New Year's Resolutions

Yes, this is the time of year when people make New Year's Resolutions and I am telling you that not because you do not already know it, but because sometimes there are times when one feels like stating the obvious, especially when the obvious is going to be followed by something slightly less obvious, which means it is only the more obvious—or isn't.

In other words I am not going to here state my New Year's Resolutions. In point of fact, I haven't any.

I have always thought said resolutions were somewhat silly. After all it is just as easy to make resolutions the rest of the year, and most resolutions probably result in nothing anyway. I do now recognize the importance of setting goals and the benefit of telling them to others, so that it is harder to fail to accomplish them, but that is all.

Enough of that. This is your opportunity to suggest some for me.

Sad and Spooky

It is sad how in our society today God is being replaced by so many other things, but there is one thing I do not understand at all. (I had much time to think about this, being subjected to it each day at work, which—huzzah!—I am finished with.)

"He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good..."

This sounds as if it were a description of God. But, no. They meant Santa Claus of all things. Since when is Santa Claus omniscient and omnipresent? I think someone forgot to teach me that when I was growing up, as so many other children are taught.

Somehow I do not find that a bad thing. I much prefer the legend of Saint Nicholas, which was in some almost-inexplicable way corrupted into the modern idea of Santa Claus. However, it is a great pity that this happened, as not only does Saint Nicholas have a better sense of fashion and a better sense of justice and generosity, but he is also the patron saint of pirates and sailors.

I may say they are equating Santa Claus with God, but some can derive an entirely different conclusion from the same set of facts (from Wikipedia):

A Calvin and Hobbes strip implied that if Santa "sees you when you're sleeping [and] knows when you're awake," he must be a "CIA spook."

Yuletide Analogy

Life is like fixing a string of Christmas lights.

No matter how much energy one puts into trying to be ahead, it never works.

No matter how many times one fixes the same problem, one has to keep fixing it each year, and in addition to all the old problems, there are always new ones, some of which are practically impossible to fix.

The result is always easier for others to appreciate.

It takes so much time and hardly seems worth it, though there can also be something that makes one suddenly glad for the effort.

As do all things, it has an end, sometimes good, sometimes not.

While one is doing it there are the small pleasures—or perhaps more accurately reliefs—of bringing light to something that hardly seems to be of any value.

And sometimes you just want to throw it out the window.

Honorificabilitudinity

Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was...

Well, his father—whose name was Athanasius Christopher Maximilian Augustine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff—was born in Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotameteaturipukakapikimau-
ngahoronukupokaiwhenakitanatahu, New Zealand, and his mother—whose name was Caoilfhionn Eileánóir MacGhilleseatheanaich—was born in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Wales. The event of their marriage transpired approximately halfway between in Krungthepmahanakonbowornratanakosinmahintarayud-
yayamahadiloponoparatanarajthaniburiromudomrajniwesmahasat-
arnamornpimarnavatarsatitsakattiyavisanukamphrasit, Thailand, after his father attempted to circumexplorandiscover the world by a combined means of circumnavigation and circumambulation, which failed when he met Caoilfhionn. His brother's name is Marcellinus Alexander Nathaniel Johnathan, and his sisters' names are Francesca Gwendolyn Meredith Josephine and Cassandra Gabrielle Dominique Annabelle.

Their family is unusual, for they are the only ones in the world to express their surprise by saying Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious. They have a habit of floccinaucinihilipilification. Also, they are the only ones to have both acquired Numanoultramicroscopicsilicavolcanoconeosis and to suffer from Pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism.

