Porque Serra que cada vez que vuelvo a México me dan aspiraciones de político. Y no de político como el de "revoluciondelintelecto" ni como el Nino verde o el Peje. Claro esta que todos son distintos pero a la vez, todos se pagan lo que quieran y trabajan poco y de manera ineficiente. Eso si, todos de camionetita blindadita y guarura.
Comencemos entonces con un comentario acerca del mitote que hizo el peje cuando se autodeclaro como presidente legitimo. Claro esta que su mitote en el zócalo con gente comprado, lonches y banderas amarillas fue una desgracia no solo para México sino también para el ejercicio cuasi democrático que ejercemos los mexicanos cada 6 anos. Pero detrás de su intransigencia encontré dos cosas importantes que podrían aplicarse a nuestro gobierno.
La primera: el sistema no funciona.
Cuando el cuerpo electoral es uno sin educación y que puede ser comprado por anuncios televisivos que prometen un futuro abstractamente mejor con expresiones populares y mangas arremangadas, el sistema no sirve. Cuando los funcionarios electos no tienen educación y de vez en vez se les ocurre hacer majaderías en el congreso, rentar jets para irse de viaje mientras su gente se muere de hambre o le falta luz o mandan a volar a su cuerpo electoral en frente de las cámaras de televisión, el sistema no sirve.
La segunda: falta trabajar fuera del sistema.
Esto no se refiere a la corrupción o las "mordidas". Esto esta dentro del sistema. Lo que pasa es que falta trabajar con funcionarios y mexicanos (que a veces no importan que no sean los mismos) que no estén moralmente corroídos por como funciona nuestro microcosmo - México. Lamentablemente son pocos y en peligro de extinción, salen a la naturaleza por la noche y procrean solo cada 25 anos. Lo que intento crear el peje fue un nuevo régimen. Un régimen basado en una verdad que solo el creía pero un nuevo régimen.
Falta que dejemos de pensar que el gobierno es solamente una de esas cosas que duran 6 anos a la vez. Que es algo que hace falta recrear y reconocer que a México le sobran falsas energías políticas.
O que, quien piensa que se puede arreglar este país cuando se reconstruye y reconstruye en un lustro mas uno.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Felipe
Estimado Felipe:
Déjame empezar disculpándome por apersonarme tan pronto y comenzar el tuteo desde el principio. Pero ya vez que me parece que nos hemos tardado en presentarnos pero casi siento que te conozco. Te veo (más bien te veía) tanto en la tele los primeros dos años de tu gobierno y escuchaba mucho acerca del famoso soldadito de chocolate.
Soy un mexicano estudiando en el extranjero. Soy parte del llamado "brain drain" o brein drein como dirían mis paisanos recién llegados a Laredo o Los Ángeles. Pero la verdad es que no sabrían de que se trata el asunto lamentablemente. Simplemente, no hace dos meses, yo estaba tramitando mi pasaporte en un consulado en el Noreste. Era temprano y había hombres, mujeres y niños todos formaditos según nos decía la secretaria. Un joven tratando de tramitar su pasaporte casi se saca los pelos cuando la amable señorita de la ventanilla le pregunto dónde estaban sus padres. "Porque?" pregunto el joven. "Porque se necesita el permiso de los padres cuando se trata de un menor buscando pasaporte" dijo ella. "Pero yo tengo 18 años!"
"No, usted los cumple el 4 de enero. Si gusta vuelva entonces".
No sabía leer.
Pero esta carta abierta no se trata de eso, así que antes de que continúe divagando permítame.
En estados unidos se burlan muchos de los soldados de carrera en el ejercito. Son aquellos que no saben de donde son, que se piensa que fueron producidos por el gobierno para el servicio del gobierno. Hombres y mujeres dedicados a pelear por el ideal que se les ordene. Jarheads. Hombres de guerra. De pocos o muchos estudios, son aquellos que ansían que se acabe su periodo de servicio para poder enrolarse en el que sigue. Pelo corto, camisas siempre verdes de algodón y pantalones camuflajeados.
