Saturday, September 30, 2006

A Tribute to J. Krishnamurti

The following is an inspirational speech written and performed by C. Nicholas Walker for his Public Speaking class, commemorating spiritual philosopher Jiddu Krishnamurti.

THROUGHOUT HISTORY, RARE individuals have broken with tradition. Socrates, Einstein, Martin Luther, the great revolutionary Jesus Christ, Freud, the Buddha; they had the courage and insight to see themselves and the world around them in a completely new way, and what they saw changed the world forever. Jiddu Krishnamurti was one such man. With his love and passion for human truth and wisdom, and with his deep, compassionate enthusiasm for human life and wellbeing, Jiddu Krishnamurti touched millions of lives in his many years on this earth and left a legacy of wisdom and knowledge in his wake that should never be forgotten; and showed us that anyone who believes hard enough in an idea can change the world.

As Einstein was to Newton, so Krishnamurti was to spirituality. He was born in the spring of 1895 in southern India to a family of poverty stricken Brahmins. At the age of fourteen he was called a prophetic World Leader, a role which he modestly disavowed. Even in his youth, he stepped among the filthy waters knowing they were the waters of truth and stretched out a loving hand to those who would hate and ridicule him. Even in this early time of burden, Krishnamurti showed his innately spiritual strength and wisdom, and offered a smile to the monster that would frighten him.

His teachings cannot be placed into any one category, nor he with any one title. He spoke of truth as a pathless land. He spoke of looking within oneself for the power to change the world.

I quote him now, “We’ve got the capacity, the energy, the selfish intentions to go into ourselves, look at ourselves, face ourselves, never escaping from ourselves. We’ve got all the energy to do that. Think what energy’s needed to go to the moon, do you understand, sir? Enormous, cooperative energy. Drive. But apparently, when it comes to us, we kind of become slack. Nobody’s going to give it, that one absolute fact; irrefutable fact. And we have had leaders, we have had teachers, we have had saviors, we have had every kind of outside agency, and the misfortune is that because we don’t know ourselves we are destroying other human beings. We are destroying this marvelous earth.”

For most of the twentieth century millions of people from all over the world were drawn to his vision. The Dali Lama, Aldous Huxley, Eric Clapton, Hurricane Carter, Greta Garbo, Deepak Chopra, Van Morrison, Helen Keller, Charlie Chaplin, Jonas Salk, George Bernard Shaw, mothers, students, farm workers, poets, scientists and heads of state; he spoke to each of them directly of the most fundamental issues facing humanity.

His seventy-five books have been translated into over thirty-three languages, and challenged humanity to discover a new way of living. In 1984, Krishna gave a speech at the United Nations where he was awarded the UN Peace Medal. He had traveled the globe, even fallen back into what seemed to be a childish form, where there is innocence and forgetting, a new-beginning, a self-propelled wheel, a first movement and a sacred “Yes” where before there was only a resounding “No”. He spoke even to his last days, when he died in 1986—the year before my own birth—at the age of ninety-one years.

I pretend that the reason for this speech is to tell the story of a great thinker, but it is not. The reason I stand here before you now is to say that you too, every single one of you, has the power to change the world; by becoming more than just a person. By belonging to and becoming an idea. Too often man wishes to find truth as a point, in a moment, or see it as a particular goal which is to be achieved. He wishes to discover truth in its most primal state; a pulse on the horizon, a tangible thing with texture and touch and all the powerful thoughts and feelings that fill this world. It pours into every soul on earth. It melts over all of our hearts and it gives us a sight, a vision that no other creature possesses. A vision into our own future. A foresight that can change the world.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Really, Really Wyrd...

I RECIEVED MY first test back from Major British Writers instructor, Dr. Tom Howerton. He's a gangly, happy man who looks quite a bit like I imagine Middle English poets to look, sitting without much real strength in the body by the light of a candle, feverishly pounding away at the papyrus with ink and passion. And though I wouldn't be able to say for certain, I could imagine that he is an expert in Old and Middle English, considering how well he speaks both -- although he denies such accusations with a smile.

We began the course by reading The Dream of the Rood, followed by one of my personal favorites, the epic Beowulf -- which is, quite possibly, the first real superhero story ever placed onto paper -- and then further along into works from after the French invasion of England in 1066, notably Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales, which I enjoyed translated into modern english so much that it became a reference point in the first line of one of my books, The Ladder in the Backyard.

