It is not as if I do not enjoy a bundle of money now and then, but I do not think it is necessary to base our lives on how much of it we have.

I think this is a very valid point of view. The way people center their lives around money is an issue that interests me greatly. There are several arguments that could be made against the excessive importance of money in our society, but the most convincing (in my opinion) is the nature of money itself.

You see, despite what people seem to believe, a dollar bill is a piece of paper. A quarter is a disc of metal. It has value only because someone, at some point in history, decided it was worth something. The worth of ten dollars exists entirely in our heads--it is us who decide that it’s worth a certain amount of food or whatever it is you’re trying to buy. If you give a dollar bill to a dog, the dog will not go out and buy a bag of chips. It’ll simply stare in confusion or chew it up. Green bits of paper do not have inherent value. They’re worth the effort put into making an object because we say they are.

An interesting fact, if memory serves, is that the objects originally used as a ‘currency’ were not thought of in the same way our money is today. They were counters, objects representative of a certain number of animals or other valuable possessions. The counters had no inherent worth of their own; they simply were used to show that a person owned a certain amount of something. If you showed a certain amount of a certain type of counter to someone and the counter represented, say, a cow, that might mean that you owned the number of cows represented by the counter. But if you just had a bunch of counters in your pocket and didn't actually own any of the things they stood for, it probably wouldn't do much for you.

At some point the value of currency was no longer assigned to the objects it represented, but the currency itself. There is no longer any kind of barter system, which was also used in the past: rather than trading an item of value for another item of value, I give you some sheets of paper and a few bits of metal in exchange for my lunch.

So why are these green papers, these metal discs, so important to us? Why are they the source of so much misery as well as happiness? Why do we value them so highly? We can't eat them or drink them, and they won't protect us from the weather or wild animals or people. Who decided, innumerable years ago, that they were so very indispensable?

Agreeing to Disagree

It's always very interesting to find quotes on people's blogs that are in tune with my own thoughts...like this one, from Stan Anderson's blog:

What I dislike is when people try and convince me of their religion, yes, i can respect that they have their own beliefs but it doesn't mean that these ideas have to be opposed onto me...If I thought what you are trying to explain was correct, then wouldn't I already be a part of that religion? And besides, If i am respecting the fact that you have your own beliefs, then why can't you respect mine?

This particular quote, at least, is something I agree with completely. It is my considered opinion (which I realise sounds a little pompous) that everyone is entitled to their own beliefs. Now I, in fact, am Pagan, a belief system which is misinterpreted quite often. I have known people to call it devil worship, which is not true at all, and there are many prejudices against it in general. I see no reason for this. Just the fact that someone does not share my beliefs does not give them the right to assume it's something specifically against theirs. I am not a Christian, but I don't go around saying that Christians are all terrible people who, I don't know, eat babies or something. There is no reason to say that, because it most definitely isn't true. I don't know anyone who eats babies. Keep in mind that this is an extrememe example and I've never been accused of cannibalism either.

And then there's the issue of people trying to convince you to believe what they do. I am perfectly willing to accept the fact that you believe in one god or five gods or no god at all, but when you start telling me how much better your belief system is than mine, that's where I begin to object. Why can't we all just let people be as they are? There are a lot of issues that work like that, actually. Nobody is ever willing to say, "Who cares what your religion/race/sexual orientation/fill-in-the-blank is? You're still a person anyway."

I guess that's what I'm really trying to say: we're all just people, regardless of how we think. As long as you don't go around doing terrible things to people, I will respect your beliefs and I will consider you to be as much of a worthwhile person as anyone else I know, and I will not make accusations to the effect that you do the aforementioned terrible things. It would be much appreciated if you would do the same, and maybe that's the first step toward changing the world.

Unfinished Writing Vol. 4: Stations

Before anyone says anything: I am not being a slacker by sticking my writing up here. I have nothing else interesting to say, it's a good way to get feedback, and someone might even find it interesting. This will not be the only kind of thing I ever post, anyway.

