As a history lover I've always wished I had a more tangible heritage. For some reason I've always felt a weird sort of identity gap. I've always felt that I perhaps lacked something that might separate me or grant a unique distinction in my life.
When my grandfather first began researching our genealogy I latched on to the famous "relatives" as if they were a feather to stick in my cap. But it all felt so very removed from reality--too distant. And with the immigration coming so long ago and in my mind from a "generic" place like the British Isles, it lacked luster to my young eyes. It all seemed too normal.
Identity had to be found in other places instead. Growing up in Arkansas it seems that I latched onto the affiliations that wuold separate instead of include. I rooted for the Cubs in the land of Cardinal fans, the Longhorns in the land of Razorbacks. Most avidly though, I clutched onto my maternal roots as a Texan. It is hard to conjure an apt metaphor to illustrate the....uncouthness of this particular stance as an Arkansan. Texas and Texans it seems are always hated or loved. There is no middle ground. Arkansas seemingly suffered in the shadow of Texas much like a little brother might (for most I think this was largely a result of many years of Southwest Conference football games).
This path of separation continued into my years living in Texas as I began to trumpet my Arkansan roots. Though never a hater, it was as a resident of Texas that I first realized how to appreciate the land I called home. I suppose I was wishing so badly to have an identity--wishing I came from somewhere--that I never realized I had always had one.
My own desire for an identity led me to be jealous of those I knew that had, as I saw it, tangible roots. So it was with some excitement that I found out for the first time that my grandfather knew the exact town, even the exact street address of the house in which my great great grandfather lived in Petrovice, a small town in the southwestern corner of the Czech Republic (though my Czech is nonexistent, I'm fairly certain that, irony of ironies, Petrovice is translated as "Peter Ville"). For the first time in my life I felt an attachment to a place, that those "tangible roots" were for the first time indeed tangible.
Though the world is vast, though there are many things I want to see, and though there are many places left to explore, for the time being they must take a back seat to my pilgrimage to Petrovice. It is perhaps premature to speak of this since it will be many months before this idea blooms into reality. The actual difference this discovery makes in my overall personality is most likely negligible, it is within the scope of possibilities that the biggest difference is made. I'm still the person who somewhat inexplicably roots for the Cubs and Longhorns but I've been granted an additional genealogical anchor that paradoxically opens up the world a little bit wider for me. And that, in my eyes clouded with the love of place and history, is a wonderfully uplifting gift.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Low and High II
After receiving varied feedback it became evident that a more thorough exploration of the topic was required. My aim, beyond the obvious self-satisfying benefits of keeping a blog, is to be thought provoking, perhaps even somewhat insightful. I suppose the topic has been on my mind quite a bit of late. So I have decided to take the thread and forge forward into the dark woods. The thread really begins with my very good friend Tank and his comment to my previous post that I think is worth noting. He spoke of the necessity to live in the here and now, to let the adventures come when they come. Sage advice, albeit somewhat difficult to always follow.
Life is a shifting shape. It's like a water tube (I believe they may also be known as "slippery snakes"), those somewhat slimy plastic cylinders that are impossible to grasp. The trick, it seems, is in not grasping at all. Each time you try to squeeze it, the tube pops out of your hand. One might be able to grab it for a second before it squirts away again but that second is all one will ever be able to hold on to.
And so it is with life. We flail around in space, grabbing onto things and people, hoping they can provide the contentment we seek. We grasp onto fleeting glimpses of a happiness thinking it might last. It isn't until we are placid that the impossible toy is caught. Never through grasping are we to find our contentment but only with the open hands of calm patience.
Somewhere along the way I learned to accept life's gifts as they come--to give love, to accept love, and to live honestly--with others but especially with myself. My own potential for these things is not always met but I strive. Given the statements in the previous paragraph, striving might seem counterintuitive to patience. In my mind, striving for oneself, or attempting to reach a certain goal is definable and takes true patience. It is happiness that is mercurial. How do you strive after an elusive and incorporeal idea?
Perhaps it is too expansive and/or trite to summarize happiness in this way but it is as thus that I find myself. I still seek to experience the world on its own terms, I still dream dreams, I still breathe the oxygen of potentialities. The world of possibility, however, is something separate. The greatest of possibilities spring from true happiness and are not born of discomfiture.
