William's Blog

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

The kid scientist

My brother was a kid with a deep-rooted curiosity stemming from the days of our childhood. He always picked at things and examined with big eyes the most intriguing objects, like the time he looked at the night sky. He kept staring into the blackness, almost seemingly expecting something to happen. Over the years, he eventually decided he would have to be the one to make something happen, and so he took an active interest in science. "Hey, look, its a real live cut section of someone's body! Hey, I can make out the liver! There's the pancreas!" He swarmed with delight.
Today he was leading our pack as we transversed down the stairs to the location of the robotics exhibit. As we stepped into the entrance, he pretended to be a tour guide. "Hello, welcome to the grand view of the future! Presenting. . . Mr. Robot!"
His interest in science drove the gears of his world. It was an analytical process, and when he was done computing results of something that occurred, he would spit out the answer, post-haste. "Mr. Robot only has two eyes, but he can actually see everything that happens in this box on the floor. Isn't that exciting?"

Monday, November 29, 2004

The Second Floor

One of the sets for my narrative includes the second floor of the science museum in St. Paul.
I descended downward and proceeded to explore the second floor. The second floor of the science museum is a peculiar place. It is the second floor for many reasons. It is directly below the main floor, which is the level situated with the entrance to the museum. The "second floor" is the floor in between the main floor and the ground floor. Below this level is the second floor, then the ground floor. The ground floor is the lowest level. From this view the second floor is also a second floor.
The peculiarity of this floor was reflected in the contents the level contains. There are permanent exhibits on one side of the floor, and on the other end was a specialty room that had a robot exhibit. I wondered, why do they have so much to see?
The hour was not improving. You could not tell time on this floor. The weather outside was still dead as before, and the rain continued to come in. How long had I been at the museum? Why was the transition from the previous floor to this floor so slow? Everything was so slow. The only reminder of sunshine was the studio lamp bulbs above that illuminated the premise.
I looked to my left to see the human body exhibit. It was strange, and it seemed to just pop out at me through the murky environment. I proceeded to enter.
"Come on," my brother enthusiastically shouted. "Let's roll."

Saturday, November 27, 2004

"The Sound of Music"

Today I went to a concert at Orchestra hall. It was quite good. I got to experience the full dynamics of the concert hall. One of the things I listened to was a Nielson Violin concerto. The soloist had a bushy mustache and French style cut hair. He actually came from Denmark.

The whole auditorium was silent, waiting for the guy to appear and start playing. He came out of the door and stood in the middle. When he started playing the room filled with the sounds of a violin. The instrument reverberated across the entire hall and the melody pushed its way into the ears of all to hear. The perfect pitch of the solo impressed everyone in the room.

The music would clamor to a high point, then drop down again and be very still. The rhythms would rumble lightly in the background as the soloist came back for more. When the music ended the musicians called for everyone to sing with the voices of clapping hands. It was the sounds of a full hall of clapping and cheering. The soloist stood mist the hundreds that were clapping for him. Apparently, he was used to it. Still, I could see the sense of accomplishment that endured in him when the auditorium was finally soundless once more, waiting for yet another spectacular show.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Touched

Today I noticed that bread is very different from rice.

Bread is a squishy thing.
It rises when you push into it.
It is not rough or smooth, but soft.
I put my hand and it cuddles up against my skin.
It is alive and foams back into shape.
I pull it apart
and put some of the fluffy matter into my mouth.

Rice is a harsher reality than the ethereal qualities of bread.
The grains are small, rounded and secluded.
It is smooth on the outside and coarse on the inside.
Rice is very firm and solitary; it is by itself.
Yet rice is not all that lonely.
It travels with many other rice grains.
Together they go into the depths of my mouth,
falling as one and going till the end - true companionship.

Now, what do I choose to eat - the rice or the bread?


Thursday, November 25, 2004

I sense turkey nearby

Thanksgiving is a day to savor the sense of taste. It is, in particular, an excuse to eat turkey. I enjoy experiencing the palatable taste of turkey.
The thing that first got to me on my first bite of turkey- it was just right. It was perfectly marinated and slow cooked. I savor the bite that the salty nuance brings me. I also like the appetizing effect that the slow cooking has done on the turkey. The meat seeps with flavor, and the tenderness resolves the conflict between the mixture of spices. All of the spices contribute to make it a prize-winning piece of meat. The herbs color the meat. The parsley and cilantro complement the outside. The flavor is intense, yet mellow enough that it doesn't nibble at you.
They don't call it turkey day for just any reason. The turkey is truly an essential complement to a delightful thanksgiving meal.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

The Pungence that is Cola

Coca Cola, in my opinion, is one of the most debatable drinks ever invented by mankind. Despite the black color, the likable taste, the smell is very unique.

