Captain's Log
Captain’s Log,
The US female fencing team has swept the saber event, winning the gold, silver, and bronze medals. It comes as no surprise, but with great delight, that the gold and silver medal winners are both left-handed. Yes indeed, that tickles me.
Medal sweeps are pretty rare for any country in any sport, but this triumph is even more distinctive because of America’s meteoric rise in fencing on the female side. Today’s gold medal winner, Mariel Zagunis, also won the gold medal four years ago…but before her no American female had won any fencing gold medal in a century. She’s obviously a cut above the rest: In the match for gold, she completely dominated her next best teammate, Sada Jacobson. Jacobson had to console herself with silver, and later got a handkerchief from the elder President Bush after suffering a bit of emotion during the playing of the anthem-with three American flags hoisted above the podium. Fourth-place went to a dextral Russian.
I love the Olympics. Everybody vies to bring them to their own country, knowing the attention, interest, and prestige that come with hosting the Games. Those who succeed build magnificent popular venues which will serve for decades to come. Finally, in these cities of excellence, the top athletes of the nations of the world gather to compete together in friendship. For a while, all humanity shines more brightly. The Olympics touch me: “This is what the world might be like if more people gave a damn.” Of course I speak with some idealism here…but, after all, that is the entire point.
In other news, I learned CSS recently, as I work on designing a website for Dr. Jones. I have been impressed by its vast power, relieved by the ease of learning it, and uplifted by my own eagerness. This is an important milestone in my developer’s skills…and it all came so quickly.
Last Monday Kendra and I went to get our eyes examined. We were seen by Dr. Wang at the Costco in Issaquah. I highly recommend her! She is knowledgeable, enthused by her work, and personable-which really helps in the healthcare industry. My prescriptions has strengthened over the past few years, to -1.75 in my left eye, and -2.00 in my right eye with a touch of astigmatism. After the prescription exam, we both got our retinas photographed by a sterling piece of new imaging technology. Previously the best method to see inside (living) people’s eyes was to dilate the pupils and make drawings of any abnormal features. Now, the entire interior surface can be imaged digitally. Dr. Wang sat us down together and discussed all four of our eyes-all of which are healthy.
Kendra has complained that her left eye is very bad while her right one is excellent. Her right one is excellent, but the left one is only slightly worse than my right. Still, that’s a huge relative disparity, and it’s nice to know that the same is not true in absolute terms. We also got a popular myth debunked by the good doctor: The excellence of her one eye does not contribute to the deficiency of the other.
Elsewhere, Kendra and I are passing into a very busy period. Sunday (which, at this hour, is today), we’ll be going to the opera, and then going over to her mom’s house. The opera was a surprise that I had been preparing for her. I blew it when I accidentally mentioned it to my mom over the phone while Kendra was in earshot. The opera is Aida, by Verdi. I almost blew it entirely: There was a misunderstanding between us that she was free on Sunday afternoon, when in fact she was not-due to the aforementioned visit with her family, which is important because it shall be the last time for a while that all four of them will be able to be together. I was very cross, and thankfully she and her family were able to juggle things to work out a compromise in the schedule. So, we’ll be over at her Cindy’s house tomorrow evening. Monday, we’re leaving to go backpacking in the Olympics for a few days-the Olympic National Park, that is. We’ll be getting back on Wednesday. She leaves for Colorado on the following Monday.
Tonight I had dinner with Michael. Prior to that we saw a vivid rainbow. This rainbow was actually two rainbows in one: one, continuous ribbon of color, but two distinct bands of ROYGBIV. Does anybody know what might cause that?
At dinner, I confessed to Michael my not-entirely-logical preference for biological children, explaining that on some level I think of it in genetic terms: Since I think I’m the shit, and I think whoever I mate with would be the shit, some part of me concludes that any kids would be double shit.
When I said “double shit,” he burst out laughing, catching the irate attention of the people in nearby booths and no doubt unsettling the waiter who came to refill our drinks and ask if she could bring some bread to our table. His laughter was such that he wasn’t able to speak, so I answered for both of us. It reminded me that I have often been able to make him laugh like that, or nearly as hard.
