Creative Writing Assignment: Plot-Driven Narrative: "Condition"

 The time has come to consider the many problems faced by a young man named Zachary.  Truly, there was never an individual so rolled up and tossed aside by the system and fate itself as Zachary has been, and I am sure you will agree.
 Examine, first, his family; or perhaps the lack thereof.  Before Zachary had a chance to be able to comprehend the meaning of the famous one-fingered solute he had come to feel all people and situations left him with, he was the unsuspecting, unborn recipient of it from his father.  Left with a single mother and a younger sister, Zachary grew up in an apartment and fed at the hand of federal dependency programs.
 Worse things were to come for our tragic hero.  Much of Zachary's life was dictated by the many chronic physical and mental conditions he was unrighteously cursed with.  The first he was made aware of was ADHD, which he was diagnosed with in kindergarten.  Details of the exact incident which provoked this diagnosis are shrouded in the mists of the past; however, Zachary will gladly regale you with what he knows of the story, most notably the part where he threw a stapler at his teacher's face in response to being told to “stop bothering the other children.”
 Thus fate landed unfortunate Zachary into the lifelong path of special education.  The various teachers, principles, deans and superintendents had what can only be characterized as a debilitating lack of understanding for his many problems.  A report card littered with C's and D's was testament to their poor work as educators.  Time was what he needed!  Time to allow for his crippling inability to focus on his studies, whether itwas at school or at home at night, so that he could also fit in his essential need to socialize and enjoy himself for some time while at home.
 While all his conditions were irreverently thrust upon him, not all of Zachary's diagnoses were.  Throughout highschool he was thoroughly depressed by his apparent lot in life, yet because this malady did not result in any blunt objects being thrown at his teachers, it did not result in a swift diagnosis by a school nurse as had been this case with his ADHD.  His diagnosis for major depressive disorder took more than a year of explaining himself to doctors and many negative results in mental status examinations to finally show them the effect on his mental state his many problems incurred.  Zachary faced the same problem in achieving a diagnosis for his hypothyroidism.  The doctors simply couldn't wrap their minds around his issue; ADHD medications were supposed to reduce his appetite, therefore an underactive thyroid was the only logical explanation for his significant girth.  It was only after visiting multiple doctors that Zachary was able to find a doctor that understood him; that understood his problems could not be written off by a negative blood test.
 So we find our tragic hero at his present state: twenty-three years old, living in a single apartment hidden behind a highly developed strip mall.  The time is 3:08 in the afternoon, which is an important time on this day as it means Zachary's alarm has been sounding for eight minutes and has provoked his neighbor to begin knocking at the door of his apartment.  The combined noises of the grating alarm of his phone, the rough knocking of his neighbor and frantic cries of his neighbor's baby are finally sufficient, and so Zachary begins the day.
 As quickly as he can, Zachary reaches out with his right arm to the bedside table his phone is on and, in spite of knocking a motley assortment of beer and soda cans on the floor, he manages to abate his alarm; he always has problems pressing only one button at a time on his phone's touch screen.  The end of the alarm also means the end of the knocking, and as the crying recedes down the hallway Zachary finally opens his eyes.  The brown stain above his couch seemed larger than usual.
 Shifting from a slumped position into an upright one in his seat causes an Xbox controller to slide down his ample front onto the floor below.  Waking up isn't the hardest part of waking up; rather, standing up is the major obstacle currently between Zachary and arriving at work on time at 3:30.  Rest assured, he is a valiant hero, and after a five minute internal battle of wills he is standing.  Next to his couch is a half empty case of Mountain Dew cans; a brilliant display of efficiency in Zachary's mind, just like his ingenious idea to rest in his work clothes so as to speed up his morning routine.  He always feels particularly chipper in the morning once he has had something to drink, and eat.  The last remaining donut in a box on the coffee table in front of him will suffice for this morning, though Zachary is sure the powdered sugar on this particular specimen is just a little more gray than white.  Over stained carpet and debris he travels, and into the bathroom and holy medicine cabinet.  The mirrored door of the cabinet calls to his attention the unkempt appearance of his dark mat of black hair, a mess which he is wont to remedy with utmost efficiency.  Seeing his image in the mirror, he gains firmer resolve to someday remedy his uncontrollable acne and the ever-growing dark stain on the chest of his dark blue work polo.
 On the highest shelf of the medicine cabinet are Zachary's holy grails; the divinely inspired substances without which he fervently claims he will surely go insane.  Perhaps he has been falling into insanity these past few weeks, since he has been taking his Cymbalta, Abilify and Focaline less frequently.  They make him feel dizzy and nauseous, and won't help him focus on his work, he'll claim.  Instead, he grabs the bottle of Prandin and thrusts it in the pocket of his khaki cargo shorts with his free hand, taking another bite of the slightly odd donut held in his other hand at the same time.  The other bottles of pills, along with a razer, toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant, could wait.  Dusting the powdered sugar off on the sides of his shorts, Zachary unlocks his phone to see that – yes, it's just as he expected, – he has only ten minutes to make it to work.
