What did I do this week? I yelled at the shadow man. I said too much and too little. I did not run away, because I couldn’t.

I can’t say this has been the best week I’ve ever had. However, without weeks like this, the really good ones wouldn’t stand out quite so well. I’ll take that as consolation, file it away, and move on. As there weren’t any obviously seminal political events or major military campaigns that I was involved with, I will reserve the right not to dwell on it until it becomes Historically Significant.

Next week, however, I plan on occupying North Africa with my legions. Before I can do that I have to clean the house and mint some debased currency. After that, there are a number of Miyazaki films with important tactical significance that must be viewed.

Sometimes it is enough to know that right now, somewhere, someone I know has finally gotten what they have desired.

Tonight I am vicariously content.

Angst
n: an acute but unspecific feeling of anxiety; usually reserved or philosophical anxiety about the world or about personal freedom.

There are more than a few tricks in public speaking or writing. The first involves starting one’s passage with a definition and then using that definition as a cantus firmus for one’s argument or discussion. I’m explaining this, not because this isn’t common knowledge, but because while I’m not intending to spend the entire post discussing Angst and Her Sisters, it’s plain to me at least that everything from the coffee I’m drinking right now to my general world view is tinged by this uninvited (and unjustified) guest.

I was called yesterday and informed of the death of Luciano Berio on Monday. He was, and probably always will be, one of the composers I respect the most; his balance between the intellectual and the whimsical, between High Music and the rest of human thought and activity was sublime, and while I will admit to not understanding or agreeing with all of his works, there was always respect. “There is nothing left now but the music,” my informant told me; as far as nothings go, it’s quite a bit of high-quality nothing.

While Berio was possibly experimenting with his new state of being a Dead Composer, I was tinkering with XML-RPC in attempts to keep my upper lip stiff and my jaw squarely set. It’s a light-weight protocol which allows platform-independent clients and servers in various languages. What it boils down to is the potential of novel and/or useful ways to access and manipulate data. I’m not sure if information wants to be free, but it doesn’t mind being organized, and if there is one thing that we as contemporary human beings suffering from sporadic bursts of acute yet unspecified feelings of anxiety produce and consume, it is data.

One of the most enjoyable things about tackling a new technology is that one of the best ways to learn it is to build something using it. Reading the specification on paper is one thing, but actually getting your hands dirty and coding something, now that’s something else! I attempt to build things that are useful to me; the applications are at core as much an exercise as writing a short fugue. The number of small programs written in this way is staggering, and the vast majority are only useful in the eyes of the programmer herself; such a though can lead to feelings of anxiexty if approached properly. One worthless program in a sea of worthless programs. In a world where cameras are prolific, what is the value of yet another Picture of the Eiffel Tower? Is that the nothing I’m going to leave behind, the same sort of nothing as millions others? What do you say, Luciano?

I wonder if this is what causes much of the acute philosophical anxiety floating around like a malicious Zeitgeist. The fact that the desire to leave one’s mark on the world is contrasted with the knowledge that one’s mark amounts to nothing more than a “Kilroy was here” graffiti on the wall of the men’s bathroom of Earth. There’s no point in striving for unique; I’m certain that even this very train of thought has been repeated with insignificant variations hundreds upon hundreds of times. Unique is a happy accident.

I have a picture of the Eiffel Tower I took in 1995, pretty as a postcard but for the thumb in the corner. This would be point in the post where I would smugly insinuate that I had a direct line to the secret of life, that I was somehow just a bit more clever or with-it than the average bear, and would be able to sign off with a single short sentence which would ring in your ear like the “Hmph.” sound the world’s most elitist food critic would make when you told them you were looking forward to a fine meal from Taco Bell. Goodness knows I’d like to, but the fact is that I can’t.

I’m going to take my implement of creation and write my programs and my music and live and love and work like the rest of us, because there’s not much else I can do.

In 1215, a most excellent document was written.