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    There is something indefinably lonely about train stations. Perhaps it is the fact that they are transitory places, holding a thousand impressions of humanity for only a few short moments before letting them go again, and so many people pass through them that there is a feeling of isolation despite the crowding: too many people have taken memories from this place, and there is nothing left for you but the faded imprints they have left behind. This feeling seeps into your soul until even the people rushing by to catch their train seem faded, almost incorporeal, even the man who asks you the time or the woman who accidentally spills her coffee on your shoes. And the fragmented impressions you do manage to gather are washed out still more once you board your train and are whisked away from the crowded emptiness of the place, the vague images of people in your head becoming more indistinct still, until they are as old photographs of blurred sepia, carried forever in your mind.

    New train stations, on the other hand, are different; that is to say, the ones that have only been recently built, and have only had time to have a few impressions taken away. When you enter a new train station, far from being a lonely and faded place, it seems full of light and sound and people, and your very mood is lightened by being within it. When the man stops you to ask what time it is, you answer him and then inquire about his destination; when the woman spills her coffee on your shoes, you wave away her profuse apologies and engage her instead in a discussion of the best cafés in the area. The images you tuck away in your mind are bright and full of colour and wonder, and when you leave the station it is with an oddly lingering reluctance to return to the reality of life.

    I spend much of my time in train stations, or at least I did some time ago, and I have learned to tell which stations are which sort even before my train pulls into them. There are several distinct tells: the tone in which the station’s name is announced, the demeanour of the other passengers, their reactions on hearing the place’s name, and the general atmosphere of the land outside the window. This last does not apply on rainy days, when any public place one enters has a sort of wondrous gloom to it, a melancholy of contentment that brings freshness even to the oldest of train stations. There is no explaining this feeling which seems contradictory to one who has not experienced it; but I was speaking of train stations, and one in particular which I doubt will ever fade in my memory.

    When I disembarked from my train in this particular station, it was nearing midnight—half-past eleven, to be precise. It was one of the older stations, and the name was in large white iron letters on the wall, but I do not remember what it was. The letters were only white because of the paint, which was beginning to peel and chip, a latticework of cracks showing rusted metal between the flaking dirty whiteness that had a strange beauty to it, as indefinable as that lonely element of stations. And this was one such station, the feeling emphasized by the pinpoints of lamplight in its darkness and the few people still milling about.

    I had just come to England from somewhere in Scotland, I believe, possibly from Edinburgh but potentially any other city there big enough to house a train station. I had but one suitcase, very light, and a much-worn wallet in the breast pocket of my overcoat, which I believe was brown; it still hangs in the very back of my closet. I had neglected to bring an umbrella, forgetting that most places in England are rainy most of the time, but I hadn’t ever purchased one and certainly didn’t intend to now, what with the sudden need to save money. I had up until then been living in a hotel, which was paid for nicely by my job and was far less expensive than the rent on the apartment I had previously lived in. I would have continued my sparse existence there indefinitely had it not been for the new management, whose preposterous production standards I had been unable to meet. So I had taken my few possessions and come to this small town, which I do not recall the name of, to seek—not my fortune, precisely, but merely some fortune, preferably of a good nature, because I had been lacking in this area until then. I intended to start anew, in a new position, possibly journalism, because I have always had a fondness for facts.

    It was, unsurprisingly, raining when I emerged from the train station, and the darkness of near-midnight was compounded by the darkness that comes with all rain. There were not many people about because of the late hour, and most of the nearby businesses were closed, but there was an inviting sort of diner across the street with a pleasant glow to its lights.

On the Nature of Being Qfwfq

It is impossible to write a character who does not have some sort of flaw, because without character flaws you have no plot. In Qfwfq, the main character of Italo Calvino’s Cosmicomics, the defining flaw is that he almost constantly misunderstands the intentions and thoughts of others, while he is often misunderstood by them; he also seems to have an underlying fear of being inadequate.

