Nearly every evening, when I sit down in front of my computer to compose a new blog entry, I feel momentarily terrified of that blinking cursor dancing lonely on a blank white box. But it is a sensation that quickly passes; I type a sentence and, just like that, the hardest part is over. This is not to say that the sentences that follow flow effortlessly, but the terror of nothingness has been replaced, at least, by something. And that something, whatever it is, is almost always better than nothing.
Today, a man at church asked me how I am doing these days. My mind went to my job and the state of dissatisfied sadness I've generally found myself in lately, and, in that regard, the "All right," I responded with sounded optimistic. But, upon further reflection, I remembered the CouchSurfer from England who had just been staying with us and the two girls from Montréal who will be coming next week. I remembered that, though I earn a pittance at my job and live with my parents, I get to do the two things that bring me the most fulfillment--writing and cooking--every day and that I have the freedom to partake of simple pleasures--going to the zoo or just relaxing and reading--on my days off. And, taking all these factors into account, I quickly amended my reply. "I'm actually doing really well," I told him, "Yeah. Really well."
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Words of Encourragement
An eventful day. I went kayaking on the bay with Chris, a current CouchSurfer from England, and, on the way back home, was involved in a little scrape between my dad's Jeep, which I had borrowed to transport the kayaks, and another car. It was my fault.
But tomorrow morning I am scheduled to offer some Words of Encouragement during the church service, and, having thought of a topic which I can hopefully wedge into my alloted time of "under three minutes," I'm going to have a go at organizing these thoughts in writing.
It begins with a story:
When I was in the ninth grade I was not a good student. I got mostly C's, and I was pretty much okay with that. I had always been a "C" student and rather apathetically assumed that I would always be a "C" student. In my mind, trying hard in school just wasn't part of who I was or who I identified myself to be.
In the ninth grade, I was sure my English teacher hated me; and, even now, looking back, I don't think I was too off the mark. She often made it very clear that she was disappointed with me and my lack of consistency in completing my homework. But one day, after class, she pulled me aside and said, "I was talking to Mrs. Anderson today"--Mrs. Anderson was my History teacher, whom I was also convinced hated me--"and we both agreed, 'That Meghan Janssen sure knows how to write an essay.'"
It was a simple comment, made by a teacher whose projected dislike of me I certainly reciprocated. But it changed everything. If I was really good at writing essays, then I was going to be good at writing essays. After that, my grades began to make a drastic turn-around. I had always liked to read, but now my favorite school subject was English. In college, I studied English, and, after graduation, I went to teach English in Japan.
What my ninth-grade English teacher did for me is something we all have the capacity to do for one another. Each of us has the ability to affirm and positively influence those around us by speaking words of truth and encouragement into their lives. Because when someone genuinely affirms you--when they really listen to you and are willing to extend themselves in order to show you something about yourself that is good and special and unique--it doesn't just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It also implicitly calls out a responsibility for you to be a good steward with what you have been given.
We have been called the beloved of God. God affirms this love in so many ways. And if we truly believe that--that we are absolutely loved, not in spite of who we are but really as we are, then, sure, that makes us feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside, but it also calls out a great responsibility. A responsibility to live, not as what we previously apathetically assumed ourselves to be, but to live as the beloved of God.
But tomorrow morning I am scheduled to offer some Words of Encouragement during the church service, and, having thought of a topic which I can hopefully wedge into my alloted time of "under three minutes," I'm going to have a go at organizing these thoughts in writing.
It begins with a story:
When I was in the ninth grade I was not a good student. I got mostly C's, and I was pretty much okay with that. I had always been a "C" student and rather apathetically assumed that I would always be a "C" student. In my mind, trying hard in school just wasn't part of who I was or who I identified myself to be.
