Tuesday, March 05, 2013
Lost in translation
I envy children, whose future is still wide open, still blank slates waiting to be filled up. They are still free to create themselves, to direct the course of their lives.
Me? I'm no longer free. I've already placed myself in a path from which there is no return...or at best, from which, the path back to where I began has become steep, circuitous and even more difficult to trek than it had been. Going back, trying to change my destiny, the course of my life, will mean giving up everything I already have, putting to waste all my efforts, all my hard work, money and precious time already spent by me and those who supported me along the way, everything I've gone through to get myself to where I now stand. And then, there's no guarantee that the new course I will take, the person I will remake myself into will be better, will be the right one. Will finally be the direction that will lead to the future that will make me truly happy and content.
I envy those who did take the right path when they found themselves at a fork in the road wherein they had to make a choice. Those who knew, who've always known, what they wanted, where they wanted to go. Those people are pretty much guaranteed to find happiness. Because no matter how hard their chosen path might end up to be, at least they're doing something that truly makes them happy.
I didn't know what I wanted. I don't think I ever knew. I didn't know where my dream lay. So here I am, forging on, feeling lost, not quite happy or content. Somewhere, deep inside me, this voice keeps telling me that this is not the right path for me. That somewhere along the road, I took a wrong turn, and somehow, some way, I need to retrace my steps and get back on track. The only question is how...and what do I have to give up for it?
I envy those who, like me, made a wrong turn down the road, who found themselves in the wrong path, unhappy, discontented, but who had the guts, the will, to turn back and change their lives. They have the courage to realize that the path they are in is going nowhere and that the only way to go is back again.
I don't have the courage or the will. Every time I consider it, I think of the people I will hurt, the people I will disappoint. I can't help but think about what they will say. Instead, I just keep moving deeper and deeper into this mess I've found myself in.
And all I can hope for is that, somewhere along the way, maybe years from now, this path that I've taken will somehow, some way, intersect with the path that I was supposed to take.
Me? I'm no longer free. I've already placed myself in a path from which there is no return...or at best, from which, the path back to where I began has become steep, circuitous and even more difficult to trek than it had been. Going back, trying to change my destiny, the course of my life, will mean giving up everything I already have, putting to waste all my efforts, all my hard work, money and precious time already spent by me and those who supported me along the way, everything I've gone through to get myself to where I now stand. And then, there's no guarantee that the new course I will take, the person I will remake myself into will be better, will be the right one. Will finally be the direction that will lead to the future that will make me truly happy and content.
I envy those who did take the right path when they found themselves at a fork in the road wherein they had to make a choice. Those who knew, who've always known, what they wanted, where they wanted to go. Those people are pretty much guaranteed to find happiness. Because no matter how hard their chosen path might end up to be, at least they're doing something that truly makes them happy.
I didn't know what I wanted. I don't think I ever knew. I didn't know where my dream lay. So here I am, forging on, feeling lost, not quite happy or content. Somewhere, deep inside me, this voice keeps telling me that this is not the right path for me. That somewhere along the road, I took a wrong turn, and somehow, some way, I need to retrace my steps and get back on track. The only question is how...and what do I have to give up for it?
I envy those who, like me, made a wrong turn down the road, who found themselves in the wrong path, unhappy, discontented, but who had the guts, the will, to turn back and change their lives. They have the courage to realize that the path they are in is going nowhere and that the only way to go is back again.
I don't have the courage or the will. Every time I consider it, I think of the people I will hurt, the people I will disappoint. I can't help but think about what they will say. Instead, I just keep moving deeper and deeper into this mess I've found myself in.
And all I can hope for is that, somewhere along the way, maybe years from now, this path that I've taken will somehow, some way, intersect with the path that I was supposed to take.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Full Speed Ahead
In my last post, I said I was going to take a break from wedding planning and preparation after having booked the Big 4 (venue, church, photography and videography). After all, the wedding's not until more than 10 months from now. I don't really need to find suppliers for the smaller details already.
Apparently, the gods/goddesses (we wouldn't want to be accused of being gender insensitive) of weddings and/or marriages, whoever they are and if they do exist, have a different plan.
Last Sunday, my mom, Jon and I went to Gazebo Royale to attend the Grand Foodtasting event of one caterer we were considering. Since we availed of the worry free package of Gazebo Royale, we also checked out the other suppliers who were also there, namely, string quartets, mobile bars, couturiers (I really hope I spelled that right), cakes, photobooths, hair and makeup. The key word was supposed to be "checked out". You know, canvassing, comparing prices, designs, specifications and all that.
But we were already there. And it's not like we're really adept at comparing and contrasting wedding suppliers. We could probably go blue in our faces checking out different suppliers and we wouldn't really know the difference. Which is why my mom went with us. :P
And who knew rates/prices go up so fast? One day the rates are within your budget. The next, they've already soared higher than your reach. So after being warned by some suppliers that their current rates will change soon, Jon and I found ourselves having to scramble and decide fast what we wanted. And by the end of the foodtasting event, we already had a string quartet, a mobile bar, a cake supplier, a photobooth, and a caterer.
Yesterday, I also scheduled a meeting with my top choice for wedding coordinator/host. Now, I have an email inbox full of rates/packages sent by various hair and makeup artists to whom I blasted out identical emails just yesterday. Have I ever mentioned that I know nil about hair and makeup, and which one looks good in person and on camera? Just imagine my bewilderment and confusion as I stare at thousands of samples online and try to determine which is better, while keeping it within my budget. Good thing I have friends who are experts in that field.
If I end up booking this coordinator and picking one out of these choices of HMUs, and at the rate I'm going, I'll have absolutely nothing left to do within six months from the wedding other than securing the necessary licenses, certificates and permits. And who knows, maybe if I stare at more supplier websites and/or descriptions, I might just learn enough to start my own wedding business. Goodbye, legal pleadings, memoranda, hearings and irritating clients. Hello, caterers, fabric swatches, wedding motifs, flowers and bridezillas.
Yeah. Right.
Apparently, the gods/goddesses (we wouldn't want to be accused of being gender insensitive) of weddings and/or marriages, whoever they are and if they do exist, have a different plan.
Last Sunday, my mom, Jon and I went to Gazebo Royale to attend the Grand Foodtasting event of one caterer we were considering. Since we availed of the worry free package of Gazebo Royale, we also checked out the other suppliers who were also there, namely, string quartets, mobile bars, couturiers (I really hope I spelled that right), cakes, photobooths, hair and makeup. The key word was supposed to be "checked out". You know, canvassing, comparing prices, designs, specifications and all that.