Life is a shifting shape. It's like a water tube (I believe they may also be known as "slippery snakes"), those somewhat slimy plastic cylinders that are impossible to grasp. The trick, it seems, is in not grasping at all. Each time you try to squeeze it, the tube pops out of your hand. One might be able to grab it for a second before it squirts away again but that second is all one will ever be able to hold on to.
And so it is with life. We flail around in space, grabbing onto things and people, hoping they can provide the contentment we seek. We grasp onto fleeting glimpses of a happiness thinking it might last. It isn't until we are placid that the impossible toy is caught. Never through grasping are we to find our contentment but only with the open hands of calm patience.
Somewhere along the way I learned to accept life's gifts as they come--to give love, to accept love, and to live honestly--with others but especially with myself. My own potential for these things is not always met but I strive. Given the statements in the previous paragraph, striving might seem counterintuitive to patience. In my mind, striving for oneself, or attempting to reach a certain goal is definable and takes true patience. It is happiness that is mercurial. How do you strive after an elusive and incorporeal idea?
Perhaps it is too expansive and/or trite to summarize happiness in this way but it is as thus that I find myself. I still seek to experience the world on its own terms, I still dream dreams, I still breathe the oxygen of potentialities. The world of possibility, however, is something separate. The greatest of possibilities spring from true happiness and are not born of discomfiture.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Low and High
Having been out into the world, I often find myself restless here in my piece of America. From big dreams of a life of ease and happiness to smaller short term aspirations, I continually seek something greater. This is not necessarily because of my situation here. I believe I've always been this way. Though I do wonder if perhaps living in a smaller town creates bigger escapist fantasies, a sort of mental counteraction to fate's circumstances.
There's a person I work with whose own aspirations seem limited to a few drinks each night, a good meal, football video games, and a warm spot in bed next to his girl. His own scope, seemingly, is limited more to the here and now. Excepting the video games, his aspirations are as old as time. There are often times when I envy that, wishing I could be contented so easily. Looking back into my life I wonder if being abroad created greater horizons in my mind and thus destroyed any hope for that idealized notion of simplicity from my life.
"Focusing on nowhere/Investigating miles/I'm a seeker/I'm a really desperate man."
Just as I know those who seek solid and simple pleasures, I know many more who seek to explore, to know, to experience. We all dream of something more for our lives but paradoxically it is with those seekers that I, the inveterate homebody, find more common ground with. At times it seems a curse that my contentment isn't fated to last for long but I wonder if it's not actually a blessing.
There's a person I work with whose own aspirations seem limited to a few drinks each night, a good meal, football video games, and a warm spot in bed next to his girl. His own scope, seemingly, is limited more to the here and now. Excepting the video games, his aspirations are as old as time. There are often times when I envy that, wishing I could be contented so easily. Looking back into my life I wonder if being abroad created greater horizons in my mind and thus destroyed any hope for that idealized notion of simplicity from my life.
"Focusing on nowhere/Investigating miles/I'm a seeker/I'm a really desperate man."
Just as I know those who seek solid and simple pleasures, I know many more who seek to explore, to know, to experience. We all dream of something more for our lives but paradoxically it is with those seekers that I, the inveterate homebody, find more common ground with. At times it seems a curse that my contentment isn't fated to last for long but I wonder if it's not actually a blessing.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Rebel in the Night
The other night I was jolted from my peaceful sleep by a piercing noise. My first thought was that it was already 6AM and my alarm was going off. Frantically I mashed every single button as I tried to turn it off. Instead of eradicating the noise I ended up with two books, a lamp, and a cell phone on the floor. Standing there, confused and frantic, I realized that the noise was coming from my phone. Though the ring tone is ostensibly a melody, it seemed like a torturous siren. It made my ears throb.
Late night phone calls, though not a regular event, are far from a novelty for those in my demographic. As such, I presume many can probably sympathize with my state of utter confusion. Discounting the occasion that I almost punched a female “friend” who caught a ride home with a roommate after a night of drinking and decided to wake me up at 3AM, my late night wake ups are generally calm (explanation: the punch was almost thrown not because I disliked the person but because being woken up at 3AM when you aren't really expecting to is kind of freaky, especially when that person is more a stranger than a friend). As I lay back down to sleep that night, I was more than slightly dismayed at my crazed reaction to the midnight phone call.
