Spring break day 1

I read a book for fun today. It was amazing; to be able to read for the sake of reading is a new thing for me. I have a sizable (HUGE) reading list. Under the 'en medias res' thing you can see what I am currently reading. I usually bounce around between books, unless one is really good and I read it exclusively.

Anyway when my dad came home from work and asked what I did today I thought for awhile before answering, "Not a Goddamn thing," which was true.

I always dislike that question though. The question isn't really asking what I did today because it would be difficult to recount everything I did every second I did it. What that question really means when someone asks it is, "What did you do today that I would care about or be interested in?"

So the answer depends on the questioner. This may sound obvious, but when you think about it, it's a surprisingly complicated mental process, like a different language that nobody speaks but a lot of people know what is meant--even when the right words aren't said. I think it's interesting.

Anyway I went outside and read Tommy Frank's Memoir. It was suggested to me by a friend at work named Van. Tommy Franks was the general in charge of operation Iraqi Freedom (I think) that got pinned as the fall guy for the blunders in Iraq. I haven't gotten to that part yet, I am on page 189 and he was just about to fall asleep when the gulf war ended.

It's really interesting. I am surprised by how well it is written, not that Generals can't write well or anything. I was being prejudiced towards grunts is all, which is disappointing to learn about myself.

Anyway, while I was reading that our dog Sasha came up to me and stood next to me so I could pet her. Sasha is an Akita, a big thick Japanese bear dog. She is really old and has hip problems and is incontinent so she spends a lot of her time outside. Hers is a really interesting story. She was without a home for 5 years living on our street and everyone, myself included, thought she belonged to some negligent neighbor who I am sure everyone wanted to reprimand for being so negligent. What had happened was her owner moved away and left their dog behind. And Sasha walked the street up and down--it was her street, her home. She watched us when we played, she watched us when we jogged she walked with us when we walked. She was this chill dog. She rarely barked, except at Mormons and Jehova's Witnesses early weekend mornings.

One day my brother was walking and Sasha joined him, just matched his stride after stepping out behind some bushy trees and he noticed her front paws were all red and inflamed and without fur and there were bugs on them. They were mites and tics and other parasites, they made her tremble when she stopped. She was really a scruffy, mangy, ugly blond dog, but my brother took pity on her. He walked the whole street and asked everyone that lived on it if the dog was theirs. They all said no. He asked them if they knew who the owner was, they all said no. The whole walk Sasha walked with him trembling nearby, and scratching her front paws and face. After the discovery that she had no family and survived by the generosity of people on the street, Kevin asked mom and dad if he could take the dog in and take care of it because it wasn't right. We do this, take animals in, and people know it and leave us their animals: kittens in a box in the flower bed, puppies at the door step. We are pet people, and all we had to do was see Sasha trembling with bugs and infection. We took her to the vet.

She had Mange, tics, fleas, lice and other bugs. She was given lots of antibiotics, bug killers and immune boosters because she in effect had doggy AIDS, possessing no immune system. After that we took her home and cleaned her up. She tolerated that, and left a thick ring of dirt and dead skin in the tub. Then came the difficult process of keeping her off the street. Our home was not her home, the streets were her home and she was exceptionally good at escaping. She demanded regular walks, which were more like guard patrols. People saw her on a leash for the first time and went out of their way to confront and scold us for neglecting Sasha for all these years. We had to explain, may times to irate people, that Sasha hadn't had a home, but now she belonged to us. They changed their tune so quick. It was interesting for me to see them go out of their way to confront us, oftentimes with the same angry words, only to learn we were taking Sasha in because no one else would. And to hear almost identical apologies and thanks.

