A Tangent Addendum

So I had a lot of absences in one of my classes this quarter (about 5 unexcused). I probably could've gotten them excused, but I never feel really compelled to seek such excusals for some reason. Low and behold at the end of the quarter the Professor asked me to address why I shouldn't fail the class in my final essay. I probably could've made a pretty persuasive argument on an analytical basis, but the truth was I didn't feel the need. I wrote the final paper without addressing my absences in any direct way. Below is the short essay I wrote to him, entitled "A Tangent Addendum" and attached to my actual final. He was a pretty laid back guy, so I hope he takes it well. I genuinely didn't mean any offense, and every word of it is true. Here's lookin' at the world. – DC


A Tangent Addendum

I fancy myself a decent student, although perhaps I am not the iconic example of the ‘good student’, as my attendance during this quarter would seem to agree. Yet I’ve never seen my academic accomplishments as a simple and accurate representation of myself. As a child, my parents could never force me to do homework, and, as a an impertinent youngster, punishment only ever made me angry and never compliant. Humorously, participation was never an issue, and I never seemed to be troubled to do the work that was given to me while I was physically in class. This is how for most of elementary school I earned a hodgepodge of grades, one that reflected full effort within the classroom and hardly any outside of it.

To this day I’ll never be able to describe why upon entering fifth grade I suddenly decided to try. It sounds especially odd remembering that I had “tried” once before: During one week in fourth grade, I actually did all my work which resulted in the first time I was awarded the illustrious ‘Student of the Week’ award at Monday assembly. I immediately returned to old habits the following week.

For some reason the first day of fifth grade was different. Perhaps it was the fact that, at the time, fifth grade was the last year of elementary school, complete with a special overnight camping trip into the backwoods of our campus set between Cobb and Boggs mountains. Whatever the cause, on that first day of fifth grade in the course of that slow, winding drive through mountain roads on the way to school, the thought simply would not leave me alone; ‘What if I tried?’. What if I tried... would life be different? I did not know the answer, but it was precisely the not knowing that troubled me. As young as I was, perhaps it was my first real epiphany.

And ultimately it did feel different. Every night when I sat down at my parents desk with the greying old Apple Macintosh to do my Weekly Spelling, I liked the fact that no one had asked me to do it. From that point on my grades have more or less been a reflection of my own interest, desire, and application. I suppose I took and still take pride in high marks like any student, but there’s always been a distinct and yet difficult to describe sensation accompanying me in my academics: The sensation that it was not done for anyone besides myself. It may be because of this quality that I rarely bother to seek an excused absence. If it were not for this sensation, perhaps I would feel more compelled in reporting the reasons for my absences, and I would not be at this juncture in your class.

I never scoff at an A, the same way it is bad form to look a gift horse in the mouth. And yet at the same time I do not rely upon them. The truth is I took this class for me; I am not ethics or teaching major, and I do not require the credits towards graduation. The same mentality is probably what allowed me to declare as an anthropology major despite the knowledge that it may result in my living in a cardboard box. When I consider the ramifications of failing this class, more than anything my distaste for it stems mostly from the thought of having to go talk about it with some administrative official who barely knows me.

This is not because I am apathetic. Rather, it is precisely because I’ve enjoyed the class so much that I am unconcerned with the grade that I receive. Be it an A, or an F, or any of the other many letters available in the alphabet, it won’t really change how the actual process has affected my thinking, which for me has come to be its real value. At the end of the day, the mark I am given is a just shape that someone else will look at and attach meaning to. For me, the meaning of my time spent in this class stands apart from such a mark, and unlike a class I’d have enjoyed less, I do not need any particular mark to make it feel worthwhile.

Despite these feelings, I readily acknowledge that there may be a vested interest for students to attend class so that they may partake in discussion and mutually enrich one another. Under such a reasoning, it may be that my absences have somehow detrimentally impacted the class. I understand this, but I leave such judgments to educators such as yourself. I could only think of it as a kind of hubris were I to assume it myself.

Either way I feel no sadness in regards to my engagement with or performance in the class. Besides, I have always put my faith in people before edicts or statutes, and always will. My grade is in your hands, and I am comfortable with that.

I would certainly enjoy taking another course from you.
Sincerely,
Damon O'Hanlon

UPDATE: Final Grade for the class? B+ (and an A on the final)

Haiku Tuesday: Mind like Ocean

Mind should be open
Salt of lake hardly matters
But sea roars too much.

Forgiveness

Why do I give a damn? Others looking in on me might well ask.

I’ve wondered a bit myself recently, though not in the aggravated way I once did, which is just one more sign that I am moving forward. Still, what lingers? And why do I ever think back on it?