The aforementioned test, however, was only on the period before 1066, widely accepted as "Old English," and Beowulf, which I was proud to say I had a fine knowledge of beforehand -- Mr. Howerton, as he prefers not to be called by his scholarly title, noticed this knowledge and continually called on me in class to answer those questions which others did not know, the more concrete of which I was glad to do so. We had gone over the material for several weeks in advance, and when test day came I was as confident as a fellow could be. Didn't even bring my text to class that day, I might add, even thought it was an open book/notes exam. Before the class began, the other students jammed their noses into the crease of the book one last time while I sat in the far back corner of the room with my legs crossed and my arms folded across my chest, watching them work like ants. Ego poured out of me like blood, and I waited for the paper to hit my desk.

The test was timed; fourty minutes to answer twenty-five questions. Mr. Howerton explained that this was tim enough to use books and notes only to verify that which one already knew, and not to search for and find out things that once were unknown. I was proudly done in less than ten minutes, and silently folded my paper onto its face and set my pen overtop it, leaning back and watching with a smug smile everyone else searching their texts for answers.

That was five days ago, on a Thursday. Today is Tuesday and, as I started this post off with, I received my grade back. I scored a discouraging 76th percentile, one of the lowest grades in the class, I believe; although, Mr. Howerton said that the scores "ranged from the sixties to the nineties," but that "everybody showed an adequate knowledge of the material."

I am trying to get straight A's, which means that my average percentile in all of my classes must be at least 90th; and though this leaves me feeling almost like a faliure, the other part of me -- the part that is not near as harsh -- can lean back and say, "Well, it is a C, which is defined as average. The grade, in the end, is not all that important." Of course, I'd like to think that's the procrastinator in me speaking out and not the real person; the person who wants to excell one-hundred percent.

To make up for it, I have decided to complete two extra-credit assignments for the class, so as to add some valuable points to this sad grade. The first will be memorizing and reciting the first thirteen lines of the General Prologue from The Canterbury Tales...in Middle English. The second is two write a two page evaluation of a letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury to the King of England, and describe the relationship between church and state presented therein.

I should be proud, though. This is the first grade I've recieved as of yet that does not meet, or excell, my goals for 90th percentile, considering that my last two Precalculus Algebra exams scored in the 106th percentile, which is above perfect.

Sadly, though, that's another class altogether, and if I want an A in Major British Writers, I have some serious catching up to do.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Living Without Conflict

Thursday, September 14, 2006

The Echo, Mystery of Stillness and Tony Jaa

TAKING MY OWN advice is never an easy thing to do, but when I wrote several weeks ago about my dissapointment in my own writings, I meant to change it.

Of course, a fellow can only do so much, but I went back through The Echo -- which I only had written a five page introduction for -- and smashed it to little tiny bits. Some of them found their way back into the story; the sorts of things I enjoyed too much reading through it to kill of completely, but even they were transformed to bettered in one way or another, if only to change a single word in a sentence. I'm trying to find a balance between my own flowery writing style -- one in which I frequently integrate middle english and grammer -- and the more condensed, accessable style you might find reading Michael Crichton or Stephen King.

I've finished the prologue (which was originally the first chapter, until I realized I got through all I needed to far too quickly, and that it dealt with absolutely zero evolving story) and I'm happy with it. I think. Technically, I'm not allowed to read it until several weeks pass, so that when the words are graced by the presence of my eyes, I will read it as someone else's work, unfamiliar to myself. I'm trying to do that very well, and have decided that at the end of each chapter, I will read through and edit the one before it. Heck, maybe even send it out to someone to read and editorialize it for me -- although the thought really sickens me.

I've also added chapter headings to each post in The Mystery of Stillness, simply because I came to realize that, when searching for particular posts even I couldn't remember which roman numeral pertained to which philosophical essay. They were titled with both Friedrich Nietzsche and the Buddhist Dhammapada in mind (feel free to look those two up).

On a side note, I went and saw The Protector starring Tony Jaa (pictured above) in theatres -- based soley on the avid recommendation of one Darius Jenkins, who was a huge fan of Mr. Jaa's work on his previous film, Ong Bak: Muay Thai Warrior -- and I must say I very much enjoyed it.

Actually, I think that's giving the film too much credit. The movie stunk worse than an old man's colostomy bag. The plot (a villiage's sacred elephants are stolen by the mafia for their magical abilities) is so loose you could fit Ruben Studdard through it and wouldn't even have to butter him up. But then Tony fights, and WHOO! is it worth the wait.

Tony Jaa has been impressing me for the past week solid as I "YouTube" everything he's ever done. The great part is, and I've complained about the need for this for quite some time, he never uses CGI or mechanical assistance in his moves, just like in the old days, and you can't help but marvel at the feats. He has the pure power and stage presence of Bruce Lee, but the acrobatic and imporvisational fighting skills of Jackie Chan. Just for its martial arts showcase, The Protector is well worth the money. That is, if you can withstand the moments when people are just...egh...talking.