I have a way with that. Some people-some people-are particularly susceptible to my sense of humor. They tend to have troubles in their lives, and I think I provide them with the laughter they so earnestly need. My stories are ridiculous, imaginative, and quite fanciful. I guess they are a source of escapism. I remember, once upon a time in the Career Center at my high school, telling my friend Greg a story about an improbably large car and its misadventures with me at the wheel. I thought he would hurt himself laughing, or vomit. He was in tears, weeping so hard…unable to speak for several minutes as I slowly unraveled the threads of my story. He loved it…and he needed it. People rarely laugh that heartily unless they need it.
I have been intrigued of late by the antics of a lad named Miles, who lives in London and met my acquaintance via the Compendium. He is a remarkable fellow, one tier below those child geniuses out on the frontier of human critical intelligence who you will occasionally read about in the news. I am almost twice his age, but he would score at least as well as me and probably better on many different kinds of exams. His IQ supposedly exceeds 160. His analytical power is amazing. He is also very thoughtful, which is an extremely useful trait to have and perhaps his single most important. However, for all his strength in the critical thinking of academics, his intelligence is stunted (or at least on par with that of a fourteen-year-old’s) when it comes to interpersonal communication, emotional interpretation, and…what is this last one? Let’s call it “abstraction.” I’m sure there’s a more legitimate term for it, but what I’m talking about is his difficulty with incorporating logical or factual truths into the quality of his character. To put it another way, he’s not playful. By Josh, he’s a Vulcan!
This is not meant to disparage him. I have enjoyed his conversation as a kind of intellectual exercise for me to maintain my own sharpness. He also does have an elaborate wit, which will only flourish with time. I also enjoy his distinctiveness; he is very unlike most other people, in certain ways. He isn’t big on mores or customs, platitudes or prate. When I’m on AIM, he will often pop in without any forewarning, and, without any kind of ado, he will ask me questions-questions which represent the depth and thirst of his growing mind. He doesn’t even bother with salutations anymore-he asked me outright one day if I require them, and I said I didn’t…so away they went. Never so much as a wasted comma, that mate. His straightforwardness is refreshing, as is his ability to carry out critical discussion free of any emotional perspective. He is, as I said, quite smart on any number of topics I might wish to discuss with him-although often his questions are so piercing, and his appearances so irregular, that I don’t even think to ask him something in return. Miles, for his part, seems content at this point to treat me as a resource…I might compare myself to a library in this instance, and I would consider it a favorable comparison.
So long as I am interesting to him, he will go on like this. His politeness and courtesy to me-which no doubt come easily for him because they are not “politeness and courtesy” so much as the absence of “rudeness and derision”-are obviously considered behaviors on his part, and I admire the wisdom of his decision, whatever his motives may be. He’ll go much further this way, and that includes the realm of building rapport with the right people. I hope he never runs out of questions to ask. With any luck, the emotional development will come for him later-as it did for me. Amid our many differences, I see some genuine similarities between us. This is one of those times when age really does matter quite significantly. I was abrasive and awkward at his age, but am much less so now. He isn’t abrasive or awkward around me-just as I was never like that around people like Mary and David-but that’s because there is no social (as opposed to intellectual) dimension to our relationship at all. I’d bet he has all sorts of problems with other kids and some adults. I do wonder what he sees in ZeaLitY. Maybe I’ll ask him. Done. =)
Miles himself describes his greatest intellectual deficiency as artistic. I’m inclined to think he missed the point of my question, although, conversely, there are many relationships to be drawn between emotion and art. For this reason, it also occurred to me that he may simply be perceiving the same qualities of his own character from a different point of view than my own.
Of course, I would also anticipate being wrong about him altogether. I may simply be failing to understand him due to his absence along many of the conventional routes of understanding. When I was younger, very few people understood me well, for similar reasons-and that number has only risen modestly in the intervening years. I find, in conversation with him, my diction rising to a level of formality I rarely employ anymore. That by itself prepares me for the possibility that I am just one more person in a long line to have misunderstood him. I shall ask his thoughts here in this sentence, trusting he will see them and eventually seek me out to offer them.