But we were already there. And it's not like we're really adept at comparing and contrasting wedding suppliers. We could probably go blue in our faces checking out different suppliers and we wouldn't really know the difference. Which is why my mom went with us. :P
And who knew rates/prices go up so fast? One day the rates are within your budget. The next, they've already soared higher than your reach. So after being warned by some suppliers that their current rates will change soon, Jon and I found ourselves having to scramble and decide fast what we wanted. And by the end of the foodtasting event, we already had a string quartet, a mobile bar, a cake supplier, a photobooth, and a caterer.
Yesterday, I also scheduled a meeting with my top choice for wedding coordinator/host. Now, I have an email inbox full of rates/packages sent by various hair and makeup artists to whom I blasted out identical emails just yesterday. Have I ever mentioned that I know nil about hair and makeup, and which one looks good in person and on camera? Just imagine my bewilderment and confusion as I stare at thousands of samples online and try to determine which is better, while keeping it within my budget. Good thing I have friends who are experts in that field.
If I end up booking this coordinator and picking one out of these choices of HMUs, and at the rate I'm going, I'll have absolutely nothing left to do within six months from the wedding other than securing the necessary licenses, certificates and permits. And who knows, maybe if I stare at more supplier websites and/or descriptions, I might just learn enough to start my own wedding business. Goodbye, legal pleadings, memoranda, hearings and irritating clients. Hello, caterers, fabric swatches, wedding motifs, flowers and bridezillas.
Yeah. Right.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Overwhelmed
Last Sunday, Jon and I went to the Wedding Expo at SM Megatrade Hall. On our way to Megamall, it felt like everyone else had the same Sunday plans...there were so many vehicles lined up and headed towards the mall parking garage. Except that...heck, there can't be that many people getting married within the next year or so, right?
Obviously, not all those people were headed to the Wedding Expo. But it seemed that at least half of them still ended up in those halls. Let me just say, that was my first time to ever go to a wedding/bridal fair, or to Megatrade Hall for that matter. And it will probably be the last.
Who knew there were many suppliers/things you just HAVE to have when you tie the knot? Of course, there were the usuals--the wedding ring booths, the photographers/videographers, the venue providers, the caterers, the couturiers, the makeup artists. And then, there were the not-so-usuals--the mobile bar suppliers, the fireworks supplier (yeah, apparently, some really want fireworks for their weddings). And the price of all those things...it just makes you want to weep and seriously consider eloping. LOL.
Anyway, after just fifteen minutes of wandering around and squeezing past suppliers trying to sell their wares and engaged couples hopping from one booth to the next, Jon and I were already so overwhelmed that we just kept accepting brochures/flyers shoved into our hands without even bothering to glance at the rates, and even from suppliers that we already have. Which was self-defeating since the reason you go to fairs and expos is because of the discounted prices if you book suppliers on the spot.
So, we mainly just browsed through wedding rings (in fairness, they weren't as expensive as I thought they would be) then hightailed it out of there to meet with our prospective, now definite, photographer.
Actually, I've met Mike from Ruffa and Mike Photography before. He and his wife, Ruffa, were the photographers of one of my college best friends, Jihan, and her husband, RJ. And I tagged along with them when they did their prenup shoot, so at least I already knew how Ruffa and Mike worked. Plus, I like their work, and since my friend's wedding, their reviews (and their package rates) have soared. Jon and I were actually planning to get just their basic photo package (without the prenup shoot) because my college friends have offered to do one for us. But then, Mike showed us the album of a prenup shoot they did. And yeah...I was tempted. What can I say? I was tempted by the fact that it was something new for me and Jon to experience. And, oh hell, it's a once in a lifetime thing. So we got the next higher package. Good thing Mike gave us a discount.
So...now, we've booked the venue (Gazebo Royale), the church (Our Lady of Consolation Parish, QC), the videographer (Zoombox Wedding Videos) and Ruffa and Mike Photography. With most of the major suppliers already booked, I guess we can rest for a few months at least before we start again. And then...the rest of our lives.
Scary thought. :P
Obviously, not all those people were headed to the Wedding Expo. But it seemed that at least half of them still ended up in those halls. Let me just say, that was my first time to ever go to a wedding/bridal fair, or to Megatrade Hall for that matter. And it will probably be the last.
Who knew there were many suppliers/things you just HAVE to have when you tie the knot? Of course, there were the usuals--the wedding ring booths, the photographers/videographers, the venue providers, the caterers, the couturiers, the makeup artists. And then, there were the not-so-usuals--the mobile bar suppliers, the fireworks supplier (yeah, apparently, some really want fireworks for their weddings). And the price of all those things...it just makes you want to weep and seriously consider eloping. LOL.
Anyway, after just fifteen minutes of wandering around and squeezing past suppliers trying to sell their wares and engaged couples hopping from one booth to the next, Jon and I were already so overwhelmed that we just kept accepting brochures/flyers shoved into our hands without even bothering to glance at the rates, and even from suppliers that we already have. Which was self-defeating since the reason you go to fairs and expos is because of the discounted prices if you book suppliers on the spot.
So, we mainly just browsed through wedding rings (in fairness, they weren't as expensive as I thought they would be) then hightailed it out of there to meet with our prospective, now definite, photographer.
Actually, I've met Mike from Ruffa and Mike Photography before. He and his wife, Ruffa, were the photographers of one of my college best friends, Jihan, and her husband, RJ. And I tagged along with them when they did their prenup shoot, so at least I already knew how Ruffa and Mike worked. Plus, I like their work, and since my friend's wedding, their reviews (and their package rates) have soared. Jon and I were actually planning to get just their basic photo package (without the prenup shoot) because my college friends have offered to do one for us. But then, Mike showed us the album of a prenup shoot they did. And yeah...I was tempted. What can I say? I was tempted by the fact that it was something new for me and Jon to experience. And, oh hell, it's a once in a lifetime thing. So we got the next higher package. Good thing Mike gave us a discount.
So...now, we've booked the venue (Gazebo Royale), the church (Our Lady of Consolation Parish, QC), the videographer (Zoombox Wedding Videos) and Ruffa and Mike Photography. With most of the major suppliers already booked, I guess we can rest for a few months at least before we start again. And then...the rest of our lives.
Scary thought. :P
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Itching to write again
It's been so long since I last wrote on this blog. My last blog was...*checks the date on the last blog post*...13 June 2007.