My dismay was rooted in memories of my father. No matter the circumstances of the event or the time of night, whenever my siblings or I woke up my father, his reaction was always the same. In a state of confused alert he would bolt upright out of bed and frantically scan his surroundings trying to figure out what was happening. I saw my father in my reaction to the ringing phone.
For most of us, life is spent as an active pursuit of separation from our parents. This isn't necessarily born out of a distaste for those that brought us into this world but instead it is a quest for a unique identity. Unfortunately, it seems that the truth behind actions of separation and personal growth aren't always grasped by parent or child. It took me a long time to realize that. Though I seek to become known as my own person, I feel that I am finally coming to terms with all those traits I share with my parents. From my mother's emotionalism to my father's easily startled nature at night, I am a mess of quirks and idiosyncrasies. Paradoxically it seems that acceptance is the truer form of rebellion.
Late night phone calls, though not a regular event, are far from a novelty for those in my demographic. As such, I presume many can probably sympathize with my state of utter confusion. Discounting the occasion that I almost punched a female “friend” who caught a ride home with a roommate after a night of drinking and decided to wake me up at 3AM, my late night wake ups are generally calm (explanation: the punch was almost thrown not because I disliked the person but because being woken up at 3AM when you aren't really expecting to is kind of freaky, especially when that person is more a stranger than a friend). As I lay back down to sleep that night, I was more than slightly dismayed at my crazed reaction to the midnight phone call.
My dismay was rooted in memories of my father. No matter the circumstances of the event or the time of night, whenever my siblings or I woke up my father, his reaction was always the same. In a state of confused alert he would bolt upright out of bed and frantically scan his surroundings trying to figure out what was happening. I saw my father in my reaction to the ringing phone.
For most of us, life is spent as an active pursuit of separation from our parents. This isn't necessarily born out of a distaste for those that brought us into this world but instead it is a quest for a unique identity. Unfortunately, it seems that the truth behind actions of separation and personal growth aren't always grasped by parent or child. It took me a long time to realize that. Though I seek to become known as my own person, I feel that I am finally coming to terms with all those traits I share with my parents. From my mother's emotionalism to my father's easily startled nature at night, I am a mess of quirks and idiosyncrasies. Paradoxically it seems that acceptance is the truer form of rebellion.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Rambling Post That Doesn't Necessarily Make Sense
Games that require clapping and saying something about oneself in front of strangers is my least favorite thing in the world. For those that might know me, this is rarefied company. I don't handle forced socialization very well. There is something about it that I loathe. Somewhere amongst the fake smiles and the feigned interest there is something ___. For as long as I can recall it has been this way for me. I hated camp as a child and dreaded the required functions parents press upon their offspring. By the time I finished high school I naively felt that I finally escaped the onus of forced socialization.
This naivety was shattered by Camp Longhorn. I was gently forced by my mother into attending this camp just before beginning my freshman year of college. Though orientation with its required meetings and info sessions wasn't entirely bad, I despised the camp. It was everything I hated about camp as a child, even the clapping games, but transplanted onto incoming freshman.
Now that I've entered adulthood, this social dread that has survived my childhood and my adolescence continues to exist. The only change has been my own outlook. It seems I have finally realized that forced socialization is one of the inevitabilities of life. It's not exactly death and taxes but it's damn close. This weekend was proof.
My presence was required this past weekend at a lodge atop a beautiful mountain for my step brother's wedding. To say that I was less than excited about this is perhaps an understatement (my attendance this weekend came at the cost of seeing MMJ in Dallas). As gauche and egocentric as it might be to admit this, it's the truth. Of course my problem isn't with weddings themselves but with these sort of pseudo family wedding where you know virtually no one—immediate family excluded—and are expected to carry on with fellow attendees as if you do know them.
