It Happened in Iowa: Part IV

Opening Commentary

Steve Forbes at his most uncomfortable.

Steve Forbes at his most uncomfortable.

The following is entitled great sentences, however, it is little more than a manic compilation of drug fueled nonsense scribbled across a yellow legal pad. I have done my best to transcribe the mania below. Typically, when reading a work we read it for the content. That is not the case with this piece while the content is at times thought provoking, the primary reason for reading it is not to make sense of it, but rather to experience the state of mind I was in. It is for this reason that I have not polished the piece, but left it in a state of disjointed syntax insanity.

Additionally, this is yet another piece written in the middle of class. The legal pad it was written in contains so little class notes that I am unsure which course it was dedicated to. I do know it was for one of my numerous Journalism courses due to the fact that it appears directly after two pages of notes on a public lecture. The speaker was Steve Forbes. My notes are so haphazard I can not determine the topic he was speaking on.

The notes do inform me of several key points. The points say very little about Steve and quite a lot about me. For example, the girl sitting to my left was wearing a chic black dress. The dress was unzipped in the back and I informed her of this. She hastily responded that she already knew. The three girls sitting in front of us offered to zip it for her, but she declined. She then spent several minutes talking to me about how fantastic Mr. Forbes is. I have nothing against him, but I wasn’t infatuated with him. Presumably she was. She continued to discuss the superior intellect and genius of Forbes until her boyfriend arrived. After that she remained silent as the night.

My notes go on to address Forbes flawed opinions on taxation and tariffs. I considered going up during the questions and answers portion, but opted to remain in my seat. After, that I stuck around for the meet and greet. During this I answered a question for another student journalist who nervously approached me and said, “Hey, I’m in a journalism class and need to talk to someone.” She paused, “And well you’re just kind of standing around.” After that, I took a picture with Mr. Forbes and suggested he vote for Gary Johnson.

I look gay as hell in that photo.

Great Sentences

(The following was presumably written while under the influence of one, or more, legal and/or illegal drugs.)

  • When I say, “I feel like I could run a mile,” I mean I feel as like < momentarily > releasing a pent up outburst of a wild/ exuberant nature [alternatively]/ exuberance derived from, un at least in the/ majority of cases [or] most passionate cases/ , / intoxicated euphoria [or] euphoric bliss derived from / intoxication [or] intoxicants/. [or] ; / in other words [or] basically [or] simply [or] simply put/ I feel good./

    • Why do some sentences sound better than others?

      • Book based on this line.