A little over five and a half years ago.
Where was I five and a half years ago? Probably bracing myself for what was to be my sophomore year in law school, after barely surviving freshman year.
And now...I'm already a lawyer. In fact, I've been a lawyer for nearly two years already, been to two (three) law firms and am fast heading towards career burn out.
Not quite the inspirational message for law students.
But aside from my lackluster career life, I'm also entering a new phase of my life. I will be getting married. Oh, not until almost a year from now. But we're headed there.
How does it feel? Scary. Exciting. It's that kind of something-that-will-happen-in-the-near-and-definite-future that sends you into a seesaw of emotions. One minute you're feeling somewhat giddy, thinking of the possibilities, the what-ifs, planning. The next, you're terrified, thinking of the possibilities, the what-ifs...and curling in a corner with your arms over your head.
Ok, so I'm exaggerating a little.
But yes, there's that little bit of terror and doubt because you don't know what exactly will happen. So you can't exactly plan it out to the last detail. So you focus on the things that you can plan, that you can anticipate...which is the actual wedding.
It's an entirely new thing for me. Obviously, planning out a wedding, since I've never gotten married before, and I'm certainly not a wedding coordinator. But I mean, planning an event as big as this in general. I find myself turning to others who HAVE gotten married or who are getting married and who are much better at it than me. It's a bit exciting, a bit fascinating, trying to mold a once-in-a-lifetime event into the way you see it, the way you want it. Sort of like clay. While trying not to turn into a bridezilla and to keep it all within budget.
Because of course, we'd like to still be able to eat three times a day after the wedding.
So far, we've booked the venue, the church and the videographer. Tomorrow, we meet with the photographer.
And yeah, five years and a half have turned me into a bumbling, rambling fool.
A little over five and a half years ago.
Where was I five and a half years ago? Probably bracing myself for what was to be my sophomore year in law school, after barely surviving freshman year.
And now...I'm already a lawyer. In fact, I've been a lawyer for nearly two years already, been to two (three) law firms and am fast heading towards career burn out.
Not quite the inspirational message for law students.
But aside from my lackluster career life, I'm also entering a new phase of my life. I will be getting married. Oh, not until almost a year from now. But we're headed there.
How does it feel? Scary. Exciting. It's that kind of something-that-will-happen-in-the-near-and-definite-future that sends you into a seesaw of emotions. One minute you're feeling somewhat giddy, thinking of the possibilities, the what-ifs, planning. The next, you're terrified, thinking of the possibilities, the what-ifs...and curling in a corner with your arms over your head.
Ok, so I'm exaggerating a little.
But yes, there's that little bit of terror and doubt because you don't know what exactly will happen. So you can't exactly plan it out to the last detail. So you focus on the things that you can plan, that you can anticipate...which is the actual wedding.
It's an entirely new thing for me. Obviously, planning out a wedding, since I've never gotten married before, and I'm certainly not a wedding coordinator. But I mean, planning an event as big as this in general. I find myself turning to others who HAVE gotten married or who are getting married and who are much better at it than me. It's a bit exciting, a bit fascinating, trying to mold a once-in-a-lifetime event into the way you see it, the way you want it. Sort of like clay. While trying not to turn into a bridezilla and to keep it all within budget.
Because of course, we'd like to still be able to eat three times a day after the wedding.
So far, we've booked the venue, the church and the videographer. Tomorrow, we meet with the photographer.
And yeah, five years and a half have turned me into a bumbling, rambling fool.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
One Step at a Time
So summer vacation is finally officially over. School resumed today, and it's back to the good ol' law school routine for us.
Yep, a full year has passed since we first walked into the building as nervous freshmen. So much has happened, so much has changed. Yeah, we're still pretty much a nervous bunch this year, but we're no longer freshmen. We've got one year behind us, and somehow I just know that we'll never be able to go back to the way it had been, to who we had been, a year ago. Not really, not completely.
How much more will change this year? Last year, I asked myself where I would be a year from then. It has been a year from then, and I've got my answer. I'm still here, in my second year as a law student, not only hanging on, but actually standing on more solid, more stable ground. Unlike the way I'd been after the first semester of law school.
And still, here I am, asking myself the same question. Where will I be a year from now? Who will I be a year from now?
Fate--life--is a fickle-minded creature. You're never quite sure what will happen next, what life has in store for the likes of you. You never know when you'll be on top of the world and when you'll be bottom-most pit. Keeps you on your toes every minute of every day, because one mistake may send you to that pit instead of soaring up to the top.
So, we take it one step at a time. One year at a time, one semester at a time. That's what you do in order to survive. If you look too many years ahead of you, you might just end up tripping over your own dress-code heels and breaking your leg. You need to take one cautious, shaky step at a time. After one step, one sem, one year, stop, look back, be grateful for what was, what had been. Then, look forward and hope for the best.
Of course, it's harder to actually practice what you preach, but hey, there's nothing wrong with hoping someday you'd actually be able to do so.
Yep, a full year has passed since we first walked into the building as nervous freshmen. So much has happened, so much has changed. Yeah, we're still pretty much a nervous bunch this year, but we're no longer freshmen. We've got one year behind us, and somehow I just know that we'll never be able to go back to the way it had been, to who we had been, a year ago. Not really, not completely.
How much more will change this year? Last year, I asked myself where I would be a year from then. It has been a year from then, and I've got my answer. I'm still here, in my second year as a law student, not only hanging on, but actually standing on more solid, more stable ground. Unlike the way I'd been after the first semester of law school.
And still, here I am, asking myself the same question. Where will I be a year from now? Who will I be a year from now?
Fate--life--is a fickle-minded creature. You're never quite sure what will happen next, what life has in store for the likes of you. You never know when you'll be on top of the world and when you'll be bottom-most pit. Keeps you on your toes every minute of every day, because one mistake may send you to that pit instead of soaring up to the top.
So, we take it one step at a time. One year at a time, one semester at a time. That's what you do in order to survive. If you look too many years ahead of you, you might just end up tripping over your own dress-code heels and breaking your leg. You need to take one cautious, shaky step at a time. After one step, one sem, one year, stop, look back, be grateful for what was, what had been. Then, look forward and hope for the best.
Of course, it's harder to actually practice what you preach, but hey, there's nothing wrong with hoping someday you'd actually be able to do so.