Eso es lo que nos falta en este país. Una tribu de gente así. Una tribu guerrera que crea solo en la voz de uno o dos generales de baja o alta inteligencia que piensen solo en beneficio de la madre patria. Creo que hace tiempo los padres de la revolución lo hubieran descrito como patriotismo. Pero seamos honestos Felipe (te puedo decir Feli?) el patriotismo se murió cuando los presidentes de la "ivy" league se la robaron y un ranchero se lo cambio al pueblo por un sentido del humor desabrido y una mujer come-hombres.
Te propongo lo siguiente. Escoge una ciudad pequeña, de entre 50 y 100 mil habitantes. Llamémosle población y bauticémosle MEXICANIDAD. Pero así, todo en mayúsculas. Para que la crean. Todos los habitantes de más de 16 años serán acomodados en otra ciudad. O se les construirá una ciudad gemela que funcione como ciudad hermana, separada de los jóvenes pero unidos por un puente atirantado que cueste 20 veces más de lo que en realidad valga. Entonces, con los jóvenes aislados del mundo, que entren las lavanderas. No precisamente de ropa pero si de mente. Gente altamente preparada y educada en historia de México, economía, guerra, y sicología. Todo con el objetivo de obtener un buen número de jóvenes que griten un grito de guerra (como en nuestro himno que cantamos el 16) cuando se diga México. Que no sea un grito que salga de la boca entre aliento alcohólico. Que sea un grito poderoso y serio que diga: Hago lo que le haga bien a México. Y ese bien es lo que me diga Felipe (o yo porque no) a través de los generales.
Y luego los soltamos en Michoacán.
Sinceramente,
H.C. DHD
Déjame empezar disculpándome por apersonarme tan pronto y comenzar el tuteo desde el principio. Pero ya vez que me parece que nos hemos tardado en presentarnos pero casi siento que te conozco. Te veo (más bien te veía) tanto en la tele los primeros dos años de tu gobierno y escuchaba mucho acerca del famoso soldadito de chocolate.
Soy un mexicano estudiando en el extranjero. Soy parte del llamado "brain drain" o brein drein como dirían mis paisanos recién llegados a Laredo o Los Ángeles. Pero la verdad es que no sabrían de que se trata el asunto lamentablemente. Simplemente, no hace dos meses, yo estaba tramitando mi pasaporte en un consulado en el Noreste. Era temprano y había hombres, mujeres y niños todos formaditos según nos decía la secretaria. Un joven tratando de tramitar su pasaporte casi se saca los pelos cuando la amable señorita de la ventanilla le pregunto dónde estaban sus padres. "Porque?" pregunto el joven. "Porque se necesita el permiso de los padres cuando se trata de un menor buscando pasaporte" dijo ella. "Pero yo tengo 18 años!"
"No, usted los cumple el 4 de enero. Si gusta vuelva entonces".
No sabía leer.
Pero esta carta abierta no se trata de eso, así que antes de que continúe divagando permítame.
En estados unidos se burlan muchos de los soldados de carrera en el ejercito. Son aquellos que no saben de donde son, que se piensa que fueron producidos por el gobierno para el servicio del gobierno. Hombres y mujeres dedicados a pelear por el ideal que se les ordene. Jarheads. Hombres de guerra. De pocos o muchos estudios, son aquellos que ansían que se acabe su periodo de servicio para poder enrolarse en el que sigue. Pelo corto, camisas siempre verdes de algodón y pantalones camuflajeados.
Eso es lo que nos falta en este país. Una tribu de gente así. Una tribu guerrera que crea solo en la voz de uno o dos generales de baja o alta inteligencia que piensen solo en beneficio de la madre patria. Creo que hace tiempo los padres de la revolución lo hubieran descrito como patriotismo. Pero seamos honestos Felipe (te puedo decir Feli?) el patriotismo se murió cuando los presidentes de la "ivy" league se la robaron y un ranchero se lo cambio al pueblo por un sentido del humor desabrido y una mujer come-hombres.