But don't take my word for it. See for yourself, and enjoy...
Search Turns Into Chase
Breaking Bones
Tony's Tricks and Skills

Monday, September 04, 2006

The Overman meets The Producer

QUITE SOME TIME ago, I met a young man named Stewart. He was a student at my college, as well as a very nice guy, who seemed to take a strong liking to me since the day we met. Later on, I would see him walking the corners of the nearby stripmall, talking with his friends or chatting with storegoers, and we spoke often but without much gravity; all I really knew of him was that he seemed to be fairly good with women and worked at a bath-product store in that same shopping center.

Only recently, however, I was at college signing up for classes early -- which is a first for me -- when I noticed him sitting with a young woman at the end of the hallway, appearantly helping her with a schedule problem. After I was invited to sit and talk, we began a conversation on writing and my use of inventiveness in stories where I must explain things that are currently impossible with our modern technologies. He mentioned that he enjoys turning stories into stageplays, and that he has produced several plays for the college in the past, marking a particular interest in the fact that I had a synopsis for a play, but that I was unaware of the writing and casting techniques used in stageplays.

After nearly an hour, and both of us having to be on our ways, we walked as I explained the basic themes and plot points for A Heart for any Fate, which he seemed genuinely interested in, and we exchanged numbers for the sake of scheduling a meeting where we could exchange ideas and, together, write and produce a play.

Well, the meeting was Sunday at one o'clock at Riverside Cafe in Smithfield, but when I arrived the doors were locked; I hadn't thought that, perhaps, the owners were at church in the Bible Belt at the time. I waited outside for what felt like an eternity -- considering I was well-dressed in tie and blazer, and that this afternoon was maxing out at a sweaty ninety-seven degrees.

When he wasn't early, I began getting superiorily angry, wondering if I had been conned like a fool, believing what I shouldn't have, and starting wondering why a person would treat me like such a dull blade. I was pacing angrly when he arrived, smiling, five minutes late. Of course, this made me feel only more foolish for thinking such things so quickly. As he tried to open the door, and found it locked just as had I, and began peeking into the building through the glass, I leaned in through the wooden lattice near the door and smiled.

"Having trouble getting in?" I said, startling him.

"Oh -- hey, Cody. Yeah, it looks like they're closed."

"Well," I said, walking around to shake his hand, "we should have thought they might be at church on a Sunday afternoon. I just always assumed they were going to Hell."

"Well, we are in the Bible Belt," he laughed, and we began deciding where else to work at, eventually concluding my connections at Ruby Tuesday would be most beneficial to the meeting.

Our meeting went well, although not as I had expected it. Stewart told me that although he loved my tragic play, it wasn't for a "Johnston County Audience". He told me that they didn't go to see plays to have cognitive thoughts, or to be reminded of how sucky real life is. They come to be entertained. To laugh.

And so, he asked me if I had anything surface-level we could make. I didn't. I'd never written anything "surface-level" before, and I told him so. I'd never found the need to. I mean, why write unless it is to make people think? I understand comedy, but I'd never tried to write it just to make people laugh. Because, well, what if they didn't?

So, Stewart and I sat in silence together for a while, pondering up some neat little story that neither of us was doing a particularly good job of finding. You may wonder how the creative strike hits some people, at what moment that idea becomes something realized and when it takes on life. I've wondered for quite some time, and I love it when it happens because I remember it almost everytime. But, for those who don't know, this is about how it goes.

I mentioned to Stewart the idea of us taking a story or existing book and making it into a play. He had mentioned earlier about seeing a production of Stephen King's Misery being performed at some theatre somewhere. He said that of course we couldn't do that, because ole Stevie's still alive; it would cost WAY too much to buy out the rights for the play. I knew that, but I said "darn it" anyway, in a sarcastically angry way.

"Yeah," Stewart said under his breath, and snapped his fingers with an air of dissappointment. "Kill Stephen King."

It took me maybe a quarter of a second to get hit, but when I did he saw the cogs get to work.

"Wait a minute..." I said straightening up in my seat. "I...that's it! That's our story!"

By the end of the next ten minutes I had successfully pitched him my idea. Presto Whamo! It's something the "Johnston County Audience" will love and something we're pretty sure no one's done before. I'd love to tell it to you here, but I realize I can't do that. Not until the play is produced, that is. I'd do it for my own story, but I've got Stewart's life on the line, too. I can only be fair, though, and give you the title. A title which won't make sense, but who really cares anyway? Just know there's a mobster, a drag queen, and a hypochondriac.

Killing Samuel Queen. I think you get the drift. I've written the prologue and am about to start work on the first scene, due to Stewart on Wednesday. We begin production in the spring. Hot dig!