People told us stories about Sasha, things they had seen first hand or heard. Sasha patrolled the streets before we picked her up and scared away other animals. One night she was attacked by a pack of coyotes--which are the bane to animals around here. Attacking her was a mistake. The coyotes must have thought they could kill her, and obviously didn't know the Akita Inu breed was one of the oldest canine breeds ever and regularly hunted huge game, like bears and elk. The pack of 15 or so small coyotes circled her and took turns yipping and snapping, going for the throat, working together to bring her down, as they do with larger animals, such as cows (there is a pasture nearby where they brought a cow down--there were probably 30 of them). Sasha wasted no time and charged into them ferociously attacking the pack which attacked her. Fur flew, yipes and cries echoed and at the end of a minute struggle she was bleeding out of her lip and shoulder, 3 coyotes were dead 2 more limped away as Sasha pursued. The guy that saw this took her to the vet to get stitches, she came when he called.

I remeber a year ago I was walking her and a pair of coyotes were in the creek that runs along side our road and Sasha was going nuts! She wanted to get those coyotes so bad, it was all I could do to hold her back. Luckily I have a lot of exerience with massive dogs...

Which reminds me of a time when I was 14 and walking our dog Slugger (not pictured here), a Newfoundland /chow/sheapard cross. He was a massive black dog that looked super scary, but that's as far as it went. He was a giant puppy, and wanted to play tug of war all day, everyday. He had a deep growl which he always used in play, but scared strangers. Anyway one day I was walking him and he saw a squirrel. The squirrel saw him and the squirrel turned to run away, bushy tail switching side to side. Slugger charged. 112 pounds of 14 year old boy tried to stop 130 pounds of 1 year old dog and failed. I was pulled to the ground and dragged though the pine needles and sticks for what felt like a mile. Eventually, thank God, the squirrel ran up a tree and Slugger couldn't follow and I could unwrap the leash from my hand and pull the pine needles out of my face.

Anyway, Sasha sat next to me outside while I read my book. And I looked at her, not to observe, but to know (conocer). She met me with gentle eyes and an easy pant. Years after we took her in we all kind of lost interest in her because she got old and we got tired of cleaning up her messes, which I maintain she can't help. She is an old dog. I have to say that while everyone else lost interest I gained interest. She reminds me of my own mortality. Age is much more noticeable in dogs, from puppies to strong bodied diligent pets that we take camping and hiking and swimming, and everywhere really, until she can't stand for too long before her rear legs fail on her, or they get osteosarcoma, or renal failure and have to be put down. Sasha is probably not too far from that herself, but while everyone is inside doing homework/work and paying attention to the newer Rottweiler puppy Nina, I am outside with Sasha's head on my lap stroking her face. She just lets me do it. I don't have to tell you what a loyal, trusting dog is like. But this dog is more like a cat than a dog as far as her personality goes. She is quiet, aloof, distant and when she shows any affection we all stop what we are doing and marvel in the rare occurence. Which is why I was content to just pet her outside instead of read or something, her sweet moments are rare I may not experience another.

When I think about her life, I wonder what she thinks about us taking her off the street and keeping her inside on a doggy bed. I can't be sure of what she dislikes, but I can be sure she loves to 'patrol' her street and we take her out every day.

If there is a heaven, and it is run by dogs (or cats, iguanas, snakes or fish) my family will jump to the front of the line.

Finals week reprieve--Pulitzer prize winning journalist attacks atheism.

Chris Hedges is writing a book called, "I don't believe in atheists." Which is going to be similar to his book about the Christian Right, attacking the movement and the ideology of fundamental Christianity.

So, after having debated Christopher Hitchens and Sam Harris, Chris Hedges, a Christian himself, is now afraid of Atheism. As an Atheist myself, this is alarming. As thought there wasn't enough ire for atheists already. Speaking for myself and not all atheists, I desire nothing more than to be left alone to believe whatever I want without fear.

For awhile it was scary to be an atheist, but thanks to the "Four Horsemen" Daniel Dennet, Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, and Christopher Hitchens, that has changed and it was tolerable to be an atheist. Chris Hedges book may reverse that. Goody.