 Locating his wallet and keys is always an unreasonably lengthy task for Zachary.  It is always prolonged by the piling remains on his kitchen counter of last night's snacks – or is it last week's?  After checking under the empty Budweiser case at the end of the counter, behind the pile of dirty cereal bowls in the sink and next to the ever-growing pile of junk mail by the door, he manages to find them on the table next to where his phone had been; another ingeniously efficient move.  Zachary feels oddly focused this morning.
 Work is only a couple minutes' drive away.  Some of his coworkers walk from the same apartment complex Zachary lives at, but he is unable; the hand fate dealt him included a painful pair of knees, a condition which Zachary is lucky enough to have a handicap plate to accommodate, though he was forced to fight for that as much as any of his diagnoses.  There are many handicap spaces at the large department store he works at, the nearest available one of which he parks his car in.  His car always drives smoothly in the morning.  The dazzlingly bright sun high in the clear, ocean-blue sky bothers Zachary more than usual; something beyond the discomfort of the light in his eyes, the pain in his knees, the all-too-familiar taste of his last sip of mountain dew and the sweat beading on his forehead as he slowly makes his way into the air conditioned confines of the massive expanse of his workplace.
 Due to his many disabilities, Zachary only works a four hour shift on weekdays.  He spends his time there cashiering, a job which he has begun to take pride on his proficiency in.  The hours seem to rush past in the flurry of directing barcodes to the infrared scanner at his register, remembering PLU's for vegetables and fruits, price-matching other stores' advertisements, and constantly chanting, “Here's your receipt, have a nice day!”  Zachary gorges himself on the feeling of mastery over his realm of knowledge.
 “Mommy, why is he sweating?”  The question of a little girl in the front seat of a shopping cart to her mother is just enough to break Zachary out of his trance.  His phone on the counter next to the register's monitor indicates his shift is only a few minutes from being over.
 “He's working hard at his job, sweety.”  The mother doesn't seem phased by her daughter's question.  Her curt, gray business suit indicates an ability to answer questions quickly and correctly.
 “Is this like your job, mommy?”  Who could slight this genuine, young girl for not being able to differentiate between one job and another?
 “No it isn't, sweety.  Mommy works downtown.”  There is an apologetic look on the mother's face.
 “Here's your receipt, have a nice day!”  Zachary takes notice for once of the contents of the cart he had just scanned: cases of soda and above-average quality beer, chips, various dips, frozen appetizers, salad kits and a party tray.  He also notices the total on the receipt as he hands it over, a number exceeding his weekly paycheck nearly twice over.
 Shortly after, Zachary has run through the motions of closing his register and is standing in line at the sandwich shop inside the department store near the entrance.  A new girl is working there, and the veteran employee Zachary has always ordered his sandwich from is helping her on her first day.
 “New hire, Miranda?”  Zachary is genuinely interested; the atmosphere of that corner of the store always helps him open up.
 “Gettin' the usual, Zach?”  Miranda seems unimpressed by Zachary's interest.  Her lips are pursed and her arms are akimbo; it gives her a sarcastic, almost sassy look.  Her displeasure at seeing him is often the largest source of entertainment for Zachary.
 “Of course!  Aren't you happy to see me again?”  It's what Zachary says every day.  Miranda was already ignoring him, turning her head to the new girl to show her his order: herb and cheese bread, a double order of steak, extra american cheese, onions and jalapeno slices, toasted well-done with lots of mayo.  It is in the completion of this final step which gave the new hire pause.
 “Is this enough mayo?” she asks shyly, having put three lines on the sandwich from a squeeze bottle.  Zachary chuckles jovially, gesticulating wildly with his arms as he shouts,
 “No, put more on!  More!  More is always better!”  The look on the new girl's face stuck with him all the way home that night.
 Zachary's ratty old, gray Dodge Neon seems to creak more loudly than usual as he steps out into the late evening light in front of his apartment complex, a bag holding his unreasonably heavy sandwich in one hand, a large container of Diet Mountain Dew in the other.  The night bothers Zachary.  He can't fall asleep at the same time as other people do.  Is it because he stays up so late?  No, his depression medication worsens his insomnia.  Zachary shuffles into the lobby, stopping briefly to open his mailbox and retrieve a couple letters from within, knowing his disability check is due any day now.
 After a brief elevator ride, Zachary finds himself back in his apartment.  The brown stain on the ceiling looks even bigger now than it did in the morning; it disgusts him greatly.  Frustrated, he makes his way back to the couch, places the cup next to so many like it on the table in front of him and sets the sandwich bag to his side on the couch amidst a heap of empty chip bags and makeshift ashtrays.  There are three letters in his hand which he peruses slowly.  The first is a paystub for $158.90, his paycheck from last week.  The second is his monthly disability check which, upon inspection, has increased slightly from last month to $852.00.  Zachary doesn't smile.
 The third letter belongs in the junk mail pile.  It is a brochure for a community college that has a location just a few miles from the strip mall.  Today, though, Zachary has decided it does not belong in the junk mail pile.  Instead, he digs his laptop out from under a jumble of empty beer cans on his bedside table, opens the third letter, and decides he ought to take out the trash.
 Considering the many problems faced by Zachary, I think it's safe to say he will prevail over the system which has tried so hard to take advantage of his poor fate.

