So the leaves are ten thousand different colors now.

So the leaves are ten thousand different colors now.

I can't remember ever having been this tired or stressed before. Although I'd prepared myself for a very long, very taxing semester, I didn't expect it to be this exaggerated. I hate complaining, mostly because I think it's a waste of time . . . that if something's wrong, you should try to make every effort possible to fix it. But I can't seem to make an effort because I don't even have the room to breathe.

There's 67 days separating me from a degree. I know I'll make it, but I hate being this unhappy during the process. And that's what I've come to realize. How incredibly unhappy and robotic I've become. I've never felt as if I'm unable to control anything in my life before.

I think that's changed.

I'm ready to throw my hands up and walk away.

Here we go.

I've made the decision.

And so the search begins . . .

Devil

After getting stood up by my parents (through text messaging, nonetheless--an event I'd rather not revisit since it consistently pisses me off), I decided to go to an annual Fall Party hosted by long-since estranged friends. It was very strange, not simply seeing those I haven't seen in years, but going to a place I haven't visited in five. And, of course, with the same people. Probably I am attaching too much significance to the whole wannabe deja-vu element here. But, as with so many other things I've experienced already in the semester, things double-back, turn up again--eerily, if not nearly exactly.

I'm probably not making any sense.

But what's important to remember from this day is that M. Night Shyamalan's 'Devil' is terrifying. And I say that with the conviction of someone who watches scary movies for the sole intent of comedic relief. I watched it in Nashville with Kindall and her roommate, Kristen. In truth, the only horror movies which tend to scare me are those pertaining to exorcisms or the devil.

And so, 'Devil' did its job.

Though I can't help but feel a little guilty since Kindall hardly ever goes to the movie theater and, as Kristen pointed out, she may never go again.

Pretty much.

"Following Christ does not mean following his followers." -Anne Rice

Another reason why I love you, Ms. Rice . . .

In my viens flow brown rapids of coffee . . .

Admittedly, I've been slacking on blogging. But for good reason. I think I kind of underestimated the whole 'taking 19 hours' thing. But then again I really had no option. My first week was as taxing as it could have possibly been. At the same time, however, it's a very different, awkward sort of feeling: having so many classes while knowing that this semester (as was confirmed today) doesn't count toward my honors ranking. So . . .

I'm officially graduating summa cum laud (specifically with a 3.99).

So that makes me happy.

What counters this very terribly is the fact that I'm getting almost no sleep whatsoever, and September seems to be flying by faster than I would ever like to acknowledge.

If there's anything I'm taking away from this first week and a half, it's that I absolutely abhor science departments and hold an equally strong disliking for accents in the Spanish language.

In my veins flow brown rapids of coffee, and I'm more than willing to admit that I probably wouldn't be able to afford such a non-stop, fast-paced semester if it wasn't for the caffeine flooding my system--today and everyday. One of the few things which has kept me sane are the random pizzabeermicrophilosophydinnerdates with Kindall.

I feel, paradoxically enough, that even though I have literally no free time whatsoever thus far, I'm also able (even if it's in the back of my mind, floating around amorphously) to think about the things which should have been given attention before. Specifically, where I belong religiously.

It's not the fact that I'm questioning my belief in God. What I am questioning is my method in approaching and worshiping him. For years now, I've felt spiritually inadequate in worship: something I know is wrong, something that deserves to be fixed. And while I'm not willing to spill my soul via the internet concerning a matter that's (arguably) of the greatest importance to me, just simply writing my decision to get serious about tackling the problem makes it all the more real and much less daunting.

Also, I still feel as if I'm 'headed in the right direction' -- whatever that means.

Last weekend was Labor Day weekend, and I wish I had the vocabulary to express how perfect the weather was: the best indicator, I think, of the approaching fall. I was able to spend some time with my family and eat (not fast) food. But I had to enjoy it between reading Salinger's '9 Stories' and my god-awful chemistry book.

Some resolutions I've come to:

1.) I will NOT study for chemistry more than a few minutes (I only need a D . . . let's be real now)

2.) I should have learned a method regarding Spanish accents before now

3.) I will be seeing Flyleaf with Kindall on 9/20 and I am beyond ecstatic!

Does that still hold, or not?

My meager justification for another blog . . .

Joshua Martin

Dr. Carlton

Philosophy

9/11/2010

What did Socrates consider to be his mission as a philosopher?