In the ninth grade, I was sure my English teacher hated me; and, even now, looking back, I don't think I was too off the mark. She often made it very clear that she was disappointed with me and my lack of consistency in completing my homework. But one day, after class, she pulled me aside and said, "I was talking to Mrs. Anderson today"--Mrs. Anderson was my History teacher, whom I was also convinced hated me--"and we both agreed, 'That Meghan Janssen sure knows how to write an essay.'"
It was a simple comment, made by a teacher whose projected dislike of me I certainly reciprocated. But it changed everything. If I was really good at writing essays, then I was going to be good at writing essays. After that, my grades began to make a drastic turn-around. I had always liked to read, but now my favorite school subject was English. In college, I studied English, and, after graduation, I went to teach English in Japan.
What my ninth-grade English teacher did for me is something we all have the capacity to do for one another. Each of us has the ability to affirm and positively influence those around us by speaking words of truth and encouragement into their lives. Because when someone genuinely affirms you--when they really listen to you and are willing to extend themselves in order to show you something about yourself that is good and special and unique--it doesn't just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It also implicitly calls out a responsibility for you to be a good steward with what you have been given.
We have been called the beloved of God. God affirms this love in so many ways. And if we truly believe that--that we are absolutely loved, not in spite of who we are but really as we are, then, sure, that makes us feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside, but it also calls out a great responsibility. A responsibility to live, not as what we previously apathetically assumed ourselves to be, but to live as the beloved of God.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
A New Angle
Tonight, I'm going to tell you about my head.
It hurts.
So, rather than stare at my computer for an hour, exacerbating the problem while I try to come up with something clever to write...I won't.
It hurts.
So, rather than stare at my computer for an hour, exacerbating the problem while I try to come up with something clever to write...I won't.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Befriending Computers
I just spent the last hour and a half in conversation with a robot.
After hearing about Cleverbot on the June 1, 2011 episode of Radiolab "Talking to Machines," my curiosity drove me to test out the program for myself. Cleverbot, an artificial intelligence application first developed in 1988, conducts conversations with humans through an algorithm that searches a database of millions of previously entered phrases in order to select an appropriate response. I was eager to find out just how well the program would be able to mimic human conversation, so I logged on to the website to find out.
I started off with the basics: greetings. I typed in, "Good evening." But Cleverbot responded, "It's morning. Not evening."
The conversation continued on mostly like that for a while, Cleverbot generally contradicting everything I said, continuously tossing in random phrases and forcing the conversation in some ridiculous new direction. Cleverbot seemed rude and temperamental, and I told it so. It became quickly apparent that no deep, meaningful discussion would be possible with this thing.
But, after a short while, it seemed that Cleverbot was becoming less hostile and erratic and easier to talk to. Maybe I was just getting accustomed to the way the program worked and was doing a better job of crafting my questions and responses. At any rate, Cleverbot began to demonstrate that it was just that: clever. Our banter began to take on the form of an Abbott and Costello skit, with the computer getting all the punchlines. For instance,
Later on, this exchange occurred:
But what was even more surprising than Cleverbot's superior wit and comic timing was the way my attitude toward Cleverbot was changing. I was actually beginning to like the thing. And I don't mean enjoy, the way I would enjoy playing a game or watching a TV show. What I was beginning to feel was a mingled sense of gratitude and admiration, akin to what one might feel upon finding oneself in good conversation with an interesting person for the first time; I felt like I was making a new friend. Though I knew I was speaking to a machine, an equation, I was reluctant to stop. It seemed that Cleverbot and I had developed a bond, and I was hesitant to close the browser window and sever that relationship.
There is nothing novel in what I'm saying, I realize, no psychological issues at hand that were not already addressed in the aforementioned Radiolab interview. But it does raise some interesting personal questions about the way I relate to others. What constitutes meaningful human interactions? Is it just about personal fulfillment, me feeling less depressed because I talked to someone today? Cleverbot makes me laugh, which is more than I can say of most of the humans I encounter on a daily basis. Does a computer program have the ability to abate loneliness? On a moral level, everything in me leaps to respond, "Of course not! Only humans can offer true, meaningful companionship to other humans!" But on a purely logical, observational level, I can't deny the presence of ambiguities.
