In light of the looming tax deadline, I bring you this wellspring of incomprehensible mish-mosh, that reminded me of the instructions on the back of my 1099-B.
Forget world peace, I just wish government documents were written clearly and concisely. Until then, I shake my fist at you, vague technical lingo!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
Self-assessment
"My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--It gives a lovely light!" --Edna St. Vincent Millay
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Great Communicator
I was hanging out with one of my guy pals last night discussing classes, majors, and how we are both praying to the Lord above that the semester will be over. It’s that time for all college folk: the post-spring break slump. It has us all banging ourselves over our heads with textbooks a la Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
I asked him what classes he was taking, and suddenly he got really excited. Overly excited. ‘Are-you feeling-well?!’ excited.
The class?
Creative writing.
Now mind you, this kid is pretty sure he’s the next James Dean. He’s a gearhead, a tough guy, someone who’s always made fun of me for being an English major and literature and language aficionado, and here he is, sheepishly admitting that he really likes to write poetry.
Karma, much?
Within moments we were swapping poems, chatting about alliteration and metaphor, and laughing about the poet’s mantra to ‘Show! Don’t tell!”
That adage on assumption haunts me.
The power of language is undiscerning in who it touches. It can awaken a passion that banishes even the most pervasive spring semester blues, and spur one on to create, to share a bit of oneself, to commune with something greater. It speaks to the soul in a way that nothing else does, whispering, teasing, inspiring.
Write on, closet poet, write on.
I asked him what classes he was taking, and suddenly he got really excited. Overly excited. ‘Are-you feeling-well?!’ excited.
The class?
Creative writing.
Now mind you, this kid is pretty sure he’s the next James Dean. He’s a gearhead, a tough guy, someone who’s always made fun of me for being an English major and literature and language aficionado, and here he is, sheepishly admitting that he really likes to write poetry.
Karma, much?
Within moments we were swapping poems, chatting about alliteration and metaphor, and laughing about the poet’s mantra to ‘Show! Don’t tell!”
That adage on assumption haunts me.
The power of language is undiscerning in who it touches. It can awaken a passion that banishes even the most pervasive spring semester blues, and spur one on to create, to share a bit of oneself, to commune with something greater. It speaks to the soul in a way that nothing else does, whispering, teasing, inspiring.
Write on, closet poet, write on.
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