Here are some excerpts from a 3 min talking point:

Atheists are incredibly similar to fundamentalists they attack.

They utilize the same methods as the Religious Right: sloganeering, jingoism, characteristic of the hollowness of the Religious Right

They have created a secular religion, like the Religious right, and put people on a moral plane, allowing for an US vs THEM.

They believe in violence as a way to solve problems.

They are as Utopian as Religious Right, and believe in a collective moral human progress.

It doesn't matter what you believe about the apocalypse or that science will create the perfect world, both of those are delusion.

Thus he starts his assault on atheism because...

atheism is dangerous, intolerant, and frightening.
***

I saw the debate he had with Sam Harris, and he didn't do well. He made a lot of strong points, very few of which were positions held by Sam Harris who remained consistent the whole way through. I only know that because I study philosophy. The audience, not so much, and cheered and clapped when Chris Hedges made a random point (indefensible by anyone) and attributed it to Sam Harris. In Logic they call that A straw man Fallacy where you invent your opponents position as something really easy to beat up and then beat it up. A fallacy is a flaw in logic that is simultaneously psychologically suggestive, and the audience bought it. It makes me sad that even though he used all these fallacies against Sam Harris, the crowd, or most of it (the loudest part) bought it, even though Sam had to repeat, "That is not my argument/ that is not my position."

I can only imagine how Christopher Hitchens and Chris Hedges debated, as Hitchens is much more aggressive and analytical, and he has that British delivery.

Anyway, I have a lot to say/think because it is something I care about, it's my life, and I study religion and science both because it's important, I think. Even more so now because religion has power to influence laws and science and bilogy and people and their bodies and sex and all kinds of things it shouldn't have any influence over.

While a part of me is thinking, "Great. All these Christians are going to go out and buy this new book about how Atheism is eViL, and I will have to watch what I say, and what I do."

But another part of me remebers watching "the four horsemen" talking about religion and science and all manner of things and they said that eventually atheism will get attacked by some powerful guy, and not to be afriad of it because it is the natural progression of ideas, that they rattle the cage enough to get a response. And with that new response comes new argument and new areas to shine light upon. So it's a good thing, says them. A sign of progress.

I can't help but feel that this will only divide science and religion/ us and them even more, and Atheism, which is incredibly hated around the world, gets more hate.

To all those theists out there, I don't hate you, and I hope you don't hate me either.
***

It's like everyone is part of a club that I can't be a part of. The fairy tale salvation club. Where the members continue to further their fairy tales and influence medicine and science.

Off the top of my head: Stem Cell Research is a blanket term for the many research methods of stem cells, be they embryonic, or umbilical or placenta.

Here is the issue. Some of the cells in our body do not grow back, namely nerve cells. You are born with one set that grows your whole life, where as skin cells keep growing and dying as long as you live. If you damage a nerve cell, or sever it, it is unrepairable. If you break your neck or back and sever the nerves there you lose function to your body, paralysis. Everything is connected to a nerve cell in some way, any one of which can become damaged and you can lose feeling and function to that one area, be it part of the face, arm or body.

If only there was a way to regrow a damaged nerve cell...

That's where stem cells come in. Stem cells are the cells in a developing human embryo. Remember in 7th grade where the sperm and the egg join, and then divided a bunch of times? Those are stem cells, cells that all other cells stem from: teeth, brain, muscles, skin, all of it.

Now, the issue arises when a human embryo is used/killed to get stem cells that can be grown into any cell needed. That is controversial because one can argue that you are taking one life to save another. One could also argue that life begins at conception, and that is murder.

I could argue with you about those points, and we could get no where. So I have a much simpler solution.

Stem Cells can be gathered from umbilical cords and placenta. Umbilical cords are removed and incinerated after every birth. The placenta is likewise removed and destroyed. I say, if the human embryo is controversial, how about the umbilical cord? Or the placenta? Or the birthing blood? Stem cells are in those things, and we just throw them away after every birth.