  • Off topic

    • Does everyone’s brain interpret the waves of differing length, color, in the same way? By this I mean does your yellow (550 nm) look different from my yellow (550 nm) - is our observation of the same wavelength interpreted differently due to brain chemistry and what not? To address the initial interpretation you may have, forgivable, misunderstood me to be asking: I shall clarify that the question is not about the nomenclature of color; ex. Charley requests the green carton of american spirits, but Charlene does not see a green carton, until Charley renames the green carton, something more inline with  Charlene’s day to day experience  grocery-store-check-out-girl, strike that girl-gender neutral pronoun - and the narrator [myself] is not a bigot - experience, such as lime, and charlie and Charlene <are able> to exchange goods and services - in accordance with the Illuminati slash, patriarchy slash, Anti-Marxist-conspiracy group’s evil plan to keep Charley addicted and Charlene < inhumanly underpaid> - all because their atmospherically learned nomenclature failed to effectively jive regardless of both Charley and Charlene seei visually observing the same unchanging wavelength of light. Forgive my in depth description, but it is paramount to this one sided discussion that we are both on the same page when discussing a matter that is difficult to conceptualize and, as past conversations of this topic have taught me, even more difficult to verbalize, or, in this instance, to (skillfully [if not clearly {I am a man <with a <long list of cruel <- never physically <,lest the non-aggression principle <(oh my dear libertarian philosophy) be violated - hobbies}] if I may say so myself) dictate. Now as fervently as I would like to answer the question, I, according to Stephen King’s On Writing, telepathically inserted into your mind, I can not because due to the fact that I am sorrowfully ruefully incognizant to intricacies of optics, neurology, biochemistry and philosophy -where I believe the discussion of this question is doomed to stay -, neurology, and biochemistry to the intricacies of optics, neurology, and philosophy ( I mean I know enough to interview the average professional; more importantly, however, i know enough to win a game of wits, and <thus alienate myself from most guest at your average dinner party) - where I believe, and fear, this question is/ eternally doomed to remain [or] to eternally rest/, like an adult cat at a rescu in similar fashion to the oldest cat at your local rescue shelters second oldest cat <resident; without an attention stimulating face or the respect that come this permanent fixture like resident hood the average day shall fade with not so much as a ridged finger shall prod the cage let alone anything bearing resemblance to true consideration - so here our discussion, of one of my truly favorite ponderings of late night hours, must, like the teenage pregnancy of an inner city teen, be prematurely termin laid to rest. Yet, I assure you the time you took away out of your, all too short, break from <life consuming corporate strategy was not spent tediously sifting through quasi intellectual bull shit for nothing. No, for as the organic waste of a field beast fertilizes the earth, so to will my metaphysical waste cause growth within you. Yet, the plant itself must be the one to sink its roots deep into the fecal matter of produced, most likely, by a cow who will <in due time die a gruesome death in order to feed not just you, at 12:00 pm tomorrow (ask for a McGang-Bang, some places in the bible belt call it a double O seven, regardless it's a chicken patty lubed up in Big Mac sauce and surrounded, likely against its will, by two beef patties), but also to feed America’s capitalist driven need to be satisfied; like a plant you must soak up this mental diarrhea and work with unceasingly to take this and, in combination with your sun like muse, develop into something greater than a tricksey shitty little article. I can’t be the one to produce your ears of corn, so to speak. That can only be for you That must come solely from within you; unless your teaching English, literature, or grammar, in which case I have an idea for you. However, the majority of you suckers are on your own, and how can you focus on growth when you know the celestial lawn mower of cosmic misfortune is right around the corner; the all harvesting combine of death is riding his tail like Tia Lopez desperately driving his new car through the Hollywood Hills out of the incessant anger caused by the masses collectively regarding him as a distant joke. The combine of death is no joke and it is coming. Decide now whether you shall let its well earned fear stop you, whether you shall ignore it, or whether you shall grow into something tall and beautiful whose fruit shall live on after the impending harvest. As for you wise sorcerer's dedicated to passing along the phonetic art of imbuing age old letters and chaotic marks of punctuation with telepathic power capable of toppling regimes and inspiring vastly populated swaths of land with genocidal ideology, I beseech you to lay down your mental wall and to allow my self admittedly abnormal idea into your metaphysical tabernacle of rigorous contemplation. What I am suggesting to you is a method through which you and your flock of padawans can take such a hectic compilation of loosely connected ideas and transform it into a beneficial practice ritual capable of imparting a deeper understanding of the alchemy of words and sentences. Send your pupils out to their domiciles, whether it be an abandoned mall open to any squatter brave enough to rub shoulders with the removable once human meth slave pests that scurry about in the dark, or whether it be a luxurious double wide house boat seasonally moored on a still lake in the ever-fall north; send them there with these peculiar rantings of a mad nomenclature alchemist. Have them pursue the contents, taking note of the symbolic and double meaning. Instruct those under your esteemed tutelage to strike through and lay waste to my abundant and flippant prepositional phrases. Instruct your students to strip my darling yet further still by taking from her each and every adjective and adverb that glints in the sweet rays of the sun. As she stands before them mangled and naked, have them inspect her bone structure and record the message of my scrawled incantation. Upon receiving their telepathic analysis of both my child wrapped in multiple layers of designer manufactured polypropylene wools, gore-tex fleece, flannels and silk scarves, for wrapping necks, and then unseductively stripping her bare, judge with no malice towards I, you, them or it. When you become clear of mind and wholly in the present look over the words of them, keeping a keen eye for the way I dressed my girl, and the naked form they put her in. Was her speech still sweet to them? Had it turned sour to their ears? Perhaps, then you can jot down a note for the men: despite the peculiar and rhythmic vibe the author fell in; consent is a gentleman's best friend. Truly, compare their perception of the message, both fat and thin, while looking to see how my little spell transmuted before them. I do concede I know not how their comparison will end, but if it's for folly rest assured that at the very least they can spot a prep phrase. They may have even learned a new way to arrange our basic English runes. Their modestly deepened acquaintance with the vernacular of which they daily arrange in delicate order, all to frequently without consciously paying mind to the fact they’re dying, so to imbue a haphazard collection of shapes they have recognized since a point in their lives so early effort must be exerted in order to recall, so pretentious that when compiled and transmitted via the proper channel a stranger will bring you a piping hot pizza; deepened familiarity with such a power can only strengthen someone's standing. Feel no guilt for your students task. After careful and astute consideration of their response dictate to them your appreciation, or lack thereof, with no more than one letter, three numbers, and two symbols for, with limited means, you shall put your surmised thoughts on their meager anxiety producing discourse. Thus communicating who is the elite thaumaturgist in the room. Hand those measly essays back with the unabashed impudence of a vivacious twelfth century Prussian Princess, and as you solo fandango your vampish presence up and down the rows, envision the moment the students first view their paper. Their eyes shall drift to the upper right hand margin of the page where your minimalistic spell shall capture their gaze and imbue them with new knowledge capable of altering moods, causing sleepless nights of practice and review, some will physically respond with spontaneous movements of joy, and a sad few may even shed a tear. Your magic is powerful indeed. Yet, as my latest attempt at a never before achieved feat of written alchemy has majestically lead me to the conclusion that no master of dictation shall ever be able to truly convey your brain's interpretation of 650nm wavelength which has been rudely turned away by the ink of your grading utensil like a maritime glass of Jäger at cocktail hour, and reflected into the eyes of the recipient who will never know if their internal processor has arrived at the same conclusion which your soggy meat computer produced. Hence, it is no more possible to imbue written word with such meaning than it is for the squashy protein computer within your skull to imagine a new color.

