Mortality

What a silly species we are. So aware of our existence, so feeling, so conscious—and yet so unsure of our own origin. We explore the heavens and exploit the earth; we analyze, organize, and dissect the most complex bodies in nature and we in turn create immensely intricate technologies; we evolve and adapt and resolve and improve—and yet, we don't know where we came from, or what it's all for.

We speculate, though. We form theories and defend them with bullets and bulletins. We rally others to our side. We ignore our ignorance and bury our questions in material pursuits. We assume arrogant airs and put our trust in our towers of intellect. We fill our heads with philosophy, psychology, and self-help formulas. We take up causes and lose ourselves in the effort. We take pills to soothe our fragmented and painfully incoherent worldviews.

But whenever we stop to listen, we become slowly aware of a ringing in our ears. It's the ring of our loneliness, the depth of our emptiness, and it is harmonized by the groaning of the earth; the whole world shaking with the knowledge of its own brokenness.

But it's a frightening sound, because we, who have the conquered the earth, have no answer for our condition, no knowledge of who we are. So we turn our iPods up, take more pills, watch more television, and work more hours. We express our opinions louder, longer, and with more violence. We pretend we know who we are and we pay anyone and anything who promises to intoxicate our minds with quiet. But it never lasts long and peace proves elusive.

We have built for ourselves a magnificent world—especially in the West. But our great structure, our fantastic edifice, our invincible society is afloat on these unanswered questions. And, I'm afraid, sooner or later the nausea gets to all of us. Mortality just doesn't seem like enough, and the dull ache for more weighs our bodies down.

A Most Peculiar Dream

I wasn't fully him. I wasn't fully not him. It was a shared-body sort of dream. Half-first person, half-movie.

I was a native American Indian living simply with my family somewhere in the west. White people came. Cowboys. They were more powerful; they made us feel inferior in some odd sort of way. We tried to be friends, but they were tricky underneath their condescension.

They killed my people. They took our land. I barely escaped.

For a while, I wandered through the wilderness, full of rage. Rage against this new white machine, this unspeakably arrogant power invading our lives. I spent some time trying to get revenge, to kill cowboys who enslaved Indians.

There were nice cowboys too, though. One village I came across was full of Indians and cowboys living together in peace and friendship. I even met a few cowboys—nice ones. Not condescending, not tricky; ones that didn't treat me as a poor savage. We became friends.

I walked back to my village where there were a few survivors enslaved by the cowboys. It was night. The cowboys were rounding them up for some reason. I slipped in.

I cleared my throat, held out my gun upside down, set it down, and said that it was time to be friends. The cowboys lost it; they started screaming and pointing their guns at me.

Then I woke up.

I love my bank.

Those people are awesome.

Props to Lebanon Valley Farmers Bank Fulton.

 

Mmhm.

Liar.

Somewhere in the middle,

Between the laugher and crier,

There's a man with open hand,

That man is a liar.

He sits with the seeds between his teeth,

His teeth are made of Braille.

He sips the seeds of tangleweeds,

And sends the innocent to jail.

[I'm not a poet like Jesse or Teddi, but occasionally I like to write a bit of semi-nonsensical free-thought pieces. Normally it's just for my own sake, but my dad thought this one was fun so I decided to post it. <3].

Teaching

Teaching here in Alexandria, Egypt has been a blast. At first, it took me a long time to create my lesson plans, but now I have the hang of it a bit better. I teach two classes—one pre-intermediate class and one upper intermediate class. I have great students in both classes and they seem to be making quite a bit of progress.

In general, I don't teach any grammar explicitly, unless my students really want a boiled-down rule. Rather, I search for ways to teach grammar implicitly through highlighted dialogues. The students internalize the grammar more quickly and accurately when it is contextualized.

I also try to make my lessons engaging and relevant for my students. We do a lot of laughing in class. J. I also enjoy learning about my students' life goals and incorporating them into later lessons. We learn about English in a way that is relevant to the students' lives and dreams.

All said, teaching English here in Egypt has been an enlightening and rewarding experience. I only hope that I am able to get a job so that I can teach here beginning with the 2010-2011 school year.

