collegethoughts

            I have heard it claimed that arguing philosophy is an abstract waste of time.  Why argue over lofty concepts that, in reality, have no direct application to everyday living?  Why start endless, infinite arguments that cannot or will not be resolved, thus fruitlessly hindering the relationship between arguers?

            And I agree.  To a point.  It seems as though this problem, like many, is a matter of situation.  If the arguers are both enjoying themselves, their philosophizing could hardly be called a waste of time — even if no conclusion is reached, a good discussion will help develop each person’s theory (as they defend and refute various claims), as it simultaneously exercises their brains.

Furthermore, if they are treating each other with respect, they are building their relationship.  I have never heard anyone deny the relational beneficence of a good conversation — everybody loves a good, long discussion.  An unplanned conversation about life, love, ideals and the future is soul fodder.  I have left many of these conversations feeling more connected (to the other person, humanity, the world), more understood, more hopeful. 

A philosophical argument can have similar results, simply because it is the same forum: any time two people are thoughtfully spending time with each other, expressing their ideas and listening to new ideas, they will grow closer.  Relationships are the most important thing in life, and improving or tightening a friendship is almost never negative.

I have left out all of the other merits of philosophy; philosophers already know them, and non-philosophers don’t care (or must find out on their own).

As a child I had a violence problem.  That sounds really hardcore, but it’s not – basically whenever I got into arguments with my brothers I would often hit and kick instead of trying to diplomatically reconcile the situation.  I know it sounds like I was a little boy – but I took a distinctly girlish manipulative pleasure in watching my brothers mentally struggle with not hitting back because I was a girl.  (They usually did anyways.)The thing is, I’ve finally pinpointed a childhood “shaping point” for which I can blame these violent tendencies.  Actually it might be more accurate to say I’ve pinpointed my childhood as the reason for these tendencies.  I was reading my brother’s blog about how nostalgic the sound of AK 47’s is for him because we lived a couple of years in Yemen where an AK 47 is about as common as a pair of Levi’s in America.  Oh, and the men all tote massive curved knives called jambias (which were a popular tourist item for expats).He posted a picture of himself, age nine, clutching two AK 47’s with a belt of bullets over his shoulder.  He is surrounded by a group of equally armed Yemeni men, and he has a huge grin on his face.This reminded me of another picture – one of myself hanging off of a massive old tank in – yes – Yemen.  I remember wandering around with my dad and collecting bullet shells from their last war, while admiring the scattered artillery bits and worn out tanks.  My dad would pretend to be interested in the historical and cultural aspects of the war, but really he was just a big version of my brother–a little boy excited about guns.  Proof?  When the Yemeni civil war started, my mother, siblings and I were all huddled in the basement.  My father was on the roof with a video camera filming the explosive laden planes flying overhead.So really I’m not half as screwed up as I should be.

It’s noisy, it’s crowded, it’s polluted - breathing the air here is like smoking a pack of cigarettes a day - but it’s home.

“Home” can be a fluid concept to TCK’s, and I’ve given many answers to the question.  Small talk: Texas, California, Florida, whatever State I’m not in at the moment.  Longer small talk: Oman, Egypt.  More thoughtful conversations: the lifestyle itself, finding stability in constant motion.  Other conversations: wherever my immediate family is. 

i hate it when you take your assumptionsthrow them onto my wordsand make me question my meaning 

“I like to watch Fox News’ morning show with Bill and Megan. It makes me feel like my friends have taken over a t.v. channel and are pretending to be newscasters.” “what could you write on that tab? like the word ‘the’?” -the great recipe box argument “this song is about statutory rape, but…i like it.” -christine “oh yeah I can see you in that part! because you’re kind of skinny and white trash.” -christine complimenting me “We all do weird things. At least yours involves peanut butter.” -emma cole “that’s poop in a box.” -kelsi talking me out of my brownie mix “one time I texted rachelle and it was really funny, and she texted me back and I laughed a lot.” -one of katie’s stories “hey siobhan…what does ‘word to your mother’ mean?” -gail “shalom asked katie out last night.” “you asked katie out?” “it was her birthday” “Whoever’s trying to print isn’t getting anything substantial!” -Juliana “It is not good to have zeal without knowledge. nor to be hasty and miss the way.” “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” -Mat 6:21 “I’m putting that on my status.” “What? Rachelle is Siobhan?” Alex:”That’s not a dimple, Emma. You just have a big dent in your face.” (my little sisters) “natalie is 80% bladder.” -shawna “i can’t explain fashion to you, Siobhan. You just know.” -john “film majors are not on my to-do list” -bethany “sharing is immoral” -juliana (4 in the morning) gail: “I hate stars and glitter and smiley faces.” juliana:”what do you like then?” gail:”I like WROUGHT iron and leather.” “apparently he thought that was code for ‘try harder’” -becky “My amazing novella where the protagonist (me) tackles many, if not all literary cliches: A space odyssey.” -jared’s book “if you eat your poop that’s not cannibalism.” -emma cole “Hookah Porn Friday!” -Kelsi “We aren’t a dysfunctional family. We function! We function all over the world!!” -Father “that’s not funny! destroying other people’s GPA’s is not funny!” -father lex:”but there’s always pain in death” em:”you could kill yourself with painkillers” “who are these invisible children that i see living on your chest? “they aren’t on my chest, they’re in uganda.” “oh is that what you’ve named your chest region?” “maybe you should tell them if your left arm is going to fall off if you squeeze it, but you don’t need to tell them about the illness in your childhood and your daddy issues.” -shawna’s opinion on appropriate first date topics “i’m not good with the words. I’m better at jumping” -emma cole “i doubt all enfps are as good looking as we are” -nat “a meat tenderizer?” -shawna “why are you frowning?” “because I hate disney land” “human beings are not meant to do this. they’re meant to work the fields and go to bed when the sun sets.” -emma cole’s opinion on working all night on powerpoint