Feel the burn. Smell the freshness. The acidic quality blends a delicious fume with a tasteful twist of sharp flavor. It bites you all the same when you drink it. The smell also reflects upon the unknown ingredients that have been mixed into the blackness of the drink.

What makes it a unique smell, a separate quality by itself that allows one to distinguish to the absolute truth that it is cola? Furthermore, what is the thing that makes Coca Cola different from Pepsi? I'll tell you something any Pepsi taste challenge will never be able to tell you - it's the smell that separates the two.

Coca Cola is an aroma of estascy. Coca Cola is no lemon nor some type of lemonade. It is a unique feat in itself. Congratulations on experiencing the Joy of Cola.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

The revolution in the room upstairs

Today is a day of renewal, or rather, of completion. I come to a refreshing realization that today is the last day before my five day break. I am rejuvenated by this thought. However, I also reflect on the near-completion of the revival of our bathroom. This bathroom has been obliterated and given a chance to start anew. For three days now, this bathroom has lost all distinction of a place of habitat. It is a place to be hunted in. Actually, it is a place to hunt for screwdrivers and ceramic tiles and left over marble chips and grout. There is a fine powder of angel dust over the land, and the half completed tiling in the walls reflect upon the partially finished feeling encountered when entering the zone. Heaps of tools fight for room on the counter, and the heavy equipment takes its place on the new marble floor. Across the hallway is the bedroom, and in the middle is everything but nothing. The hallway acts as a deep divide and creates a battlefront upon which to erect a final stand - the completed reality of the furnished bedroom vs. the desolate setting of the bathroom. However, the thing that creeps into everything is the smell and the powder. The paint leaves a residue on the noses of all and goes hand in hand with the fine angel dust to remind all that the ceiling has been repainted - I look at the ceiling and see the newly fallen snow. As the carpenter backs out into the hallway - a losing struggle to complete the room on time- I stand there and conclude that this is an aftermath - this has been the end of a story, the end of a chapter in the functionality of this room. The war of construction is nearly over.

Monday, November 22, 2004

The Pencil of Time

As I sit here typing, I realize that time is ticking away. I also realize that I am having trouble thinking of the past. Therefore, I turn to a realm of timelessness. I turn to a concept of expression and documentation. I turn to time itself - and I question what time has written out today.

It starts as a typical day, starting with an early morning drive to school for orchestra rehearsal. Next, I cruise through the school day. I end up at home, watching the guy redo our bathroom, and I watch tv. Now what?

I fly through time and before long, I land at this moment in time. It is 9:05 PM, and I am typing these exact words that appear now. The pencil of time records for all to see, and this blog is a living example of the process. Of course, whoever decides to view this is not viewing the living process of this blog. At this point in so far: 9:09 PM.

I find that I am revising my short blog. It is 9:11 PM already. I must strive on to get my point across: to the pencil of time!

The pencil of time does its work every day. It is continually writing, and it records into existence all events that have happened and will happen. Why is it not a hand of time or a pen of time one might ask? The answers are simple. The hand of time is too sweeping to be of any use. The hand looks at everything as a cumulative whole instead of just one event. We don't pay attention to everything in the world at once. As for pens, pens are not erasable. They are written in ink. A pencil has an eraser. Take a look at this blog. It has been written down, yet revised constantly. It has been written in pencil, not ink.

Perhaps the miracle of writing is that it is not written in pen. Even when writing has been written with pen, writing is still changeable! The hand of time puts this entry at 9:25 PM, and the pencil continues the revising. Oh be done already!

I am not your average box

What is inside a black box? Is there a difference in regards to a "blackened box?" What does it mean to be a black box in this day and age? To be or not to be a black box, that is the question. An idea of perfection, a mass of indestructibility?