Te propongo lo siguiente. Escoge una ciudad pequeña, de entre 50 y 100 mil habitantes. Llamémosle población y bauticémosle MEXICANIDAD. Pero así, todo en mayúsculas. Para que la crean. Todos los habitantes de más de 16 años serán acomodados en otra ciudad. O se les construirá una ciudad gemela que funcione como ciudad hermana, separada de los jóvenes pero unidos por un puente atirantado que cueste 20 veces más de lo que en realidad valga. Entonces, con los jóvenes aislados del mundo, que entren las lavanderas. No precisamente de ropa pero si de mente. Gente altamente preparada y educada en historia de México, economía, guerra, y sicología. Todo con el objetivo de obtener un buen número de jóvenes que griten un grito de guerra (como en nuestro himno que cantamos el 16) cuando se diga México. Que no sea un grito que salga de la boca entre aliento alcohólico. Que sea un grito poderoso y serio que diga: Hago lo que le haga bien a México. Y ese bien es lo que me diga Felipe (o yo porque no) a través de los generales.
Y luego los soltamos en Michoacán.
Sinceramente,
H.C. DHD
Friday, December 24, 2010
Log, day 2
To start with a story: my aunt bought my grandmother a new kitchen. They asked me for help installing it and I obliged. On my way to the hardware store - I needed a couple of screws and a drill bit - I saw a pair of cops armed with AKs run into a store. The kind of store that sells home appliances. Then I saw them run out in my direction, looking over their shoulder, and yelling at the rest of their squadron to run.
I wasn't wearing my jogging shoes. But I bolted too. Two blocks and straight into the hardware store. They eventually got into their humvee and skidded off. There were no gunshots.
I bought my supplies and walked home.
Later in the day, walking home, I crossed through the town square. There was a mass going on in the middle of it and a crowd rocking the baby jesus. The father kept praying as the crowd moved the baby in sync to an orchestral ave maria. Army men dotted the town square and we all prayed as the manger's spotlight was occupied. Though normally this was something done at midnight, with a much bigger crowd, and candles and fireworks. Today we did it in the middle of the day. No fanfare. Just business as usual.
This is what it feels like to live in occupied territory.
It's funny, you really start worrying when the hotel owner stops you before going out in the morning. Though we're regulars at this hotel - a turn of the century house, remodeled to service the 20th century traveler, along with 5 inch thick board ups in the windows and bullet proof glass to prevent attacks - I wouldn't say we're VIPs. We were offered a security escort today.
So now, we've had our Christmas Eve lunch (not dinner).
And all the while I'm wondering why the government doesn't do something about it. How is it that this para-military, pseudogovernmental organization has all the cards. And by cards I mean bombs.
Felipe?
I wasn't wearing my jogging shoes. But I bolted too. Two blocks and straight into the hardware store. They eventually got into their humvee and skidded off. There were no gunshots.
I bought my supplies and walked home.
Later in the day, walking home, I crossed through the town square. There was a mass going on in the middle of it and a crowd rocking the baby jesus. The father kept praying as the crowd moved the baby in sync to an orchestral ave maria. Army men dotted the town square and we all prayed as the manger's spotlight was occupied. Though normally this was something done at midnight, with a much bigger crowd, and candles and fireworks. Today we did it in the middle of the day. No fanfare. Just business as usual.
This is what it feels like to live in occupied territory.
It's funny, you really start worrying when the hotel owner stops you before going out in the morning. Though we're regulars at this hotel - a turn of the century house, remodeled to service the 20th century traveler, along with 5 inch thick board ups in the windows and bullet proof glass to prevent attacks - I wouldn't say we're VIPs. We were offered a security escort today.
So now, we've had our Christmas Eve lunch (not dinner).
And all the while I'm wondering why the government doesn't do something about it. How is it that this para-military, pseudogovernmental organization has all the cards. And by cards I mean bombs.
Felipe?
Thursday, December 23, 2010
WaW
According to some it might just be the spanish way of saying wow. I know better. I also know that to any half l337 gamer out there WaW means world at war. And that's precisely the one I'm talking about.