***IF***
it is possible to gather stem cells from these things and repair damaged nerves and lost limbs, and eyes and organs and whatever cell you want, wouldn't you want to do SOME (any) research? Wouldn't you want to at least ALLOW scientists to see if it can be used to help us or not?

Also, as a side note, we incinerate embryos all the time. After abortions certainly, but more than that sometimes an embryo adheres to the fallopian tube, rather than the uterus. And it will break the fallopian tube and kill the baby and the mommy. Those have to be removed and incinerated.

And my position is, since it is being killed anyway (by God no less, if you believe that sort of thing, adhering it to the fallopian tube rather than the uterine wall) why not utilize it to cure someone with muscular dystrophy, or paralysis, or 3rd degree burns over most of their body (rather than use a pig's skin, or a motorist who is a donor--we use their parts when they die without much thought.)

It just seems like there is SOME WAY to do SOME research on ANY bit of stem cells, right? Rather than label the whole thing an ABOMINATION, or murder or whatever else, I mean. Surely, there is some way. Be reasonable.

Finals week reprieve--Roomba

This is Roomba. I love Roomba. Roomba is a robotic vacuum cleaner that you set up and walk away from and it cleans a room in about a half hour. Now that may seem like a long time, surely a regular human directed vacuum is faster. And it is, but you have to push it around. Roomba on the other hand, pushes itself around and does a thorough job leaving you to go do whatever you want.

This is how it works: You take "light towers" and place them to set up a perimeter that Roomba stays within. You set Roomba down and push the button that blinks and plays a little happy chime. "Do do de DO" and it starts cleaning.

It is such a cool thing. And its totally mental, we had a vacuum already that worked pretty well--a fancy one. Roomba was about the same price and Kevin pushed for it, "Think about it, you set it and forget it, no more pushing a vacuum around. You can read while it cleans your house." That is what sold Mom I think, she likes reading.

We have a lot of animals, half of them have fur. Our house is always furry, so we vacuum at least once a week, usually on the weekend.

But Roomba does it for us. We are free to do something else, anything else. Its really great and I recommend it to you because vacuuming is lame.

Don't watch Roomba! You will go mental. Roomba doesn't clean like a human, it goes all over, seemingly at random but it moves in the most energy efficient manner.

We liked Roomba so much we got Scooba. Scooba mops the floors, by itself, without human interaction. We cook a lot and make messes a lot and our dog Nina can't seem to keep her mouth closed after drinking and slops water everywhere. The kitchen gets dirty fast and Roomba gets all the dry stuff like hair and rice and whatever else, and Scooba gets the sticky, caked on stuff.

Together they keep the house clean, so we don't have to.

The coolest thing about Robot house cleaners is how sophisticated we feel about it.

"Oh you still push a vacuum around do you? People still do that?"

If Roomba gets stuck or sucks up a sock or something it stops and emits a sad, tragic chime: Bee DOO.

It is the sadest two tone noise I have ever heard and fit easily into our regular conversation.

"Has anyone seen the left over Steak from last night?" asks Dad.

"Oh, I ate it for breakfast," says Kevin.

"Oh, Bee DOO," says Dad

And Bee DOO has popped up in other owners vocabulary as well. Its the epitome of sadness and helplessness and all things tragic.

When Roomba hits a wall it stops, turns and trys another direction and can fit under cupboards and navigate obstructions.

Do your family a favor and get a Roomba, it's worth it.

And finally, Jazzy cat doesn't like Roomba and runs and hides from it, which makes this video of "Roomba Driver" that much more funny.

Enjoy! : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQ-jv8g1YVI

Finals week reprieve--Music

I normally write with music. I have a play list for creative work, and another for editing, and another for critiquing, and another for reading and another for boring homework requiring little brain power.

