People are the most unpredictable of obstacles

Only when you ride a bicycle do you realise just how truly flippant the human spirit is. Sometimes it seems that people are going out of their way to walk backwards across an entire footpath simply to collide with you, and then blame you (me) for riding on the footpath in the first place! What, are they crazy?! I'm not going to ride on the road! That's dangerous!

And you start to create gross generalisations about people's ability to use their peripheral vision, audition and spatial sense. Men are generally more aware of the bicyclist whose path they are blocking and who is squeakily grinding to a halt behind them than women. People on mobile phones are the least aware of all. This possibly says more about the prejudiced bicyclist (me again!) than about the pedestrian.

And you start to appreciate the true complex randomness of human nature and movement. Free wills, erratically stumbling their way through life, or automatons following a complex but fixed predetermined path, have it as you will - the dance is truly beautiful. Just annoying.

SVO

The great weakness of English as a Subject-Verb-Object language only really becomes apparent when it forces you to hang a name in the air for the eternity it takes to get out "died". No object can follow, of course, and it is lucky that this is so, because the difficulty in forming the name, with its potential to be followed by an infinite number of verbs, knowing that the one to come is the ultimate intransitive, is only exceeded by the impossibility of getting out anything further.

I wrote the above to myself on the back of a Service Agreement while I was waiting for the family of the deceased to arrive at a recent funeral. While the body was being placed in the ground, I was mentally describing the light-brown colouration of the fringes of the tallit which had been unwrapped from the body of the dead boy, brought out from the grave by the man whose job it is to jump into graves with dead bodies and make sure they lie properly, and laid on the stretcher which just a few minutes beforehand had been followed by all of the mourners to that place, and which was now lying just near my foot.

I had left it until now.

I have a funny relationship with death. I relate to the dead person, thinking that maybe that's me and my living is the illusion. I relate to the family, to their genuineness, and try to let them know that no matter how unconventional they think their feelings are, it's okay to feel it while I'm there. Having some brief experience in the world of mourning from the inside, I think it's very common that the mourners themselves feel pressure to feel in a certain way, to act in a certain way. In most cases, if you ask the mourners, they will probably say that it's like any occasion where they are hosting guests - they will act in a certain way and try to control the behaviour of those around them so that their guests feel comfortable. Davka I think that death is the one occasion where we should be released from these bonds of politeness, and allowed to feel whatever the hell we want.

Dream Interpreters - Have Your Way

I had the strangest dream(s) last night. The parenthesised "s" is because I never seem to know whether my dreams work in installments, with me waking up in between and falling asleep to the next episode.

I was with my cousin Nadav and someone else (possibly my brother?) in a house, with no real purpose. The problem was that there were tiny holes in the walls of this house, out of which arrows would occasionally fly at us, for no apparent reason. We thought it possible that the arrows flew out due to some kind of motion or position sensor, since it seemed that in certain places in the house (in particular I remember wanting to lie on the bed, and being bombarded with six arrows in the back especially there) the arrows were triggered more than in others. At the beginning, we tried to move as little as possible, only one step at a time, in order to find out what would trigger the arrows. After a while, during which time I pulled some arrows out of my back, bringing with them sizeable chunks of flesh, my cousin decided that he didn't want to play anymore - I think because his girlfriend wasn't letting him. So somehow he left the game. But somehow, when I decided much (and many arrows in the back) later that I didn't want to play anymore, I had to convince one of the partners from my work that it was time to stop, and he explained that there was some kind of penalty and that I would have to continue it until the end the next time anyway.

On a side note, it's interesting that I very rarely remember my dreams, in particular well into the next day. Well, it's now 2:06pm, and my recollection, though far from perfect, is admirably existent.

Anyone who would like to have a stab at interpreting the dream, may take her/his best shot.

Wanted: Career Advice

I think I'm in need of some good career advice. And I'll tell you why. If you were to ask me what I'm looking for in a job, I think the answer would be: "To really connect with people. To bring some kind of happiness, or maybe peace, to people's lives, including mine." This is not to say that I don't want to earn money. I want to feel that I'm independent and not living off other people's charity. I don't want to be poor. I'm even not shy to say that money can buy stuff which can contribute to my happiness. But it turns out that money is a pretty relative thing – there is always someone with more, and there is always someone with less. Lots of people on either side, in fact. And money doesn't seem to be the consistently critical factor determining the level of satisfaction, or happiness, or peace, or lack of restlessness in the lives of the people on either side.