Monday, June 04, 2007
When something really matters
Why is it so easy to ask for those things that don't really matter in the long run? Your friends invite you to go out, to hang out. Fine, you ask for permission, whether you really feel like going out or not. You see something you think you like in a shop, in a store, wherever. So you ask if you can have it, if you can buy it. You feel like doing something, if you have to ask, you ask. If you get a no for your troubles, fine, okay, too bad. Sure, maybe there's that momentary disappointment, maybe not, but if there is, after a while, it fades, and then you move on with your life. You find better things to do with your time other than brooding over your disappointment.
No big deal. C'est la vie.
And then, there are those things that, deep down, you know you really want. Things that you know will matter long, long after the moment you get it, if you get it. Things that, if you don't get it or even fight for it, you know will eventually haunt you and make you think of the if onlys and the what ifs.
So much harder to fight for those things, those things that do matter. Why is that? If you want it so much, shouldn't the urge to fight for it be so much stronger? Shouldn't it be strong enough to go so far as to push you into doing something to get it? Shouldn't it be easier to find courage to at least try to ask for it?
But it isn't, is it? If anything, wanting something so much can sometimes only make you more of a coward than you usually are.
Maybe it's because wanting something too much makes you're more afraid of the possibility of the answer being no and of what comes after you're told you can't have it. Maybe it's because you're more afraid of that than of the five-to-ten minutes it will take to ask for, to negotiate for, what you want. When something doesn't matter so much, you know that, eventually, that five-to-ten minutes will be over, and it won't be much longer before you stop thinking about your disappointment so much. But when something matters, really matters, you know that this time, the disappointment won't fade so easily. You know that finding out you can't have that thing you want will make it final, irrevocable and hopeless. At least, if you don't ask, if you postpone fighting, you can still dream, you can still hope, and no one can tell you that dreaming and hoping is pointless, least of all yourself.
Or maybe you're just scared of ending up looking like a fool.
So what do cowards do instead? They hold back, they don't let anything, anything at all, matter to them more than it has to. If they can't, if something has already snuck up on them because they realize it, they pull the covers over their heads, lie to everyone and to themselves, and pretend that it doesn't matter, that nothing matters. Nothing at all. They live in glorified ice chests, pretending to be numb and immune to everything that matters.
And that's just pathetic, isn't it?
No big deal. C'est la vie.
And then, there are those things that, deep down, you know you really want. Things that you know will matter long, long after the moment you get it, if you get it. Things that, if you don't get it or even fight for it, you know will eventually haunt you and make you think of the if onlys and the what ifs.
So much harder to fight for those things, those things that do matter. Why is that? If you want it so much, shouldn't the urge to fight for it be so much stronger? Shouldn't it be strong enough to go so far as to push you into doing something to get it? Shouldn't it be easier to find courage to at least try to ask for it?
But it isn't, is it? If anything, wanting something so much can sometimes only make you more of a coward than you usually are.
Maybe it's because wanting something too much makes you're more afraid of the possibility of the answer being no and of what comes after you're told you can't have it. Maybe it's because you're more afraid of that than of the five-to-ten minutes it will take to ask for, to negotiate for, what you want. When something doesn't matter so much, you know that, eventually, that five-to-ten minutes will be over, and it won't be much longer before you stop thinking about your disappointment so much. But when something matters, really matters, you know that this time, the disappointment won't fade so easily. You know that finding out you can't have that thing you want will make it final, irrevocable and hopeless. At least, if you don't ask, if you postpone fighting, you can still dream, you can still hope, and no one can tell you that dreaming and hoping is pointless, least of all yourself.
Or maybe you're just scared of ending up looking like a fool.
So what do cowards do instead? They hold back, they don't let anything, anything at all, matter to them more than it has to. If they can't, if something has already snuck up on them because they realize it, they pull the covers over their heads, lie to everyone and to themselves, and pretend that it doesn't matter, that nothing matters. Nothing at all. They live in glorified ice chests, pretending to be numb and immune to everything that matters.
And that's just pathetic, isn't it?
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Leaving Writer's Block
Last night, I took out from my rarely-opened cabinet an old notebook containing the beginnings of a story I had conceived so many years ago and had left hanging for almost as long. I took it out of storage so that I could once again try to get past this perpetual writer's block I've been stuck with since the last year of high school.
It has been more than a year since I've written, really written. By writing, I don't mean the normal, everyday kind of writing that even people who have no real inclination or desire to write find themselves doing so anyway. I don't even mean the kind of writing that you do on an online journal or some such thing. Yes, blogging and journal-keeping is real writing in its very real sense. Hell, I've been neglecting even that lately. I don't mean that, though.
I mean the kind of writing where you actually make an effort to check your spelling and grammar, study the coherence of your sentences and the flow of your paragraphs. Where you make an attempt to conform to at least the basic rules of writing. The kind we used to do when I was a creative writing major in college. When my everyday routine consisted of writing workshops and writing portfolios instead of codal provisions and hip-high piles of cases.
I think the last time I experienced that sort of writing was the day I finished editing the pieces I'd included in the final portfolio we had to submit for our practicum class. After that? Well, job hunting and then law school basically took over my entire existence.
It's been even longer than that since I've written fiction. I used to think I would be a fiction-writer. After all, I'd been making up and writing stories since I was in seventh-grade. Then, fourth year high school came. Though the story ideas kept coming, the words needed to actually put those ideas into paper refused to be written. The energy and excitement I used to feel upon tranferring those pictures in my head from my brain to my pen then to the paper were gone. There's a certain frustration in having so many images in your mind and being unable to put them into words. I don't know how it began or what happened to bring it about. All I knew was that I was hopelessly blocked. I've been stuck in that limbo called writer's block since then. Even when I went to college and took up creative writing, I never got back on track. I chickened out and chose to write about real things instead. As for the story ideas, they just kept piling up in my mind, and now I'm afraid that they're starting to fade from my memory.
I miss my years of writing stories. I miss going to National Bookstore to get a fresh notebook I plan to fill with the images crowding my head. I miss waking up an hour early so that I can work on another scene or two. I miss filling the mugs on my desk with tubes of sign pen that had just run out of ink.
Somehow, blogging or journal-keeping doesn't quite give the thrill that the writing I used to do gave me. I suppose that's because there's no real honesty in that kind of writing. Sure, you write about real things, about real life. When it comes down to it, though, in blogging, you only write about the reality that you choose and dare to share with others. Deny it all you want, but one more often than not censors his/her own words when they are placed on a public forum. There's always that acute awareness that there are other pairs of eyes reading those words. So, you stop, you think, you assess. And then you pick through your words which reality you don't care to share with your readers. It's different when you're just writing for yourself, when you know that only your eyes will read those pages.