I always wondered what it was like to live in a war torn country. How the people in North Korea, or Afghanistan or Iraq lived or live for years with grenades and bombs and shooting going on all around them. What's their new normal?
I'm at a small city in the heart of Zeta territory in Mexico and somehow I feel like a war correspondent. The Zetas were originally a black ops type team trained by the government and meant to take out the drug lords controlling the southwest of Mexico. These were highly skilled, intelligent individuals taught not only in the art of war but also in relating to the culture and the people. They were successful in taking down the drug lords. They then quickly put themselves in charge and became warlords. That is, warlords in the traditional Africa sense - people with small armies and deep ties to the people. Except they might be smarter, they collect taxes, lead public benefit projects, build roads and schools and recruit everyone, from the children to the grandparents.
That's where I am. A deeply catholic country with a pseudo government that refuses to negotiate with the actual government (though I'll admit, even to those actually keeping track, the lines are blurred). The Zetas, to their credit, have made it clear that they will not stand for injustice, and they will not stand for backtalk. They do not reason but state their demands and punish those who step out of line.
There's a curfew on the city. 9pm. It's not coming from the government. Or the government elect I should say.
The roads in and out of the city have military checkpoints. A couple of miles after them come the actual checkpoints. Zeta checkpoints.
Tonight I heard 4 gunshots and what I venture to guess was a grenade. I've been carrying a hammer with me for the sake of feeling safe. I'm sorry if the following story scares me. The city itself is occupied by federal police forces and army soldiers. At this point both bodies are armed with fully automatic weapons, humvees with gun turrets and bread trucks. All bulletproof. The highest ranking commander of the military forces, with full escort, was ambushed and outgunned. Shot. Chopped. Delivered to government offices with a note of warning.
Same place where 10 federal cops (the kind that wear jet black helmets, heavy duty kevlar and carry tear gas bombs by the dozen) were delivered in body bags to the local courthouse. Why? The Zetas - who know simply go by the Family, perhaps aspirationally to their Sicilian betters - attached a note. They love their notes. It read: these were corrupt cops. Let this be a warning to others. The Family does not kill the innocent. We are the righteous.
Great, another false god for my people.
This is where my grandparents live. And where we are now celebrating Christmas lunch not Christmas dinner.
Because we've been warned.
I always wondered what it was like to live in a war torn country. How the people in North Korea, or Afghanistan or Iraq lived or live for years with grenades and bombs and shooting going on all around them. What's their new normal?
I'm at a small city in the heart of Zeta territory in Mexico and somehow I feel like a war correspondent. The Zetas were originally a black ops type team trained by the government and meant to take out the drug lords controlling the southwest of Mexico. These were highly skilled, intelligent individuals taught not only in the art of war but also in relating to the culture and the people. They were successful in taking down the drug lords. They then quickly put themselves in charge and became warlords. That is, warlords in the traditional Africa sense - people with small armies and deep ties to the people. Except they might be smarter, they collect taxes, lead public benefit projects, build roads and schools and recruit everyone, from the children to the grandparents.
That's where I am. A deeply catholic country with a pseudo government that refuses to negotiate with the actual government (though I'll admit, even to those actually keeping track, the lines are blurred). The Zetas, to their credit, have made it clear that they will not stand for injustice, and they will not stand for backtalk. They do not reason but state their demands and punish those who step out of line.
There's a curfew on the city. 9pm. It's not coming from the government. Or the government elect I should say.
The roads in and out of the city have military checkpoints. A couple of miles after them come the actual checkpoints. Zeta checkpoints.
Tonight I heard 4 gunshots and what I venture to guess was a grenade. I've been carrying a hammer with me for the sake of feeling safe. I'm sorry if the following story scares me. The city itself is occupied by federal police forces and army soldiers. At this point both bodies are armed with fully automatic weapons, humvees with gun turrets and bread trucks. All bulletproof. The highest ranking commander of the military forces, with full escort, was ambushed and outgunned. Shot. Chopped. Delivered to government offices with a note of warning.
