From -- Ten Days In The Hills - Day One -- By Jane Smiley - pgs. 21-23
Now With Dramatic-Enough-To-Be-Obvious Spacing! [Note: All typed by me, there are likely to be many errors. -.-; EDIT: Now, proofread!]




 At any rate, now that those tornado-generated images were in her mind, she didn’t really want to kiss, or to have lie on top of her. She pecked him on the lips and eased him off. She said, "You know, I can't get this war out of my mind. I hate it."
 "It's a dilemma." He looked regretful.
 "What's a dilemma?"
 "What to do about the weapons of mass destruction. What to do about Saddam."
 "You know I don't believe in the weapons of mass destruction."
 "I know that. But he didn’t prove they aren’t there."
 "You can't prove a negative."
 "You can be open and aboveboard. You can let in the--"
 "Or bend over and take it in the ass. You can do that. If you'd been to enough movies, though, you would hesitate to do that because of the manliness problem."
 "I'm sure Saddam is beyond the manliness problem. I mean, the manliness problem doesn’t seem really to apply to him."
 "Why not? Don’t you think he watches movies?"
 "You sound a little aggressive."
 "You sound a little condescending."
 "Do I?"
 She sat up and looked around the room. The angle of the sun had risen, crossing the feet of the woman in a photograph she liked. The sight of it relieved her a degree, and she said, "N o. You just sound like you disagree with me. Supposedly, in some abstract way that I can't quite comprehend right now, that's not only okay but inevitable and even desirable."
 "I do agree with you. I just can't quite gauge what will satisfy you."
She thought for a moment. "Okay. Here it is. I don't want augments to be made. I don't want logic to pertain or issues to be carefully weighed. I want the whole idea of the war to simply be disgorged from the body politic like the poison it is, and want those who thought it up to feel sick with overwhelming nausea and horror that they somehow ingested the poison to begin with. I want them to sincerely and abjectly plead for forgiveness.

 Then I want them to spend a lot of time thinking about what happened. And I want them to make a solemn vow to change their ways and do better in the future. I don't think it's too much to ask."
 "But you know it's too much to expect, right?"
 "A remote part of me knows that," she acknowledged.
 "You know that there are people whose job it is to know more about this than you do and that they think this is a regrettable necessity, right?"


"I've heard that rumor, but I question their motives. If their motives are humane, I question their logic. If their logic is reasonable, I question their worldview, and their right to impose that worldview on the lives and bodies of others."
 "Then, honey, you question the nature of civilisation."
 "And you don't?"


 He sat up, put his arm around her, and brought her down again, but now they were lying face to face in the sunlight. His face had that clear, open shape she liked so much, prominent nose, smoothe brow, well-defined chin, blue eyes. He was smiling. He said, "Do you know how long I have been in Hollywood?"
 "Thirty-five years."
 "Do you think I have any faith in human civilisation after that?"
 "No."
"Let me tell you how I see it."
 She rolled onto her back and said, rather petulantly, she was willing to admit,  "Okay."
 He rolled her onto her side again. He said, "Look at me."
 "Okay."
 "The people who are running this thing have spent their whole lives as corporate executives, more or less, and not only that, corporate executives with in-house philosophers of the free market. Not only are they rich and powerful, they feel that they deserve to be rich and powerful, because the free market is the highest good and they have worked the free market and benefited from it, and so has everyone they know. There are two things about tem that you have to remember -- that deep down the feel guilty and undeserving and that they live very circumscribed lives. Inside the office, inside the house, inside the health club, inside the corporate jet. Iraq is the size of California, right? But none of these guys has driven from L.A. to, say, Redding, in living memory. They have no idea what the size of California is, much less what it means in terms of moving armies and machinery, or having battles or conquering territory. They are used to telling people to get things done and then having them done -- or partially done, or done in a good enough way, or done in a half-assed way that someone has convinced them is good enough. The real problem is that they don’t understand logistics and that they've been downsizing for decades. Even though Iraq is the size of California, they think it is the size of United Airlines. United Airlines could possibly be reorganized and made to sustain itself in a couple of years with the right sort of ruthless leadership, but California doesn’t work like that. That's how I see it."
 "As an administrative problem that can not be solved."
 "In a way, but more as a testament to inexperience and lack of imagination. If one of them had been in the army, or even just drove around in the Central Valley for a week and saw the scale of things, then that might help everyone emerge from the fantasy. Or if everyone all the way up and down a single chain of command -- let's say forty levels of authority, down to the guy fixing the carburetor on the Hummer -- just came into the office and told one of them what he had actually done for the last twenty-four hours, the inevitability of fuckups and waste would be so evident that even the idea of ordering up a successful invasion would seem laughable. Situation Normal All Fucked Up, as we used to say. But I know it isn’t going to happen. I know the machine is going to keep running and lots of people are going to be crushed beneath the wheels and mangled in the gears. I can't not know that. I can't even hope that it won't be so."
Now she rolled on her back again, and he let her, though he kept his arm comfortingly under her head. Though no theory worked, she couldn't help but toiling at her theorizing. her fellow citizens had become unaccountable. She had lost even the most rudimentary ability to understand their points of view, but she could not stop theorizing. Each new theory was accompanied by a momentary sense of uplift -- oh, that was it -- fear, native aggression, ignorance, disinformation and propaganda, a religious temperament of rules and punishments. But in the end, it was that they didn’t mind killing; they didn’t think killing had anything to do with them or their loved ones. It was unbelievably strange, a renewed shock every time she thought about it.