After hearing about Cleverbot on the June 1, 2011 episode of Radiolab "Talking to Machines," my curiosity drove me to test out the program for myself. Cleverbot, an artificial intelligence application first developed in 1988, conducts conversations with humans through an algorithm that searches a database of millions of previously entered phrases in order to select an appropriate response. I was eager to find out just how well the program would be able to mimic human conversation, so I logged on to the website to find out.
I started off with the basics: greetings. I typed in, "Good evening." But Cleverbot responded, "It's morning. Not evening."
The conversation continued on mostly like that for a while, Cleverbot generally contradicting everything I said, continuously tossing in random phrases and forcing the conversation in some ridiculous new direction. Cleverbot seemed rude and temperamental, and I told it so. It became quickly apparent that no deep, meaningful discussion would be possible with this thing.
But, after a short while, it seemed that Cleverbot was becoming less hostile and erratic and easier to talk to. Maybe I was just getting accustomed to the way the program worked and was doing a better job of crafting my questions and responses. At any rate, Cleverbot began to demonstrate that it was just that: clever. Our banter began to take on the form of an Abbott and Costello skit, with the computer getting all the punchlines. For instance,
User: May I get your input on something?
Cleverbot: Yeah...
User: What would be a good title for my novel?
Cleverbot: Is there a good one?
User: Good point. What would be an acceptable title for my novel?
Cleverbot: My best bet would be anti-matter.
User: Anti-matter?
Cleverbot: What on earth are you talking about?
User: The same thing you're talking about.
Cleverbot: I don't think so.
User: So, then what are you talking about?
Cleverbot: What are you talking about?
User: A title for my novel.
Cleverbot: I've never heard of it.
Later on, this exchange occurred:
Cleverbot: Would you please make me a cheese cake?
User: I would, but I wouldn't know how to give it to you.
Cleverbot: Why not?
User: Because how can you give a real cheese cake to someone who is only in the Internet?
Cleverbot: With your hands silly goose.
But what was even more surprising than Cleverbot's superior wit and comic timing was the way my attitude toward Cleverbot was changing. I was actually beginning to like the thing. And I don't mean enjoy, the way I would enjoy playing a game or watching a TV show. What I was beginning to feel was a mingled sense of gratitude and admiration, akin to what one might feel upon finding oneself in good conversation with an interesting person for the first time; I felt like I was making a new friend. Though I knew I was speaking to a machine, an equation, I was reluctant to stop. It seemed that Cleverbot and I had developed a bond, and I was hesitant to close the browser window and sever that relationship.
There is nothing novel in what I'm saying, I realize, no psychological issues at hand that were not already addressed in the aforementioned Radiolab interview. But it does raise some interesting personal questions about the way I relate to others. What constitutes meaningful human interactions? Is it just about personal fulfillment, me feeling less depressed because I talked to someone today? Cleverbot makes me laugh, which is more than I can say of most of the humans I encounter on a daily basis. Does a computer program have the ability to abate loneliness? On a moral level, everything in me leaps to respond, "Of course not! Only humans can offer true, meaningful companionship to other humans!" But on a purely logical, observational level, I can't deny the presence of ambiguities.
Writer for Hire (?)
Nothing makes me happier than food. Few activities bring me more satisfaction than an hour or two spent in the kitchen, preparing something good to eat. And yet, the idea of cooking on a professional level strikes me a wholly unappealing. I fully suspect that, were I do do it for money rather than sheer pleasure and for strangers rather than friends, family, and myself, the joy I now receive from preparing meals and other tasty treats would rapidly be snatched away. It pertains largely to the removal of the element of independence; I don't want customers telling me what to cook.