Same place where 10 federal cops (the kind that wear jet black helmets, heavy duty kevlar and carry tear gas bombs by the dozen) were delivered in body bags to the local courthouse. Why? The Zetas - who know simply go by the Family, perhaps aspirationally to their Sicilian betters - attached a note. They love their notes. It read: these were corrupt cops. Let this be a warning to others. The Family does not kill the innocent. We are the righteous.
Great, another false god for my people.
This is where my grandparents live. And where we are now celebrating Christmas lunch not Christmas dinner.
Because we've been warned.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
The purpose of teams
A better man than me once said to stop chasing the paper and live your life.
I go to a demanding school. The kind where the students are the ones filled with self-inflicted stress wounds and where friends are hard to come by, lest they mess up the curve. I stand looking back and I see freshmen worrying about getting jobs and seniors chilling despite or because of their job situation. How does that make sense?
The concern as educators should not be on whether the students solve a tricky test under time pressure as they worry not about how they did but how their peers did and wether they'll still be better than about half of them.
There's an obvious disconnect between effort and performance.
But we all know you need a 4.0 to get a job. And at least 4 assorted extracurriculars in which you are both a board member, a president and a ground soldier. It's all suits and ties and vault guides all over the place before we stop them and ask them why they're doing all this for?
Of course I'm not talking about the kids born and raised with a deeply rooted desire to be a banker or a consultant. What 4 year old hasn't heard of Porter's 5 forces? Or 5 year old heard about Cialdini's 6 persuasion tactics?
Perhaps it's not only time to revamp the testing process but the learning process. It's time to realize that when we learn the most is in fact at 3 am in the fluorescently-lit hallways of our local universities but it's certainly not coming from the books. Though I'll admit that some of the insights we can derive from professors and from prolonged ours sitting in front of two computer screens and an open book are often cool - I still remembered the moment Finance, my programming class, Chem and Marketing all clicked together with my world history class. It was only a quick and brief and passing thought of clarity but it was worth it. But the truth is that the knowledge comes from the people, our peers, sitting around us, supporting each other maybe by sharing a cheat sheet, or a sample test, or explaining the paper.
It is also, I would contend, a process that takes place when students engage in dangerous and sometimes illegal behavior downtown and they take care of each other. Yes, it's disgusting. Yes, the next day, a saturday or a friday or even a Wednesday if you're particularly aggressive they walk like zombies for the first 12 hours of the day as they trudge from door to door dolling out apologies and looking for his/her cellphone, wallet, credit card and dignity.
It's what some business leaders would call experiential. Give it a little more structure and fewer percentages and you could actually be called a visionary and an educator.
Isn't that what teams were for?
I go to a demanding school. The kind where the students are the ones filled with self-inflicted stress wounds and where friends are hard to come by, lest they mess up the curve. I stand looking back and I see freshmen worrying about getting jobs and seniors chilling despite or because of their job situation. How does that make sense?
The concern as educators should not be on whether the students solve a tricky test under time pressure as they worry not about how they did but how their peers did and wether they'll still be better than about half of them.
There's an obvious disconnect between effort and performance.
But we all know you need a 4.0 to get a job. And at least 4 assorted extracurriculars in which you are both a board member, a president and a ground soldier. It's all suits and ties and vault guides all over the place before we stop them and ask them why they're doing all this for?
Of course I'm not talking about the kids born and raised with a deeply rooted desire to be a banker or a consultant. What 4 year old hasn't heard of Porter's 5 forces? Or 5 year old heard about Cialdini's 6 persuasion tactics?
Perhaps it's not only time to revamp the testing process but the learning process. It's time to realize that when we learn the most is in fact at 3 am in the fluorescently-lit hallways of our local universities but it's certainly not coming from the books. Though I'll admit that some of the insights we can derive from professors and from prolonged ours sitting in front of two computer screens and an open book are often cool - I still remembered the moment Finance, my programming class, Chem and Marketing all clicked together with my world history class. It was only a quick and brief and passing thought of clarity but it was worth it. But the truth is that the knowledge comes from the people, our peers, sitting around us, supporting each other maybe by sharing a cheat sheet, or a sample test, or explaining the paper.