    • Free flow thought project: where it’s okay to be misunderstood

Closing Commentary

That’s the result of Ritalin and a mind that believes itself wise. My college notebooks are filled with this type of ranting and raand 1ving. I believed myself to be a more skilled word-smith than the majority of my professors. Perhaps I was, yet the problem with being wise in your own eyes is that it blinds you from instruction. Someone who is unable to be taught is unable to grow. Sure, I could pop some pills and scribble of a massive paragraph that sounds okay, but when it came time to do actual journalism I fell flat. I didn’t even attempt to pursue what I loved.

It was out of fear.

I didn’t consciously recognize it at the time, but the fact of the matter is I was so afraid of failure that I found it better not to try. In order to justify this belief I began to believe I was better than my peers. I was too good to do the work. In hindsight, it is far more accurate to say I wanted to be the best, but was deathly afraid of discovering my mediocrity. I circumvented this by choosing not to participate. I didn’t prove myself the best, but I didn’t prove I was anything short of the best either.

I did have one class where I did all of the homework assignments. I even did extra credit assignments, which included things like reporting on Steve Forbes. I did all the work in the first week of class. Granted I didn’t actually go to class that week. I got to school early and began day drinking before the semester started. I accidentally drank through the first few days of school, and this class only met on Tuesdays. So I kinda missed that first one. Thankfully the syllabus was online, and so was the list of homework assignments.

I think I showed up for class around the one month mark. The teacher didn’t recognize me. She asked if was keeping up with the course material. I told her: yes, I already finished it. Not only, had I finished it, I had done enough extra credit assignments to off set my not showing up for tests, quizzes, and group discussions. I meant to continue going from that point on, but I sort of forgot about its existence until another month into the semester. I managed to show up a second time, and on that day we were having a discussion about civil liberties. I ended up arguing with another student about Snowden.

After, that I never showed up again. At a certain point I just stopped going to classes altogether and got a full time gig at Walmart. That didn’t go well either.