What is a black box? A black box is something that is shrouded in mystery. There are so many ways to read into it The simple explanation for a black box is the idea of a utopian perfection, or an unachieved reality. But these ideas can be redundant and self-incriminating - are we reading too much into "nothing?"
I was reading an article on how one of Minnesota's inventions included the "black box." An airplane flight transcript recorder, to be exact. I think that in this context, the definition of a black box is no longer just some unattainable utopia or even all of the allusions we talked about.

The theory, then, is a black box is just that, a black box. It is an indestructible "memory" of the elevator, it is what would survive in case the elevator would crash. If an the elevator loses "its soul" when it comes crashing down, then could a black box be a safeguard against lost of memory of the elevator? This black box, in this context then, would be the memory of the elevator; it would be what was left of the elevator that once was. Would it be a transcript of what the elevator had been?

When airplanes crash, the thing that survives unscathed is the black box. It is the transcript of the flight, a recording of the past. It is invulnerable, because the tapes inside contain the past. It is untouchable to change. However, is it really invulnerable? Now, in regards to a "blackened box" - is it a box that has been scarred? Is it the remains of an airplane's tape box then a blackened box? Is it then a box that has been forged in tempering fire? Scarred on the outside? Perhaps it is black just for that reason, then-so it will not show any scars.

Sunday, November 21, 2004

We who live our lives

Life is a spontaneous art of happening. Why do things happen the way they do, and why do events always seem to connect with other totally separate things? I think that life is just that, life. When you live life, you live a life. This life connects with others who also live lives. We all live lives together. I think that this sense of community, then is what the human race is all about. We are creatures of nature, of God, and we somehow have developed the tendency to interact with others of our kind. In fact, we need to interact to continue on.
What defines “our kind“? What defines your kind? Why is it that we associate the way we do, and why do we live on common interests? It is just a rule of survival, or a thought process restriction? Why do we create mental roadblocks for ourselves?

Are we born with the restriction that we place on ourselves, or do we develop habits, and paradigms that close the world over us? Is this why we cannot be perfect? Perhaps we lost our “grace” in the beginning then. We destroy opportunities to mutually benefit all before we even decide to do so. I need to work on idea transition.

Life is an art. You are the painter. Or, if you believe in destiny, then life is an painting that someone else has painted, and you are a character in the painting. Regardless, life it just that: life is a collection of memories, a collection of experiences, a collection of things to come, a collection of things past. Life is just what it is- life.


Thursday, November 18, 2004

Music is a genre of History

I am sitting here listening to classical music, and I will connect it to a specific quote found on the wall in Ms. Gau's room (economics): "Those who do not study history are destined to repeat it. "

What makes music universal? Is it because it transcends time? Or would one say that music is a reflection of a very specific moment in time? Is it a story, a thesis that encompasses all? "Why do we enjoy music when it is just a pattern of repeating sounds?

I think that music, as with other things in life, is specifically a human idea. It is a "liberal art. " Music reflects the lives of humans past and present. It sets trends. It defines the future. Music is a lifeline of human civilization.

How does music underscore the past? Does music tell a story? Is it itself a story? I think the answers are in the music itself. Listen to the classical music ofBrahms. The sorrow and the sweet victory music of "glorious war," the Franco-Prussian war. Listen to the sad themes of the Elgar Cello Concerto. They resemble the resentment of total war inW orld War I.
I think that modern contemporary music is similar to modern fiction, in a sense. Some types of music are of "academic merit." Others are are variations of a genre, and are just existent with the trends of the times.
Still, as in all music, we see the common themes of the period of time it was written in: underlying escapism, sarcasm, prosperity, joy, and a strength/desire to explain or convey the experience of life. What does that make music, then?
Music is an art, a product of ourselves; music is a storyteller.

The Fog is foggy

I had a chat with The Fog today. He told me that people weren't supposed to be driving around in the morning before break. I really could see the road ahead.

I wondered why Mr. Fog was so secretive today. (Actually, if you get to know him, he's quite secretive usually, but today was an exception.) So I thought about what was behind the wall of fog. Was it nothing? Everything? A gleeming estacsy of light? Or was it just the road. In the end, I was still sleepy, so I decided it was just more miles of road.

Here's the story truth: Mr. Fog decided to drop out the sky today and visit our cozy city early in the morning as to not disturb people with his intrusion. He told himself in a soliloquy with the world, " I'm need to make new friends. So I will embrace all of Brooklyn Park and Champlin in my vast reaches." What happened next was he did what he said, and when people woke up to go to work, they saw his sheer optimism and friendliness. Actually, what they really thought was, "great, more of Fog to deal with today. Hows work going to treat me today, then?"