Athanasius Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff is a scientist and works with chemicals. His children enjoy hearing him repeat them, but this is their favorite: methionylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucylphenylalany-
lalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylglutamylglycylal-
anylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylleucylglycyla-
spartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleucyllysyliso-
leucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylglycylalanylas-
partylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylphenylalanyl-
serylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthreonylisoleu-
cylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucylarginylalanylphenylal-
anylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylalanylglutaminylcysteiny-
lphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylleucylisoleucylarginyl-
glutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucylprolylisoleucylglyc-
ylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparaginylleucylvalylphenyla-
lanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylglutamylphenylalanylt-
yrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylvalylglycylvalylaspart-
ylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylprolylvalylglutaminylglu-
tamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarginylglutaminylalanylalanylleu-
cylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylalanylprolylisoleucylphenylalany-
lisoleucylcysteinylprolylprolylaspartylalanylaspartylaspartylaspa-
rtylleucylleucylarginylglutaminylisoleucylalanylseryltyrosylglycy-
larginylglycyltyrosylthreonyltyrosylleucylleucylserylarginylalany-
lglycylvalylthreonylglycylalanylglutamylasparaginylarginylalanyla-
lanylleucylprolylleucylasparaginylhistidylleucylvalylalanyllysylle-
ucyllysylglutamyltyrosylasparaginylalanylalanylprolylprolylleucyl-
glutaminylglycylphenylalanylglycylisoleucylserylalanylprolylaspar-
tylglutaminylvalyllysylalanylalanylisoleucylaspartylalanylglycyla-
lanylalanylglycylalanylisoleucylserylglycylserylalanylisoleucylva-
lyllysylisoleucylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylhistidylasparaginyliso-
leucylglutamylprolylglutamyllysylmethionylleucylalanylalanylleucyll-
ysylvalylphenylalanylvalylglutaminylprolylmethionyllysylalanylalany-
lthreonylarginylserine.

The children are fond of words, and always enjoy coming across a new one such as honorific­abilitud­initatibus or Lopado­temacho­selacho­galeo­kranio­leipsano­drim­hypotrimmato­silph-
io­paraomelito­katakechymeno­kichl­epi­kossypho­phatto­perister­alektr-
yon­opte­kephallio­kinklo­peleio­lagoio­siraio­baphe­tragano­pterygon.

Now, what is the boy's name?

To Blog or Not to Blog

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."—E.L. Doctorow

"Blogging is a socially acceptable form of talking to oneself." -Myself

Perhaps that is why I find blogging interesting and quite natural, for I have always been accustomed to talk to myself. Perhaps it is a habit like that of Gandalf, choosing to speak to the wisest person.

However, there is a difference between blogging and mere talking to oneself. Rather than addressing comments to myself as if I were another person (which generally is the form talking to oneself takes), I address my comments as if I were addressing all the inhabitants of the entire world, and any other worlds I do not yet happen to know about.

This, of course, is not true for all. There are numerous people out there blogging who are not talking to themselves, not even talking to themselves as if they were addressing the whole world, but instead are talking to a group of dedicated readers. I would guess, though, that even these people started out their blogging careers (if it can be called that) by talking to themselves as if they were the whole world; if not, then I daresay they must have been famous already, or have begun by bribing a whole bunch of people to read, and comment on, their blogs.

---------------------------------------------

Upon rereading that, I am not wholly certain it is true after all, though a good portion of it is. Now, I think perhaps that blogging is really more like addressing an entire audience that does not exist.

This, however, is a point of mere detail, for it is really no different than what I have stated above except in the form of my expression of the matter: addressing a group of people that does not exist is scarcely different—if at all—from addressing yourself as a group of people; either way you are projecting yourself into a group of people, whom you are then addressing.

--------------------------------------------

Then again, this may just be an excuse for why I receive no more than an occasional comment or two. Of course, that is entirely my own fault, since I have not really told anyone I even have a blog, let alone that they might actually want to read it. Perhaps I ought to. It may not be a good thing to talk to oneself all the time...

Mon Ami

"We live in a culture that often talks about community, connectedness, social networking, etc where very little true community actually exists and where we elevate acquaintances to friends and have very few true friends." -The Curt Jester, whose blog is both informative and entertaining.

This is something I have often thought about. It seems that the meaning of friend has been forgotten, or delegated to a far lower position than it previously held. People now communicate with people all across the world, but how many of these could truly be called friends?

Let us take a look at a definition:

From the American Heritage Dictionary:

friend

1. A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
2. A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.

So it seems that definition of ordinary usage has made its way into the dictionary as well. So much for the purity of the word friend. It is not the first to travel this road, though, nor shall it be the last. After all, "silly" once meant "innocent".