When I have a little too much to drink, my mind wanders back to John, by the grace of God, king of England, lord of Ireland, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and count of Anjou, all all of the the archbishop, bishops, abbots, earls, barons, justiciaries, foresters, sheriffs, stewards, servants, and to all his bailiffs and liege subjects.

It was 5:30 am and I didn’t want to get out of bed. I knew, I knew, that if I got up and put weight on my left foot it would hurt. If I didn’t get out of bed, there was the possibility that my ankle was really fine. I was in bed, nestled in my fantasy where I put on my clothes and shoes and went out in the crisp morning for a run.

It was a work day, I had to get up eventually. I stood up, my ankle hurt; I winced and smiled.

Tonight my wife says “I love you, but never, ever, ever, code in Pascal.”

In a fit of inspiration, I’ve written a wee scrap of software called the Herald Helper, which can be picked up in the gallery. It’s a Mac OS X application which allows for quick and elegant access to information for Dark Age of Camelot characters. It’s still in testing phases, but it’s more than usable, and perhaps useful as well.

Once upon a time there was a boy who wasn’t quite as cynical as he ended up.

Once his confidence was high, and it shepherded him through situations that he otherwise wouldn’t have attempted, let alone succeeded. After a while, he grew up, as all people do, and his headstrong faith in himself was somewhat eroded. In its place was left the equally useful gifts of estimation, judgment, and experience.

Occasionally he gets up early and looks back, and shakes his head. He half envies his past self, but knows that he is no longer that boy, and in his heart he no longer wishes to be as he once was.

Good morning. My name is Jeffrey, and I’ll be your adult today.

Today is the second day of a three day weekend.

A parade passed outside the house, complete with marching bands.

I ran three miles without a watch in the drizzling grey Spring, nestled between a placid riverbank and a busy four-lane road.

I dined upon nachos and watched a Steve Reeves save the city of Thebes from maniacal feuding brothers after freeing himself from the clutches of an evil queen solely devoted to mummifying her ex-boyfriends.

I oscillated between happy and morose for the greater part of the day, and have ended up almost exactly between the two. It seems to be a comfortable place as of late.

A small procession of ants is at this moment marching over my countertop to the spot where a drop of honey sat minutes ago (and was dutifully removed), leftover from lunchtime baking.

Something will happen tomorrow.

Back from a successful performance of L’Histoire, with remarkably good attendance as an extra bonus. I flubbed a few lines, notably when I was the Soldier impersonating the King, but by and large things went quite well, and considering we did the piece without ever running through the piece beforehand. My lovely wife performed magnificently, and our Devil was fiendishly good, as was the ensemble. An excellent job all around.

The concert being done, I’ve got two entire days of bliss ahead, as the remaining two-thirds of the Memorial Day Weekend lay in front of me, delightfully free of commitments. I haven’t given much thought as to what I’m going to do, and that’s as it should be.

In the lounge room of my office lurks The Lamp. I believe you have seen it. It’s a black upright torchiere lamp, with a wide flared top which shines on the ceiling. I believe that every university student in the universe has one (as the picture below, a small band of students, holding The Lamp as a shamanistic staves, can perhaps illustrate). It’s a badge of something, perhaps class, perhaps education, perhaps something intangible. But it is a badge, and people notice.

The Lamp makes a statement. You enter a home, and first thing you do is look for The Lamp. If it’s there, you might smile to yourself, or say “I see you have The Lamp.” If not, that means something as well. But what? An attempt to rise above one’s status? Eccentric design taste? Oversight?

The question as to why The Lamp is living in our lounge room is a perplexing one. The room is completely outfitted with overhead florescent lighting, and has bright and airy open windows. The Lamp is never on; rather, it sits, monolithic and sphinx-like, secretly taunting me with its clear and yet obscure purpose.

I am bravely fighting the illness that my dutiful and caring wife has given me. It’s an odd one, and its symptoms seem to be fatigue, apathy and indifference towards random things at random times. It’s put gauze over the world. While this might sound poetic, it’s not all that much fun.