Creative Writing Assignment: Setting-Driven Narrative, "Humor"

 The prospect of visiting one's grandparents' house is somewhat inflated at a young age.  It can be difficult to say why; perhaps merely because it a departs from normalcy should the aforementioned grandparents live far away.  Similarly, it is possible that certain grandparents are simply nice to be around compared to more strict parents.  The house could be an interesting place, if a family has roots on a farm and its members have branched out to plant seeds in more urban soil.
 All these qualities highly influenced young Timothy's excitement to visit his grandparents.  As can be the case, very young children, mostly before the age of seven, have little concept of the idea that one's parents had parents.  In fact, to Timothy, his grandparents were just exceptionally nice people his father and mother just so happened to be acquainted with.  This acquaintance was very convenient for the child, because as can be inferred from his view of his grandparents being exceptionally nice, he was very excited to visit.
 It could be said that Timothy often thought of his parents' SUV as a military vehicle or a tank, and, in order that we may humor him, there are many similarities that can be drawn from his point of view.  First and foremost is the olive green color of the vehicle.  When light shone directly on the side of the vehicle and not on the far side, it gave a two-tone effect that Timothy interpreted as being similar to camouflage.  Furthermore, the sides were made of metal which, to a child, seemed nigh impenetrable.  His father was a bit of an aggressive driver, which in this instance simultaneously frightened his mother and thrilled Timothy; the way the car seemed to careen around corners and fly uphill past other cars gave Timothy a sense of urgency and purpose as if his presence on the battlefield were of vital importance to the mission.  The engine roared like a lion and the tires crunched the gravel like the wild bones of prey under its unforgiving wheels as they drove along the driveway of grandma and grandpa's house.  The inside of the car could be said to be fit for a lion, though this was lost on Timothy; the booster seat under him had plastic arms which dug into his skin uncomfortably on long drives such as this one.  This discomfort caused Timothy to think the car was much more like a tank, since tanks are vehicles of war and not of luxury.  Timothy may not have realized, though, that in order for him to consider the car a tank his father would have to be the commander.
 In the hills of northern Kentucky driveways have a tendency to be long, and Timothy's grandparents' house was no exception.  A long, winding hill led up from the road, surrounded by dense trees and vegetation, up to an open plateau on its peak looking down into a bowl with a large farmhouse at its center, surrounded by tall, golden grass that glimmered in the evening light.  The whole image was very much like a grandiose scene of a castle surrounded by a sea of glittering gold with dark, menacing mountains in the background, since the bowl was surrounded by woods.  The SUV charged down the slope toward the unguarded keep with many a cry of “slow down!” and “you're going to fast!” from Timothy's mother, which coaxed a chuckle from his father and a loud guffaw from Timothy.  Ah, if only his mother knew his mission, she would humor him, too.
 The SUV slowed to a stop in front of the closed doors of a small red barn with white trim.  Timothy knew what was inside; hay bales, a small tool shop where grandpa works on his truck, and a loft with nothing on it.  With some assistance from his mother, Timothy was able to dismount his steed, or perhaps to escape the confines of the behemoth tank.  It came immediately to his attention that in the green square of grass surrounding the house there was a gigantic cylindrical bale of hay which Timothy correctly reasoned would be a good outpost for enemy sharpshooters.  In order to make sure his parents weren't attacked by a rogue enemy sniper, Timothy very slowly approached the hay bale, making sure that someone on the other side would have no chance of seeing his advance.  When he reasoned he was close enough to ambush, he rushed to the other side with a very sudden motion, loudly exclaiming “Aha!” to the patch of clovers and bluegrass waiting to accost his unwitting parents.
 “Hurry up, Timmy, you're going to delay dinner!”  Timothy was upset to hear his mother yell all the way from the doorstep, totally unwary of the abject danger she and his father were in, running out in front of a hostile fortification as they had just done.  Timothy relented, though, because that is the sort of focused child he is; he was on a mission, and the goal of that mission laid inside his grandparents' house.
 Having already knocked and gained entry into the main keep, Timothy's parents were beginning niceties with the king and queen thereof (or the captain and sergeant; at this point, Timothy is equally captivated by both medieval and modern warfare), and so Timothy marched in behind them warily.  Diplomacy was not his objective.  Instead, Timothy was there to perform a very thorough search of the treasure trove located at the top of the modest farmhouse:  the attic.  Smells from the kitchen indicated a celebratory meal had already been prepared for Timothy's victorious arrival.  Surely his grandparents will humor him!
 Upon his entrance, Timothy's grandma gave a loud exclamation of disbelief and embraced him, explaining to him, “I can barely believe how big you are, you've got to be twice as tall as the last time I saw you!”  Like any good soldier in the deepest enemy territory, Timothy was appalled by such a display of affection.  He is such a directed and motivated child.  He barely had any time to pay attention to the exchange his parents were having with his grandparents; it was necessary to get to the attic quickly at all costs.
 The welcoming blues and grays of the front room faded into the warm, comforting yellows and whites of the kitchen.  Laden on the table were a heaping bowl of lush green beans, a plate stacked high with steaming corn-on-the-cob with an accompanying dish with a stick of softened butter upon it, an overflowing bowl of mashed potatoes, which Timothy noted had been mashed with the skin still on them just the way he liked, and around the table were five spots set with grandma and grandpa's fine china and crystal.  Timothy felt out of place there in the heart of the home; it was no place for a soldier such as he.
 After passing the altar of the feast, Timothy proceeded out a framed doorway into the foyer.  This was a very big step for him to take in the unknown territory of the foe, because the lights in the foyer were off.  A few steps later and he was facing the stairs, looking upward into a dark abyss, each step a varying degree darkness due to the light from the kitchen being dully reflected from the kitchen so that the sides of the steps were illuminated and the tops left to the imagination.  The hardwood foyer creaked under Timothy's footfalls eerily and he feared detection from his grandparents.  This fear was, however, not well justified, as when he set his right foot on the first step it groaned like a gargantuan monster disturbed from it slumber, provoking a call from Timothy's mother.
 “Don't wander, Timmy, we're going to sit down to dinner in just a minute!”  Timothy found this warning entirely preposterous; he was not wandering but, instead, he was accomplishing the very purpose of his being there in the first place.  
 His priorities reaffirmed, Timothy set his left foot on the second step.  The stairs towered above him like the gaping mouth of an upward abyss, daring any hero brave enough to explore its secreted depths by virtue of its concealing shadows.  Heroic and foolhardy, Timothy continued to set foot after foot on the sentry serpent's back, and it hissed and its bones creaked in angry response to his conquering footfall.  Alas, the subdued snake had raised an alarm in its dying throes, and a pursuer had begun the climb behind our valiant conqueror!
 Determined to lay claim to the valuables laying in wait in the treasure room of the attic, Timothy leapt up the final few stairs and, thus finishing his ascent, wheeled to the right and sprinted down the shadowy corridor.  A window on the left of the hallway cast rays of sunlight in the shape of the panes of glass on the opposite wall, and Timothy dashed through them, convinced a searchlight had been directed at the window to direct his enemy's eyes to his daring mission to obtain the plunder at the other end of the hall.  There it was!  The goal of his mission reposed at the end of the hallway: a narrow portal unopened for who knew how many years, behind it laying the long-forgotten jewels and golden reserves of an ancient civilization.  If only someone would humor him, riches the likes of which no one had ever seen would be within Timothy's grasp!
 Angry footsteps echoed around and past Timothy, warning him to not and yet simultaneously daring him to reach for the door handle and pull outward.  They grew closer and closer, the advance of the unknown sentinel advanced on Timothy's every sense, beating step by step the peril of his situation into his head and through the door handle into his hand and up his arm, reverberating throughout his being as he yanked once on the door.  Twice!  It budged slightly, and on the third he was sure he would gain entrance and solace from his pursuer.
 But alas!  The icy hand of capture and death had him by the shoulder, gripping him with all the power and malice of an ancient warden of an even more ancient fortune.  Heroic Timothy, even with failure and murder breathing down his neck, could still taste his prize.  With one final tug, he had the door open and with a noble and fearless cry he leapt into the murky blackness, the unlit void of the treasure room, his only hope!
 Poor, unfortunate Timothy had jumped from the capture of the guarding sentinel to the awaiting arms of a beast guarding the treasure!  His noble battlecry was reduced to a frightened scream as he was encompassed by the monster's cold, menacing arms and it swallowed him whole!  Is this nameless beast the only creature in all the whole, wide world that will humor poor Timothy?
 Light abruptly penetrated the enveloping bowels of the unseen monstrosity which had devoured Timothy.  The impossible, Deus Ex Machina, had occurred, and he was pulled from the belly of the beast.
 There Timothy's mother stood, humorless, holding poor Timothy above a cardboard box filled with winter clothes, surrounded by the dust-covered remnants of her parents' past.  Her glare was enough to express what her words could not.  Why hadn't Timothy gone straight to the front door of his grandparents' house?  Why hadn't he stood quietly by his parents until they sat down at dinner?  I think we are the only ones who will humor him, I am afraid.
 At the table, Timothy's chalice of victory had been emptied and refilled with shame.  He hung his head in defeat over his plate of roast turkey, green beans, corn and mashed potatoes, completely disinterested now that his victory feast had been replaced by one of defeat and humiliation.  The triumphant party around him bandied words he knew not what.
 Timothy's mother, upset from her son's escapade, explained to his grandparents, “his kindergarten teacher and nurse are both upset with his conduct in class.  They've suggested we put him on Adderall.”  His grandfather was disinterested, his grandmother looked concerned, and Timothy's father said nothing.