For a certain period of time, Qfwfq is the last living dinosaur, and because he has nowhere else to go, he ends up living in a village of the mammals that now inhabit the Earth. He is able to do this because the dinosaurs have, by now, been gone for long enough that nobody remembers what they looked like. As during several other lifetimes (of which he has many throughout the book), he eventually falls in love, in this case with a “New One” by the name of Fern-flower. Most of their relationship consists of her telling him about her dreams, which he generally misinterprets in one way or another. In one particular instance, she describes a dream in which a particularly magnificent dinosaur passes her house while ignoring her completely, and Qfwfq, as usual, reacts in the wrong way:

“The young creature had mistaken my shyness for disdainful pride. Now, when I recall it, I realize that all I had to do was maintain that attitude a little longer, make a show of haughty detachment, and I would have won her completely. Instead, the revelation so moved me that I threw myself at her feet, tears in my eyes, and said: ‘No, no, Fern-flower, it’s not the way you believe; you’re better than any Dinosaur, a hundred times better, and I feel so inferior to you…’” (104)

Fern-flower, of course, does not expect or want this reaction, and as Qfwfq says, “a feeling of uneasiness” develops between them. Qfwfq reacts wrongly to her dream because he is afraid of being misunderstood, of being thought of as something he does not believe he is. He also displays this is his other reactions to his misinterpretations of Fern-flower’s dreams; when she informs him of a dream in which a dinosaur wants to eat her alive and she likes him for it, for example:

“That dream should have made me understand many things and especially one thing: that Fern-flower desired nothing more than to be assaulted. This was the moment for me to embrace her. But the Dinosaur they imagined was too different from the Dinosaur I was…I missed a good opportunity.” (101)

Here, too, he does not react as Fern-flower expects and wants him to, because he takes this to mean she perceives him differently than he really is, and he wants to correct that perception. However, in his rush to ensure that no one thinks of him in the wrong way, he completely disregards the intentions of those he interacts with. He assumes they think in a certain way, and he filters all of their actions through his own misapprehension of their personality, reacting to what he thinks is meant. It is an interesting irony that, by trying to make himself understood, he misunderstands everyone else.

In one of his earlier incarnations (which likely influenced his feelings as a dinosaur), Qfwfq is some sort of amphibian; what kind, we will never know. All of his family, at the time when the story occurs, have made the transition from life in water to life on land—all, that is, except his great-uncle N’ba N’ga, who stubbornly insists on remaining a fish. Because of this situation, the rest of the family is engaged in a continuous struggle to convince N’ba N’ga that life is better on land. Around this point, Qfwfq falls in love with an undefined reptile, most likely a lizard, by the name of Lll. As has been mentioned, Qfwfq is an amphibian and not entirely free from the pull of the water, so he worries about appearing inferior to Lll as he sees her, leading him to hide his uncle’s existence:

“The time had come for Lll to meet my family; and since its oldest and most authoritative member was Great-Uncle N’ba N’ga, I couldn’t avoid a visit to him, to introduce my fiancée. But every time an opportunity occurred, I postponed it, out of embarrassment; knowing the prejudices among which she had been brought up, I hadn’t yet dared tell Lll that my great-uncle was a fish.” (75)

Qfwfq, as demonstrated in other passages, seems to view Lll as a superior creature in relation to him, because he is less evolved than she. Thus it follows that he fears that, if it is revealed that his great-uncle is one of those who shuns the land with the insistence that only the sea will last, Lll will associate Qfwfq with this philosophy; she will think of him a too undeveloped for her to continue seeing him. Understandably, he does not wish to be thought of as a lower life form. Furthermore, in this paragraph at least, he appears to be trying to delude himself as to the nature of his secrecy. He cites “the prejudices among which [Lll] had been brought up” as if to say that he expects Lll to be species-ist (which seems the only appropriate word) toward N’ba N’ga, and that this is the main reason he avoids introducing her to his uncle. As it turns out, of course, he has once again misunderstood, and Lll’s reaction on meeting N’ba N’ga is not at all what was expected.