With our society's focus on quantity rather than quality and the ease with which we can communicate with hundreds upon hundreds of people, is it any surprise that we no longer have the time for true friendship? Friends—to use the more exclusive meaning of the word—are not made overnight. To have friends, you must learn to know and trust them, which takes time. People do not have energy for that when they scatter their time among so many different people and enterprises.

Perhaps I am in the minority with this viewpoint, but I do not think that acquaintances should be elevated to the level of friends. Friends are people you know and trust, whom you can rely on. They are people with whom you want to be and who want to be with you; to whom you want to talk, and who want to talk to you. When you need help, it is your friends to whom you look for help, and in turn you help them through their difficulties, easing the pains of this life in ways that no acquaintance of a brief moment could. Yet still my attempt to define the word falls short of its meaning. Thus is my thought, though perhaps it is no more than relic of ages past. As goes the old saying, "Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold."

Even with this view in mind, the matter is uncertain. Definitions are inherently arbitrary, based solely on our own perceptions, and one major question remains: when does an acquaintance become a friend?

Blast!

"The cold droplets of rain lashing against my bare head, soaking my hair, dripping down to run in rivulets across my face; the rush and roar of the wind, which presses upon the sails and whips through the rigging, tugging against my coat; the rushing waters of the seas all around, the waves crested with white; the roll and surge of the deck beneath my feet and the feel of the wheel in my hands, as I brace my feet to hold the ship upon her course; the fear that every moment one of the men might slip overboard or the sails rip to shreds in the wind or the rudder fail: thus it is to be a captain aboard a ship in a storm."

"I love storms. There is something about the power of the elements--a power one cannot lessen, but only endure--that touches some instinct within. It touches a chord of defiance within the heart, for who willingly admits the insignificance of himself until pitted against such an ancient and powerful adversary as the sea? This defiance brings a thrill surging through every fiber of one's being."

-Captain Nic Blaknar

Yet for those who are landlocked, a storm means something far different. Especially for those who dwell near a river or creek.

As the rain pours down, the muddy waters rise, higher and higher until they spill over the bank, flooding across lowlands, running in ever-widening streams of brown. The waters continue to rise until shallow brown water flows across the pastures and through the forests, rushing ever onward, and still the waters continue to come, flowing higher and higher.



Children glory in such a flood. They play in the water-filled fields, finding grubs and voles, and they do not mind getting wet in the pounding rains. They care not for the damage it may wreak. The hours of hard work that may be ruined in a single day are as naught to them.

Yet as they grow older, they forget their careless enjoyment and think instead of the annoyance and sorrow, losing their wonder. The sight of the still falling rain can only depress them. They cannot think of the floods without sadness at what may be destroyed.

Some there are who stand between, like one lingering halfway between two worlds.
The two feelings tug at them and their hearts are divided.



Never before--at least as long as we have lived here--has this much water passed through our lands for this long. Ever before it was a brief: a quick rise and fall overnight so that we saw only the muddy desolation left behind. Now a whole day has passed and still the waters stream through, hardly less than before.

Three trees at least have fallen in this storm, and these on our side of the creek. Too many already have fallen. So few remain. It will be long before those we have planted grow tall enough to cast shade of much consequence, and meanwhile how many more will fall? Already there were too few trees. At this rate it shall not be long before the lands lie bare.



This brings to mind a story that occurred to me the last time the winds brought some of the trees to the ground. It was a sad story, a tragedy perhaps. The trees were falling, falling, falling...

EDIT: The water finally receded enough that I was able to go out yesterday morning and take stock of the damage. Except for two uprooted plants and the loss of four wire cages protecting plants, there was little more damage beyond the usual layer of fine mud wherever I looked and the places eroded even further by the rushing torrents. Deep pools still remain. This was a flood such as we have not seen before. Shortly after we moved in there was a flood of similar proportions, but it rose quickly and then passed away; we had hardly enough time to look at it before the waters had returned to the creek, leaving behind the eroded streams of mud through the overgrazed pasture. At least the damage was less than it might have been.