It is also, I would contend, a process that takes place when students engage in dangerous and sometimes illegal behavior downtown and they take care of each other. Yes, it's disgusting. Yes, the next day, a saturday or a friday or even a Wednesday if you're particularly aggressive they walk like zombies for the first 12 hours of the day as they trudge from door to door dolling out apologies and looking for his/her cellphone, wallet, credit card and dignity.
It's what some business leaders would call experiential. Give it a little more structure and fewer percentages and you could actually be called a visionary and an educator.
Isn't that what teams were for?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Short age
I've always been of age. Of a certain age that is. At first I was 0 years old and then quickly that became a question better answered by I am this (hand up) old. At some point in the 6-7 year range that changes but you still want presents. Then you turn twelve and people start running for the hills as you lurch up.
Then, a couple of years later, maybe a little bit of facial hair tells people a good guesstimate for your age. Then your little plastic id badge lies to people about your age. Then it doesn't. First in one country (16), then in another (18), then in a third (21).
From hereonafter it's not polite to ask. Unless you're making sure it's not jailbait. Just pay close attention to the wrinkles and white hairs.
A momentary musing regarding that which is often taken for granted. The passage of time.
Then, a couple of years later, maybe a little bit of facial hair tells people a good guesstimate for your age. Then your little plastic id badge lies to people about your age. Then it doesn't. First in one country (16), then in another (18), then in a third (21).
From hereonafter it's not polite to ask. Unless you're making sure it's not jailbait. Just pay close attention to the wrinkles and white hairs.
A momentary musing regarding that which is often taken for granted. The passage of time.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Pretend I'm on a podium
And there's a huge crowd in front of me, 2500 of them are dressed in all black.
It's not a funeral.
'm still steadfast on the decision to change the world. However, I don't know if I'll ever achieve the cult-like status of Jobs or the political status of a senator. Call this a trial run. Or is it a dry run?
The first.
Think of those times you stayed behind in a room in Huntsman working with your friends because they needed help rehearsing. Keep doing this. Today it was for them. Tomorrow, for you. It might not be a status report and your first big college level presentation but the combination of diffused lighting, lack of windows, camraderie of knowing that you are bearing what must be born, together, and structure you are providing each other will give you enlightment no teacher on this campus can hope to give you.
The second.
Go out with your friends. Now I know that this might not be a popular idea because of the negative connotations of drinking, dancing and doing mistakes. That's not what I mean I assure you. What I want is for you to work really hard at choosing your friends and pursuing a depth in those relationships that only college affords. Take a second to relax, stop working on the assignments you have due next week and enjoy the freedom of choice. No longer are friendships a matter of custom or tradition. You have at least 2500 options - all pre-screened for "interesting".
And speaking more generally.
These past 4 years have been some of the greatest in my life. I didn't understand the big ado about college coming from a small high school in Mexico and a family where my parents spoke no english. Sure - there was animal house and american pie but i knew these to be comedies. I watched the movie "Accepted" during application season. I hoped for something like Dead Poet's society without the suicidal tendencies. An inspired teacher a la Coach Carter that also carried a PhD in everything and could speak with ease about the grand world stage I was joining. The ride was supposed to be an ever increasing spiritual high. It turns out that it's part of the experience to have incredible high points and terrible low points. This semester, I've hit the sweetest one yet.
These past 4 years have been an education. It took me till junior year to figure out just how trivial the little number at the end of each semester was. How much definition it lacked. I focused on learning, not earning (a grade). It hit me that I was working hard to prepare myself, yes as an educated college grad, but also as a grown man living independently in the world. I have been working hard, inside and outside the classroom to make my story as great as possible. The 4 years of college are the greatest years of your life - if you commit yourself to making them so.
I did. I recommend doing the same.
*P.S. Maker's with apple cider make a good drink to mop up the tears.