Just a thought...

In a world full of people advocating their own means, historical truths about the Catholic Church are bent and assumed mythologically in such a way that many casually presume the Church is an institution corrupt and power-hungry by its nature. Again, in a world full of Catholics advocating solely any recruitment for their faith there remains no historical text of the Church's actions that is either complete or shows its members' actions in only a positive light.

Then again, this observation is true about any history; by advocating a position, however quietly, all texts will exempt certain information, providing a narrow and uninformed view of history as a whole. In 12 or 16 years it ought to be possible to obtain a reasonable knowledge of the progression the human race, yet the writers of such histories take it upon themselves to decide what belongs therein and what does not. The diversity of histories afflicts mankind with this ability to casually and frequently cynically discard certain facts or the lack of facts.

Sadly, the knowledge of this fault does not solve it; call this post what you will, I just wanted it written down.

~Samuel

A Fundamental Flaw in Adam Smith's Conception of an Industrialized Capitalism

I wrote this as a school paper, but thought that the topic was relevant enough to post here.

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There is a fundamental flaw behind Adam Smith's great, wealthy, stable capitalist economy. Perhaps Smith, who wrote during the innocent beginnings of the Industrial Revolution in Britain,1 could not foresee the consequences his theory would inevitably bring about, as industrialization progressed. Perhaps, as an academic, he simply could not sympathize with the plight of the worker. At any rate, the ungoverned capitalistic manufactories, which The Wealth of Nations describes, while enriching the whole nation, forces the individual worker into a position of dependence upon a large, impersonal corporation. Such a position is detrimental to the well being of the individual worker. This flaw, however, is not apparent. In this paper, I will attempt to demonstrate that this flaw is present in any capitalistic industrial economy.

Before showing the flaws inherent in the capitalist utopia which Adam Smith describes, it must first be examined. I will do this by looking to Smith's Wealth of Nations itself. Smith begins by pointing out that the wealth of a nation consists in its material goods and its monetary holdings.2 A country can increase its wealth substantially by means of the division of labor. As Smith states, “The greatest improvement in the productive powers of labor, and the greater part of the skill, dexterity and judgment with which it is anywhere directed or applied, seem to have been the effects of the division of labor.”3 The division of labor consists in breaking down the process of manufacturing some item into its component tasks, and then assigning each of these individual tasks to a single person. This allows a group of people together to make significantly more of the product than the same amount of people could individually. Smith demonstrates this with the example of the pin-making industry,
One man draws out the wire, another straightens it, a third cuts it, a fourth points it, a fifth grinds it at the top for receiving the head; to make the head requires two or three distinct operations; to put it on is a peculiar business, to whiten the pin is another; it is even a trade by itself to put them into the paper; and the important business of making a pin is, in this manner, divided into about eighteen distinct operations which, in some manufactories, are all performed by distinct hands...[they] could therefore make among them upwards of forty-eight thousand pins in a day.4

Because the wealthiest nation is the one which has the most money and goods, and the division of labor thus produces the most goods for the least amount of money, the country which has most subjected its industry to the division of labor and industrialization is the richest. The factory, then, where workers perform one out of the multitude of tasks required to make a pin, is the centerpiece and cornerstone of Adam Smith's capitalist economy. This glorious factory will make the whole nation rich.

This economic theory which Smith proposes seems to make sense. The whole nation is enriched by factories. However, Smith does not take the individual's well being into account when he discusses the wealth of the whole nation. In fact, his factories are detrimental to the well being of the individual worker. To attempt to prove this, I will first point out that not every citizen of a rich nation is himself wealthy. Second I will show the worker is entirely dependent upon the large company who owns the factory for his livelihood. And third, I will show that the same company does not need to support the worker.

First, whether every citizen of a wealthy nation is wealthy. After all, if the whole nation becomes wealthier because of factories and the division of labor, and if the nation is made up of individuals, then the individuals should be made wealthy by industrialization. However, that hypothetical syllogism does not completely take into account how the wealth of a nation functions. Even if the total wealth of a nation is great, the wealth of individual people is not necessarily so. If the average national wealth is ten thousand dollars, then both individual A and B might have ten thousand dollars. However, it could also be the case that individual A has twenty thousand dollars, while individual B has none whatsoever. In that second case, the national average remains the same as the first, but individual B is living in poverty. Thus, I cannot conclude from the premise “the nation is wealthy” that “the individual citizens are wealthy.”