Egypt

Living in Egypt has been a fascinating experience. Although I have done my share of traveling, Egypt has one of the most different cultures I have ever had the privilege to experience. Like any culture, it has its ups and downs—but the friendliness of the people is enough to warm anyone's heart.

I know that when I go home I will want to share the experience with everyone, but I'm not sure that I'll really be able to explain it. Egypt is getting into my skin, like an addiction. Its paradoxes are becoming commonplace, almost natural. As I approach my last couple weeks here, I wonder what it is going to feel like at home. I'm afraid everything will feel stale, too orderly and rigid, lifelessly lofty.

On the other hand, I'm ready to live a home with air conditioning. It hasn't been too bad here, but I've never particularly enjoyed waking up sweaty. J

All in all, I am really enjoying the Egyptian culture. I hope to have more opportunities to learn more about it in the future.

Simple Authenticity: A Discussion of Leo Tolstoy’s "The Death of Ivan Ilyich"

Tolstoy’s (1886/2004) brilliant novella, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, is an incisive exposé of the in-authenticity and meaninglessness of the more pretentious classes of society. Although it would be inaccurate to describe the story as adventurous, Tolstoy’s ability to draw his audience into the psyche of his characters is as capturing as it is didactic. Tolstoy leads the reader with great care through the intimate thoughts and feelings of Ivan Ilyich as he faces his impending death. When Tolstoy brings the story to a poetic end, the reader is left with an implicit challenge to explore the meaning of life.

The effectiveness of Tolstoy’s challenge lies not in explicit ideological comments, however, but in his character comparisons. Specifically, he draws a sharp contrast between the dying aristocrat Ivan Ilyich, along with all of his friends and family, and the mild-mannered peasant, Gerasim, who becomes Ivan’s sole comfort in his final days. Feeling isolated and depressed, Ivan struggles to justify the meaninglessness of his life, but at long last he realizes “all that for which he had lived…[was] a terrible and huge deception” (Tolstoy, 1886/2004, p. 299). He reluctantly admits to himself that he spent his entire life blindly following the superficial codes of his culture and seeking selfish pleasures, so long as they were not stigmatized by his peers. When death approaches, however, Ivan is faced with the not-so-superficial reality of his own mortality. None of the formalities or correctness that he dedicated his life to can save him; it is only in the kindly, simple face of his butler’s assistant, Gerasim, that he finds any comfort.

Gerasim, in stark contrast to the milieu of superficial characters in the novella, represents simplicity, unselfishness, and authenticity. While he is something of a caricature in the story because of the infrequent appearances, it is easy to sense Tolstoy’s idealization of the peasant lifestyle through his description of Gerasim. He lovingly describes him as “a clean, fresh peasant lad, grown stout on town food and always cheerful and bright” and having “the joy of life that beamed from his face” (Tolstoy, 1886/2004, p. 283); he even praises the fresh, down-to-earth scent of Gerasim’s boots. In caring for Ivan, Gerasim manages the delicate balance of showing him both sympathy and honesty, treating his condition with gentleness and realism. Clearly, Gerasim is as special to Tolstoy as he is to Ivan in the novella. He represents a life lived for more than superficial pleasantry and propriety.

Discussion

The morals presented in Tolstoy’s novella are timeless. They are reminiscent of Socrates’ belief that individuals should concern themselves with truth and the welfare of their souls rather than materialism, social reputation, etc (see Weiss, 1998, p. 24). And, they remain applicable today in our postmodern culture that frequently substitutes social acceptance and romanticized self-images for truth and authenticity. It would be well for all of us to realize, like Ivan Ilyich did, that “though his life had not been what it should have been, this could still be rectified” (Tolstoy, 1886/2004, p. 301).

Reference

Tolstoy, L. (2004). The death of Ivan Ilyich. (L. Maude & A. Maude, Trans.). In The great short works of Leo Tolstoy (pp. 245-302). New York: Perennial. (Original work published in 1886).

Weiss, R. (1998). Socrates dissatisfied: An analysis of Plato's crito. New York: Oxford University Press US.