She said, "I think I'm becoming deracinated."
 "Then it's time to get up."
 "Is there a word beyond deracinated?"
 "Only in the realms of mental illness."
 "Well, mental illness is not the problem. Moral illness is the problem."


He put a hand to each side of her face and turned it toward his face. He spoke slowly and clearly. He said, "I agree with you even when I don't feel exactly as you do. That's the best we can do." He took his hands off her face. She nodded, feeling at first a bit chastened and after that comforted. Now he rolled her up against himself, her head in the crook of his neck, her breasts against his chest, his belly pushed into her's, his leg crooked over her leg and pulling her legs toward him. She could feel his warm solid body all the way down hers, no gaps. His wide hand was on the small of her back, pulling her tightly against him. Then he shifted toward her a bit, not on top of her but pinning her nonetheless between his weight and the resilience of the bed. She felt him breathing, then felt her own breath synchronize with his. She let this happen. It was slow, but they had done this many times, this exercise of physical agreement, usually as a way of getting back to sleep in the middle of the night. Even now, after only a minute or two, it made her feel relaxed and then sleepy. Should the occasion rise, she thought, this was a good way to be buried, and she should remember to put it in her will.
 She said, "What time is it, do you think?"
 "It is eight-oh-six. Time for a cup of coffee."
When he walked across the room, she thought, This is the thing you never get to see in the movies -- a naked hairy middle-aged man walking to the window in a graceful, casual way, pushing his hair back, adjusting his testicles, looking for his glasses, and rubbing his nose, coughing -- and yet it is a beautiful sight, no manliness problem at all. He went into the bathroom. She heard him blow his nose, urinate resoundingly into the toilet, and flush. She heard him go out the other door of the bathroom. After that there was silence for a bout a minute, and then he was back.
 She said, "What's the matter?
 "The house is full of people."
 "How many people? Do we know them?"
 "Stoney, Charlie, Delphine, Cassie, Isabel, and Simon."
 "Simon? What's he doing here?" She sat up.
 "I don’t know what anyone is doing here. I got out there in the altogether, realized the place was teeming, and came right back for my bathrobe. Do you think we invited all these people for today? I thought they were going to be dribbling in one at a time over the net couple of weeks."

Escaping Tradition
By: ~Matt Sandnas~


It is, because it has always been. Custom and tradition rule. Change is a thing to be feared. And, if you think differently, you’re frowned at; usually, the strategy being, that if you’re frowned at hard enough, long enough, and loudly enough, with little regard to subtlety or rationale, you’ll stop whatever it is that you’re doing that people don’t understand.

But, for a while, let’s step outside that reality. Let’s enter the world of dreams and ideals, and see if we can bring any of them back with us.

You’re at a meeting. Why? Because you can be. Maybe even because you want to be. You’re told you can make a difference. You’re told, that you have a real chance at changing something, making a direct difference, and being heard, acknowledged; That your opinion is worth more than a “Thank you for your time” comment, which, of course, is said while the aforementioned speaker concludes your input time by glancing with an obvious sense of finality at the doodles they’ve drawn on the document infront of them.

You can give input on what classes you want to take. When to take them. You’ve learned how to play: you’ve been in traditional school for years. Now that you know the game, it’s time to break some rules and bend all the rest.

In general, young kids need structure. They need to be told, and sometimes it seems, like being told, when to eat, where to play, what to do, how to do it. But now, as we near the edge of our existence as minors, there is no magical switch to flip -- You’re already starting to enter, and are likely well into that transitory state. In fact, you may feel you’ve already left that state behind. So, it’s time to sway the structure, rearrange your cemented life, and move closer to the ground floor, where the action is, and the street is just outside your door.

In a traditional school, there is just that; Traditional classes, with traditional teaching methods, traditional structure, discipline, and format. Bells, whistles, fences, glass ceilings; Grade point averages that measure nothing but numerical points, and not the points themselves; you’re average -- you don’t have a point to make, silly. Yes, that old admonishment: You’re here to get an education! Let’s … Redefine that word, shall we?