Given that, I have a problem. I see everybody around me, and their dreams. They seem to want to do the GMAT, to study an MBA, or maybe a Masters of Law or something that will make them money. They seem to want to work in high-powered fields where large amounts of money are paid to you in return for sacrificing your every waking second to working and/or thinking/talking/breathing work. [Note: Even as I write this, I note that "everybody" is an absolute misnomer. The vast majority of my friends are not doing the above. Many of them are actually following where their dreams (i.e. not money) are taking them. But the fact that at times like these I seem to blot them out of my thoughts is part of the problem].

To delve a little deeper, I see those people wanting those things, in some cases succeeding, in some cases failing, and I think: "I can do that. I'm smart. I can do the brain stuff that you've got to do to do that." And it's true. I can do the brain stuff. That thing behind my nose (to quote a really good movie I just saw – La science des rêves) works really well with lots of things. And then the guilt kicks in. It derives from the dreaded word "potential". The word appeared many times on my school report card. And it's a scary word. Because having "potential" means that you're not doing the "actual". And not only that, it sets up a presumption that you should be doing the actual, but aren't. And when you don't even know what the actual is, or how you should be doing it, or why, it all turns into a bad feeling.

It's because of this bad feeling that I found myself wasting my day today making an application for a job which I probably (I say probably because, as usual, I don't even have enough information to make an informed decision – but my emotions say probably) don't even want, for a position that I wouldn't know what to do with it if I were to get it, purely because it seems to be the kind of job that I feel like I should want. And then I did sample questions for the GMAT exams, which is all well and good, until you take into account that the sole purpose of those exams is to winnow away inappropriate candidates for studying an MBA program; put that together with the fact that if I ended up doing an MBA, it would contribute absolutely nothing to being anyplace that I actually want or will want to be, and you see how the problem arises yet again. Oh, and I checked out a Masters of Law at Stanford University – it is almost certainly true that Stanford University has a good teaching reputation, but the main reason I'm attracted to studying there is that there are squirrels there (I visited once in my youth, and was amazed to find that squirrels not only genuinely exist, but roam freely on the lawns).

So this is where you, my studio audience comes in. Taking into account that you are a select few, who have made somewhat select life choices, I don't expect objectivity, so fire away. But don't even try to tempt me into academia – I was frightened away from that (along with politics, its not-so-distant cousin) a long time ago.

Academic Honesty

I have a dilemma.

A certain young gentlemen whose acquaintance I have not made other than in this virtual world of almost friends and not-quite communities, owns and operates a small web-log by the delightfully paronomastic name of "De-Lingu-ent: Latin Language Defective".

In the blog's profile, the young gentleman (who goes by the odd pseudonym of "500.50.100", and whom for convenience I shall therefore call "Five"), describes his self-assigned task as follows: "a Spartan in Rome investigates language – mediaeval and classic Latin, slang, Ecclesiastical Latin, Etruscan, Monasterish, and more - with an eye on etymology. I'm not a professional linguist, and will be using this blog to explore my own questions, and I welcome yours as well." He does not address the question of why he uses the word "defective" in the name of the blog, possibly on the assumption that we, his readers, will understand that he, being of Greek heritage, has been "tainted" by his deep interest in a language not his mother tongue.

A certain other gentleman, who calls himself merely "Phaedrus", regularly posts comments on the blog of this magnanimous host. In his comments to the blog, he not only expresses great wonderment at the etymological findings of the blog's author (which are indeed of some academic merit), but also adds certain hypotheses of his own as to connections between some of the Latin roots in question and other, quite different words, often in other languages.

For instance, where Five might construct a post about the Latin word "dat" ("he gives"), its etymological sources, its change in use over time, and its connection to other Latin words, Phaedrus might open with a compliment to his host as to the latter's enlightening insight, and follow with the tasty suggestion that perhaps the same word is somehow connected to Hebrew's "דת" ("religion") – after all, religion is something that the gods "gave" to humanity, and the similarity in pronunciation is just uncanny. Phaedrus presents his hypothesis as just something which sprang to mind, and indeed we are inclined to believe that he is merely another enthusiastic amateur throwing ideas around the intellectual ball-park.