There’s been a slight change of plans with “The Soldier’s Tale.” I am taking over the role of the Soldier, and my lovely wife is taking my old job as the narrator. It’s the first time we’ve ever performed together, as we are in two very different artistic media. To say I am looking forward to it is quite the understatement.

As I set out on my run this morning under a brilliant blue sky, I passed an elderly and experienced runner, bedecked in a worn singlet and well travelled shoes. Looking at me with sparkling eyes he smiled and said “Great day for it, eh?” His mirth was contagious, and I smiled widely and voiced my agreement.

It was indeed a great day for it. A rare day; it exercised not only my body, but my mind and my emotions. I was stretched as as person. I gazed into the unknowable future, dug through the inscrutable past, and examined the tenuous present. Some things I solved or resolved, and others were left painfully open, beyond my care and ability. My limits were made clear to me, and that hurt as only the truth can.

I only can do that which I can; today that is enough. My body aches slightly, my heart aches slightly, yet I am content. A day well lived.

During my senior year of undergraduate school I thought it would be a good idea to create a fictional Medieval French village on my dormitory floor. I set out a sign-up sheet outside my small room, and while I did get a number of sign-ups, there weren’t any peasants. A Medieval French village with an monk, a village idiot, a saucy tavern wench and a minor noble or three does not a village make, and sadly the project was scrapped.

Fortunately, some of the other collaborative art projects were more successful. Our Wall of Absurdity was a success, as was the collective scribbling assignment. The Puppet Theatre, tiled in old Far Side daily calendar pages, was a moderate success (many objected to being subjected to surprise renditions of Medea acted out by cut-outs of popular musicians from Rolling Strone), as was the web-cam-that-was-really-a-raisin-bran-box.

My personal favorite, however, was the Mad Cow project. I had one hundred index cards, all traced by me with a cow cookie cutter; each one was numbered. I left them outside my door in an envelope, and handed a few out. I got about seventy-five of them back, and each one was hung outside my door in the order it was received. Each one was hand colored or painted, and they were amazingly diverse and creative, from the seductive Moostress to the sinister Cownt. There was even a Cowndom, with a functional condom attached.

Art is not without its detractors. We had constant problems with people borrowing the carpet samples from the Wall of Absurdity. The Puppet Theatre was destroyed in a fit of drunken rage days before donation to the local Elementary School. The web-cam-that-was-really-a-raisin-bran-box was abducted (and fortunately recovered), and the Cowndom was pillaged by a desperate student.

I waited until Saturday to see the new Matrix film; delaying any longer would have had me forced to turn in my Geek Identification Card. As battle over its merits is rages like wildfire over the internet, I shan’t say much beyond an expression of my enjoyment and satisfaction; it was better than I was expecting it to be, and my expectations were quite high.

My personal enjoyment of the film aside, it is a great relief to have seen it so that I can finally let my guard down for spoiler material. I am perhaps an eccentric individual, but once my curiosity has been piqued, I enjoy seeing a movie without much hype buildup. I was especially wary after my less than enjoyable experience with Star Wars: Episode I, in which I essentially knew all major plot points and twists before I had set eyes on celluloid Anakin. From the “Battle for Naboo” placemats at Taco Bell to the “Darth Maul Final Combat Playset” I stumbled across at Target, to a few dozen other objects and advertisements, I came into the film completely bereft of my sense of surprise and wonderment. I was not best pleased.

Never again, and not so with the Matrix, swore I! But it was a hard route. One would think that a life relatively sheltered from traditional media with no television or radio or no popular magazines would have an easy time of avoiding material that would ruin the kernel of potential enjoyment for the film. Oh no! While I’m certain that there is most certainly a heady stream of media assault running those channels, perhaps the most treacherous waters are those of the internet themselves, where I find myself drawing almost all of my news and entertainment. The past month was a metaphorical dance through a minefield, with attempts to make it through to the theater knowing as little as possible.

I believe that I succeeded. But I should like to think that Beginner’s Movie Mind has never been so difficult.