In my long-suffering quest to accumulate personal corpulence, I have been within four pounds of my old highest weight for over a week now. Pathetically, this still only translates to 184 pounds on a 5’10” male frame. By far, the most noticeable consequence of my creeping weight gain has been the tightness of my skin around my midsection and thighs. I experienced this last time my weight got past 180, and I expect I am on the cusp of developing my first stretch marks-a dubious honor even for a fat-admirer like me, but nevertheless a milestone. Stretch marks are irreversible. They last for life. Now, if you’re an anti-fat concern troll, you’re probably feeling a lot of pity and disgust right about now, but, as an elitist myself, I am familiar with the impulse to look down one’s nose at others. Whether your reasons for doing so are just or foolish-in this case foolish-the impulse is always the same, and I understand it. I only wish more fat people understood it as well. The world would be a lot better off if fat people weren’t their own, worst antagonists.
The second most noticeable consequence of my weight gain has been the development of enough extra fat on my belly and sides that I can actually feel it when I move. I don’t mean that it’s more exerting for me to move. It is, but not significantly. Rather, I mean that I can literally feel the extra fat. The front of my belly is deeper. My love handles are pushing against themselves, squeezing into rolls when I bend, and my legs rub together more often, especially in a lying position.
The third and final of the most noticeable consequences has been my decreased stamina for physical exertion. Fortunately, I seldom exert myself physically, but, when I do, I tend not to reach my ceiling at a lower level, and I tire out faster. This compares most fascinatingly to my firmer condition earlier this year, when my weight was at a local minimum and my body had been hardened by moving lots of boxes and furniture.
All in all, progress remains slow. This is hard work! It’s expensive, and it’s time-consuming. It’s amazing how gelatinously huge so many people are able to become, considering they are dead-set against the idea of being fat.
I was thinking about this as I sat with Michael at Yunnie’s tonight for desert. On the muted television there I watched one of the male swimming events. The NBC folks had some underwater cameras positioned in the pool, and I found it much more enlightening to watch them from under the water than from above it. Their bodies were beautiful…aquatic and graceful and composed into such lovely form. The motions were fluid, their figures graceful, their strokes powerful. I think these swimmers reminded me of the human form at its best. We’re not well-suited for water travel anymore, but they make it look as natural as breathing.
I mentioned that I thought of my own, gradual obesification while watching these swimmers. That thought occurred to me because I am constantly attuned to people’s adiposity. After the instinctive observations, there is only one trait that I notice more readily than fatness, and that is handedness. To see all these lithe swimmers was a reminder of my very different ambition, because in this day and age the utter absence of superfluous fat flesh is most the conspicuous sight of all. Without undermining my own appreciation for fat, I can honestly say that, while I have no fervent wish to propel my own body to their level of athletic mastery, I sure do admire them for deciding that question differently for themselves. Athletes provide the world with a unique form of beauty, and I appreciate that. They also work very hard to get the top. It’s almost unreal. In contrast, for all my efforts, and all my tough talk, I’m still only twelve pounds heavier (and one inch shorter) than Silence, who in my mind will always possess the ultimate physical ideal. (That raises an interesting, very old argument about whether beauty is the ideal itself, or the near-miss.)
Lastly, I returned to the GameFAQs Star Trek board this evening-I had popped in perhaps a dozen times over the past three weeks-and was finally repulsed for good. Star Trek, WoT, LUE…they’re all meaningless to me anymore. What scant redeeming quality they had, no longer exists. Pft. I should never have wasted so much time there. Sometimes that comment isn’t warranted: Something that becomes a waste of time wasn’t always so; the individual has learned or grown along the way. But this has not been one of those times. What a waste.
Yet I can’t bring myself to end on a note of waste, so let me offer one final postscript in the form of a hopeful mass-transit message to the people of tomorrow’s Earth. We have seen Catbus. Now, I bring you…Monorail Cat!