Second, the hired factory laborer is under the unfortunate circumstance of being unable to provide for himself without wages from the factory. The workman is unable to produce food except through wages in the living conditions demanded by factories. Because the factory needs quite a few workmen, the owners of the business construct large housing developments near the factories so that their workers can live close by. Dramatic numbers of people moved into these factory slums during the industrial revolution. In 1801, the population in British cities comprised twenty percent of the total population of Great Britain. This increased to forty percent by 1851, and to 75% by 1901.5 I have seen such slums myself in Middletown, Ohio. Near the old factories are rows and rows of small, identical houses on quarter-acre lots. Any laborer living in such housing developments cannot grow his own food on such small property or under such conditions. Hunting or raising livestock is completely out of the question, since there simply is not enough room, and wild animals are scared away by so many people. As a result, the only option a laborer has to acquire food is buying it. Since all of the money which he has comes from the factory wages, he is completely dependent upon those wages for his food.

Further, Adam Smith himself admits that the factory worker does not become a skilled worker,6 thus preventing him from using his “trade,” if it can be called that, independent of the factory. If the process of making a pin is split up into eighteen different parts, each individual worker only knows one of these. The worker, if fired, cannot go elsewhere, relying on his pin-making to support him. He only knows how to “draw out the wire,” “cut it,” or “grind it at the top to receive the head.”7 He could not make a single pin on his own, as Smith admits.8 Even another pin-making factory, if there is one, might have different machinery, which the laborer would have to learn to operate from scratch. The workman who depends upon his wage for food, then, is not a skilled workers, with a definite trade by which to make a living. He therefore depends entirely upon the factory for any money they might receive, and thus for his very livelihood.

Third, then, consider the factory. The factory would seem to depend upon its workers. After all, the factory's source of income is selling the goods which it produces. The workers are necessary to make those goods, and they also serve as possible consumers for those goods. However, the above argument, again, considers the workers as a group, and not individually. When examining the effect on the single workmen out of the many, the facts do not apply in the same way. The companies have great power over the individual. G. K. Chesterton, a political theorist who offers an opinion from the end of the Industrial Revolution, states that the big companies have “...the money, the machinery, the rather mechanical majority...”9 In the game of life and death between the individual worker and the factory, the factory holds all the cards.

Although the factory may depend on the workers as a group, it does not depend upon the individual worker. If one worker quits, is fired, falls sick, or requests better wages, there are plenty of other potential workers to replace him. The factory owner knows that there are plenty of people who are willing to work for whatever wage, under whatever conditions, if one man is unable or is not willing.

Further, the factory does not depend on any individual worker to consume the goods it produces. Again, there are plenty of other people who will purchase the goods to support the company, and perhaps even to make the company owner fairly wealthy. The individual worker's participation in the capitalist, manufactory system does not determine its success. There are enough members of the working class that one individual worker does not matter to the factory.

If the factory does not need any individual worker, then what guarantees his safety and well being? The factory wage he receives could easily be given to someone else. And yet the workman has dire need of that wage – without it he cannot feed himself. What assurance can the laborer have of receiving this money? Only the agreement he makes with the factory owner. This is no great comfort. If the only thing between the workman and starvation is his employment, and the factory has no real obligation to employ him, then the industrial manufactory system is certainly not sufficient to provide for the well being of its laborer. The factory owners may call the farmers and country folk to the factory slums with the lure of a wage, but the big businesses cannot support each and every man who answers the call. The factory system envisioned by Adam Smith, while it might enrich the nation, does not adequately protect the well being of the individual worker.

God's Reflection In Humanity

In studying the Theology of the Body this year, I was asked to enlarge upon the "spousal meaning of the body." So, here I am...doing Theology.

Turning to Webster:

–adjective

2.

nuptial; matrimonial.

So, I can say I am also enlarging upon the "matrimonial meaning of the body," etc.

The Body was made in God's image (Gen. 1: 26) and likeness, etc. However specific language is used by God when he says "Let us make men in our image..." This is immediate reference to God's status as three Persons in one God.

The Hypostatic Union is the name of the unique relationship shared between God the Father, God the Son, and the Holy Spirit: the Father's love is manifest in His Son, and the result of Their love is the Holy Spirit. I'd like to note, "love" is a very worldly and imperfect word that cannot come close to resembling the actual relationship shared between the three persons in the Trinity.

Bearing in mind we are made in God's image, examine the human marital figure. A man's love directed at a woman manifests a child at the peak of mutual love. If you were expecting me to say the same thing about mankind as I did about God, your preconceptions are far too hopeful.

Not only is mankind fallen, but its expression of love is naturally less perfect because of its physical medium. Love's perfection manifests in a mystery, and we are incapable of reproducing this feat. Regardless, the similarities are still significant. Each figure, the Trinity and the human, involves three participants; two which "perform" the "act" of love (for lack of a better way to put it) and the resulting being (sadly, men are incapable of producing a divine result...).

When Christopher West exclaims so forcefully that the intent of our marriage is "engraved on our bodies," he refers to our physical *coughcough* gonads. However, I feel his attempt to impose an epiphany is lacking in that it does not imply divine rule. Our duty as humans to strive for perfection leads us to reflect the Trinity's model of perfect love; accepting the obvious ought to be accepted as being obviously insufficient.

In retrospect, a lot of what I wanted to say was based entirely in the worldly application of the spousal meaning rather than the spousal meaning itself, which I may have explained better then than I had planned. Either I'm getting better at blogging, getting better at getting sidetracked, or am blissfully unaware of the nonsensical nature of the above text.

~Samuel

Reflections on a Novelist

I don't have anything else to post, and I feel like posting something. I wrote this for English class.

Many negative book reviews in publications such as The National Catholic Register share the same error. The reviewers assume that a novelist cannot be Catholic because the morals he presents are too loose, the lives he portrays too pagan, or the universe he describes too full of despair. These reviewers mistake a novel for something else. Those who require a picture of perfection, ideals, or moral uprightness should not look to a writer, but to a preacher; to a homily, not to a novel. “The writer uses his eyes on what he happens to be facing,” states Flannery O'Conner in a discussion of the Catholic novelist, “... He does not decide what would be good for the Christian body and proceed to deliver it.” It is the preacher's job to deliver a wholesome meal to the faithful, whereas the writer merely attempts to portray human existence. An in-depth comparison of these two roles, preacher and writer, perhaps will help determine what a Catholic writer really is.