By chance, after noticing a certain way of thinking and writing in Phaedrus' comments, a recollection itched its way to the forefront of my memory, whereby I had met colleagues of Phaedrus' (if not Phaedrus himself) in the past, and been exposed to their ideas. This had occurred back in my university days, when I had been studying linguistics, a field in which I was then (as now) keenly interested.

These colleagues were spear-heading a linguistic theorem known as "Aeneidics", under whose banner they posited that all the world's languages sprang from one original source, and that only over time did they mutate into the almost unidentifiable bastard descendants that they are today. That original language, according to this school of thought, was the proto-Latin language of Aeneas, son of the goddess, and founder of Rome. And using certain proprietary techniques, so they claim, it is still possible to see and hear the Aeneidic source in a great number of words commonly used in every modern language in existence (though due to the practicalities of research, most of the examples they have come up with to support their claim are in the Hebrew language).

On this basis, the proponents of Aeneidics would persuade the world that Venus is the one true goddess, Vergil's Aeneid is literally true (after all, in Book X, this dispersion of languages from one original source is foreseen with uncanny perspicacity: "Speak the same language … and Rome's immortal majesty remain"*), and all people of intellectual honesty and goodwill (in particular, Hebrew speakers) ought therefore to subjugate themselves to the rightful dominion of the Roman Empire.

And now to the dilemma.

Being of the opinion that:

(i) Phaedrus is a proponent of a theory, the theoreticians of which are so strongly motivated to prove their desired conclusion, that serious questions may arise as to their adherence to objective scientific method; and
(ii) Phaedrus seems not to have been heretofore open as to his membership of this club, instead posting what I consider "teasers" to lure unsuspecting amateur linguists to his way of thinking;

do I have some kind of moral obligation to unmask Phaedrus in the name of academic honesty?

If so, what does this obligation contain? To publicly connect Phaedrus with his colleagues (all it would take would be providing a link to their website)? To privately notify Five of my take on Phaedrus' intentions, by way of a friendly "heads-up"?

Or is the above approach merely arrogant and rude? Ought I respect Phaedrus' right to hold and freely purvey his opinions as any vendor in the great marketplace of ideas that is this worldwide web? A fortiori, given that Five seems also to be somewhat of a follower of the goddess of Rome? Ought I allow (or even participate in) academic debate to take on Phaedrus' arguments on their own merits, without prejudicing the forum by denigrating Phaedrus' intentions as I perceive them? Should I, in short, mind my own business?

Your suggestions would be appreciated.

* From the Project Gutenberg translation of the Aeneid.

On flossing

I was advised by my dental hygienist yesterday that, amongst other ungainly activities, it would be advisable for me to take up flossing. At least four times a week, she said.

My first reaction was, where does this four times a week thing come from? Is it possible that she is using a psychological trick on me, whereby if she had said "once a week" or "every day" I wouldn't have taken her seriously, but because she came up with the unlikely, and therefore scientific-sounding "four times a week", I am more likely to treat her as the serious professional she is, and take her at her word?

My second reaction occurred only now, when I remembered to floss in a systematic manner for the first time. And that reaction was - this is a really unpleasant activity. It is like taking nose-picking (which is actually quite pleasurable) to a whole new level of pedantry, where rather than just shoving your finger in and having a good scratch of the passages, you are forced to meticulously clean nasal hair by nasal hair, every femtometre of the membranous lining, with an awkward tool unsuited to such tasks (in the way that the human finger, thanks to the miracles of evolution, unquestionably is). It is also excruciatingly boring. And I am speaking as someone with patience of steel - indeed, I once had a job where for three months I had to check that documents (128 boxes of documents, to be precise) were arranged in (seven-digit) numerical order.

I don't know how long this flossing this is going to last. I will be sure to keep you posted.

What I don't like about books

When they're not good, they don't end. When they are, they do.

It's enough to give a person an abandonment complex.

A pint-sized herring

Well. I just created double the liability for myself by taking out a lease over a new, airy and well-located piece of the either - a new blog by the name of "Love Davka". It is a testament no less to my short concentration span as to my absolute inability to resist a pun that I now have another blog, with no real idea as to with what I will fill it (dear Eliza, dear Eliza). Because of the name, I gave it a subtitle hinting that I would fill it with all of the things that I love about Israel, in the vain desire of one day achieving one of those prestigious awards received by websites which blatantly propagandise and inform the world that Israel is a wonderful place to live, if only people would stop shooting at us.