Perhaps I am just a true contrarian, always in rebellion with what is expected. From petulant refusals to go to Sixth Street in college to my own youthful adoration of teams I wasn't supposed to like, a line of contrary behavior can be found in my life. This streak seems to have taken on a life of its own at times—a preternatural instinct almost. What other explanation can be reached for my fits of temper, silence, despair or my unfair humor even in the face of people for whom I deeply care? Or is it just the easy one?
This naivety was shattered by Camp Longhorn. I was gently forced by my mother into attending this camp just before beginning my freshman year of college. Though orientation with its required meetings and info sessions wasn't entirely bad, I despised the camp. It was everything I hated about camp as a child, even the clapping games, but transplanted onto incoming freshman.
Now that I've entered adulthood, this social dread that has survived my childhood and my adolescence continues to exist. The only change has been my own outlook. It seems I have finally realized that forced socialization is one of the inevitabilities of life. It's not exactly death and taxes but it's damn close. This weekend was proof.
My presence was required this past weekend at a lodge atop a beautiful mountain for my step brother's wedding. To say that I was less than excited about this is perhaps an understatement (my attendance this weekend came at the cost of seeing MMJ in Dallas). As gauche and egocentric as it might be to admit this, it's the truth. Of course my problem isn't with weddings themselves but with these sort of pseudo family wedding where you know virtually no one—immediate family excluded—and are expected to carry on with fellow attendees as if you do know them.
Perhaps I am just a true contrarian, always in rebellion with what is expected. From petulant refusals to go to Sixth Street in college to my own youthful adoration of teams I wasn't supposed to like, a line of contrary behavior can be found in my life. This streak seems to have taken on a life of its own at times—a preternatural instinct almost. What other explanation can be reached for my fits of temper, silence, despair or my unfair humor even in the face of people for whom I deeply care? Or is it just the easy one?
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Lions in the Bush
For those who may not know it, I've been seeing a girl quite frequently of late. I'm not an overly effusive man so I won't be surprised if this wasn't widely known. Though it is anyone's guess, I would like to think it is out of a sense of privacy or demarcation that causes me to shy away from writing about women in my life.
When one is involved in a relationship there is no shortage of nervousness, self-doubt, hopefulness, or joy. Though a relationship takes shape within the wider world it is truly a smaller world of its own. As a relationship progresses reality narrows slightly and the periphery occurrences become a slight blur. Eventually the relationship blossoms and blends back into the wider world. It becomes a part of the day to day reality...you exist again as a part of the world.
Though there has been plenty of hopefulness and joy, thus far there has also been no shortage of self-doubt and nervousness. These feelings haven't necessarily been linked to Sara, the girl I've been dating, as much as they have been linked to the larger situation of dating.
Despite intermittent experiences with children as a teenager, I've never been exposed to them too much. I grew up without cousins, none of my siblings or step-siblings have thus far produced any offspring. I've lived a baby free existence for the most part. When you add this to the general uncertainty that surrounds any burgeoning relationship, it would be safe to say that I was fairly nervous about being around Sara's daughter, Gabby.
My ignorance of children knew no bounds. I was unsure how to behave, how to interact, what to say...But, like any new experience, whether it's your first year of high school or moving to a new city, it's never as bad as you might fear. The adaptability of human nature always proves itself worthy of the knee shaking task. Occasionally my tongue gets the better of me and out slips a "hell" or a "damn." As I continue to moderate my language (a true task for me)my fondness for her and her mother have grown.
My relationship with these two ladies has come at a price though. Often as I sit and watch Gabby I'm overcome with an incredibly paralyzing fit of thought. There is a level of innocence and purity associated with young children that I've never really experienced before first hand and it floors me. I've almost come to tears...Answers as to why are beyond me. Perhaps I feel that I'll never become a part of that world...that I'm removed and can never experience it for myself. Perhaps it is that the innocence will eventually be ruined...the passing of time will mar the beauty of a child. Perhaps I sense the inherent tragedy in life...? Whatever it is that sends me against the wall, whatever it is that brings me to the point of tears...I both want and dislike it. I enjoy the overbearing sense of wonderment and thought it brings to me but I also fear the power and profundity that patiently wait on the edge of my thought process, like lions in the bush.
We are thrown together in this world and we enjoy it while we can. We hide our souls and only timidly do we let our nature out. As time passes and trust is gained, bit by bit the truth of who we are is shown. Whether life will take us anywhere is still unknown.