It's not a funeral.
'm still steadfast on the decision to change the world. However, I don't know if I'll ever achieve the cult-like status of Jobs or the political status of a senator. Call this a trial run. Or is it a dry run?
The first.
Think of those times you stayed behind in a room in Huntsman working with your friends because they needed help rehearsing. Keep doing this. Today it was for them. Tomorrow, for you. It might not be a status report and your first big college level presentation but the combination of diffused lighting, lack of windows, camraderie of knowing that you are bearing what must be born, together, and structure you are providing each other will give you enlightment no teacher on this campus can hope to give you.
The second.
Go out with your friends. Now I know that this might not be a popular idea because of the negative connotations of drinking, dancing and doing mistakes. That's not what I mean I assure you. What I want is for you to work really hard at choosing your friends and pursuing a depth in those relationships that only college affords. Take a second to relax, stop working on the assignments you have due next week and enjoy the freedom of choice. No longer are friendships a matter of custom or tradition. You have at least 2500 options - all pre-screened for "interesting".
And speaking more generally.
These past 4 years have been some of the greatest in my life. I didn't understand the big ado about college coming from a small high school in Mexico and a family where my parents spoke no english. Sure - there was animal house and american pie but i knew these to be comedies. I watched the movie "Accepted" during application season. I hoped for something like Dead Poet's society without the suicidal tendencies. An inspired teacher a la Coach Carter that also carried a PhD in everything and could speak with ease about the grand world stage I was joining. The ride was supposed to be an ever increasing spiritual high. It turns out that it's part of the experience to have incredible high points and terrible low points. This semester, I've hit the sweetest one yet.
These past 4 years have been an education. It took me till junior year to figure out just how trivial the little number at the end of each semester was. How much definition it lacked. I focused on learning, not earning (a grade). It hit me that I was working hard to prepare myself, yes as an educated college grad, but also as a grown man living independently in the world. I have been working hard, inside and outside the classroom to make my story as great as possible. The 4 years of college are the greatest years of your life - if you commit yourself to making them so.
I did. I recommend doing the same.
*P.S. Maker's with apple cider make a good drink to mop up the tears.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Pub
It's an interesting sensation that I sorely missed from high school. Having your words printed not in the permanent ink of the internet but in the old-school style that Ben (Frank really) used to practice.
It's not a bar though. Or better yet it is a bar that you need to meet.
So writers write, most times, to be read. They slave away at sentence construction and word choice and grammar and other persnickety little details attempting perfection. That's not to say that everyone who touches finger to keyboard is in trapped in a permanent attempt to write Ulysses. In fact, I'd venture to say that the people who are published in the NYT best sellers know that 6 out of 10 times they have done just that. Sold themselves out in the best possible fashion shooting for a now true and tried mix of sexiness, scandal, new york and pseudo science to write a book that provides readability.
It's reminiscent of coors.
But some writers do write. Not dribble and not the quasi-intelligible writing that I often put forth as esoteric though I assure you my attempts are typically heartfelt.
Then they write letters - emails these days - and attach their work in hopes of getting a congratulations. It's college acceptance all over again but instead of a promising future you get affirmation for the present.
lished.
It's not a bar though. Or better yet it is a bar that you need to meet.
So writers write, most times, to be read. They slave away at sentence construction and word choice and grammar and other persnickety little details attempting perfection. That's not to say that everyone who touches finger to keyboard is in trapped in a permanent attempt to write Ulysses. In fact, I'd venture to say that the people who are published in the NYT best sellers know that 6 out of 10 times they have done just that. Sold themselves out in the best possible fashion shooting for a now true and tried mix of sexiness, scandal, new york and pseudo science to write a book that provides readability.
It's reminiscent of coors.
But some writers do write. Not dribble and not the quasi-intelligible writing that I often put forth as esoteric though I assure you my attempts are typically heartfelt.
Then they write letters - emails these days - and attach their work in hopes of getting a congratulations. It's college acceptance all over again but instead of a promising future you get affirmation for the present.
lished.
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