After finally encountering Qfwfq’s uncle, far from considering him to be a lower life form, Lll becomes extremely interested in the nature of life as a fish. She begins visiting N’ba N’ga frequently, learning from him how to swim as a fish would—or somewhat differently, as she is of an entirely different species. Qfwfq eventually realises this and believes he understands her motives, but, yet again, he is mistaken:

“It was a game, for her: I understood. But a game I didn’t like. I had to recall her to reality, to the future that was awaiting her.” (81)

A particularly interesting aspect of his reaction is the lack of acceptance of his uncle’s lifestyle. Earlier in the story, he mentions that N’ba N’ga is unwilling to accept a reality other than his own. By his own statement shown above, however, Qfwfq reveals that he is just as unwilling to acknowledge that anyone might have a different idea of what is an ideal life. This, too, can be traced to his many misunderstandings; he has tried to convince N’ba N’ga that life on land is superior, ignoring the reasons his uncle provides for living like a fish. Because he refuses to understand another way of life, he assumes that Lll thinks the same way, and so confronts her with this mistaken impression:

“‘Lll, I have to talk to you,’ I said as soon as I saw her, ‘you’ve been amusing yourself long enough. We have more important things ahead of us. I’ve discovered a passage in the mountains: beyond it stretches an immense stone plain, just abandoned by the water. We’ll be the first to settle there, we’ll populate unknown lands, you and I, and our children…The world belongs to those with legs, not to fish, and you know it.’” (81)

Once again, Qfwfq has failed to understand another’s intentions, and once again it results to some extent in lost love. He discovers that Lll, rather than agreeing with him that returning to the water is a step backwards, has come to share great-uncle N’ba N’ga’s point of view. Rather than making an effort to interpret her actions correctly, Qfwfq has interpreted them as what they would mean coming from him: a game, humouring his deluded uncle. He mentally superimposes the way he thinks of Lll over the way she really is, and he tries to make himself understood as being on a level with this imagined Lll without taking into account that she may have hidden depths. And this is Qfwfq’s great failing, his life’s downfall: he doesn’t realise that he’s misunderstood until it’s far too late.

Keep ASTI Small

I have, inevitably, heard about ASTI's potential size increase, and a good summary of my feelings on it can be found on Amber Chan's blog:

Personally, I would like it if ASTI could keep its small size, instead of increasing the number of students, because then it would be able to maintain the small family-like atmosphere, and most of the students would know each other.  I really like that the teachers and students are all a very tightly knit community of families and friends, that we can all depend on.

This is almost exactly my opinion on the matter. I have been to only one small school apart from ASTI (which was actually much smaller), and because there were so few students, everyone knew each other; this also seems to be the case here. I prefer this kind of atmosphere to the massive school where nobody knows anyone above or below their grade level and people are separated into groups based on "popularity" or whatever it is.

If you have read this post, you know that most of my experiences with other people my age have been disastrous. It's very difficult to trust anyone after you've been mocked and ignored and betrayed over and over and over--even the people who seem to have good intentions. It's reached a point where I expect people to automatically dislike me, because that's what has happened in the past. This was alleviated somewhat by my two years at the previously mentioned small school, but then, of course, middle school happened and destroyed all of that. But now, at ASTI, with what Amber calls the "family-like atmosphere", I am actually becoming capable of talking to people without running away or deciding that I've just said something so stupid the other person will hate me forever. It may be entirely a personal issue, but being at a small school has caused drastic improvement in my minimal self-esteem.

And then there is the issue of individual attention to students. At the moment I have no scientific studies to back me up, but it has been my experience that many students function better in smaller schools. This is because, with a lower student-to-teacher ratio, it is easier for a teacher to give each student the academic attention s/he needs to be successful. In larger schools, such as my middle school, it was very difficult to talk to teachers because they were always busy or talking to another student who had already snagged the rare free moment.

In summary: ASTI's size should remain as it is.

Unfinished Writing Vol. 3: Malt Excerpt

This is the novel I am actively working on at the moment, unusual for me in that it's actually set in the real world, albeit a fictional town. (Ha, I made you look up one of your vocabulary words. Maybe.) For anyone interested: I will also be adding to the other one, so you should expect to see more of that up in the future as well. Title suggestions will be welcomed. Anyway, here's the beginning of what I'm currently writing. Note: It is long, even this chunk. [I had originally taken this down for length, but I changed my mind. Let me know if this is a problem.]

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    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    Oh, everyone had heard of him, of course. You weren’t much of anybody in Eastport if you’d never heard of Maxwell Malt. Some called him a magician, others the superhero of the day, and still others the “people’s hero”, whatever that meant. He had done amazing things. He had saved the city and its surrounding area from bizarre villains countless times, including, once, an army of giant animate teddy bears. Everyone knew it. Most people had witnessed his heroism firsthand. And yet the question still circulated the streets daily.