The confusion between preacher and novelist is understandable. After all, both men seek to put the truth into words. They must follow the limitations of their linguistic art form. Further, both the Catholic novelist and the priest are, in fact, Catholic. Their world views should be very similar, if not the same. To be truly Catholic means to start every action, especially writing and teaching, from Christ and His will. So the Catholic novelist and the Catholic homilist both start from the same place, and use the same tool – language – to accomplish their task.

However, the things they make are very different. A homily and a novel are two separate literary forms, with different purposes and rulebooks. The priest, before he pens his sermon, must first focus on what his flock needs to hear – the homily's basic purpose is to nourish. He then begins his role as an exegete, expanding upon and explaining Scripture to improve the spiritual health of his parishoners. He does not create, and he does not explore uncharted territory – he merely helps those who listen to understand what is already there. The priest is also responsible for the moral edification of the faithful. He needs to tell them what they should do. He deals with the ought – the moral right – not necessarily with the is.

The novelist, on the other hand, is supremely and fundamentally focused on what is in front of him. In his writing, he attempts to show nature accurately to those who read. The moral question of what ought to be done is not quite so relevant to him as to the pastor; what a specific character would do in a given situation is the novelist's focus, not what that character should do. The right and the wrong, as well as the good and the bad are laid open for observation, exploration, and internalization without any forced message. In a truly unique role, the novelist can almost create life for his readers to watch, marveling along with the author at its intricacy. In a novel, the utilitarian function of a homily – the need to nourish the faithful ear – fades as human experience, perhaps even life itself, becomes the focus. As proof, the novel is appreciable by any reader, independent of his circumstances, but the homily must be tailored to its audience.

A novelist, then, serves as a prophet of sorts. He stands in front of all of mankind, not with a convincing, heartbreaking moral, nor with a fabulous picture of eternity, but with a mirror. He shows humanity to itself in all of its sin, in all of its despair, in all of its pagan hedonism, and in all of its hidden jewels. The novelist who is truly Catholic, then, is not the one who produces a good, nourishing feeling, but the one who makes us think, for one moment, about who we really are.

Guilty 'til proven innocent!

I come across a very common and rather instantaneous fallacy whenever someone asks me why I am concerned over one thing or another. Of course, some instances like homosexuality and abortion occur the most often (thank you, public school system!), but it's a common mistake in moral thinking.

Assumption: What I do/want/think/etc. is morally acceptable until proven otherwise.

I can hear the alarm bells going off in your head, already! But go ahead and think for a bit how you may have done this at any time in the recent past. At any given time you ever said, "can you prove me wrong?" or anything similar to that inquiry, you were likely committing this very logical flaw!

Going back to my original example, whenever someone asks me what my issue is with something, I'll normally give some broad, generality, such as, "throwing rotten tomatoes at prisoners is wrong because it wastes perfectly good rotten tomatoes." Irony far, far aside, in virtually any given case I will be immediately met with the response, "so? You still can't prove it wrong!" Now, understand, this is a rather weak example. There is no prerequisite such as presenting an original example on my part or even the institution of a valid topic. For total srs, someone could just approach me and say out of the blue, "what's wrong with giving food to old, starving men?"

So, I'll start at the bare basics of my rebuttal. For starters, moral acceptance can be rated on a scale of good vs. bad. I'll use the assumption that good is a positive existence and bad is the lack thereof. This means that in the original assumption, there is inherently good in whatever action/thought/etc. Now, even though this is not physics, it is quite fair for me to employ the law of conservation of energy: matter cannot be created or destroyed. No, I am not speaking on the constancy of the amount of matter in the observable universe, I am speaking in terms of the assumption of the existence of good in any given action/thought/etc.

What I mean to embellish is that you cannot assume the existence of good because it is not necessarily there. It is an unknown factor in the case of the assumption. Bring about the fact that a scale has "markers" on it. Just as your average metric ruler has centimeter notches in it, so does a moral "ruler" (giving me candy is on the top, fyi). When I introduce the moral acceptance of giving food to old, hungry men I am placing this act somewhere on that ruler when I truly have no knowledge of the scale itself.

Ultimately, my point is that you cannot assume the positive existence of good in an act/thought/etc. because we cannot immediately measure it. Allow me to assume that acts must be compared to one another based upon the known moral value of one.

Also, I have decided the unit of moral value shall be 2/3" washers.

Conclusion: actions/thoughts/etc. are not inherently morally acceptable and their moral acceptance must be proven.

Yes, my roundabout approach is rather sloppy, but I'm not here to connect syllogisms.

~Samuel

Slight Speculation...

A small poke at evolution.

I am informed that a large portion of Punctuated Equilibrium is filling niches. Evolutionary "niches" is something I am unsure as to the definition of, and in this I wonder if it is "something that is evolutionary necessary" or "possible by evolution" or even "just not there yet," albeit the latter two are the same if not for the final being funny.

Using all those neo-darwinist terms we all love so much, assuming "man" fills a niche, the purpose of filling a niche is parallel or equal with the purpose/nature of nature (rofl), would it not man defy his evolutionary "niche" by destroying nature with all our harmful greenhouse gases?

This argument is horribly incomplete, but I did want to jot down the gist in a public section before I forget. My number of post drafts doth increase by the week.

Yet it would be furthered to include "rationality" in this argument, in that our rationality furthers our destruction and by extension furthering our destruction of nature, which itself defies the nature of our evolutionary "niche," which defies our parallelism with nature.

However, Neo-Darwinists would have us believe we lack any form of "rationality" or synonymously "free will" (not as the Catholic definition being meant by "synonymous), so that doesn't work so well, what with me trying to follow their euphemisms.

Heh, not quite as preposterous on paper as it was in throught, but still funny to look at.