I'd almost forgotten how much I missed writing just for myself. Now that I've taken out that notebook from my cabinet, hopefully, I'll remember again. And hopefully, this damned writer's block will leave me for good.
It has been more than a year since I've written, really written. By writing, I don't mean the normal, everyday kind of writing that even people who have no real inclination or desire to write find themselves doing so anyway. I don't even mean the kind of writing that you do on an online journal or some such thing. Yes, blogging and journal-keeping is real writing in its very real sense. Hell, I've been neglecting even that lately. I don't mean that, though.
I mean the kind of writing where you actually make an effort to check your spelling and grammar, study the coherence of your sentences and the flow of your paragraphs. Where you make an attempt to conform to at least the basic rules of writing. The kind we used to do when I was a creative writing major in college. When my everyday routine consisted of writing workshops and writing portfolios instead of codal provisions and hip-high piles of cases.
I think the last time I experienced that sort of writing was the day I finished editing the pieces I'd included in the final portfolio we had to submit for our practicum class. After that? Well, job hunting and then law school basically took over my entire existence.
It's been even longer than that since I've written fiction. I used to think I would be a fiction-writer. After all, I'd been making up and writing stories since I was in seventh-grade. Then, fourth year high school came. Though the story ideas kept coming, the words needed to actually put those ideas into paper refused to be written. The energy and excitement I used to feel upon tranferring those pictures in my head from my brain to my pen then to the paper were gone. There's a certain frustration in having so many images in your mind and being unable to put them into words. I don't know how it began or what happened to bring it about. All I knew was that I was hopelessly blocked. I've been stuck in that limbo called writer's block since then. Even when I went to college and took up creative writing, I never got back on track. I chickened out and chose to write about real things instead. As for the story ideas, they just kept piling up in my mind, and now I'm afraid that they're starting to fade from my memory.
I miss my years of writing stories. I miss going to National Bookstore to get a fresh notebook I plan to fill with the images crowding my head. I miss waking up an hour early so that I can work on another scene or two. I miss filling the mugs on my desk with tubes of sign pen that had just run out of ink.
Somehow, blogging or journal-keeping doesn't quite give the thrill that the writing I used to do gave me. I suppose that's because there's no real honesty in that kind of writing. Sure, you write about real things, about real life. When it comes down to it, though, in blogging, you only write about the reality that you choose and dare to share with others. Deny it all you want, but one more often than not censors his/her own words when they are placed on a public forum. There's always that acute awareness that there are other pairs of eyes reading those words. So, you stop, you think, you assess. And then you pick through your words which reality you don't care to share with your readers. It's different when you're just writing for yourself, when you know that only your eyes will read those pages.
I'd almost forgotten how much I missed writing just for myself. Now that I've taken out that notebook from my cabinet, hopefully, I'll remember again. And hopefully, this damned writer's block will leave me for good.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Isang Malabong Ewan.
Sa wakas, natapos rin kanina ang huling klase namin para sa semestreng ito--Criminal Law 2. 4 1/2 oras kaming nanginig at halos nagyelo na sa lamig sa loob ng Justitia, nakikinig kay Atty Padilla sa naghahabol sa pagtatalakay tungkol sa huling kalahating bahagi ng libro namin. Akala ko hindi na matatapos, ngunit natapos rin. At ngayon, Sabado na ng gabi. Halos 48 oras na lang, kukuha na kami ng huling eksamen namin sa Oblicon.
Eto na naman po kami. Sa mga kahuli-hulihang araw bago sumapit ang linggo ng huling eksamen para sa semestreng ito. Pagpapatunay na may silbi ang isang taong ginugol namin sa Ateneo Law School, at ang isang semestreng pagbababad namin sa isang milyong kasong pinabasa sa amin ni Atty Candelaria, at ng iba pa naming mga guro. Panahon na naman para mapuno ng takot, ng pag-aalala, ng walang tigil na pag-iisip.
Katulad pa rin ng dati...hindi na nagbabago. Paikot-ikot-ikot-ikot lang ang buhay dito sa Law School. Mga panahon ng matinding saya, ng matinding lungkot, ng matinding takot, at matinding pagod. Yun at yun na rin lang ang nararamdaman ng mga tao. Parang hindi umaabot sa lebel na tahimik lang, na kalmado ang lahat. Kailangan parating may tensyon, anumang uri ito dumating sa buhay namin. Parang sirang plaka. Paulit-ulit-ulit-ulit-ulit lang.
Kung tutuusin, dapat sanay na kami sa buhay na ito. Halos isang taon na rin naman kaming namumuhay ng ganito. Pero ito ata ang isa sa mga bagay na kahit kailan, hindi mo makakasanayan.
Lahat nang nasa paligid ko ay kinakabahan, natatakot na baka, matapos ang lahat ng paghihirap, lahat ng pinagdaanan nila, mawawala rin lahat. Matapos ang lahat ng nangyari noong katapusan ng nakalipas na semestre, alam na ng lahat kung gaano kadaling mahablot sa iyo ang lahat ng pinaglalabanan mo.
At ako? May mga panahon pa rin na gusto kong malampasan ang taong ito, na gusto kong umabot sa ikaapat na taon sa Law School. Ngunit, minsan, parang wala na akong enerhiya pang mag-alala man lamang. Minsan parang di ko makayanang magkaroon pa ng pakialam sa kung anumang mangyari sa akin dito. Eto lang ako, nagpapadala na lang sa alon, hinihintay na makaahon, mapadpad sa kung saan man o malunod na lang. Maling mali, alam ko, pero wala...wala na talaga akong enerhiyang lumaban pa.
Dati, may kahit kaunting motivation pa ako. (Di ko alam ang tagalog ng motivation. Ha.) Gusto kong matakasan ang sinasabi nilang kapalaran kong magtrabaho para sa mga magulang ko. Gusto kong makahanap ng lugar na komportable ako, na di ako pinangingibabawan ng takot parati. At may isa pa akong ginustong makuha dati. Umasa ako, inisip ko na baka magbago pa ako. Pero mukhang malabo nang mangyayari pa iyon. Habang lalo kong nakikilala sarili ko, napapag-isip isip ko na hindi na ako magbabago. Gaano ko man gustuhin ang isang bagay, hinding hindi ako matututong ipaglaban ito. Duwag kasi, takot sa mga posibleng kakahinatnan ng masyadong pag-asa sa isang bagay. Takot sa mga sasabihin ng mga tao sa paligid ko. Sa bandang huli, hahayaan ko lang itong makawala hanggang sa makalimutan kong ginusto ko ito dati. Kaya huwag nang mag-ilusyon, para wala nang madamay pang iba sa mga kalokohan ko.