The US female fencing team has swept the saber event, winning the gold, silver, and bronze medals. It comes as no surprise, but with great delight, that the gold and silver medal winners are both left-handed. Yes indeed, that tickles me.
Medal sweeps are pretty rare for any country in any sport, but this triumph is even more distinctive because of America’s meteoric rise in fencing on the female side. Today’s gold medal winner, Mariel Zagunis, also won the gold medal four years ago…but before her no American female had won any fencing gold medal in a century. She’s obviously a cut above the rest: In the match for gold, she completely dominated her next best teammate, Sada Jacobson. Jacobson had to console herself with silver, and later got a handkerchief from the elder President Bush after suffering a bit of emotion during the playing of the anthem-with three American flags hoisted above the podium. Fourth-place went to a dextral Russian.
I love the Olympics. Everybody vies to bring them to their own country, knowing the attention, interest, and prestige that come with hosting the Games. Those who succeed build magnificent popular venues which will serve for decades to come. Finally, in these cities of excellence, the top athletes of the nations of the world gather to compete together in friendship. For a while, all humanity shines more brightly. The Olympics touch me: “This is what the world might be like if more people gave a damn.” Of course I speak with some idealism here…but, after all, that is the entire point.
In other news, I learned CSS recently, as I work on designing a website for Dr. Jones. I have been impressed by its vast power, relieved by the ease of learning it, and uplifted by my own eagerness. This is an important milestone in my developer’s skills…and it all came so quickly.
Last Monday Kendra and I went to get our eyes examined. We were seen by Dr. Wang at the Costco in Issaquah. I highly recommend her! She is knowledgeable, enthused by her work, and personable-which really helps in the healthcare industry. My prescriptions has strengthened over the past few years, to -1.75 in my left eye, and -2.00 in my right eye with a touch of astigmatism. After the prescription exam, we both got our retinas photographed by a sterling piece of new imaging technology. Previously the best method to see inside (living) people’s eyes was to dilate the pupils and make drawings of any abnormal features. Now, the entire interior surface can be imaged digitally. Dr. Wang sat us down together and discussed all four of our eyes-all of which are healthy.
Kendra has complained that her left eye is very bad while her right one is excellent. Her right one is excellent, but the left one is only slightly worse than my right. Still, that’s a huge relative disparity, and it’s nice to know that the same is not true in absolute terms. We also got a popular myth debunked by the good doctor: The excellence of her one eye does not contribute to the deficiency of the other.
Elsewhere, Kendra and I are passing into a very busy period. Sunday (which, at this hour, is today), we’ll be going to the opera, and then going over to her mom’s house. The opera was a surprise that I had been preparing for her. I blew it when I accidentally mentioned it to my mom over the phone while Kendra was in earshot. The opera is Aida, by Verdi. I almost blew it entirely: There was a misunderstanding between us that she was free on Sunday afternoon, when in fact she was not-due to the aforementioned visit with her family, which is important because it shall be the last time for a while that all four of them will be able to be together. I was very cross, and thankfully she and her family were able to juggle things to work out a compromise in the schedule. So, we’ll be over at her Cindy’s house tomorrow evening. Monday, we’re leaving to go backpacking in the Olympics for a few days-the Olympic National Park, that is. We’ll be getting back on Wednesday. She leaves for Colorado on the following Monday.
Tonight I had dinner with Michael. Prior to that we saw a vivid rainbow. This rainbow was actually two rainbows in one: one, continuous ribbon of color, but two distinct bands of ROYGBIV. Does anybody know what might cause that?
At dinner, I confessed to Michael my not-entirely-logical preference for biological children, explaining that on some level I think of it in genetic terms: Since I think I’m the shit, and I think whoever I mate with would be the shit, some part of me concludes that any kids would be double shit.
When I said “double shit,” he burst out laughing, catching the irate attention of the people in nearby booths and no doubt unsettling the waiter who came to refill our drinks and ask if she could bring some bread to our table. His laughter was such that he wasn’t able to speak, so I answered for both of us. It reminded me that I have often been able to make him laugh like that, or nearly as hard.