In his book, Solomon comments that Socrates sought the most important thing in life—living well, as opposed to living some kind of vacuous and unexamined existence (4). In addition, Socrates insisted that adhering to one’s standards was just as critical as the standards themselves, for continuity in what is right (when one knows what is right) maintains the very standards and precepts that person has deemed worthy and just. This is why Socrates denied escape from death when it was openly offered to him. Socrates maintained that if one were to ever enact change, said change must ensue arguments of logic. He advocated submission to authorities on these grounds, knowing that a rebellion brought about by haste or emotion would bring about much chaos and little, if any, resolve (7). Understandably, Socrates solidified his mission in the face of his own mortality. Solomon writes that he understood that the willingness to die for some thing or idea gave a person “considerable advantage” when paired with someone “for whom life is everything” (9). In the given dialogue, Socrates says, “’I am the kind of man who listens only to the argument that on reflection seems best to me. I cannot, now that this fate has come upon me, discard the arguments I used; they seem to me much the same.”’ (5). Socrates believed the same and so, when presented with an opportunity to avoid his own death, acted according to the standards he maintained before his conviction. Solomon also tells us that Socrates broke the mold of the pomposity and egoism, never aligning with the men who, standing on their own egos, considered themselves to be great thinkers (1). Arguably, when one considers himself to be great, he can quite easily become blind to his own failings. Socrates rejected pomp and pretense and very readily accepted his own limitations, knowing that humility was the only true gateway by which one could access a serious philosophy. As such, he was dejected and humiliated by many of his era, and was considered to be bothersome and unrealistic. His mission, therefore, was a combination of ‘living well’ (adhering to an intricate and well-considered worldview) and exuding the type of genteel humility, openness, and innocent inquisitiveness (even in light of an abject society), which engenders questions and permits answers.

The Ink Beneath Your Skin

I moved most of my things into my new apartment today. And by most things, I mean everything but my bed. So now I'm at my parents' place, having decided that traveling a little bit out of my way to pass out on their couch--and to use the treadmill tomorrow morning (marathon mode, kids) before letting work suck out my soul--is well worth the gas money and the preservation of my sanity. I do not like moving. Do not like it probably because my OCD wires in on everything that's immediately out of place, imbalanced, scratched, scattered . . . anything and everything that's to be moved, essentially.

It's the process, obviously, more so than the end result, or the thought of perhaps leaving something behind. In truth, I'm actually pretty excited about this new place: capacious, less neighbors, more scenery, less concrete and more green, sidewalks . . . a place where you can be in the middle of everything without being in the middle of everything.

My new roommate got his first tattoo today. Some thoughts: it's rather odd, I think, how tattoos have become so ubiquitous and yet so taboo. But let us suppose that this is the only reaction one should expect from a nation governed, more or less, by a structured, corporate, typically conservative outlook. I do not think that conservatism is, by any means, a 'bad' mindset, anymore than I think that a 'liberal' philosophy is one for wishful thinkers or closeted hippies. But the idea of judging someone--minutely, blatantly, intentionally, accidentally--by his, or her, appearance, seems to me to echo some kind of fear or bias or dread, the basis of which is probably the anxiety of misunderstanding or of no understanding whatsoever.

Without objection, you may argue that judgements are passed everyday and on every person--the overweight, the malnourished, the dark or light skinned, etc. The list can go on and on with the unfortunate reality of prejudice and partiality manifesting itself greater and greater and greater.

But the Arizona-based Hispanic cannot choose his skin color any more than could the African American man of the pre-Civil Rights Act America.

The tattooed person can--and does so with every decision, every second of the needle's buzzing.

Perhaps this is why they are so dreaded: the simple fact that they proffer--usually--some kind of insight into your person. Tawdry or titillating, they are what you so choose.

But God forbid us if we were to ever accept humanity in all of its myriad persons and personalities. What kind of people would we be, really, if we were to judge people based on everything but their clothing, hair style, skin color, age, sex, weight . . . the ink beneath their skin?

And so among the four of my own, I think my Eliot tattoo is probably my favorite--the same line for which this blog is named. Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

The line in question is taken from Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." I chose this particular line because it's always seemed to echo as much frustration and angst as it arguably did upon its publication in the 20s. Eliot saw the country--perhaps the world, too . . . I am not sure--as defined by the ideas of waste and decay, as if our very refusal to actualize ourselves--to wake up--has left us blindly clinging to the secular and to the superficial. And so since Prufrock is conscious of the society in which he lives, he feels ostracized--foreign and alien, as he cannot pretend to know less than what he already does. And what he knows is exactly what he must not become: something likened unto those around him and the world in which they live. A people and a place of no direction. So, alone and isolated, Prufrock struggles with the bold and unmitigated question: do I dare disturb the universe?

In essence, do I dare speak up, shout, make my presence known and show those about me how superficial, how mannered and vacuous, they and their lives have become? Do I disturb this parade of pomp and pretense, act differently, truly to be true, to protect myself and make a change, to err from the mindlessness and adhere to what is true and what is right?

. . . I try to disturb the universe every day. As much as possible. Indeed, it's the only wake the world up, to keep from falling asleep yourself.