In a sense that may be true, I guess. But I've never really felt comfortable propagandising about anything (not least because I'm not even sure if "propagandising" ought correctly to appear in a dictionary - and being in the lazy 2am frame of mind which would prefer making an internally referential comment than opening www.dictionary.com in a new window) and what's even worse, I've started learning to spell like an American. "Z"s have started popping up in all kinds of places previously inhabited by "s"s. It's quite disturbing.

My soul is tired. I find the exposure of a blog to be more than my heart can bear. Is this what is really bothering me? I can just as easily not push "Publish Post" - let this posting fall away into the realms of nothingness - or if I were to click "Save as Draft" keep it in suspended animation in the way that I do with emails that I receive from people to whom I simply do not know how to reply. It would be easy. But a part of me knows that I want to post, that I want to go public with my innermost thoughts, even if those thoughts are inane and uninteresting to anyone but ... no, really to anyone. Even I am not truly interested in my innermost thoughts - my only interest lies in keeping innermost thoughts alive and moving - like a mother of a sick child, I don't care if little Timmy is a crap human being, just so long as he's not dead. The perpetuation of some kind of inner movement is most probably what encouraged me to write in the first place.

So what's news? I always like to hear other people speak, because I always find them infinitely more interesting than I find myself. I mean, I live with myself. Twenty four hours a day. In these circumstances, I am surprised that other people like to speak about themselves so much. Don't they get bored? Don't they get sick of that friend who's always hanging around them, wherever they are they're there, whatever they're doing they're doing it right there inside them, even when they're sleeping they're there sleeping right along within their skin. Only it's the friend that's snoring, not them (maybe)? Or are people generally good friends with themselves, the kind of friends that can't get enough of each other, so much so that the person is compelled to talk to third parties about their special friend all of the time?

Maybe. Lucky people. They got cool friends. I got a guy that plays Scrabble and chess and occasionally the piano.

Should I interpret the above as meaning that I really don't like myself? Possibly. But at least I don't bug myself. You know, I pretty much let myself alone. Don't put too much pressure on myself. I should probably give myself a call sometime.

Red - The Blood of Angry Men

I find a lot of things about life amusing. The fact that I can't think of any of them right now doesn't make them any less real.

I spend a lot of my existence wanting to be witty. I feel it adds a certain positivity to the world, without which existence would be worse for everyone. The way I see it, life is not naturally pleasurable. One must make it so.

There are people I know who get a kick out of life. They live from day to day, waking up everyone morning with a broad grin on their face about the day to come. They do stuff that makes them happy, and even when they're doing stuff that doesn't automatically contribute to their happiness, their thinking makes it so. Or they have other things, the happiness from which tides them over until the next happy-making exercise.

I want to be one of those people. In contrast, I feel that I am riding life, in a way which is generally enjoyable, occasionally scary, and once in a while offering of opportunities which make everything that little bit more interesting. But I have trouble in believing that there is some kind of overall wholeness in my life, some kind of unifying force that brings everything together so that I can say: "I live for [thing]".

I have a feeling that this is a question of personality, and that wanting to change probably can't make it so. I can probably read any number of self-help books which will tell me the opposite, but I'm also a fatalist. So I believe that not only can't I change, but that this inability to change is predestined by a higher power.

I just got back from a "chocolate party". Everyone that was to be eaten was made with chocolate. And I ate a lot of chocolate. And I realised, at some point, that I really wanted to eat something more savoury, and that the chocolate wasn't really making me feel good. Those people who tell you that you can have too much of a good thing ... with them I would disagree, as I don't believe that chocolate has ever been a really good thing for me. It is merely one of the many socially encouraged but personally repulsive habits which I have taken on in the course of my life, like smoking. It just probably won't give me cancer.

I have a morbid, unqualified, unquestioning respect for doctors. It seems to me that they have access to a body of knowledge that I am so far removed from, that I know so little about, that I am prepared to put myself in their hands based on absolutely blind faith. I am full of blind faith. I willingly throw myself and my fate into the hands of others, and give them absolute control over my destiny. I guess it's because then I can blame them if it works out wrong. Or perhaps it's just another unchangeable part of my personality, for which there is no good reason. But doctors in particular. They're just so ... medical. I should probably have studied medicine, just so that I could have faith in myself.

