Here's a short story (of around 133 words) about gift-giving:
My housemate/landlord/friend (not in that order) is, among other things, Jewish, and at the beginning of Hanukkah, announced that she got me a present. I protested. "Oh, you don't have to give me a present. First of all, I don't celebrate Hanukkah, and I didn't get you anything." But she insisted: "It's Hanukkah, and don't worry, I'm not giving you one every day. Just for the last day, and it's nothing big." I said a second or third time that it was unnecessary, and we laughed about it.
I believe Hanukkah ended a few days ago. I have not yet received any present. And now, although I didn't want one, and feel silly about it, part of me feels jobbed!
So, to everyone out there: you are not getting any gifts from me.
In a previous blog entry of mine, I hid a link to another audio embellishment. I didn't actually hide it, but I didn't make it very obvious. It was just a little blue asterisk. I'm sure that not a one of you clicked on it. [pout]
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Monday, December 17, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
A stag party.
I was driving home tonight from band practice. A train was passing between Jean Road and the freeway, so I turned right instead of left and took the scenic route home. Listening to OPB, some good indie-pop, timing the lights just right, enjoying the change. The change? A stress-free practice, a worry-free evening. Not that things are different. What's different? Things, they aren't. There are fewer dollars in my bank account today than yesterday, fewer then than the day before that. I haven't been exercising enough to drop the pounds I hate, not eating enough vegetables. But I've been getting used to my life. I'm used to it. I'm almost used to it. My problems are pretty insignificant. People have worse problems. I can live with this. Where was I? Right, the right turn.
The train didn't look like it would end at all soon, so I turned right. I embraced the scenic route, embraced it. Zoomed along down the road, up a hill, down a hill. The music was relaxing, the moonlight was relaxing, the acceptance was very relaxing. There were taillights ahead, brakelights, so I slowed, but the brakelights disappeared and the car sped up. And behind the car an enormous deer, a buck, began to lumber across the road in front of me. I jammed down on the brake, pushed in the clutch, stopped the car. The buck hesitated, looked at me with one eye, and bolted across the rest of the road and into the woods. My god, that animal was big, I thought. I imagined my car cutting out his legs, his bulk crashing through my windshield. He was beautiful. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was fantastic.
Headlights were approaching in my rearview mirror, so I shoved it into first and rolled slowly on down the road. My heart was pounding and my hands were trembling. They trembled for a few more minutes, a few more miles, until I got off the interstate at Water St. I turned south to Clay and took a left, only to be stopped again. The crossing gate was down and the lights were flashing — there was a train passing. I waited it out.
What was the meaning of all this? Well, maybe God doesn't like us to get complacent. I don't believe in God; it's an expression.
The train didn't look like it would end at all soon, so I turned right. I embraced the scenic route, embraced it. Zoomed along down the road, up a hill, down a hill. The music was relaxing, the moonlight was relaxing, the acceptance was very relaxing. There were taillights ahead, brakelights, so I slowed, but the brakelights disappeared and the car sped up. And behind the car an enormous deer, a buck, began to lumber across the road in front of me. I jammed down on the brake, pushed in the clutch, stopped the car. The buck hesitated, looked at me with one eye, and bolted across the rest of the road and into the woods. My god, that animal was big, I thought. I imagined my car cutting out his legs, his bulk crashing through my windshield. He was beautiful. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was fantastic.
Headlights were approaching in my rearview mirror, so I shoved it into first and rolled slowly on down the road. My heart was pounding and my hands were trembling. They trembled for a few more minutes, a few more miles, until I got off the interstate at Water St. I turned south to Clay and took a left, only to be stopped again. The crossing gate was down and the lights were flashing — there was a train passing. I waited it out.
What was the meaning of all this? Well, maybe God doesn't like us to get complacent. I don't believe in God; it's an expression.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Chris Hubbard's Chris Hubbard Code.
1. The Chris Hubbard must never shoot first, hit a smaller man or take an unfair advantage. The Chris Hubbard would be so racked with guilt over even the opportunity to do such a thing that the smaller man would take advantage and shoot first, defeating the Chris Hubbard.
2. A Chris Hubbard must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him. Conversely, a Chris Hubbard must never completely confide in a non-Chris Hubbard.
3. A Chris Hubbard must always tell the truth, or at least not tell a lie. It's a subtle difference that Chris Hubbard wishes he didn't understand.
4. A Chris Hubbard must be gentle with children, the elderly and small animals, especially when mixed all together. And he should relax around them — they are the ones that definitely won't think less of him.
5. A Chris Hubbard must not advocate or possess racially intolerant views and ideas, but it is fine for him to be intolerant of religious views and ideas that advocate violence or inequality.
6. A Chris Hubbard must help people in distress, unless someone else is closer, or unless he's not entirely positive that they are in distress. He might be misreading the situation.
7. A Chris Hubbard must be a good worker if, by his estimation, the work is worth doing, in the grand, Universal, scheme of things.
8. A Chris Hubbard must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action and personal habits when people are watching, unless it will make someone laugh or impress a girl.
9. A Chris Hubbard must respect women, parents, and his nation's views, if they are correct. If they are incorrect, but forgiveably so, he must still respect them, because of the precedent. But if they are WAY off, he may roll his eyes and call them ridiculous. I mean, come on!
10. A Chris Hubbard is so tired of the word "patriot" as it is so frequently tossed around these days, as if the existence of this country, or of any country, and its "values" were more important than true human rights, or moral and ethical actions. But a Chris Hubbard doesn't really do anything about it, does he?
2. A Chris Hubbard must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him. Conversely, a Chris Hubbard must never completely confide in a non-Chris Hubbard.
3. A Chris Hubbard must always tell the truth, or at least not tell a lie. It's a subtle difference that Chris Hubbard wishes he didn't understand.