When one is involved in a relationship there is no shortage of nervousness, self-doubt, hopefulness, or joy. Though a relationship takes shape within the wider world it is truly a smaller world of its own. As a relationship progresses reality narrows slightly and the periphery occurrences become a slight blur. Eventually the relationship blossoms and blends back into the wider world. It becomes a part of the day to day reality...you exist again as a part of the world.
Though there has been plenty of hopefulness and joy, thus far there has also been no shortage of self-doubt and nervousness. These feelings haven't necessarily been linked to Sara, the girl I've been dating, as much as they have been linked to the larger situation of dating.
Despite intermittent experiences with children as a teenager, I've never been exposed to them too much. I grew up without cousins, none of my siblings or step-siblings have thus far produced any offspring. I've lived a baby free existence for the most part. When you add this to the general uncertainty that surrounds any burgeoning relationship, it would be safe to say that I was fairly nervous about being around Sara's daughter, Gabby.
My ignorance of children knew no bounds. I was unsure how to behave, how to interact, what to say...But, like any new experience, whether it's your first year of high school or moving to a new city, it's never as bad as you might fear. The adaptability of human nature always proves itself worthy of the knee shaking task. Occasionally my tongue gets the better of me and out slips a "hell" or a "damn." As I continue to moderate my language (a true task for me)my fondness for her and her mother have grown.
My relationship with these two ladies has come at a price though. Often as I sit and watch Gabby I'm overcome with an incredibly paralyzing fit of thought. There is a level of innocence and purity associated with young children that I've never really experienced before first hand and it floors me. I've almost come to tears...Answers as to why are beyond me. Perhaps I feel that I'll never become a part of that world...that I'm removed and can never experience it for myself. Perhaps it is that the innocence will eventually be ruined...the passing of time will mar the beauty of a child. Perhaps I sense the inherent tragedy in life...? Whatever it is that sends me against the wall, whatever it is that brings me to the point of tears...I both want and dislike it. I enjoy the overbearing sense of wonderment and thought it brings to me but I also fear the power and profundity that patiently wait on the edge of my thought process, like lions in the bush.
We are thrown together in this world and we enjoy it while we can. We hide our souls and only timidly do we let our nature out. As time passes and trust is gained, bit by bit the truth of who we are is shown. Whether life will take us anywhere is still unknown.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The Spectacle of Cinema
As a rule I try to stay calm and collected. This convention of control was breached the other day. After a couple years of cajoling my friend, Kiran, finally watched the inimitable Paul Newman in "The Hustler." A back and forth of messages ensued where I began a rant against the current state of cinema.
I'm not a fetishist for a supposed "golden age" of film. There have been countless productions in recent years that I love just as much as anything else produced in any other era. Despite this, I have a feeling that there's been an overall slide in quality.
The stimulus for this rant was both a remark Kiran made about "Pirates of the Caribbean II" (henceforth: POTCII) and my own recent viewing of "Step Brothers" with Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly. They play middle-aged men who still live with their parents. Despite the obviousness of the plot vehicle (parents marry, move in with child, fights and hijinks ensue) the movie's potential greatness lay within the satirization of the ever lengthening span of modern childhood. While this aping of the prorogation of adulthood has it's own comedic value, the bulk of the humor rested in the audience's ability to imagine the crass petulance of Ferrell and Reilly being acted out by actual children.
Perhaps it's obvious to note that the general plot and story arc were both formulaic. That, in and of itself, wasn't the spark of my rant. What I found in "Step Brothers"
was the continuing trend of Ferrell's absurdist brand of (crass) humor. A branch of comedy that no longer seems to place much importance on timing or wit. Instead it relies on the ability to say the most off the wall thing that pops into one's head. Though absurdism has its place, though I laughed quite a bit during the movie, I left with a feeling that I was perhaps perpetuating some larger problem in America by contributing to the success of that film.
The other side of this cinematic equation are spectacle films, like POTCII, Tristan & Isolde, National Treasure, or even Kingdom of Heaven. These movies place a priority on attention grabbing stunts as well as contrived romances and story lines. While there have certainly always been "spectacle" films, it seems that they've begun to dominate the entire action genre.