When I write poetry I listen to classical music, the more dynamic the better. I like the music to go fast and slow and rise high and sink low. It makes pictures in my head. There is a Mussorgsky thing called pictures in an exhibit, and each one is distinct and I see what the song is titled. There is one called catacombs, and its all dark and underground sounding. When I listen to it I see the catacombs, like I am moving through it in a movie and the soundtrack moves with me.

When I edit my work I like to listen to wordy songs, like Bad Religion (my bro's fav, its growing on me slowly) Sublime, and Pepper.

Since I was a little kid I listened to Metallica. I was really drawn to the guitar solos and the words. Now I listen to it as comfort music, even the fast, loud, hard ones. Metallica is my favorite band. And I tried listening to other metal bands, but its been slow going. I don't like screaming, or stupid words or unskilled thrashing, which is most of it.

I can write with Metallica blaring without any adverse effects on my writing, because Metallica has become familiar. New music I can't write with because its too distracting, I listen to the music rather than write words. I think I use it to drown out other sounds, because I am always like, "What was that noise," as though I have to investigate everything. So the music keeps me focused.

Also, in psychology I learned if you do something for 6 months it becomes a habit. I listen to certain songs when I write, so now when the music comes on I get in a writing mood and just HAVE to write. It works pretty well, but there were a few times when I couldn't have music and it was a little more difficult , but not enough to make me realize I was a weirdo.

Looking at my play list now I see my top song is Metallica's "My Friend Of Misery" at 319 times. That song isn't considered their best, (that would be "One") but the beginning bass riff draws you in. Here it is, just the bass part, 1 min: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDyT0LIYr6c

"One" is like an experience and I got to be ready for it, or in some kind of mood to appreciate it fully. The first guitar solo is CrAzY and makes me want to air guitar it, which is good cause I don't know how to play a real guitar, yet.

Once I was driving with Loo, Mike, and Kev and Loo was selecting tracks and she came to One which starts out with machine gun fire and explosions, and she skipped it. We were all like, "What are you doing!? You can't skip One!" and we had to hear it for her sake so she would know when One was coming on for next time. Here is One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSNJ00iAZ7I

Next on the top of the play list at 267 is Harmageddon by Apocalyptica--a finnish cello quartet that started with Metallica covers, this I like for the sounds that a cello can make: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qx4XNxHkMuc

Next at 254 is another Metallica song "Call of Ktulu" which is an instrumental and just really cool, it starts off with wind and then opens with nice easy guitar and transitions into the other instruments. It is almost 9 mins long: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWGOEWdV13M

Next at 201 is the Moldau (Vlatava) Smetana Symphonic Poem by Antonin Dvorak "From The New World." It is really pretty and starts light and easy and gets heavier and more dynamic. It was the basis for the Batman Theme.

Its late, so good night.

I have to take the dog to the vet tomorrow cause she probably has a bladder infection.

Poor Ninners.

Finals week reprieve--The Omen

One day in the heart of winter in Big Bear I walked to my car. I wore 9 layers of warm clothes and two hats because it was lightly snowing and it was 17 degrees out.

Everything was white. Kinda like the rolling stones song Paint it Black, but the opposite. White. And remove the emotion in the song, because nobody died on my way to school. I mean 6390 Americans die every hour, but I didn't know them, so I didn't care. I mean I say I do in social settings to not sound like a monster, but I don't really.

That's 107 Americans that die every minute of every day. The amount of humans that die around the world every second is probably around 3 or 4. The amount of life that ends per second is probably around 1,107 including bugs and whales and fish. I totally made that number up. You get the idea. Death happens all the time, every second of every day, but I don't pay any attention to it. I doubt you do either. Unless one of those 107 per minute is a friend or relative, then I am sorry for you loss.

This post is not about death. What follows actually happened.

Anyway, as I walked to my car through the winter wonderland, with crystal crusted pine needles and frosted tree trunks, there was a single raven in the scrub oak near my snow covered car.