But instead, I studied law, for pretty much the same reasons. I wanted to know how it worked. I wanted to never again be in a situation where because I didn't know how things worked, I ended up cold, embarrassed and alone. And eventually I figured out that it's not really knowing how things worked that makes you end up neither cold, embarrassed or alone (although it helps). It is choosing not to be cold, embarrassed and alone. That's pretty much all it takes. And it all works itself out from there.

So go out there. Love one another. You know what, do whatever, I don't care. I'm passive aggressive, and proud of it.

Retiling the bathroom

So I finally got off my e-ass (I like to think of it as the slow version of e-mule), and checked out some other people's blogs. And you know what I found out? Whereas in the past, the only way I would see someone else's blog was by clicking on a likely sounding "Random Blog" on the homepage of Blogspot.com (and finding out that it sounded likely because it was crap), I started looking at the blogs that my friends link to on their blogs, and so on and so on. What I realised was: (i) that it took me a few seconds to figure out how to say "and so on and so on". What came to mind was: "וכן הלאה וכן הלאה", which I think really says something about priming and neurocognition and the like; and (ii) that there are actually some blogs out there that I can really get into, and some people with genuine feelings and a lack of embarrassment about expressing them. And that's really nice. Oh, and (iii) I figured out that I've started to number things in lists like a lawyer. You know, Roman numerals. Semicolons. I burnt my finger the other day. Classic product liability case. In a sense, I'm disappointed I didn't get more injured so that I could sue the Chinese manufacturer of that quality sparkler which I lit on the stove and burst into flame. Can you get punitive damages in China? I like the idea. Punish people for being careless. In fact, I think it is worthwhile applying the idea to everyday life. Spill over a glass of water? Get a punch in the face! That'll teach you for next time. And if you don't learn, up the punishment until you do! All those shlemiels and shlimazels out there have got another think coming. Okay, I'm starting to talk like a hillbilly. I think it's time to pop my blister and let out a little blister fluid. It's been a pleasure sharing with you.
Daniel

The McDonalds Effect

I was told by friends that used to work at McDonalds, that after working at McDonalds for an amount of time, they were no longer able to eat at McDonalds. This was despite the obvious financial incentives that their employer would give them to do exactly that. And the reason for it was, primarily, that they had seen the production process, and that they were therefore too disgusted to eat the final product.

I think that for a long time, this was my attitude to producing any kind of expressive art - fear that by the fact of participating in the process of writing, I would be turned off the consumption of that art - in this case reading - by the fact of having seen the inner processes of the art itself.

And this is perhaps one of the tragedies of my generation - that because processes in which, otherwise, participation would only increase the appreciation of the product, have become so degraded as to have quite the opposite effect, we are encouraged to accept and generalise this as the rule, and not as some form of demeaned and demeaning exception.

It is perhaps the fate of humanity that in every generation there must be a tragedy, however that tragedy is not defined until writers propose and argue and repropose and reargue exactly what that tragedy is. And by the time the tragedy is defined, it has most likely already changed.

There is a lot in how you define something. A leader returns after years in "exile", yearning all of that time to return to his/her homeland. What does that mean, "exile"? Does it count as exile if the person happened to leave for that period of time, for economic reasons? Because they got accepted to a university there? Because their family moved there? Does it matter? There is no formula for leadership - a leader maximises the story that is behind them into something which becomes a story with a moral, a message - a leader creates around her/himself an epic. Or maybe it's just got to do with money. Or maybe the way other people see you. But which people? Again, it probably doesn't matter.

I always wonder why people read other people's biographies and autobiographies. Perhaps it is because they are looking for the formula of that person's success, for something that they can mimic and become that person. But the whole point is that that person is that person because they did not mimic someone else - they acted as only they knew how and did, and then they told lots and lots of people how great they are for doing so, and wrote about it a book, and then sold that book for money. Potentially lots of money. And they spent that money on building up their image, and the whole thing starts again.

It probably doesn't matter.