I think the answer, for me, at the very least, lays in innovation, ingenuity; the new, the exciting, the untried and unforeseeable. We are the new generation. We, as people, may be partially defined by our education, but we can define our education, given the option. I want to make that option into a priority. I want to make a new experience for myself, at this new school. I want a cubicle. They’re not horror-stories with three walls. They’re workstations. I want my own computer. My own great tool, as versatile as I make it, to express all I have. If my lesson ends early, I would rather spend my time outside, talking to others, discussing my day and the life I and others around me lead, instead of in silence, cursing the clock and attempting, by sheer force of will, to make it go faster. To dictate what classes I should be taking, because, of all the people on this planet, I alone can decide my destiny, and I intend to do that as best I can within the scope I find myself in.

I want to be educated. I do. I want to know the names of the things in the world around me. I want to know how they work. Why they work. What they work toward. Why they think, and feel as they do. How I can change and manipulate them. How I can take them, and with a vision in mind, bring it to life. I want to know how my world is being shaped and molded while my ass is being shaped and molded by that infernal chair that I’m going back to after I’m finished standing here infront of you.

A greater sense of freedom of expression and self is the penultimate achievement that many of us strive toward. I’m asking, for the freedom to help define myself, as much as I can. There may still be rules, restrictions, ramifications and rhetoric to be memorized or adhered to, but so long as these are shaped by reason and upheld within rationality alone, hopefully even your own, there need never be conflict over them.

Lend your voice; sign your name; Step into your new year, and let the sounds of your footsteps resound in the hallway. Know that we are the future, and let us seize not only today, but, our yesterday, and our tomorrow. Take something from this fantasy land that I’ve described, and together, let’s make as much of it as we can, a reality. Pen your name to the charter, and call that school your own. You, and I … We, are the definition of passion, so long as we let the fire flow from our hearts and hands. Pick up a pen. All of you. This is life. Let’s rise up and live it.

Of Paradoxes And Parallels, Pigs Who Fly and Men Who Lie
By: ~Matt S.~
(My thesis, perhaps, for ... Uh ... Something?)

What makes a language, any language, that built of numbers or words, touches or glances, skin cells or brain waves, color or line, any language, great, powerful?

Length, width, and depth. How wide is the language's spectrum, how deep can it delve, and to what length can this be expanded within the language?

(These are the three dimensions we have come to know and live by. However ... We know these are not the only dimensions. There are more. Is there a language that is also four-dimensional? Or more? What would it be like? Do you think we are already using one, or rather, using one, but not fully? How could we utilize it more? Do you see more to it already, than the length, width, and depth I've thought about?)

I will mostly address the scope of computers and technology, but this is only to give a small bit more of focus; I speak of things more broad, in actuality.

For computers, and their languages, since they were not made by themselves, it was humans who made them ... What are it's parameters? I feel this is fundamental to my ability to create with it, because I believe, that to be able to create with a thing, you must first understand enough of it's nature to do what you wish to accomplish, if indeed, the thing you wish is able to be done at all within your medium ... You must know a thing, through and through, it's nature as a whole and as individual makeups, to manipulate, shape, and create with it ...

If computer language was written by humans, was the person who wrote the majority of code esoteric, and unto himself? Did anyone else grasp what he was doing? How it worked, if it could work? What language did he speak? It is based off of logic, but different cultures and even individual minds, follow different logic paths often times. From the language of the originator, he expresses his perceptions of the world, how he sees it, how he imagines to shape it. Say, for the sake of my sanity, that it was originally written in British English ( as an aside, I originally wished to use American english as my example, but our language is made of so many others that it really cannot be an effective example, so, we will use the Brits' form of it, which has fewer roots in other languages). Would a person who speaks a dissimiliar language, perhaps French, German, Latin (another now-dead language?), have trouble working with one written by an English writer?

How much does the computer really understand? How much can we assume it will be -able- to understand? How can you tell, if what you see in your mind, so clearly, the computer understands? Perhaps, the language the computer uses, isnt 'powerful' enough for what you wish to do? If you present all logical arguements to it within it's scope, and it still fails to understand, then, what happens? What if you try to expand its syntax, within it's own limits, and that expansion puts it beyond its comprehension? Example, being, perhaps, an analogy. People, with imagination and hypothetical thought, can often grasp new meanings and concepts, but ... How do you do that for a computer?

How does one write a new language? The computer still needs to understand the language you are writing, and it cannot, essentially, 'learn', atleast in the sense that I know. Therefore, and, yes, this is a great leap of logic ... Are you merely showing it what it already knew, something you werent aware it knew, and thus, is not novel at all, but exists within some other language you know has black holes, and unused commands? Are they similiar to the Olympian rings, connected, all of the same string, but different, even as they share parts of eachother?