Amidst all this white, that raven stood out as the antithesis of this monochromatic world. I stopped and looked directly at the raven. The raven looked directly at me. The wind stopped blowing, the trees stopped swaying, the snow stopped falling and for a brief moment all sound ceased. In that moment the raven cawed a piercing powerful caw that seemed to thunder throughout the silent world.

Maybe you heard it.

Maybe you didn't.

It froze me in my tracks. Bundled up with my books and bags I could only stare at the raven who held me with its gaze, its deep, dark onyx eyes looking not at me, but to me, into me.

As far as I could tell, the raven and I were the only two living things at this moment. Then the wind started up again, and the other noises resumed. The raven flew away.

I thought that this moment was significant at the time because it effected me for the rest of the day, and I write about it now.

After school I looked through my many books to see if I could find the reason this felt so familiar a situation. It felt like a Viking symbol for something, but the raven is a loaded symbol.

The raven is a powerful image. This could have been a crow, I can't tell the difference unless they are next to one another. (ravens are bigger, and smarter--but you can't tell by looking at them) Anyway, there is Edgar Allan Poe's Raven, there is the Sioux belief that the raven created the world and is a symbol of rebirth (the Sioux people saw ravens leap out of the corpses of fallen animals and didn't know they were eating and though they must sprouted out, similarly to the magical power of women who could spontaneously create life--man's input was not known to be needed for this.)

Odin/Woden/Wotan is the Scandinavian/German God referred to as the All-Father. He is a warrior/poet/sage. He is really interesting, take my word for it. He has an eight legged horse named Sleipnir (Slippy) who is black like the night sky with stars twinkling (literally). He has two wolves that follow him everywhere he goes named Geri (Greedy) and Freki (Ravenous). And he has two ravens that fly around the world at dawn named Huginn (Thought) and Muninn (Memory) and return to Woden's shoulders at dusk and whisper into his ear what they have seen.

(Here is a poem about it from Grímnismál:

Old Norse:

Huginn ok Muninn fliúga hverian dag

iörmungrund yfir;

óomk ek of Huginn, at hann aptr ne komit,

þó siámk meirr um Muninn.

English:

The whole world wide, every day,

fly Huginn and Muninn;

I worry lest Huginn should fall in flight,

yet more I fear for Muninn.

The play on words is better seen with a variant translation: Every morning the two ravens Huginn and Muninn, are loosed and fly over Midgard (Earth, lit: Middle Earth) I always fear that Thought may not wing his way home, but my fear for Memory is greater.)

They also bring omens.

To see either of them is good tidings. To have one of them look directly at you and caw once in the absence of sound is something entirely different.

That is an omen.

And the moment of the caw is supposed to be Woden's agreement with what you are thinking, if you were thinking.

What was I thinking? Was I thinking?

I had something on my mind, a quandary. Two difficult choices, and one of them received Woden's personal pledge as the correct thing to do. I can't remember what it was. Figures.

If it were 1200 CE and I was German/Scandinavian I would know exactly what that meant. I would probably get promoted to high priest status, having been chosen by Odin. And get extra mead and Viking babes.

But in 2009, what am I supposed to do with that?

I should share it.

I know what you are thinking.

"D00d, it was just a bird that cawed at you. Crows/ravens do that. It just so happens that the wind stopped and all noise ceased at the exact same time to make the caw seem more resonant to you. It was just a bird. It was not Huginn or Muninn because there is no Odin. There never was an Odin. You were trippin.'"

Now that I typed that I see the parallels when I argue with people of faith. If I believed in anything, it would be in Odin. And if I did, your words would have no effect on me. I see now how silly it was of me to convince people their belief in an imaginary person is misplaced.

He is the only God that cares about me. He sent me a sign. He loves me and wants me to be happy. Isn't it obvious?

I just wish I could remember what it was he thought I should do.

Finals week reprieve--Workshop

The creative writing workshop is a strange place.

If you are presenting you sit in silence and write down what the other people say that you think is important. I usually write it all down, which is difficult when people talk fast.