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    No one had really seen him anywhere, apart from the averted crises.

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    A few people had managed to catch a glimpse of him during his many escapades, but even then, the only detail that was certain was that he had black hair. Maybe.

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    There were countless reporters circling throughout Eastport, interviewing whoever they encountered for any information relevant to the mysterious small-town superpower (which most of them thought was a catchy phrase).

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    The unanswerable question was currently repeating itself, with no sign of stopping any time soon, in the head of reporter Wilfred Jenkins as he wandered through Eastport’s streets like many journalists before him. He was trying to think of anything he could do, anyone he hadn’t interviewed, to get to the bottom of this Maxwell Malt mystery. It wasn’t just a matter of journalistic pride anymore; it was almost an obsession. And anyway—

    “Oh, I’m terribly sorry…”

    “No! No! Don’t apologize…my fault entirely…”

    Anyway, Wilfred wasn’t just in it for the potential newspaper article with his name on it, as such. So far he’d only ever gotten a few very minor assignments. The way he saw it, the Maxwell Malt story was his last chance to make a good impression on Editor-in-Chief Dawson before he was condemned as a talentless wretch for the rest of his li—wait a minute…

   Wilfred spun around, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of the man he’d run into while lost in thought. He hadn’t recognized the man, so presumably he was an as-yet-uninterviewed Eastporter who might possibly know something of the elusive Malt—but alas, there was no sign of him. (Wilfred liked to think words like “alas”, in case Dawson could read minds.)

    Come to think of it, Wilfred couldn’t really remember the face of the stranger who had so hurriedly taken the blame for the collision. He had a vague impression that the man’s hair had been dark, but that was all. How curious.

    Oh, well. It was probably just because Wilfred had been so deep in thought, and he hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, anyway.

    With a last, regretful glance behind him, Wilfred continued in search of solutions to his mystery.

    Max looked around the corner of a shelf in the bookstore he’d ducked into, badly startling a six-year-old girl. After a few moments’ assessment to ensure he hadn’t been followed, he considered his options and returned to crouching behind the bookshelf.

    He’d never meant to become so mysterious, he really hadn’t. But he’d worked so fast, those first few times, and no one had really seen him properly. Then he’d gotten into the habit of hiding his identity, once the newspapers had printed their lack of understanding, because nothing was more fun than messing around with journalists’ minds. He had let it become a…a game. And it had been fine then.

    But then there had been the cultist and his bears, and news had somehow gotten to the non-local papers, and now he was always having to hide from nosy reporters. Because if the mystery surrounding him was waved away, he wouldn’t be the people’s hero anymore; the game would end. And while he knew it was a selfish thought, a little, he had other motives for concealing his identity. People needed heroes; if you took them away, what was there?

    By now, the reader will probably have reasoned out the identity of our friend Max. So let us take a look at the people’s hero Maxwell Malt; knowing him, we may not get another chance.

    Max does indeed have black hair; the witnesses were correct in that, at least. He’s a little on the tall side, maybe, although this is exaggerated by his tendency to walk on his toes. His face is unremarkable, eyes perhaps a little large, nose a little pointed—oh, and rather pale at the moment, but we can forgive him that, considering his narrow escape. At the time our story begins he has three broken ribs, courtesy of the cultist-and-bears incident, which are healing more slowly than they ought to because of his unfortunate wall-climbing habit. And that, in brief, is the mysterious Maxwell Malt, at least on the outside (mainly).

    Now he sighed and closed his eyes, inadvertently bringing back memories of his eighth birthday, when he’d closed his eyes to become invisible and sneak extra cake. He’d been caught, of course, although there was no real punishment, just a chiding.

    And now he was all but invisible in the normal course of his life, just another faceless figure passing by in the street. Unknown and unmemorable, even as his name was spoken daily all over Eastport.