~Samuel

Because Barney Told Me So!

I swear, that song will never be entirely out of my head. "You are special! special! Everyone is special!" but how, it's nice to know now and again that brilliant, poetic individuals are looking out for us.

In reading Dante's Divine Comedy, I come across a line very early on in Canto III of the Inferno a line that struck me as quite contrary to what this brainwashing public school I'm in right now informs me. I quote:

"They're mingled with that caitiff crew
Who against God rebelled not, nor to Him
Were faithful, but to self alone were true;"

Currently, Virgil is leading Dante' through a sort of limbo. A place neither heaven nor hell (nor purgatory, for that matter). Quite obviously from description and incredibly undesirable position to be in (naked and chased by swarms of hornets? Not my idea of a dream vacation!). The Gate of Hell, I believe it's called. Correct me if I'm wrong, though.

The part I'd really like to focus on is at the very end of that quote: "but to self alone were true;" This strikes me as ridiculously relevant in this day and age. Ridiculously relevant because...well, because it's ridiculous! I personally love debating man's position as a social animal and forming societies, blah, blah blah. Interesting post Ambrose made down there, however for the sake of this argument the basic unit lies more relevantly with the individual. I won't argue with Barney. Everyone is special. But it's the way the idea is applied that irks me.

For some odd reason, the system would have me believe that I am free to express myself in whatever special way possible I could ever conjure from the most deeply misconstrued portions of my evilly-inclined, twisted heart. They call it self-expression, or whatever. The ambiguity could cause intenstinal convulsions. Regardless, if everyone is special and everyone expresses themselves "specially," then there is no such thing as "group expression," or in short, "cooperation." No, I am totally not committing the fallacy of bifurcation here.

Ultimately, though, this goes back to my fun little pet peeve of conforming. Above case in point: if we are all special, we are not collectively special. Society relies on a certain amount of conformity. With authorities, with each other, and with God. Obviously it would take quite a few tomes and college dissertations to explain all those, so I'll allow them to be taken for granted. If society is non-conformative and insubordinate, it will both overthrow authority and errode equal relations. This, friends, relatives and distant relations, is why I'm always crazy about being a societal conformist. Not with trends, but in the best interest of society.

So let's all be some wacko conformists, okay? :D

~Samuel

English Class

Where we read ~*~LITERATURE~*~.

In this post I compiled the themes and modes of expression I have been diligently studying this semester for your enjoyment and edification. I feel good because I am reading and learning what the true masters of my art have to teach me, and my anthology informs me that this is the very best America has to offer me.


____________

“Ain't got cash on me,” Fitzgerald mumbled, the ends of two cigarettes lolling in his mouth as his hand twitched around the greasy pockets of his loose-hanging jeans. “Ain't got cash on me. But Simmons still has some. Ask Simmons.”
I remembered Simmons- a more unprintable young man I never met since running the last unprintable shipment of unprintable weed to the unprinting unprinted. I flipped the top of another can of beer and sat back in the bed of the pickup. Fitzgerald kept mumbling unprintably to himself. Didn't he remember Simmons was dead? Picked the unprintable unprintable out of a pool of his own blood that one morning back in June- tried to cut his own throat in the lavatory on a bus in Chicago, fainted, and drowned in the latrine. His hair'd been blue when they pulled him out- it was the last I remembered of him. Blue like the down on a bluebird's wings, and that struck me as unprintably funny- Simmons had never liked bluebirds, was always telling about one he shot down with a slingshot at his grandmother's house when he was five. He'd described the way it fluttered brokenly, and how that had made him laugh- I laughed at the memory of his light eyes with the pinpoint pupils, and the way he'd imitated that unprintable bird. Life is unprintable funny...


________


Eleanor threw herself in a chair by the window. Her husband was oppressive. It made her really sad. He'd never done anything unkind to her, but she didn't like him, anyway. He oppressed her. It made her really sad. If only there was a way to stop him from oppressing her- it made her sad. It took all her freedom away. Day after day she would stay here at home doing nothing, and night after night he would come home from work and she would have to smile at him and then the whole thing began again. It was so oppressing she couldn't believe it. For who can understand what it truly is to be a woman, to think deep thoughts, deeper than those of our oppressors? Eleanor also felt repressed. Everything repressed her- the feminine chair by the bedside, with the cat sitting on it. Wearing underclothing repressed her, too. Taking a deep breath, she tore it off herself and cast it out the window, the white things going like flags of truce into the puddles in the street nine stories below. No flag of truce for Eleanor- no more would she negotiate with men. Eleanor felt a joy welling up inside her, a joy and a freedom heretofore unimaginable. No longer would she be oppressed. No longer would she feel sad. A moment she balanced on the windowsill, and the last thing she knew was true freedom...


_______



The passion of love welled up in me as I saw Mrs. Barron's girlish form slipping toward me through the trees. “Hush,” she said, her face almost frightened. “George didn't hear me leave. We have three hours.” “If only it were eternity,” I murmured. “Darling-” She swooned in my arms and I *****************>>>>*<<<<*********************************************************************~~~~~****************and then she ********^^^^^***********************!*********************************!!***************************!!!****************and I************************and she*********************and we*************!!!!!!111!!!!!oneone11!!*******************************my zipper slowly and sighed....


_____



“Because this is a new generation,” he said firmly. “Because I can't live my whole life out here.”
“But son-” said the toothless old man, groping a blind hand toward the handsome, tall, determined boy.
“No one can stop me. I'm going forward into the future.”
The old man rocked arthritically in his rocking chair. “Do not forget the old ways of the past. Do not forget your heritage and the ways of your fathers! It is the only way you will ever be happy.”
“I have cast off the chains of my youth. Now I an adult and I am free! I must go and do what I think is the right thing, because therein lies freedom. This is my rite of passage. That means I don't have to think anymore if I don't want to, and Youth is mine which basically means whatever I do is admirable.”
“Oh, son,” said the senile old man with a twitching of his watery blue eyes. “Do not go into the future, for it will harm you! Progress is bad!”
“I will shake the dust of this house from my shoes,” he said firmly, with a flame of knowledge in his eye....