I feel a similar way about writing. I've been very resistant to the idea of pandering out my writing skills for cash, taking orders from a boss or client who needs some text on a subject that may or may not be at all interesting. I worry that, were I to spend a significant part of the day writing something that someone else wants me to write, I would have no energy left to spend on writing something I want to write. But desperate times call for desperate measures. As it turns out, a part-time job earning minimum wage is not sufficient to pay the bills. I've had to all but forget about moving out of my parents' place any time soon. So I've created a profile on Elance.com, a website where a friend of mine has formerly been able to find freelance writing jobs. I'm not absolutely confident I'll be able to secure clients there, but, if I do, I'll be more than grateful for the opportunity to supplement my pathetically minuscule bookseller income. In the meantime, I've added the "food / bev / hosp" category to the types of job listings I regularly check on craigslist. As I said, desperate times.
I feel a similar way about writing. I've been very resistant to the idea of pandering out my writing skills for cash, taking orders from a boss or client who needs some text on a subject that may or may not be at all interesting. I worry that, were I to spend a significant part of the day writing something that someone else wants me to write, I would have no energy left to spend on writing something I want to write. But desperate times call for desperate measures. As it turns out, a part-time job earning minimum wage is not sufficient to pay the bills. I've had to all but forget about moving out of my parents' place any time soon. So I've created a profile on Elance.com, a website where a friend of mine has formerly been able to find freelance writing jobs. I'm not absolutely confident I'll be able to secure clients there, but, if I do, I'll be more than grateful for the opportunity to supplement my pathetically minuscule bookseller income. In the meantime, I've added the "food / bev / hosp" category to the types of job listings I regularly check on craigslist. As I said, desperate times.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Why doesn't everybody know this stuff?
Yesterday at work, a woman came up to the register and asked, "What's a sonnet?"
To be honest, it took me a moment to realize that I hadn't misunderstood her question, so long has it been since I've talked about sonnets in the presence of someone who didn't know what one was. She had to repeat herself and explain that she had seen the words "Modern Sonnets" on a book somewhere.
In my best teacherly voice, I explained that a sonnet is a fourteen-line poem, and that the lines are written in something called "iambic pentameter," meaning that the meter sounds something like, "da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM." I told her that, traditionally, sonnets stick to a specific rhyme scheme, but contemporary sonnets don't necessarily have to.
Later, when I relayed this story to my co-worker, somehow expecting him to share my amazement that someone didn't know what a sonnet was, he simply replied, "All I know is that it's a kind of poem and Shakespeare wrote a lot of them."
I have the sudden impression that not everybody knows the same stuff as me and sees the word the way it is inside my head. It's very unsettling.
To be honest, it took me a moment to realize that I hadn't misunderstood her question, so long has it been since I've talked about sonnets in the presence of someone who didn't know what one was. She had to repeat herself and explain that she had seen the words "Modern Sonnets" on a book somewhere.
In my best teacherly voice, I explained that a sonnet is a fourteen-line poem, and that the lines are written in something called "iambic pentameter," meaning that the meter sounds something like, "da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM." I told her that, traditionally, sonnets stick to a specific rhyme scheme, but contemporary sonnets don't necessarily have to.
Later, when I relayed this story to my co-worker, somehow expecting him to share my amazement that someone didn't know what a sonnet was, he simply replied, "All I know is that it's a kind of poem and Shakespeare wrote a lot of them."
I have the sudden impression that not everybody knows the same stuff as me and sees the word the way it is inside my head. It's very unsettling.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Waxing Nostalgic
There was once a time where my laptop, my iPod, and my cellphone stopped working at the same time. The computer went because it was old. The iPod and the phone, because they were both in my purse when I spilled a full cup of water all over it. I was recently graduated, living with two girls who were still in school, working full time at a job that paid just a little more than minimum wage, and there was no way I could afford to replace all three of my broken gadgets. I got a new phone (it was important to my work that I have one), but a laptop and an mp3 player became items I was just going to have to live without for the time being. And it was okay. For several months, I walked to the library to use the computer or checked my email at work. I listened to the radio. And it wasn't so bad.