    When he had calmed down reasonably from his encounter with the journalist, Max got up and slowly, carefully made his way out to the sidewalk. If he was lucky enough not to run into any more nosy reporters, weasels who tried to be sly while their occupation was written all over them, he might be at work on time for once.

    He tried to run inconspicuously. It worked, mostly because there were at least fifty other people trying to avoid being late for whatever it was they did all day.

    Max was the stockboy at Morris and Morrison, which was not so much a general store as a vague one, because the job kept him out of sight and he didn’t have to wear a uniform. Eastport was not a large town, but Morris and Morrison hadn’t had much business in the past twenty or so years, because the owners had never decided on anything specific to sell, the way everyone else had. They also didn’t ask a lot of questions, which was why Max could work there; all they knew was that he was called Max and would only take his pay in cash.

    After a great deal of trying to run through large crowds of people going the other way, which he had never been very good at, Max came to a halt outside Morris and Morrison. Even the building was vague; it seemed to blend into the apartment buildings on either side of it, and the way it sat between them appeared almost designed to keep it unnoticed. Its only distinguishing feature was the sign, with a space left for the store’s specialty, assuming the owners ever decided on one.

    Max barely noticed the sign by this time; he knew the exact distance to the store from just about every part of the town after working there for five years. A bell dinged when the door opened, but it wasn’t actually over the door. Instead it hung over the counter, connected to the door by a complicated system of ropes and pulleys attached to the ceiling, dangling over Dennis the cashier’s desk. Dennis had assembled this mechanism for the sheer joy of watching customers stare up in confusion at the ringing of an unseen bell.

    Max often wondered why Dennis lived in Eastport and not, say, a mental institution.

    As he passed the counter on his way to the back room, Dennis called after him, “Since when are you ever on time? Are you trying to make me look bad or something?”

    Max just smiled and spent a moment standing in the darkness of the back room, waiting for his vision to adjust. Then he started moving the previous night’s shipments so he would be able to find them when he needed to. It was a monotonous task, and, at the moment, slightly painful, but he enjoyed his work. It allowed him, for just a little while, to forget who he was.

A Commentary on Style

I have generally not been particularly interested in "fashion", preferring to go my own way, but I have always found it interesting to learn what other people's views on this subject are. Thus, I was drawn to Ale'ah Bashir-Baaquee's blog and the post entitled "Swagga-Style"--where I found this:

Maybe its becuase I'm black but inter racial fashions annoy you? Sometimes I say this becuase ever since the saggin pance era started in person other than a black that was saggin hid pants, always had some negativecomment comming from them, But when Black guys start dressing like white guys with skinny jeans and skate boards no one sais anything. WHY IS THAT?

I think fashion is an expression of who you are, I;m not saying every white person who wants to, try and dress black I'm not saying that. But I think styles have to fit you inside and out. Just becase you may feel like your black doesn't mean youa re. I'm not being racist but still.

It appears from other people's posts that I am in agreement with at least some of them when I state that I disagree with this. I have to say, I spy a contradiction here. First you say that you think fashion is an expression of who you are, but you follow it up by stating that "just because you may feel like you're black doesn't mean you are" and that "inter racial fashions" annoy you. I find this somewhat confusing. A person doesn't necessarily decide to sag their pants because they "feel like [they're] black". It may be a completely different and unrelated statement on their part; an expression of who they are, in other words. This is not specifically in defense of the trend, which I personally think is silly, but there is an inconsistency in what you're saying.

Another point: the style you point out as being bothersome isn't race-specific. Forgive me for mixing quotes here, but I find my point better explained by a response from Ruby Rew:

For your information, the sagging fashion began in prison. This means that both black and white men in prison could have been rockin' it. It is often affiliated with gang fashion, hip-hop fashion, or the lack of wearing a belt. It prison, it could have been just the fact that they didn't want to zip their outfits all the way up.

As explained here, the issue of white people sagging their pants is not an inter-racial fashion, and is not necessarily used because these people feel like they're black. You also make the point that "when Black guys start dressing like white guys with skinny jeans and skate boards no one sais anything", but you don't condemn this action as black people feeling like they're white and following a trend for that reason. With this unbalance, your statement comes across (at least to some extent) as saying that white people must stick to their own race-specific fashions, but this is not required of other races.