But this only works if the people do what they are supposed to do, namely read my story/poem before workshop, think about it, and write comments and ask questions.

Oftentimes that doesn't happen, they read it 5 mins before class, underline a word or two, write "That's dope" or put a star next to a line or something. I use to just shrug it off: whatever, you didn't read my poem, maybe you'll read the next one.

But when I look over the critiques I get back, where people have doodled all over my papers, I see how the vast majority of people did it 5 mins before class, or during the workshop. When I go to write a second draft useful critiques are in short supply and its very unhelpful to have so little. It bothers me, a lot. But it doesn't bother me because I am inconvenienced.

The reasons it bothers me: 1st, I take my writing seriously, and I take the writing of other seriously. 2nd, those slackers expect me to give them a thorough critique, which I do because it is required. But I think what bothers me the most is that those people get a passing grade just like I do, and they are ok with that, allowing mediocrity to flourish.

My advanced poetry workshop this quarter was awesomes. It was eight people and about 4 hours. They got into the nitty gritty and really ripped it apart. It was great.

Prose poetry on the other hand had about 15 people, 3 of which read my poem before class and wrote meaningful comments. The rest wrote down the things that the professor said. Like he said, "A prose poem has to get beyond it's subject, Brian." and 12 papers get returned to me that say, "A prose poem has to get beyond it's subject, Brian."

I guess I take objection with the mindset that that is an ok thing to do.

There is no story here.

I guess I am just whining.

Sorry.

Finals week reprieve--Strengths

As I understand it form my peers:

As a writer, my strength lies in description and attention to detail. I really focus on things, often times to the detriment of a story. I know this, and I don't know why I do it. I have to consciously reign it in, because people don't want to read that unless it is pertinent to the story.

Left to my own devices I would just describe the hell out of something and have the glimmer of a plot that would tie multiple descriptions together, and the flow of the language and words would be enough to enjoy.

I don't know why I am interested in describing things. It's the poet in me I guess. I have mostly written poetry recently with Advanced poetry and Prose poetry both this quarter, which would mean I have taken mostly poetry classes overall despite my nonfiction emphasis. And as it turns out prose poetry is really good for meditations, descriptions and sounds. So I can get my kicks with prose poetry and write other things.

Another strength I have is my intellect. I am not saying this to brag. I have a high intelligent quotient which allows me to learn new things quickly and remember a lot of stuff. The trick is to take that stuff and present it in simple terms to share with a reader how/why it matters. I oftentimes use my knowledge and intellect to place things in my writing to distract from the fact that I don't have much to say. I use this often, and I have gotten into this habit so much that I use it in social situations and around people. I do it to add to the conversation, not to be pretentious and say, "Hey look what I know that you don't," for example I was talking poetic theory with a friend and I quoted Aristotle's Poetics to make a point, and my friend said it was really cool that I was able to accurately quote Aristotle poignantly because it added to the conversation. One time in advanced fiction class we did an exercise where we given words and had to write a story. One of my words was "Wolf" Earlier that day I had learned there were less than 250k wolves left in the wild, so I put that in there and Erin said, "Only Brian would know something like that. It's totally him." Later we talked about it and I said it was this thing that I milk, like an udder, to fill my story up. She said hers was digressions. I like her digressions, she likes my random ass knowledge, so I guess I should embrace it as distinctly mine and incorporate it more often. Some people, Erin included, like to learn stuff when they read. I do too, so I regularly include stuff that I think most people don't know. Which causes me to over look or pass things up that I think aren't interesting enough to write about and find things that are eccentric and eclectic and oftentimes obscure.

Couple all this with my desire to have a lot of love and attention and you have my reason for writing. I write to entertain, to teach, and to have people tell me how cool it was, or how much they enjoyed it. I don't know why I do this. I must be odd. I want to be the smart guy in the room, but not the asshole smart guy.

It can be a fine line and I am good at walking it.