Bartleby, the Scrivener

I was just reading through a post I made a while back, entitled "Why Internet Books Will Never Succeed" (how's that for cross-promotion? okay, not so good since this is the same medium) and I realised that it could leave the gentle reader with the mistaken impression that I had not, in the end, read the short story entitled "Bartleby, the Scrivener" by Herman Melville. In order to correct this terrible misconception (if the reader weren't quite so gentle, I wouldn't feel quite so bad), I must point out that I did, in fact, read the story. And it was incredible.

Seriously. I highly recommend it. And I take back all I said about why people won't read internet books. Intellectual curiosity and all that. Marketplace of ideas, and its ilk. Monty Python, and its elk. In fact, I would put it up there with "Of Mice and Men" in my "top short stories of all time" list, if one were to exist. Which it does not. Sorry, Herman. But really, you started it, having a name like Herman. Hehe, Herman. You kind of had to be an author with a name like that, didn't you? Surely you couldn't have had any friends. You were probably like the kid in "The Neverending Story" - running away from the bullies and hiding in an attic somewhere and writing your books. Except that the kid in "The Neverending Story" was reading a book. Whatever. Don't contradict me, Herman.

There's a joke

There's this joke that I read once, that went something like this:

"People who live in the United States think that it's dangerous living in Israel. But people who live in Israel will tell you don't be ridiculous, it's only dangerous if you live in the North. People who live in the North say relax, you're sensationalising things, it's only dangerous if you live in Nahariya, Haifa or Tiberias. People who live in Nahariya, Haifa, or Tiberias say that you've clearly been reading too much Ma'ariv, and that if you think sensibly, it's only dangerous in certain areas. The people who live in those certain areas will tell you, what, are you crazy, you can live in those areas all your life and never have any out of the ordinary happen to you, the only really dangerous area is this one street. People who live in that one street will tell you, what, you think there are really katyushot falling here? It's only at number 8 that it's dangerous. People who live at number 8 will tell you, no, not really, it's really quite okay here, it's only Apartment 6 which is a bit risky. The people living in Apartment 6 will tell you that it's only dangerous if you go out on the balcony between 10 and 12 in the morning, and particularly if you lean out over the railing beyond where the roof-line covers you and really stick your head out there ... so except for one guy who's hiding under a table somewhere, what are we all so worried about?"

The funny thing is that it's true. There is a war going on. Apparently. I know this because every so often I see the TV at work broadcasting things about the war that is going on, people every so often mention numbers of missiles that are in the tens and hundreds, some of the people I know have been called back into the army, whether on miluim or active service, and I get the occasional email asking me how it's all going what with the war and everything. And I can't help but believe that I've become so successful at cultivating the inborn human talent of setting boundaries at the borders separating what is "normal" from what is "not part of my world", that geographically, I've broken some kind of record. I mean, when I was living in Australia, those "borders of normality" were set (or at least, I thought they were set) at - the Western world and a bit more. They certainly excluded Africa and a bunch of other continental land-mass. It probably in fact excluded lots more, closer to home. But it was never really tested.

That's not so true. I did get mighty pissed off at the Australian government imprisoning people indefinitely in conditions fit for people who commit violent sex offences against children, for the "crime" of running away from people or situations that were out to kill them, purely because those people crossed an international border. And I certainly had a social conscience, even if that meant constantly feeling bad that I was quite powerless against the world. But I never really got a chance to see just how close a war could get without feeling that it affects me personally.

Don't get me wrong. The loss of human life that is occurring in vast numbers currently due to intentional acts of unpunished violence is a tragedy of immense proportions. Every time a person loses their life in this conflict, I experience emotion, but could it ever happen to me? Could I even need to be in a situation where I need to go to a bomb shelter in order to avoid a real threat of death? Unlikely. And whether it's likely or not (and it's not), I lack the feeling of fear that likelihood of death might be expected to bring.

I actually think that I'm going to live forever. Because the way I see it, death is a ceasing of being. So effectively, for as long as I have any ability to experience life, I'm going to be living. And when I'm not, my brief existence within these "life boundaries" will have never been, and there will be nothing.

What the ...? It seems that this blog can just turn on a dime from some kind of political social commentary to some kind of self-centred "let's talk about the universe for a bit" genre. I'm quite glad that I don't have readers, who could be thrown off by this kind of lax attitude to consistency in posting. In fact I feel sometimes that writing a blog is a little bit like shouting in a large empty echoing hall. It's quite cathartic, really. Like when I got my driver's license, at 16, the best part of it was not the ability to move a weighty piece of metal alloy by a process of internal combustion, but the ability to sing as loud as I could possibly want (whether to the radio or not), and be absolutely comfortable in the sense of my own privacy. I guess it says something about my desire for privacy and the feeling of its lack, at that age. But it was wicked fun.