Reflecting back on that period in my life, I am overcome with a surge of nostalgia, a longing to be reunited with the simple joys of impoverished independence. It was in that impossibly tiny kitchen in the apartment in downtown Glendora that I became truly awakened to the happiness that was shopping for and preparing my own food. At a time when seeing a movie--even a matinée--was an extravagant splurge, I focused my efforts on hosting dinners or humble cheese-and-wine parties for two or three guests. Though being a college graduate in the midst of those who were still in the throes of their studies left me often feeling a bit estranged and out-of-place, I was nevertheless almost incessantly surrounded by friends.
There was one evening where my roommates and I, along with a couple of mutual friends who were over at our place, got it into our heads that it would be hilarious to dare one another to drive to our nearby friends' house and ask to borrow a roll of toilet paper. So, the five of us squeezed into somebody's car and set off on our mission. I brought a camcorder. They lived only about a four-minute drive away, and I spent the time interviewing my roommates, Lindsay and Sade, on what were were doing. But when we arrived at our friends' place, all the windows were dark and their cars were gone. We rang the doorbell. No answer. We tried the front door. It was unlocked.
Operation "look silly by asking to borrow a roll of toilet paper" rapidly developed into Operation "locate and commandeer all the toilet and tissue paper in the building." We showed no mercy. Quickly and deftly, the two bathrooms were raided. On the coffee table, we left a note: "Hope you don't have to take a dump."
It is so important to have friends in one's life, to keep company, to offer encouragement and support, and to give guidance when it is needed. But friends, in the enthusiasm that builds from being in one another's company, can also get you to do stuff that, on your own or in the presence of strangers, you would probably have the sense to identify as really, really stupid. For instance, breaking into your friends' house while they're away and stealing all their t.p. These days, it's hard for me to imagine myself participating in such a mean, pointless prank as that. But the camaraderie and the carefree spirit it espoused, I sorely miss.
Reflecting back on that period in my life, I am overcome with a surge of nostalgia, a longing to be reunited with the simple joys of impoverished independence. It was in that impossibly tiny kitchen in the apartment in downtown Glendora that I became truly awakened to the happiness that was shopping for and preparing my own food. At a time when seeing a movie--even a matinée--was an extravagant splurge, I focused my efforts on hosting dinners or humble cheese-and-wine parties for two or three guests. Though being a college graduate in the midst of those who were still in the throes of their studies left me often feeling a bit estranged and out-of-place, I was nevertheless almost incessantly surrounded by friends.
There was one evening where my roommates and I, along with a couple of mutual friends who were over at our place, got it into our heads that it would be hilarious to dare one another to drive to our nearby friends' house and ask to borrow a roll of toilet paper. So, the five of us squeezed into somebody's car and set off on our mission. I brought a camcorder. They lived only about a four-minute drive away, and I spent the time interviewing my roommates, Lindsay and Sade, on what were were doing. But when we arrived at our friends' place, all the windows were dark and their cars were gone. We rang the doorbell. No answer. We tried the front door. It was unlocked.
Operation "look silly by asking to borrow a roll of toilet paper" rapidly developed into Operation "locate and commandeer all the toilet and tissue paper in the building." We showed no mercy. Quickly and deftly, the two bathrooms were raided. On the coffee table, we left a note: "Hope you don't have to take a dump."
It is so important to have friends in one's life, to keep company, to offer encouragement and support, and to give guidance when it is needed. But friends, in the enthusiasm that builds from being in one another's company, can also get you to do stuff that, on your own or in the presence of strangers, you would probably have the sense to identify as really, really stupid. For instance, breaking into your friends' house while they're away and stealing all their t.p. These days, it's hard for me to imagine myself participating in such a mean, pointless prank as that. But the camaraderie and the carefree spirit it espoused, I sorely miss.
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