I'm not criticizing your ideas in their entirety; as has been mentioned by a few others, "Who decides what style is?" is a very good and perfectly legitimate question. You make several good supporting points...but then you seem almost to change your mind and contradict your own opinions. So what is the real position you mean to take?

For myself, I am of the opinion that style is defined by the person who uses it. Everyone has their own specific style, which is always influenced by others to a certain degree, even a small one--in the words of John Donne, no man is an island. But the fact is that everyone should be able to define their own style, without worrying about inter-racial issues or "feeling black".

Unfinished Writing Vol. 2: Untitled

This particular story chunk is destined to be a book one day, assuming I ever get my act together and start working on it again. This is only part of what I currently have, which is two and a half pages long, too much for a blog post. Anyway...opinions?

---

    It was time, once again, for Draigfest.

    There were hundreds of different clans and provinces and other self-governing colonies of dragons in Attria, some of which were constantly at war or just disagreement; others pretended that certain colonies didn’t exist for the sake of peace. Dragons are not, by nature, cooperative with those unlike them, resulting in a tangle of boundary lines to confuse even the most accomplished of cartographers. The colonies were not receptive to new dragons emigrating from other colonies, and their leaders rarely had any kind of meeting because of the everlasting tensions between them.

    But Draigfest was different. Draigfest happened in the very center of the valley, where no colony claimed territory, and it was a festival, or possibly a convention, for those dragons that weren’t really concerned one way or another with the misdeeds of their neighbours’ ancestors and were curious about the other colonies. Some, over the years, had even built up long-distance friendships with other dragons.

    This was the twenty-fifth annual Draigfest, and like the others, it was a spectacular success. Countless wooden stalls selling crafts, services and other interesting objects had been set up by the vendors of that year, and hundreds of tents and other portable shelters lined the valley, so that there was barely any room for the walking dragons to move through the campground. There was green grass underfoot, blue sky overhead, and forest all around. Dragons of all colours and shapes and sizes walked among the stalls, looking for something to do or something to buy, and others sat in the open areas and caught up with friends from other colonies. Speed dragons zoomed between the structures, their feathers glinting in the sun like jewels.[1]

    Amid all the shouting and twittering and whatever other noises turned up, there sat a lone dragon. He was the sort of person who is easily overlooked, rather small for a dragon and a generic green colour. His horns had no particular distinction, his muzzle was not more than usually pointed, and his tail lacked even a standard diamond-shaped barb. All in all, it was not particularly odd that no one seemed to notice him sitting there, apparently waiting for someone. Any number of his own kind were here today, mostly larger than him.

    Certainly no one noticed the way he was watching the sky, or how his eyes followed the movements of something no one could see.

    After some time, something descended from a great height above, landing in a cloud of dust and cursing several feet away. The green dragon smiled and made his way through the crowd to the settling dust.

    An orange dragon was sitting among the dirt clods and torn grass of her landing, shaking her streamlined head and struggling to fold red-feathered wings. She shifted her weight in an effort to get her bearings and began carefully grooming the red crest on  her head. The green dragon sniggered. “Oh, now you decide to take pride in your appearance?”

    “Shut up, Tadpole,” she snapped, flattening her crest self-consciously.

    “Hey, it’s not my fault you never learned how to land.”

    “I did, too. But the stupid instructor apparently assumed I’d only ever be landing on my dinner and not, say, the ground.” Finally satisfied with her appearance, she dropped to four legs and fixed a yellow stare on Tad. “How did you know it was me crashing here, anyway? It could have been anyone in my flight class.”

    Tad gestured vaguely toward his eyes. “I think it’s a species thing, but I’ve never asked anyone else about it. Shouldn’t you know that by now? I thought Darasci was supposed to mean ‘intelligent’ or something.”

    “Huh.” Darasci snorted. “I’m not much for memory, but from what I’ve seen I doubt anyone else in your colony has the eyes of a hawk. Your cousin Werther runs into trees all the time, anyway.”

    “Well, Werther’s…Werther. But who cares about him? What interesting and insightful pursuits have you set your mind to since last year?” Tad grinned.