______



Her blue eyes looked at the man proudly. “You have no right to judge what I am doing. Would you prevent someone from following their conscience?”
“Lady, it ain't right.”
“What my conscience says is right.” She walked away. Her great-great-grandfather had been part Armenian, and now she was facing the overbearing racial prejudice of a cruel and uncaring nation.

__________

[POETRY]

I waited here, remembering the day I failed my Czech test
the day I left my last link to you lying
on the radiator in the abandoned apartment, with
cracks on the ceiling in the shape of a cyclops with three eyes
and a shattered beer bottle full of lost memories
Memories overcome me, as poignant as
the tang of a permanent marker left uncapped by an unsent package
in a room with marbles rolling over the floor,
a smell of yeast and bread and
Shakespeare's shoes
floating in a bowl of wonton soup pierced by a chopstick
outcrying against those who destroy the bamboo forests,
covered in rings of scallions like open green mouths protesting global warming
coming to a stop like the death of a dream,
poignantly
compellingly
like the woolly touch of yarn
and I know, with the assurance of thyme and peppermint growing in the moonlight
somewhere, nowhere, loneliness abounds
in an endlessly endless stream of unending sorrowfulness
like a trash can of wasted dreams
like my heart


~*~

Comment on *yesterday's* readings

Sorry, folks, college life gets hectic. This is actually a paper I wrote for my Catechesis teacher, so it will probably make more sense than my normal ramblings.

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The readings for this Sunday, the feast of the Lateran Basilica, are more connected than most other Sundays. The first reading comes from a dream the prophet Ezekiel had, where the Lord was showing him through the temple. This is the image the Lord paints – calm, serenity, and holiness flowing out from the temple into the world. “Wherever the river flows, every sort of creature that can multiply shall live, and there shall be abundant fish, for wherever this water comes the sea shall be made fresh.” God’s presence in the temple flows out into the world through those who worship there. In Jesus’ time, however, the flow of healing water is polluted. Vendors and money changers have come to deal business within the temple grounds itself. The image this gives to the people, instead of one of healing and calm, is one of greed and materialism. When the stream is thus polluted, the only way to clean is to clean at the source. “He made a whip out of cords and drove them all out of the temple area…” The temple of the Lord should be holy and pure, so that the river flowing out of it can spread life and peacefulness. In the second reading, St. Paul tells the Corinthians that “Do you not know that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person; for the temple of God, which you are, is holy.” We are, each of us, God’s temple. This temple, however, is easily clogged with greed, materialism, lust, and other evils. We ourselves destroy the temple. When this happens, we must call Jesus into ourselves to drive out our impurities with a whip made of cords, so that the river flowing out of us, our influence, can be pure and holy, and “the sea [can] be made fresh.”

St. Augustine and Love

Thank you Scott for updating the masses about my absence...in my rush to get to school, I forgot to inform everyone that I wouldn't be here at all...

Anyway, in Latin today I was translating a sermon by St. Augustine, called "God, I will sing to You a new song." I have realized two things: St. Augustine wrote better Latin than Vergil, and that he was more of a genius than I had previously thought. He drew from the psalms, St. Paul, and John to come to the conclusion that Love is a new song to the Lord. I can't really describe the logic at the moment, since I don't have it in front of me, but let's assume for the moment that St. Augustine was right.

Love is a song to the Lord. Now, love means a billion different thing today, but it is quite obvious from context that St. Augustine was speaking about caritas, or divine love. So this means, whenever we act with charity, we are singing to the Lord a song of praise. After all, because of our human weakness, we couldn't love without God, so each act of charity is praise to the creator - a song of praise. And when we sing, we pray twice... Therefore, a person who acts always with charity will constantly be offering up a prayer to the Lord. Intersting stuff, huh. I love St. Augustine.

Whenever you get the chance, read the Church fathers/doctors. They really are brilliant. We are meant to follow in their footsteps, but how can we if we don't know them? They will pray for you, and give you the best examples. Read St. Francis de Sales' Introduction to the Devout Life, or perhaps St. Therese of Avilla's autobiography. Any sermons by all the doctors who were priests or bishops... Don't just read them, though. Take them and meditate on them. That way, not only your understanding of the faith will grow, but also your prayer life.

Put a little saint in your day!

I may or may not ever post again until Thanksgiving break...

~Ambrose

Faction, Democracy, and the Federalist Papers

The below is a Civics topic paper. I figured I might as well post it here, as it is quite relevant to this blog's theme. If anything, this goes to show just how useful most useless courses actually are.

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Shortly after the American War for independence, a group of three writers, John Jay, Alexander Harrison, and James Madison, composed eighty-five newspaper articles which were later termed the Federalist Papers. In papers #9 and #10, the main topic for discussion was Democracy and Faction, two opponents to liberty as the authors saw them.

Although heralded by many in both ancient Greece, the age and place of philosophy, and in modern America as a synonym of freedom, the government of Democracy is centrally flawed. In Democracy, either a number of people with certain, usually high, status all vote on public matters, or everyone votes on all issues. The problem with the former, according to the trio of writers, is that the personal interest of the higher group will supercede the desire for the common good, and thus tyranny of the majority will be instilled. If everyone votes, however, “a common passion or interest will…be felt by a majority of the whole…and there is nothing to check the inducements to sacrifice the weaker party…” according to the authors. “Democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention” they conclude. (The Federalist Papers, pp. 56)

Faction is perfectly explained by the two-party system that is in operation today in America. A group of people bond together in an attempt to instill their opinions (formulated in self-interest) upon the nation by sheer number of votes. This is manageable so long as no one party attains a majority, or if there are more than two parties in operation. If a party becomes dominant, then the voice of the people cannot be heard and it “convulses society”.

It is interesting to note that the same people who built the constitution decried the foundation of the people who abuse it today. Madison, Jay, and Hamilton all clearly state that Democracy and Faction are evils, and that they lead to an assault on liberty. Yet Democracy and Freedom are used interchangeably, and the two-party system is as firmly established as the Hoover Dam. Perhaps America needs to look at its founding centuries ago for the answers to the problems of today.