4. A Chris Hubbard must be gentle with children, the elderly and small animals, especially when mixed all together. And he should relax around them — they are the ones that definitely won't think less of him.
5. A Chris Hubbard must not advocate or possess racially intolerant views and ideas, but it is fine for him to be intolerant of religious views and ideas that advocate violence or inequality.
6. A Chris Hubbard must help people in distress, unless someone else is closer, or unless he's not entirely positive that they are in distress. He might be misreading the situation.
7. A Chris Hubbard must be a good worker if, by his estimation, the work is worth doing, in the grand, Universal, scheme of things.
8. A Chris Hubbard must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action and personal habits when people are watching, unless it will make someone laugh or impress a girl.
9. A Chris Hubbard must respect women, parents, and his nation's views, if they are correct. If they are incorrect, but forgiveably so, he must still respect them, because of the precedent. But if they are WAY off, he may roll his eyes and call them ridiculous. I mean, come on!
10. A Chris Hubbard is so tired of the word "patriot" as it is so frequently tossed around these days, as if the existence of this country, or of any country, and its "values" were more important than true human rights, or moral and ethical actions. But a Chris Hubbard doesn't really do anything about it, does he?
I should be a model.
Firstly, an apology: A blog about my life would be a lot more interesting if my life were interesting right now. But lately it's been pretty standard. Take my recent Thanksgiving vacation — it sounds textbook to me: going home; seeing my family; seeing my high school chums; sleeping in; taking a break from my regular life; planning to read books and write music free from the stresses of the aforementioned life; eating too much turkey and pie; playing a pickup tackle football game with some friends but mostly strangers bigger than me; freaking out about getting tackled or having to tackle someone — I've never ever played tackle football before!; getting over it; feeling like a tough guy in a way I rarely do; going to a party that night with the aforementioned chums; realizing that I'm still crushing on the same girls I crushed on in high school; realizing that I'm still the least traditionally desirable guy in the room (although the room has changed quite a bit); going home alone but totally okay with that; eating too much good food that I don't have in Portland; being scolded about my eating habits; feeling bad about my self and my body image; feeling ready to go back to Portland two days before my trip ends; not getting ANY reading or writing done; but unlocking the secret level in LEGO Star Wars; staying up all night before my morning plane flight (like always. I'm not afraid of the flying — it's the uprooting I hate); losing the rest of the day in Portland half asleep; awaking to the same fears and doubts I left a week ago; eating the leftovers Mom packed in my bag; Mmm, they were yummy.
Secondly, a confession: I took a little creative license in the preceding paragraph, for the sake of the story. In actuality, I did not bring any leftovers from home home to Portland. (Which home is "home?" That's another story. Another poorly written story.)
Thirdly, a second confession: It took me a few minutes to remember the word "confession." I was all set to use "admittance," as in, "something to admit." That's not what "admittance" means. Or is it??!
Fourthly, a recommendation: Yesterday saw the release (in New York and Los Angeles) of a film called The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, an adaptation of the book by the same name. You all know of it, so I'll summarize briefly. It is about a man who suffers a stroke and loses all ability to communicate, save for blinking his left eye. In this terribly limited capacity, he manages to write a book, blinking one letter at a time, about consciousness inside what he calls his "diving bell."
Now, I have not read this book, but I am definitely going to; I hope that it addresses an issue I've got with the universe (possibly my biggest issue), which is this: there is so much going on in the world (and in my room, and in my head), so many sensory inputs, that I cannot process them all, let alone communicate them to another person. The communication is the important thing to me - to be understood is to not be alone. And unless a person is in a constant state of description from the moment he is born, he will always be behind, trying futilely to catch up with his life that is moving forward at the speed of, well, life. That man can never be fully understood. And that is a terrifying prospect to me. I can type 100 wpm, and speak faster than my mother can understand, and I still can't keep up with life. Having all of my communication slowed to a crawl, to one letter every second or so? I can't imagine.
I'll report back after I finish the book. If you've read it, feel free to report to me your opinions on it.
Fifthly, which is also lastly, a third confession: Growing up, I never in a million years thought that I would become the type of person who does this:
Yet here I am.
Secondly, a confession: I took a little creative license in the preceding paragraph, for the sake of the story. In actuality, I did not bring any leftovers from home home to Portland. (Which home is "home?" That's another story. Another poorly written story.)
Thirdly, a second confession: It took me a few minutes to remember the word "confession." I was all set to use "admittance," as in, "something to admit." That's not what "admittance" means. Or is it??!
Fourthly, a recommendation: Yesterday saw the release (in New York and Los Angeles) of a film called The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, an adaptation of the book by the same name. You all know of it, so I'll summarize briefly. It is about a man who suffers a stroke and loses all ability to communicate, save for blinking his left eye. In this terribly limited capacity, he manages to write a book, blinking one letter at a time, about consciousness inside what he calls his "diving bell."
Now, I have not read this book, but I am definitely going to; I hope that it addresses an issue I've got with the universe (possibly my biggest issue), which is this: there is so much going on in the world (and in my room, and in my head), so many sensory inputs, that I cannot process them all, let alone communicate them to another person. The communication is the important thing to me - to be understood is to not be alone. And unless a person is in a constant state of description from the moment he is born, he will always be behind, trying futilely to catch up with his life that is moving forward at the speed of, well, life. That man can never be fully understood. And that is a terrifying prospect to me. I can type 100 wpm, and speak faster than my mother can understand, and I still can't keep up with life. Having all of my communication slowed to a crawl, to one letter every second or so? I can't imagine.
I'll report back after I finish the book. If you've read it, feel free to report to me your opinions on it.
Fifthly, which is also lastly, a third confession: Growing up, I never in a million years thought that I would become the type of person who does this:
Yet here I am.
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