It’s no longer just nostalgia, for I daily accept its passing and do not even really want her back. A new feeling I'm coming to understand, I want to release her—

I want to forgive her, as time goes on it only gets clearer. I'm in need signs of forgiveness. Sometimes I think about all the pain I’ve put into the world, and I can barely forgive myself. And when I fail to forgive someone, I’m really failing to forgive myself.

I want to continue moving forward, leaving pain in the past where it belongs, and I struggle doing that if I can’t forgive myself. I’m seeking forgiveness so that I can learn to forgive others, and myself is just one more other I need to learn to forgive.

Missing Things — So Damn Hard...

I do not miss people. I do not miss things. I don’t miss anger, arguing, or spite.

I don’t care for regrets much, and I certainly don’t care for dishonesty.

But I do miss smiles, shared joy, and wisdom. Regrets sometimes bury me alive, and anger has more than once poured into my mind, exploded out of my heart, so destructive...

As I struggle to let it all go, I often realize what I’m missing most are just ideas, sometimes false, and really the struggle is letting the ideas go...

I do not miss flesh. Or bones.

And from those precious few, what I actually miss is being effected.

Jagged Angles

Why do I prefer jagged angles?

Everyone has seen a rug with a curly flowered pattern, but usually I find that I prefer something both a little more and less pronounced. What do I mean by this? When something is complex enough, no part of it sticks out and yet it's wildly distracting in our field of view.

I think the mind understands jagged angles better – we're very familiar with a right angle, and we sure ought to be; we've surrounded ourselves with them. On the other hand every time we see a curve, at least in my mind, I can feel myself process it. Is it a curve that would fit in with a right angle? Is it steep or shallow? The complexity multiplies if the curve can reverse itself.

To be fair there are a lot of designs I've seen that use curves that are very attractive. What makes these designs successful in my mind is the limited style of the curves. Make them simple enough and they go nearly unnoticed at first glance, leaving no room for the brain to spend time processing them, leaving them as a sort of design accent and less of a primary design focus.

At the end of the day I think people are very complicated. From moment to moment and day to day we are very different individuals depending on situations, individuals surrounding us and the experiences we've had. With all that complexity in the people surrounding us (which is very important to our lives), I don't see the need for complicated furniture. Appreciate it of course, and how it serves you, but let slipping into the background gracefully be part of its service.

Like many things I suspect there is a healthy balance between the two, such as a couch with an angular pattern imprinted on it with curved arms and top for actual physical features.

Still, given one to emphasize, I know where my loyalties lie.

Many Drivers, Many Exits

We all do it at some point, but the less the better. Any highway is dangerous. Bodies strapped to metal and plastic and explosives and a canon that drives your wheels. If labeled, those pedals wouldn’t read accelerate or break, they’d read, “Look out ahead” and “Hit me to avoid the guy about to merge into your rear bumper.”

Even the wheel would read, “Use carefully, lest you be rolled onto your head and smashed to bits like a bug on on your grill.”

On any given highway, there are an infinite number of exits. They’re scattered all over for you to find…

Even I have done it, though I hope much less so than others, but I still hate it when people don’t pay attention on highways.

Don’t you get it?—

Death, motherfucker: It’s just around the corner.

A Loving Simplicity

Everyone has natural talents. We argue about their various values. What is the value in writing, for instance? Or just how priceless is that clearest communicator in your family or office?

We often equate work and talent. “What do you do?” is a question you might hear often, and you know immediately they mean for a job. There are so many things you do, but when people ask what you do, they mean your work, as though it is somehow essential to your existence.

The problem is the thing we do is often not the thing we love. I detail cars and many people I know wait tables or shuffle office papers. When I detail a car I’m part of a larger process designed to disguise the wear on the vehicle, those who wait tables are providing a simple service to others, and office work might be even more mundane. I find that I can almost always take pride in a job well-done, but just because I can make it a job well-done doesn’t mean I will love performing the activity. Not even the pride in the result can make up for the lack of love in the work itself.

But the problem is not simply that these are not glorious occupations. I find that the things we love are often simple pleasures. People think of art as very complicated, and a natural talent to boot. But in its simplest form it is only putting a brush to canvas, pencil to paper, or hand to clay. And anyone can do these things if they love them.

In this world we call modern, things are admittedly on overdrive. For most people what we do is not what we love, and I was surprised to find this morning that I love chopping wood. What is the value to me of having the wood? Very low. I could probably do some other work and in the same amount of time earn enough money to buy more than that amount of wood. But value is sometimes not a measure of dollars.

On a warm day with a peaceful breeze, the sound and simple beauty of an axe meeting wood can be poetry.

[16 August 2007]