Kaya ayun, ang kakaunting motivation na meron ako dati, ngayon ay wala na. Bahala na lang kung saan na ako mapadpad. Bahala na lang kung ano ang mangyari sa akin.
Eto na naman po kami. Sa mga kahuli-hulihang araw bago sumapit ang linggo ng huling eksamen para sa semestreng ito. Pagpapatunay na may silbi ang isang taong ginugol namin sa Ateneo Law School, at ang isang semestreng pagbababad namin sa isang milyong kasong pinabasa sa amin ni Atty Candelaria, at ng iba pa naming mga guro. Panahon na naman para mapuno ng takot, ng pag-aalala, ng walang tigil na pag-iisip.
Katulad pa rin ng dati...hindi na nagbabago. Paikot-ikot-ikot-ikot lang ang buhay dito sa Law School. Mga panahon ng matinding saya, ng matinding lungkot, ng matinding takot, at matinding pagod. Yun at yun na rin lang ang nararamdaman ng mga tao. Parang hindi umaabot sa lebel na tahimik lang, na kalmado ang lahat. Kailangan parating may tensyon, anumang uri ito dumating sa buhay namin. Parang sirang plaka. Paulit-ulit-ulit-ulit-ulit lang.
Kung tutuusin, dapat sanay na kami sa buhay na ito. Halos isang taon na rin naman kaming namumuhay ng ganito. Pero ito ata ang isa sa mga bagay na kahit kailan, hindi mo makakasanayan.
Lahat nang nasa paligid ko ay kinakabahan, natatakot na baka, matapos ang lahat ng paghihirap, lahat ng pinagdaanan nila, mawawala rin lahat. Matapos ang lahat ng nangyari noong katapusan ng nakalipas na semestre, alam na ng lahat kung gaano kadaling mahablot sa iyo ang lahat ng pinaglalabanan mo.
At ako? May mga panahon pa rin na gusto kong malampasan ang taong ito, na gusto kong umabot sa ikaapat na taon sa Law School. Ngunit, minsan, parang wala na akong enerhiya pang mag-alala man lamang. Minsan parang di ko makayanang magkaroon pa ng pakialam sa kung anumang mangyari sa akin dito. Eto lang ako, nagpapadala na lang sa alon, hinihintay na makaahon, mapadpad sa kung saan man o malunod na lang. Maling mali, alam ko, pero wala...wala na talaga akong enerhiyang lumaban pa.
Dati, may kahit kaunting motivation pa ako. (Di ko alam ang tagalog ng motivation. Ha.) Gusto kong matakasan ang sinasabi nilang kapalaran kong magtrabaho para sa mga magulang ko. Gusto kong makahanap ng lugar na komportable ako, na di ako pinangingibabawan ng takot parati. At may isa pa akong ginustong makuha dati. Umasa ako, inisip ko na baka magbago pa ako. Pero mukhang malabo nang mangyayari pa iyon. Habang lalo kong nakikilala sarili ko, napapag-isip isip ko na hindi na ako magbabago. Gaano ko man gustuhin ang isang bagay, hinding hindi ako matututong ipaglaban ito. Duwag kasi, takot sa mga posibleng kakahinatnan ng masyadong pag-asa sa isang bagay. Takot sa mga sasabihin ng mga tao sa paligid ko. Sa bandang huli, hahayaan ko lang itong makawala hanggang sa makalimutan kong ginusto ko ito dati. Kaya huwag nang mag-ilusyon, para wala nang madamay pang iba sa mga kalokohan ko.
Kaya ayun, ang kakaunting motivation na meron ako dati, ngayon ay wala na. Bahala na lang kung saan na ako mapadpad. Bahala na lang kung ano ang mangyari sa akin.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Homecoming
I'm in the mood to do some self-publishing of a bunch of old Nonfiction Writing Workshop pieces as I haven't been very successful at writing a new one since college graduation. And since this seems to be more in keeping with the theme of the day, I guess I'll start with this. And nope, I didn't check it for grammar or whatever.
HOMECOMING (written during my last semester in college)
The best thing about leaving and going on a journey is coming back home.
Ever since I was just a kid, we—my family and I—have been travelling a lot. Going away to some faraway place has always been a way for our family to spend some time together, especially during those rare times when both my siblings are able to get away from their lives long enough to take a trip with us.
Here in the Philippines, we usually gravitate towards the beaches, usually during those days between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. Parasailing in Mactan, Cebu, kayaaking in El Nido, Palawan, swimming in Puerto Galera, Mindoro, traipsing along the white sandy beaches of Boracay—pictures of those trips are what fill many of the photo albums sitting on our shelves here at home.
The others are filled with pictures of our trips out of the country. When I was five years old, I rode the plane for the very first time. My dad wanted us to experience being in another country, to see the world outside of the Philippines. So he applied for United States visas for us all, and when we were all approved, he took us all to visit relatives living in California.
Of course the thought of an adventure made me giddy with excitement. I was going to be able to fly—on a plane, sure, but, at five years old, that has to be almost as good as the real thing. Then, there was the fact that my dad had promised us visits to wonderful places called Disneyland, Universal Studios and Toys ‘R Us. If that wasn’t enough, we would have the chance to see cousins that we rarely see during the year.
After that summer, our trips to the United States became a regular thing. Every other year, we went to California to visit our relatives. For nearly a decade, it was always California—that was where family lived. Then, we started venturing out to other states. Watching musicals in Broadway, New York, touring the White House in Washington, sniffing our way through the Hershey’s Factory in Pennsylvania, seeing the Pearl Harbor Memorial in Hawaii—they brought back the thrill of the out-of-the-country trips that we had come to take for granted.
Time came when we even tried going to places other than the United States. We toured Europe and visited countries that we only once imagined. London to France to Spain to Italy—it was exciting getting into a car or a bus and driving right into another country in the same day. We took a trip to Canada, and though it didn’t have the sophistication, the elegance and excitement of Europe, it became my favorite trip so far. If I ever decided I wanted to go the way many Filipinos have taken or plan to take, I would go to Canada.
I doubt I’d ever leave the Philippines for good, though. Looking back, in all the trips that I have taken with my family, I remember how I always experienced that initial thrill of being away from home for a few weeks, away from the problems and the summer heat in the Philippines. I also remember, though, how, after the excitement of the trip had died down, I started to miss home.