    “Oh, look at Mr. Subtle. You know I don’t go in for work. I’m not made for it, no matter what my aunt says. I’m doing fine with my life.”

    “Which consists of what?”

    “Um…hunting, sleeping, reading and wandering around the forest. But it’s very fulfilling,” she added defensively. “Anyway, what have you been doing that’s so great?”

    “Well.” Tad cleared his throat, as if preparing for a long speech, and then shook his head. “Let’s walk. I’m hungry; I’ve been waiting for you to land for hours.”

    “Pfft.” Darasci rolled her eyes, but she followed him when he headed for the nearest food stall. “So?” she prompted.

    “Right. Well, there was a seminar thing last week about our cultural identity, something like that.” He laughed. “Most of it was complete garbage, of course, but there was some decent information there. One of the things they mentioned—”

    “Who’s this they?” Darasci asked accusingly.

    Tad waved a claw dismissively. “Oh, just some religionists or something. I think one of them was named Zag. Anyway, one of the things they mentioned was this island somewhere in the South Sea—it’s called Partiani—where there’s a cave guarded by some sort of tiger or some such.”

    “Ooh, a cave. Why’s that so interesting?”

    He glared at her. “I was coming to that. Apparently, somewhere in the cave is the Eggstone, which is some kind of purple gem shaped exactly like an egg, with gold wrapped around it or something like that. And supposedly it has some kind of power.”

    “So what’s this got to do with anything?”

    “I’m going to find the Eggstone, just to see it. It sounds…important.”

    Darasci was silent for a few moments as she contemplated this. Then, to Tad’s annoyance, she burst out laughing.

    “It’s not funny,” he said indignantly. Darasci shook her head and waited for the laughter to subside.

    “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “it’s just so ridiculous. You’ve never been out of the valley, and you want to go all the way to the South Sea and find something that probably isn’t even there? Really?”

---

[1] Speed dragons were something of a joke up in the mountains, but here in the valley they were recognized as helpful messengers, since they could speak most languages with relative ease and flew very fast, as the name indicates. They had a clan system and lived in large groups in the forest, and worked for payment in food only, because they didn’t have a currency. They only seemed to have four colour variations, possibly as some kind of subspecies indication, but they were bright enough to be noticeable anyway.

Salt Shakers

Because occasionally I do finish things, and they deserve their own category.

---

There were two ceramic chickens who lived on the counter. The rooster was white, and his name was Salt. The hen was black, and her name was Pepper. The humans always called them by their names, when they called them anything at all.

The chickens never called each other anything, because they were the only ones they talked to.

Neither of them had any legs, but it didn't matter because there wasn't anywhere for them to walk to.

The white one was blind, eyes cataracted by his own paint and by years of salt dust, and the black one was his eyes. During the days which they spent together, the days which had no beginning and had no ending, the black one would sometimes whisper to the white one about what was happening that he could not hear.

They kept no secrets from each other because they were their only company and because they had no secrets to keep.

Day after day, night after night, they sat and watched and listened and talked. They talked about the things that only ceramic chickens can rightfully talk about, because only they know.

They talked about the clumsiness of humans, and the meaning of life, and why a cat was, and how they had come to be. They spoke deep, insightful philosophy which no human would ever hear, but it didn't matter because no human could have truly grasped it. They said silly, frivolous things and laughed at jokes no human would ever laugh at, but it didn't matter because no human could have understood why they were funny.

Sometimes the humans that lived there needed their help, and so they called them by their names and turned them over and shook them over food. Sometimes other humans came, humans that the chickens did not know, and they would find themselves turned in every direction imaginable for hours and hours. The chickens accepted this, because they understood their purpose.

The two ceramic chickens on the counter have their story, and they are their story. It is a story of bright, sunny mornings when the humans spend hours in the kitchen where the chickens can see them, and of long, dark nights when the kitchen is empty and silent.

It is a long story, and it has no beginning and it has no ending, and it lasts until they leave the counter for another place. And then it becomes another story, so that the story can never truly stop.

There are two ceramic chickens who live on the counter. The rooster is white, and his name is Salt. The hen is black, and her name is Pepper. They sit on the counter, as they always have, as they always will.