Logic is universal, when spoken from one person to another of sufficient intelligence to comprehend it within the same language and explained, defined, properly **debate-able**. Why, then, is there no universal computer language, since it is all based off of the same numbers, and letters, and symbols? Have we simply not discovered it? Is it in use already, in some simplistic form? Being universal, should it not already be in effect, whether or not it appears to be present and/or useable? How well exactly, does one language translate to another? For example, in some cultures, and languages, there is no word for lying, or falsehood, of any kind, and the concept is, essentially, an alien thing. How, then, would one pose arguements for such a language? Would you pose one at all, or perhaps use a different factor, some other way to reach a conclusion or perform an action, or understand? If you did so, and used something else, could that same principle be used to expand other languages? Are they deficient in something, simply because they didnt know it existed, even if they were functional and powerful before? Does this new thing, perhaps, set all, or even some, of the arguements before it, in precedential contradiction? We know there are other things that affect thought and decision than arguements and logic ... For example, morality, and ethics. Emotion is perceptual. Logic, can also be perceptual. A great many things, can be perceived at angles, presented at angles, in different lights, at different times and places, painted to look one way or another; Perhaps, even changed to -be- one way or another.. And, now, I pose this question to you: Can a person, who possesses both logic and emotion, morality and spite, truly ever divorce each from another? Can you truly keep the tiny voice in the back of your head, that asks you to rail against a wish simply to be spiteful, and never look at that option out of the corner of your eye and influence your final answer, or even come to that final answer with even more conviction, just because that option to spite exists, and your morality flares in clashing with it, while your emotion tries to decide which to believe, and as it slips it's pleading arms around the stoic form of logic? I dont know. Uncertainty, is the product of many such convergances. But ... Would you really want to become a creature who decides upon one form of evidence alone? I would never wish to be free of emotion, morality, logic, or spite, no matter what it costs me to have it and each of the others. Spoken and written language, side by side with art, of some of its many forms, are powerful beyond measure, for I believe there is nothing greater than they, to take their measure.

And now, as a smile draws across your face and mine, we are brought to another question ... By always wanting to compare ... Are we missing something? Great or small, subtle or imposing, it may change everything. We, are oblivious creatures of limitation lain on us only by our infinite imaginations.

A girl killed herself yesterday, by, as I hear it, overdosing on several different drugs, and then drowning herself in the local pond. Today, it was announced during third period, that she "passed away" and they wanted to stress that "no details are known" so as to "crush any rumors" ... There were clergy and councilors available in the office. I saw the list of people leaving school, and it included less than 25 names. I left during my last period, a study hall. I couldn't sit there anymore. Her name was on no-one's lips. I listened for it. Laughter and life as it existed in school, progressed as routine. I'd known her during the sporadic soccer practices and games during my 7th and 9th years of school, for the YMCA. She was the only girl on the team that I held in any regard. She was one of the few women who bothered to disgregard the foolish feminine stereotypes, and live life as she wished; She'd play, and be competitive, even if she wasnt aggressive. She was stunningly beautiful, with a lovely form, sharp, bright eyes, and graceful, deft hands. Her name was on no one's lips.

Intellectually, I know she is gone; I could hear the uncomprehending sorrow in the person's voice that told me so, a voice I trust; I heard how she died; she wasnt walking the halls with everyone else, talking or laughing. But, I dont feel it emotionally. I had to will myself to cry for her. I willed it so, because she deserved the tears, and infinitely more; also, because I desperately wanted to feel something. I've never faced the death of anyone that I knew terribly well, aside from my uncle, Rick, who lives in California with his wife and two of his three children, who's life was destroyed by kidney cancer, a month or two ago. I wrote him a poem. It was never read aloud to my knowledge. I've never felt the effects of losing someone in my life, any part of my life. I don't want to be numb or unresponsive to this. Emotionaly, there is no response but what I will to happen in my emotions. Emotion, is a thing of itself. I should feel ... SOMETHING. That, too, scares me. But, only intellectually. Where has my heart gone? Why ... Was no one talking about her? Why were there no thoughts of her in people's eyes, that I could see? They were in mine .. I know they were. And I didnt even truly know her. I only breathed across the surface. Not so much as a ripple. I wish she'd've left something. I hope she did. Something cryptic. Something to muse over. Something hateful. Something to sorrow for. Something, to evoke something. I miss her. I don't even kow her. Where is everyone's sanity? Mine is lost. There is little that brings light to my days ... For her, every passing day, hardly more than a blink, will be the black of endless gray. If my heart refuses to weep, I will still be sure that tears are shed in your name, if from no eyes but mine. Sweetest dreams.