Right

I have a friend who wants to become a Carmelite monk. No, this is not a joke. What's funny is that I have a number of friends / family members who went into Yeshiva for a period of time, and even a few who were seriously considering becoming a Rabbi. But for me, becoming a monk takes the sacramental cake. I mean, even a priest would be within one standard deviation of the mean. A monk is really an outlier.

But why? Is it because it seems like an outdated concept, except maybe for Buddhists or other people from countries whose language I don't understand? Is it because it seems so counter to the materialism of the world I have come to know (and perhaps even to love)? Is it because you may or may not need to shave the middle bit of your head, as if premature baldness will not do a good enough job? I have no idea. But there it is. The guy's becoming a monk.

He's a very smart guy, so he'll probably end up rising through the ranks, if there is such a thing as ranks amongst Carmelite monks. He might end up as a cardinal, or the Archbishop of Sydney one day, or something, presuming that such positions take people from amongst the monks, and that he should want to. It's very possible that he doesn't want to stand out, and that's the whole reason why he got into the monking business in the first place. But perhaps that's not a fair comment. I mean, a person becoming a monk could hardly be indicted as a conformist. It's about as unconformist as you can get. And yet, perhaps it offers something of a solace that you can join a group of like-minded people and become part of a whole.

I have another friend, who I really should be returning an email to right now, who is merely submissive and paranoid. I find the guy very difficult to understand, and sometimes get the feeling that everything he says to me is somewhat disconnected from reality. Perhaps I am merely over-suspicious and should be accepting everything he says at face value. Perhaps I am the paranoid one. Just imagine, two paranoid people walk into a bar. The first one says "...", and then stops in fear of what the other one meant by that.

Is it possible that I attract strange friends? Or is it rather (as I would like to believe) that the more you get to know someone, and the more you become familiar with their peculiarities, the more you realise that normality is an illusion, and that it only exists inasmuch as people strive to be more like it? Or is it perhaps that everyone has a very different idea of what is normal, and that we are miscommunicating when we compare one another to that standard? I'm going to leave that one open.

I have a feeling sometimes that if I learn enough and gather enough experience, I will get it. I mean, all of it. It just takes a bit of effort, and then I will understand everything there is to understand, and there will be no more misunderstanding, no more awkwardness. I am beginning to believe more and more, though, that there is no such thing. That people who seem to get it are clinging on for dear life to the idea of just getting through this one problem, this one meeting, and hoping like hell that no-one asks anything really difficult, which not only do they not know, but about which they don't even know how to form the question. Mmm, prepositions which work.

I find sometimes that I'm writing something, and I want to express something, and all of a sudden, grammar gets in the way. Like, it's just impossible to actually express a certain concept, because the grammar just won't allow it, and you have to make a decision - either you can ditch the concept, or you can try to find a work-around (which sometimes there just isn't), or you can express what you wanted to express and just hope like hell that your reader puts up with the fact that you're really not clear and really not a talented author at all (not to mention a talented owner of a language-specific-programmed brain). Like "language-specific-programmed brain". I wanted to say, "a brain that is programmed in language (as a whole) in a manner which is language-specific (in particular)". But I just couldn't get it out. It may have something to do with my morbid fear of editing.

Editing. Ha. It always seemed to me so feeble, like an admission of weakness. Clearly, it is a marker of self-confidence and a contributor to strength (like saying "Practice! Ha! If I can't do it straight away, I won't do it at all!"), but some kind of emotional block inhibits me. It's because of that same block that I walk out of exams early - pretty much the minute I've finished writing my answers, tarrying perhaps for a quick skim over what I've done, and I'm out of there. Clearly I make mistakes. And clearly, there are mistakes that I wouldn't make should I have checked my work in a more careful and, overall, slow, manner. But I can't handle it. Is it arrogance? The feeling that I don't need to check and therefore I won't? Perhaps it is born of arrogance. But it has become part of my emotional make-up. And the moment I wake up, before I put on my emotional make-up, I say a little prayer for you.

And you, and you, and you.

I'm outa here.