I missed being in a place where I knew I belonged. I missed going to places and hearing my language being spoken all around me. I missed being able to contact my friends easily, anytime I wanted. Most of all, I missed my bedroom, where I could go to whenever I wanted to be alone. When you’re on a trip, it seems as if you’re rarely alone. You’re always with someone, always on the go. You share hotel rooms with your siblings, or even your parents. Whenever our family stayed at our relatives’ house, I always feel guilty every time I escape to a room to read or write, or even sleep, instead of hanging out with my cousins or finding ways to help out around the house.
Ironically, though, it’s a pleasant feeling, missing what you had left behind. After more than two decades of being home with your family, it becomes easy to take it for granted, or even, at times, resent it. Going on a trip and being away from home for a few weeks gives one the chance to be homesick and to learn how to love again what had become a trap.
In a few weeks, I will be taking another journey. This time, it won’t be a journey that involves riding planes, visiting relatives or touring scenic spots. It would be a one-way ticket away from childhood. Does it scare me? Hell, yes. It would scare anyone who had spent the first twenty-one years of her life at home. I want to leave home, though. I want to go away on that journey on my own, without my family, so that I can find myself and learn how to stand on my own.
Most of all, I want to miss home. I want to go away, experience the thrill of the journey, then look back, towards home. Maybe if I leave, time will come when I will learn how to love again the home that I had been used to, the family that I had come to take for granted, and maybe even, at times, resent. For only then, only if I take that journey and leave, will I have that chance to turn around and come back home again.
HOMECOMING (written during my last semester in college)
The best thing about leaving and going on a journey is coming back home.
Ever since I was just a kid, we—my family and I—have been travelling a lot. Going away to some faraway place has always been a way for our family to spend some time together, especially during those rare times when both my siblings are able to get away from their lives long enough to take a trip with us.
Here in the Philippines, we usually gravitate towards the beaches, usually during those days between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. Parasailing in Mactan, Cebu, kayaaking in El Nido, Palawan, swimming in Puerto Galera, Mindoro, traipsing along the white sandy beaches of Boracay—pictures of those trips are what fill many of the photo albums sitting on our shelves here at home.
The others are filled with pictures of our trips out of the country. When I was five years old, I rode the plane for the very first time. My dad wanted us to experience being in another country, to see the world outside of the Philippines. So he applied for United States visas for us all, and when we were all approved, he took us all to visit relatives living in California.
Of course the thought of an adventure made me giddy with excitement. I was going to be able to fly—on a plane, sure, but, at five years old, that has to be almost as good as the real thing. Then, there was the fact that my dad had promised us visits to wonderful places called Disneyland, Universal Studios and Toys ‘R Us. If that wasn’t enough, we would have the chance to see cousins that we rarely see during the year.
After that summer, our trips to the United States became a regular thing. Every other year, we went to California to visit our relatives. For nearly a decade, it was always California—that was where family lived. Then, we started venturing out to other states. Watching musicals in Broadway, New York, touring the White House in Washington, sniffing our way through the Hershey’s Factory in Pennsylvania, seeing the Pearl Harbor Memorial in Hawaii—they brought back the thrill of the out-of-the-country trips that we had come to take for granted.
Time came when we even tried going to places other than the United States. We toured Europe and visited countries that we only once imagined. London to France to Spain to Italy—it was exciting getting into a car or a bus and driving right into another country in the same day. We took a trip to Canada, and though it didn’t have the sophistication, the elegance and excitement of Europe, it became my favorite trip so far. If I ever decided I wanted to go the way many Filipinos have taken or plan to take, I would go to Canada.
I doubt I’d ever leave the Philippines for good, though. Looking back, in all the trips that I have taken with my family, I remember how I always experienced that initial thrill of being away from home for a few weeks, away from the problems and the summer heat in the Philippines. I also remember, though, how, after the excitement of the trip had died down, I started to miss home.
I missed being in a place where I knew I belonged. I missed going to places and hearing my language being spoken all around me. I missed being able to contact my friends easily, anytime I wanted. Most of all, I missed my bedroom, where I could go to whenever I wanted to be alone. When you’re on a trip, it seems as if you’re rarely alone. You’re always with someone, always on the go. You share hotel rooms with your siblings, or even your parents. Whenever our family stayed at our relatives’ house, I always feel guilty every time I escape to a room to read or write, or even sleep, instead of hanging out with my cousins or finding ways to help out around the house.
Ironically, though, it’s a pleasant feeling, missing what you had left behind. After more than two decades of being home with your family, it becomes easy to take it for granted, or even, at times, resent it. Going on a trip and being away from home for a few weeks gives one the chance to be homesick and to learn how to love again what had become a trap.
In a few weeks, I will be taking another journey. This time, it won’t be a journey that involves riding planes, visiting relatives or touring scenic spots. It would be a one-way ticket away from childhood. Does it scare me? Hell, yes. It would scare anyone who had spent the first twenty-one years of her life at home. I want to leave home, though. I want to go away on that journey on my own, without my family, so that I can find myself and learn how to stand on my own.
Most of all, I want to miss home. I want to go away, experience the thrill of the journey, then look back, towards home. Maybe if I leave, time will come when I will learn how to love again the home that I had been used to, the family that I had come to take for granted, and maybe even, at times, resent. For only then, only if I take that journey and leave, will I have that chance to turn around and come back home again.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Love is a Fallacy
For those people who do nothing but keep trying to change their boyfriends/girlfriends and play Dr. Frankenstein. :P Here's an amusing little story our logic professor, Atty. Bernardo, shared with us on our last class for the year 2006.
by Max Shulman
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I was only eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Burch, my roommate at the University of Minnesota. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”
“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.
“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.
“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not physical but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”
“ I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known it they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbook, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”
“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”
“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”
“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to get a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”
“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They…”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted, impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it now lay in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first rights to it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a few years, I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table, her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”
“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you call it love. Why?”
“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”
“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”
“Is there,” I asked,” any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”
“I guess so. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out of the closet.
“Where are you going?” asked Petey.
“Home for the weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.
“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”
“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.
***
“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamey object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.
“Would you like it?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”
“Your girl,” I said, mincing no words.
“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”
“That’s right.”
He shook his head.
I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”
I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First, he looked at the coat with the expression of waif at a bakery window. Then, he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then, he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then, he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally, he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.
“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”
“That’s right,” I murmured.