Throughout history there has always been a human urge for a spectacle. There are of course the obvious spectacles of past (gladiators) and present (modern sports) but what strikes me is the overall rise of the "spectacle" in our everyday life--from obsessive coverage of stars like Brittney Spears or Brett Favre to the rise of reality television and the explosion of movies like POTCII. This of course leads me down a dangerous thought path. It all makes me wonder if there is any correlation with the death, so to speak, of the "traditional" spectacles like traveling fairs. Or, could it be more about our own voyeuristic appetites? As the world continues to evolve, as it continues to shrink, as the ability of science grows, does our own craving for a spectacle apart from us expand?
In all likelihood the explanation can be simplified along lines of taste more than anything. Perhaps my own personality is reflected in my film tastes. Perhaps one's taste in movies is just a perverted manifestation of narcissism. I'm one for words and subtlety, thus I reject films that severely lack both. My lament to Kiran was that the popularity of these movies filled with spectacle and empty lines have come at a cost of finding movies like "The Hustler," ones that present a structured plot, intelligent dialogue, and well formed characters. These carefully crafted movies still exist. Being back home I quickly realized the unfortunate impossibility of ever seeing them in the theater. Put it down as another casualty of life in a smaller town. Put it down as another reason to be thankful for my Netflix subscription.
I'm not a fetishist for a supposed "golden age" of film. There have been countless productions in recent years that I love just as much as anything else produced in any other era. Despite this, I have a feeling that there's been an overall slide in quality.
The stimulus for this rant was both a remark Kiran made about "Pirates of the Caribbean II" (henceforth: POTCII) and my own recent viewing of "Step Brothers" with Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly. They play middle-aged men who still live with their parents. Despite the obviousness of the plot vehicle (parents marry, move in with child, fights and hijinks ensue) the movie's potential greatness lay within the satirization of the ever lengthening span of modern childhood. While this aping of the prorogation of adulthood has it's own comedic value, the bulk of the humor rested in the audience's ability to imagine the crass petulance of Ferrell and Reilly being acted out by actual children.
Perhaps it's obvious to note that the general plot and story arc were both formulaic. That, in and of itself, wasn't the spark of my rant. What I found in "Step Brothers"
was the continuing trend of Ferrell's absurdist brand of (crass) humor. A branch of comedy that no longer seems to place much importance on timing or wit. Instead it relies on the ability to say the most off the wall thing that pops into one's head. Though absurdism has its place, though I laughed quite a bit during the movie, I left with a feeling that I was perhaps perpetuating some larger problem in America by contributing to the success of that film.
The other side of this cinematic equation are spectacle films, like POTCII, Tristan & Isolde, National Treasure, or even Kingdom of Heaven. These movies place a priority on attention grabbing stunts as well as contrived romances and story lines. While there have certainly always been "spectacle" films, it seems that they've begun to dominate the entire action genre.
Throughout history there has always been a human urge for a spectacle. There are of course the obvious spectacles of past (gladiators) and present (modern sports) but what strikes me is the overall rise of the "spectacle" in our everyday life--from obsessive coverage of stars like Brittney Spears or Brett Favre to the rise of reality television and the explosion of movies like POTCII. This of course leads me down a dangerous thought path. It all makes me wonder if there is any correlation with the death, so to speak, of the "traditional" spectacles like traveling fairs. Or, could it be more about our own voyeuristic appetites? As the world continues to evolve, as it continues to shrink, as the ability of science grows, does our own craving for a spectacle apart from us expand?
In all likelihood the explanation can be simplified along lines of taste more than anything. Perhaps my own personality is reflected in my film tastes. Perhaps one's taste in movies is just a perverted manifestation of narcissism. I'm one for words and subtlety, thus I reject films that severely lack both. My lament to Kiran was that the popularity of these movies filled with spectacle and empty lines have come at a cost of finding movies like "The Hustler," ones that present a structured plot, intelligent dialogue, and well formed characters. These carefully crafted movies still exist. Being back home I quickly realized the unfortunate impossibility of ever seeing them in the theater. Put it down as another casualty of life in a smaller town. Put it down as another reason to be thankful for my Netflix subscription.
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