"If you always do what you always did, you will always get what you always got." - A. Einstein

"You can come in now." Called the professor into the hall.
The young man rose from his seat in a single chair adjacent to the professor's office door. He was wearing sneakers, worn jeans and a blue hoodie with "UCLA" emblazoned across the front. His unkempt hair sat like a helmet of knots and tangles on his head. He had the air of someone who held their disheveled appearance as a high priority.

"Good morning Jake," said the professor in a genuinely endearing tone. "Have a seat."
The young man settled into a chair across an impractically small desk from the professor.
"I wasn't expecting to see you today," said the professor.
"Yeah, I'm not really one for visiting teachers," replied the young man, a sheepish smile appearing on his face.

The young man inspected the office. It was a small room but oddly long, giving the impression that everything had been pushed to the far end, away from the door. The office's few contents included a yoga mat leaning in one corner, a small Buddha statue in the window and a bookshelf with books by authors the young man had never heard of and a rather large book titled "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom" The walls were covered by posters with things in French written on them, a large Warhol print of Mao and a digital clock.

The professor herself looked to be in her mid-thirties. She wore a teal blouse, black large-rimmed bifocals and her hair in a bun. "So what's up?" she implored, seeking to break the awkward quiet that had settled on the meeting.

The young man returned his attention to the professor, appearing as though he had forgotten about her presence completely. "Oh yeah, I wanted to talk to you about my last paper, the grade you gave me mostly."

"Well, Jake, like I said in class, I don't give grades, you all earn your grades based on your work ethic and fulfillment of the assigned tasks."



"Yeah I remember all that," replied the young man shifting his weight in his chair and leaning forward placing his elbows on his knees. " I'm not asking you to change my grade or anything. I just had a few questions is all."

"Well in that case I would love to go through some of my thoughts on your paper with you," replied the professor, the tension disappearing from her features.

"Let me just grab your paper from my files," said the professor, leaning in her chair and searching through a pull out cabinet on the edge of her desk.

The professor retrieved the paper and leaned back in her chair inspecting it. "Oh yes, I remember this paper. You did quite well on this one actually. I really liked some of your thoughts here, in fact it says here I gave you an 96 on this paper."

"Yeah that was what I had wanted to talk to you about" responded the young man leaning back in his chair and scratching the back of his neck with his hand.

A slightly confused look spread across the professor's face. "Well Jake, I can tell you that this was one of the highest grades I gave on this particular assignment. A 96 is an A plus. I mean It's a vast improvement on your previous assignments."

"Yeah I know, that's the thing" said the young man leaning forward in his chair again. "You see I bailed out on that paper."

"Bailed out?" repeated the professor. "I'm sorry Jake I don't quite understand what you mean."

"There wasn't anything to that paper, is what I mean. I just repeated what you said in class. What I knew you wanted to hear."

"Well I don't think that's true at all Jake" responded the professor re-inspecting the paper in her hands. "No, Jake I think you're being too hard on yourself. You have some really insightful things in this paper."

"No, you have some really insightful things in that paper," retorted the young man. "I didn't take a stand in that paper, I just regurgitated what you said in class. Your ideas, your insights. The only thing there that's mine is the punctuation.... like I said I bailed out." 

The professor's naturally squinted eyes were wide as saucers, her confusion now transformed to full blown bewilderment.

The young man continued. "And you know the sad thing is, you rewarded me for it."

"Well, you know Jake, one of the objectives of the class is to improve the students' knowledge of the general theories."

"Yeah but what's the point of repeating stuff that's already been said a million times" retorted the young man, leaning forward in his chair again.

"The point is that these are some of the most influential general theories in the discipline, presented by some of the most highly respected people in academia and it is important that we understand them thoroughly." The professor felt like she was now in a courtroom defending herself instead of meeting with a student in her office.

"But they weren't highly respected or understood when they were presented isn't that the point," responded the young man, now making full eye contact with the professor, not something he was prone to doing. "I mean aren't we hear to come up with new ideas, new theories. In my other papers I took a stand, a risk, I might have been wrong but that's not the point. I bet those other guys were wrong plenty of times before they came up with their general theories."

On Writing

It's been a while since my last post. In fact it's been a while since I've written anything outside of a class assignment. I shouldn't be writing this now. I should be working on a paper for my lit class. Seven pages, due  Tuesday. But as I sat here staring at a half filled word document, the insertion point persistently and plaintively blinking, my thoughts wandered to my experience with writing. I am not an accomplished writer and I can't say that I really enjoy writing in either a purely hedonistic or more fulfilling way. That said I am called to it. I'm called to put the random philosophical wanderings of my mind into physical form. Not for recognition from others or for some personal fulfillment. I think I'm simply called to create.

I can't completely wrap my mind around this idea, although it is something I see in all forms of art. All art is an expression. Whether the message is purely aesthetic or a political manifesto, all art, literature, painting, and music included, is an expression of the artists opinion, judgement or thinking on a subject. And yet, while art is clearly an expression, often times the purpose of art is not to express an idea to others. Many of the greatest artistic accomplishments in history were only discovered after the death of the creator.

So why are called to create, to express, if we are not explicitly called to publish our expressions; to spread them? The religious part of me says that this is because we are created in the image of God, the ultimate creator, and therefore, like God, we are called to create. In that same vein, our frustration with our ability or inability to create is tied in with our natural imperfection and inability to truly match the awesome capability of our creator. This also explains why children bring us some of our purest moments of joy. Giving birth to and raising a child is the closest we will ever come to achieving the incredible life creating innovation of God.

Of course my more secular, and somewhat pessimistic side, tells me that my need to create is tied in with my fear of death. I have a yearning desire to make my impermanence permanent. To carve statues from my fleeting thoughts. On some level we are all painfully aware of our temporary status here on Earth, and this very real fear drives us to attempt any possible chance at immortality. This can also tie in to our joy at raising children in our likeness.

So where does this leave me with writing? Can I move closer to God by creating a life of words? Can I stave off the hallow grip of death with a literary armor?

I can't answer these questions or many others.  What I do know is that I am a void and that words, more than any of my other addictions, fill this void, if only ephemerally.