“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”
“Not a thing,” said I.
“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”
“Try on the coat,” said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.
I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand. He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey. I wanted to find out just how much work I had to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner.
“Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant.
And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.
I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to “think.” This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey.
But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course on logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Polly,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”
“Ooh, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find anything so agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.
“Logic.”
She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.
“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”
“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”
“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.
“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”
“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. ‘Exercise is good’ is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have a heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Therefore, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say ‘exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people.’ Otherwise, you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”
“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”
It will be better if you stop tugging my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Burch can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”
“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”
I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”
“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing, even.”
I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing, if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take it out with us, it rains.”
“I know somebody like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic…”
“Polly,” I said sharply. “It’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”
“I’ll never do it again,” she promised. “Are you mad at me?”
I sighed deeply. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”
“Then tell me some more fallacies.”
“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”
“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”
“Of course,” she replied promptly.
“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”
“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”
“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”
I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a “perfectly” evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening: I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind, a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flames. Admittedly, it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening, I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”
She quivered in delight.
“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his classifications are, he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the celler, and winter is coming.”
A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.
“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examination. After all, surgeons have X rays to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during examination?”
“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”
“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situation are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”
“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.
“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly, I pressed on. “Next, we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”
“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.
“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”
“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head. “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean, he fractures me.”
“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that that statement is a fallacy. Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”
“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”
One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”
“How cute!” she gurgled.
“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ … Now, Polly, think hard. What’s wrong?”
I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly, a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”
“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start… Polly, I’m proud of you.”
“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.
“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think-examine-evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”
“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, we began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again, I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without a letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then, the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights with this book was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.
It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved mine, I determined to acquaint her with feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.
“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”
“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.
“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well-matched.”
“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.
“I beg your pardon,” said I.
“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”
I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s good.”
“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”
I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously, the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then, I began:
“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, and the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”
There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.
“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically, I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.
“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “You certainly have learned your fallacies.”
“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.
“And who taught them to you, Polly?”
“You did.”
“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”
“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean, this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with life.”
“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.
That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”
“I will not,” she said.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because this afternoon, I promised Petey Burch that I would go steady with him.”
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”
“Poisoning the Well,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”
With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Burch over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Burch?”
“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”
____________________
LOVE IS A FALLACYby Max Shulman
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I was only eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Burch, my roommate at the University of Minnesota. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”
“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.
“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.
“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not physical but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”
“ I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known it they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbook, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”
“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”
“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”
“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to get a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”
“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They…”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted, impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it now lay in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first rights to it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a few years, I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table, her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”
“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you call it love. Why?”
“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”
“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”
“Is there,” I asked,” any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”
“I guess so. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out of the closet.
“Where are you going?” asked Petey.
“Home for the weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.
“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”
“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.
***
“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamey object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.
“Would you like it?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”
“Your girl,” I said, mincing no words.
“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”
“That’s right.”
He shook his head.
I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”
I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First, he looked at the coat with the expression of waif at a bakery window. Then, he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then, he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then, he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally, he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.
“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”
“That’s right,” I murmured.
“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”
“Not a thing,” said I.
“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”
“Try on the coat,” said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.
I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand. He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey. I wanted to find out just how much work I had to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner.
“Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant.
And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.
I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to “think.” This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey.
But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course on logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Polly,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”
“Ooh, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find anything so agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.
“Logic.”
She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.
“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”
“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”
“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.
“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”
“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. ‘Exercise is good’ is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have a heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Therefore, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say ‘exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people.’ Otherwise, you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”
“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”
It will be better if you stop tugging my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Burch can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”
“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”
I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”
“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing, even.”
I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing, if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take it out with us, it rains.”
“I know somebody like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic…”
“Polly,” I said sharply. “It’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”
“I’ll never do it again,” she promised. “Are you mad at me?”
I sighed deeply. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”
“Then tell me some more fallacies.”
“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”
“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”
“Of course,” she replied promptly.
“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”
“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”
“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”
I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a “perfectly” evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening: I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind, a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flames. Admittedly, it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening, I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”
She quivered in delight.
“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his classifications are, he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the celler, and winter is coming.”
A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.
“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examination. After all, surgeons have X rays to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during examination?”
“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”
“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situation are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”
“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.
“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly, I pressed on. “Next, we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”
“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.
“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”
“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head. “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean, he fractures me.”
“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that that statement is a fallacy. Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”
“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”
One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”
“How cute!” she gurgled.
“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ … Now, Polly, think hard. What’s wrong?”
I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly, a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”
“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start… Polly, I’m proud of you.”
“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.
“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think-examine-evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”
“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, we began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again, I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without a letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then, the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights with this book was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.
It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved mine, I determined to acquaint her with feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.
“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”
“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.
“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well-matched.”
“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.
“I beg your pardon,” said I.
“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”
I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s good.”
“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”
I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously, the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then, I began:
“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, and the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”
There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.
“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically, I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.
“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “You certainly have learned your fallacies.”
“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.
“And who taught them to you, Polly?”
“You did.”
“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”
“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean, this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with life.”
“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.
That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”
“I will not,” she said.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because this afternoon, I promised Petey Burch that I would go steady with him.”
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”
“Poisoning the Well,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”
With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Burch over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Burch?”
“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”
Monday, December 04, 2006
Downloading blues
Yeesh! After...er, close to a week of learning the kinks in downloading a 349MB file, waiting, stopping, logging on and off the internet, and cursing the fact that my internet and my computer was getting whacked out because of the downloading I was doing, I finally finished. Yeah, nearly one week for an hour-long TV show episode.
Now, I remember why I never tried this before. Especially when we still had dial-up. I just don't have the patience to do it on a regular basis. So, I usually just mooch off my much more technologically-inclined, much more patient friends for copies of the episodes for my viewing pleasure. :P
But hey, I was finally able to watch that last episode! Now let's see if I find the patience...and if my laptop can still take it...to download the next. Or maybe I'll just pester Jace or Dianne again for it.
Now, I remember why I never tried this before. Especially when we still had dial-up. I just don't have the patience to do it on a regular basis. So, I usually just mooch off my much more technologically-inclined, much more patient friends for copies of the episodes for my viewing pleasure. :P
But hey, I was finally able to watch that last episode! Now let's see if I find the patience...and if my laptop can still take it...to download the next. Or maybe I'll just pester Jace or Dianne again for it.