I have a way with that. Some people-some people-are particularly susceptible to my sense of humor. They tend to have troubles in their lives, and I think I provide them with the laughter they so earnestly need. My stories are ridiculous, imaginative, and quite fanciful. I guess they are a source of escapism. I remember, once upon a time in the Career Center at my high school, telling my friend Greg a story about an improbably large car and its misadventures with me at the wheel. I thought he would hurt himself laughing, or vomit. He was in tears, weeping so hard…unable to speak for several minutes as I slowly unraveled the threads of my story. He loved it…and he needed it. People rarely laugh that heartily unless they need it.
I have been intrigued of late by the antics of a lad named Miles, who lives in London and met my acquaintance via the Compendium. He is a remarkable fellow, one tier below those child geniuses out on the frontier of human critical intelligence who you will occasionally read about in the news. I am almost twice his age, but he would score at least as well as me and probably better on many different kinds of exams. His IQ supposedly exceeds 160. His analytical power is amazing. He is also very thoughtful, which is an extremely useful trait to have and perhaps his single most important. However, for all his strength in the critical thinking of academics, his intelligence is stunted (or at least on par with that of a fourteen-year-old’s) when it comes to interpersonal communication, emotional interpretation, and…what is this last one? Let’s call it “abstraction.” I’m sure there’s a more legitimate term for it, but what I’m talking about is his difficulty with incorporating logical or factual truths into the quality of his character. To put it another way, he’s not playful. By Josh, he’s a Vulcan!
This is not meant to disparage him. I have enjoyed his conversation as a kind of intellectual exercise for me to maintain my own sharpness. He also does have an elaborate wit, which will only flourish with time. I also enjoy his distinctiveness; he is very unlike most other people, in certain ways. He isn’t big on mores or customs, platitudes or prate. When I’m on AIM, he will often pop in without any forewarning, and, without any kind of ado, he will ask me questions-questions which represent the depth and thirst of his growing mind. He doesn’t even bother with salutations anymore-he asked me outright one day if I require them, and I said I didn’t…so away they went. Never so much as a wasted comma, that mate. His straightforwardness is refreshing, as is his ability to carry out critical discussion free of any emotional perspective. He is, as I said, quite smart on any number of topics I might wish to discuss with him-although often his questions are so piercing, and his appearances so irregular, that I don’t even think to ask him something in return. Miles, for his part, seems content at this point to treat me as a resource…I might compare myself to a library in this instance, and I would consider it a favorable comparison.
So long as I am interesting to him, he will go on like this. His politeness and courtesy to me-which no doubt come easily for him because they are not “politeness and courtesy” so much as the absence of “rudeness and derision”-are obviously considered behaviors on his part, and I admire the wisdom of his decision, whatever his motives may be. He’ll go much further this way, and that includes the realm of building rapport with the right people. I hope he never runs out of questions to ask. With any luck, the emotional development will come for him later-as it did for me. Amid our many differences, I see some genuine similarities between us. This is one of those times when age really does matter quite significantly. I was abrasive and awkward at his age, but am much less so now. He isn’t abrasive or awkward around me-just as I was never like that around people like Mary and David-but that’s because there is no social (as opposed to intellectual) dimension to our relationship at all. I’d bet he has all sorts of problems with other kids and some adults. I do wonder what he sees in ZeaLitY. Maybe I’ll ask him. Done. =)
Miles himself describes his greatest intellectual deficiency as artistic. I’m inclined to think he missed the point of my question, although, conversely, there are many relationships to be drawn between emotion and art. For this reason, it also occurred to me that he may simply be perceiving the same qualities of his own character from a different point of view than my own.
Of course, I would also anticipate being wrong about him altogether. I may simply be failing to understand him due to his absence along many of the conventional routes of understanding. When I was younger, very few people understood me well, for similar reasons-and that number has only risen modestly in the intervening years. I find, in conversation with him, my diction rising to a level of formality I rarely employ anymore. That by itself prepares me for the possibility that I am just one more person in a long line to have misunderstood him. I shall ask his thoughts here in this sentence, trusting he will see them and eventually seek me out to offer them.