And so they accused Mr. Fog of making their day a miserable start, and Mr. Fog eventually decided he would float in on another more friendly town to embrace.
"Everyone needs a friend," says Mr. Fog. So he goes back to his sweetheart, Cloud.

The happening truth? Mr. Fog is omniscent; he knows everything. He is one with the air, and he travels where situations are right for him. He knows where he is liked, and He waits for the revelation; when will people accept him the way he is? Why is he always blamed, and why do people stereotype him for bad things like causing accidents? Mr. Fog gleems his estacsy of enshroulding on all, and he exposes himself for all to smash through. No one cares about him- they just accept that he is there. No one does anything anymore. Or did we ever? Foggy skies bring Mr. Fog, and foggy minds tell him to go back to where he came from.

I talked with Mr. Fog today, and I asked him what he wanted. In all the estacsy of fog, he told me something too foggy for me and even him to understand. I think we should try and understand others more. Reach out and grab something- just don't let the fog slip through your hands.
Mr. Fog is a friend to all and a friend of none.
"All we are is dust in the wind."

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

First Notebook Entry

Please remember to date and title each entry in your notebook. Introduce yourself as a writer. Consider some of the following questions: How often do you normally write?What kind of writing do you do?What do you like/dislike about writing?What topics do you seem to write most about?What significant experiences have you had with writing?Who in your family writes?What do you think your writing strengths are? Weaknesses?
Tuesday, November 16, 2004

My name is William and I write many things during the courses of my days. I seem to write creatively and I like to expand on my creative avenues. When I write, sometimes it seems that I make simple ideas very complicated. Perhaps this is once again displaying that I like to make things different. It could also say that I need to get more organized?

I normally write an ok amount every day in school. For instance, today I have to write a concert reflection summary for an orchestra concert, take notes in Economics, take notes in Calculus, and write this. I suppose with the composition class underway, I will write a lot more. Even then, with all the writing I would normally do, there is a difference between literary writing and note taking. The writing that I do is because of necessity. Everything that I do has a good reason for doing so. In earlier and less busy times, like last year, I remember that I would write for fun sometimes, almost to enjoy it. I know I wrote a couple things to submit to the Literary magazine last year, and I still enjoy seeing my writing that got published in the magazine.

I seem to like free flowing and free styled writing, aka creative writing. I don't enjoy writing in set formats and in formal settings as much. Still, I think the think that makes me like writing is that it is a self fulfilling quest in itself; writing can be blunt or masterfully crafted, and I think that writing allows the revision, the perfection that brings a piece of work one step closer to sounding "great." Writing is a good medium of communication, because it allows development of ideas and clear thought exchange. I have been writing all my life. I have encountered many things with and through writing. I know that in fifth grade, I opened my first "giant" novel, and I wondered, "what fills the space between the covers?" Since then, I have "encountered" writing through learning about "the process" a thousand times, and writing many reports and five-paragraph essays. I am glad I don't have to deal with that nonsense anymore.

I seem to write about similar ideas. The topics are overthought and overused, but remain as effective as always. They are the topics of our lives; they are in our music, our stories, our movies, and they are in mine. I write about life, experiencing confrontations, and overcoming. I talk about order and chaos, justice and injustice, war and peace. I think these have to do with my life experences. For example, I like art history, so I often relate writing to literary and artistic movements. Everything is connected, it seems in a big circle.

In my family, only me and my brothers write, and most often only for school. My parents seem to only read the newspaper and watch the evening news; they don't write for fun, and are all about taking in information, not disclosing out their thoughts to the outside world. The only time they probably write is probably in their jobs, and again, it is out of necessity.

I think my strengths are in my creative ideas and in how I manage to think of good reasons to support my ideas. The weaknesses in my writing have to do with organization. I can have 10 good ideas, but it will be pointless because I cannot organize the points to cohere with the other points. I compare this to leading an army. My large and creative army often get mixed up when trying to make their points, and break their lines in the process, causing confusion and loss of time/resources. I then have to retreat to restart another day or another time. I expect to change this and be able to lead my army by the end of this class!

Monday, November 15, 2004

Am I doing this right?

Seems so. Ok. Lets get down to business