My high school had a “dress code”–which in reality was a uniform of a white collared shirt (no skin) and navy blue trousers (not too tight) or skirts (not too short) that we were allowed to assemble from any store, giving ourselves a false sense of freedom.  This aspect of high school life has supplied me with many fond memories:–feeling like a rebel when I wore black trousers, dark jeans, colorful undershirts, or collarless shirts.  –feeling foolish when teachers called me out on these violations and sent me home to change.  (instead I would grab a–usually oversized–replacement from the lost and found bin in the nurse’s office)– being informed by Mr. Salt that I was wearing “bum hugging trousers”–the exhilaration of “mufti,” the one day a month when, for 200 baiza (50 cents) we were allowed to wear our own clothing.  there is no reason anyone should ever get so excited about wearing jeans and t-shirts.–one of our student council(or Fiona)’s many battles with the admin: the fight for the right to wear black trousers/skirts.  It was a long, arduous struggle but we won. 

A series of unfortunate happenstances:-my attraction to cary grant, jimmy stewart, warren beatty and greg house-the exclusive seasonality of eggnog-only being allowed 3 nails in our walls (won’t housing be pleasantly surprised at the end of this year…)-the title of this list___________________________________________________I wish that I could magically learn guitar without having to practice.  I’m sure that there is plenty to learn through dedication, hard work and repetition, but I’d like to skip those lessons for now.  While the rarity of excellent guitar players makes us commoners appreciate them more, it doesn’t have any effect on the intrinsic value of great music – if everyone and her dog could play guitar like Peter Green, I would still be content to sit and listen for hours.And I’m not asking for excessive mad talent; I’d be happy with the ability to play bar chords (and maybe a sense of rhythm thrown in).  Is that so much to ask?

why can’t the whole world just be in the same time zone? or why can’t time zones be based on closeness to people instead of places?i know that physics crapola says that this is impossible for whatever reasonbut physics is just a bunch of theories that are right until proven wrongwhether it’s across countries, or simply the three hour difference in the states that annihilates any calls past midnight; time zones sucknighttime is useless when there are no starsand will probably eventually be lit up (like the strip) everywhere.so why are we insisting on hanging onto these archaic ideas?we just need proper dark rooms in every house for sleeping.this would all be just so much more efficient.i know its pathetic to complain about something like thiswhen we have unprecedented communication optionsi suppose i would really just like to be able to talk to people who are already separated by space without being separated by time as well.

My high school had a “dress code”–which in reality was a uniform of a white collared shirt (no skin) and navy blue trousers (not too tight) or skirts (not too short) that we were allowed to assemble from any store, giving ourselves a false sense of freedom.This aspect of high school life has supplied me with many fond memories:

–feeling like a rebel when I wore black trousers, dark jeans, colorful undershirts, or collarless shirts.

–feeling foolish when teachers called me out on these violations and sent me home to change.  (instead I would grab a–usually oversized–replacement from the lost and found bin in the nurse’s office)

– being informed by Mr. Salt that I was wearing “bum hugging trousers”

–the exhilaration of “mufti,” the one day a month when, for 200 baiza (50 cents) we were allowed to wear our own clothing.  there is no reason anyone should ever get so excited about wearing jeans and t-shirts.

–one of our student council(or Fiona)’s many battles with the admin: the fight for the right to wear black trousers/skirts.  It was a long, arduous struggle but we won.

Spring has arrived and the trees outside of my apartment window are gloriously attired in white blossoms.  My roommates and I are wandering around in a daze—today is the last day of school before Spring Break, and I can’t imagine a trio of people more ready for the holiday. 

            Last night was certainly an interesting affair; one of my roommates and myself were up writing papers until early morning.  We were both exhausted by ten p.m. from a stressful week, and we had barely started our work for the next morning. 

            I find that lack of sleep usually produces one of two things; either an intense hyperactivity propelled on from an increasingly delusional state of mind, or an onset of lethargic drudergy.  Usually these phases switch off throughout the night as your body tries to sort out exactly what you want. 

            When lack of sleep is combined with copious amounts of homework, the result is usually the second of these options.  Last night was a drudge night—we plodded through our work together and were glad of eachother’s presence (misery loves company), even as we felt a sort of impending doom with every second that passed.  At one point, my roommate couldn’t take it anymore, and, declaring that she had restless leg syndrome went out for a jog.

            In my fog of drudge, I responded to this with a half hearted argument against her idea—she probably didn’t have restless leg syndrome, and furthermore, it probably wasn’t a good idea to go for a run at two in the morning.  She ignored this advice, addled as she was by sleep deprivation.