In my long-suffering quest to accumulate personal corpulence, I have been within four pounds of my old highest weight for over a week now. Pathetically, this still only translates to 184 pounds on a 5’10” male frame. By far, the most noticeable consequence of my creeping weight gain has been the tightness of my skin around my midsection and thighs. I experienced this last time my weight got past 180, and I expect I am on the cusp of developing my first stretch marks-a dubious honor even for a fat-admirer like me, but nevertheless a milestone. Stretch marks are irreversible. They last for life. Now, if you’re an anti-fat concern troll, you’re probably feeling a lot of pity and disgust right about now, but, as an elitist myself, I am familiar with the impulse to look down one’s nose at others. Whether your reasons for doing so are just or foolish-in this case foolish-the impulse is always the same, and I understand it. I only wish more fat people understood it as well. The world would be a lot better off if fat people weren’t their own, worst antagonists.
The second most noticeable consequence of my weight gain has been the development of enough extra fat on my belly and sides that I can actually feel it when I move. I don’t mean that it’s more exerting for me to move. It is, but not significantly. Rather, I mean that I can literally feel the extra fat. The front of my belly is deeper. My love handles are pushing against themselves, squeezing into rolls when I bend, and my legs rub together more often, especially in a lying position.
The third and final of the most noticeable consequences has been my decreased stamina for physical exertion. Fortunately, I seldom exert myself physically, but, when I do, I tend not to reach my ceiling at a lower level, and I tire out faster. This compares most fascinatingly to my firmer condition earlier this year, when my weight was at a local minimum and my body had been hardened by moving lots of boxes and furniture.
All in all, progress remains slow. This is hard work! It’s expensive, and it’s time-consuming. It’s amazing how gelatinously huge so many people are able to become, considering they are dead-set against the idea of being fat.
I was thinking about this as I sat with Michael at Yunnie’s tonight for desert. On the muted television there I watched one of the male swimming events. The NBC folks had some underwater cameras positioned in the pool, and I found it much more enlightening to watch them from under the water than from above it. Their bodies were beautiful…aquatic and graceful and composed into such lovely form. The motions were fluid, their figures graceful, their strokes powerful. I think these swimmers reminded me of the human form at its best. We’re not well-suited for water travel anymore, but they make it look as natural as breathing.
I mentioned that I thought of my own, gradual obesification while watching these swimmers. That thought occurred to me because I am constantly attuned to people’s adiposity. After the instinctive observations, there is only one trait that I notice more readily than fatness, and that is handedness. To see all these lithe swimmers was a reminder of my very different ambition, because in this day and age the utter absence of superfluous fat flesh is most the conspicuous sight of all. Without undermining my own appreciation for fat, I can honestly say that, while I have no fervent wish to propel my own body to their level of athletic mastery, I sure do admire them for deciding that question differently for themselves. Athletes provide the world with a unique form of beauty, and I appreciate that. They also work very hard to get the top. It’s almost unreal. In contrast, for all my efforts, and all my tough talk, I’m still only twelve pounds heavier (and one inch shorter) than Silence, who in my mind will always possess the ultimate physical ideal. (That raises an interesting, very old argument about whether beauty is the ideal itself, or the near-miss.)
Lastly, I returned to the GameFAQs Star Trek board this evening-I had popped in perhaps a dozen times over the past three weeks-and was finally repulsed for good. Star Trek, WoT, LUE…they’re all meaningless to me anymore. What scant redeeming quality they had, no longer exists. Pft. I should never have wasted so much time there. Sometimes that comment isn’t warranted: Something that becomes a waste of time wasn’t always so; the individual has learned or grown along the way. But this has not been one of those times. What a waste.
Yet I can’t bring myself to end on a note of waste, so let me offer one final postscript in the form of a hopeful mass-transit message to the people of tomorrow’s Earth. We have seen Catbus. Now, I bring you…Monorail Cat!