Oof.

Having offered arguments against the Evidence-Cost’s views competitors, I will now offer some considerations in favor of the Evidence-Cost view.
First, the Evidence-Cost view seems to avoid the major pitfalls of both the Fact-Cost view and the Belief-Cost view. On the Fact-Cost view, the facts of S’s cost context do not, on their own, make any comments about what are the kind of stakes S is faced with in any given case. Facts about S’s cost context might specify exactly what amount of impact getting it right or wrong about believing P has on S’s practical situation. For instance, going back to the Takeshi-Date example, Takeshi’s practical situation might be effected in ABC way, whatever ABC way might actually be in the given case, by his getting it right or wrong about MOSS. This would be a fact of Takeshi’s cost context in this example. However, it is not the case that this fact about Takeshi’s cost context says anything about whether or not Takeshi is in a high-stakes context or a low-stakes context. Thus, what kind of cost context S is in depends on – not only what is objective the case about S’s cost context – but, as mentioned earlier, factors such as how it compares to other cases and third-party interpretation. Even though I take for granted, in the examples used throughout this paper, that there is some objective fact about what kind of cost context S is in, I do believe that facts about S’s cost context are always neutral. Pay another way, facts about S’s cost context do not specifically say either, it is the case that S is in a high-stakes context or, it is the case that S is in a low-stakes context. With that said, it seems difficult for the Fact-Cost view to make any recommendations about when it is reasonable or not reasonable for S to believe P. The Evidence-Cost view, however, does not seem to suffer from this pitfall. Whereas facts about S’s cost context might be neutral, what evidence S has about his cost context can speak either in favor of his being in a high-stakes cost context or a low-stakes cost context. The Evidence-Cost view, then, can readily make recommendations about when it is reasonable for S to believe P.
In fact, as I mentioned in the previous section, facts about S’s cost context, as they are neutral with regard to what kind of cost context S is in, can constitute a form of evidence that S can have about his cost context. These neutral facts about S’s cost context can serve as evidence which speaks in favor of S’s being in a high-stakes context or as evidence which speaks in favor of S’s being in a low-stakes context. For example, in the Takeshi-Date example, suppose the facts of Takeshi’s cost context are the following: If Takeshi gets it wrong about believing that he wrote down “Moss” on the napkin (call this belief MOSS), he will stand Mary up and Mary will be angry with him for doing this and so on. Should Takeshi be aware of these facts about his cost context, these facts can then serve as evidence which speaks in favor of his being in a high-stakes context in the Takeshi-Date example.
The Evidence-Cost view also avoid the pitfalls of the Belief-Cost view. My main objection against the Belief-Cost is that, on this view, even if S has unjustified or poorly justified beliefs about what kind of cost context he is in, it is reasonable for him to believe P as long as he holds certain beliefs about his cost context. So, in the Takeshi-Job example, if Takeshi believes, in his mind, that he is in a low-stakes context, then the Belief-Cost view holds that it is reasonable for Takeshi to believe MOSS regardless of what his evidence about P says, regardless of what the facts of his cost context are. The Belief-Cost view, then, seems to lead to intuitively erroneous conclusion in cases like the Takeshi-Job example. On the Evidence-Cost view, however, S’s evidence about his cost context do not seem as arbitrary as S’s beliefs about his cost context.
Also, I believe that Evidence-Cost view has the advantage of being able to combine the Fact-Cost view, the Belief-Cost view, and itself together into more cohesive and satisfactory intermediate Evidence-Cost view. As mentioned in section 6, aside from the three basic intermediate Evidence-Cost views I have been talking about so far, there are other ways that we might treat S’s cost context. There could be a view which says that S’s reasonableness to believe P depends on facts about S’s evidence in favor of P, and some general attitude about S’s cost context. This “general attitude” about S’s cost context refers to some combination of facts, beliefs, and evidence about S’s cost context which might be used to determine what kind of cost context S is in, in a given case. While I try to articulate or address the “General Attitude”-Cost view in this paper, it is easy to see how the Evidence-Cost view acts as a natural starting point for trying articulate such a view. Under the Evidence-Cost view, facts about S’s cost context – which are neutral on their own – can serve as evidence about S’s cost context. And, S’s evidence about his cost context can speak in favor or against S’s beliefs about his cost context.
Second, I believe that the Evidence-Cost view is the most plausible of the three intermediate Evidence-Cost views I address in this paper because it allows for the possibility that S may neither be reasonable nor unreasonable in holding a belief. In other words, on the Evidence-Cost view, “reasonable” and “unreasonable” are not the only two ways S might be with regard to belief P. A third possibilities exists for how S might be with regards to belief P: S maintain no relationship to belief P on the Evidence-Cost view. For example, let’s look back at the Takeshi-Date example. Recall that Takeshi had some fishy evidence about where is supposed to meet Mary. After running through the rain, the name of the fast food chain he had written down on a piece of napkin becomes smudged. He can only make out the letters “Mc—”. Given the letter fragment on the napkin, Takeshi could have originally written down “McDonald’s” but he has a gut feeling of remembering that he actually wrote down “Moss” for Moss Burger. Neither piece of Takeshi’s evidence in favor of P is extremely convincing. Now, also suppose that Takeshi’s evidence about his cost context is not extremely convincing as well. Perhaps this is Takeshi does not know Mary, whom he found through an online dating site, very well. He has little evidence, aside from her dating website profile and the one or two dates that have gone on, about how she might respond to being stood up by him. One can imagine a version of Takeshi-Date where Takeshi has only a little evidence in favor of his being in a high-stakes context. It seems plausible, then, to say that, in this version of the Takeshi-Date example, it could be the case that it is neither reasonable nor unreasonable for Takeshi to believe MOSS. According to the Evidence-Cost view which takes into account only Takeshi’s evidence about his cost context in the Takeshi-Date example, perhaps Takeshi needs to withhold judgment about MOSS until he has more evidence about his cost context.
This possibility of withholding judgment from MOSS does not seem available to Takeshi under the Fact-Cost view. Again, the Fact-Cost view holds that what is objectively the case about Takeshi’s cost context is relevant in determining if it is reasonable or not reasonable for him to believe MOSS. As I state in an early section, in the first place, I do not believe that facts about Takeshi’s cost context can make any recommendations about what kind of stakes are present in his cost context. But, even if we grant that facts about Takeshi’s cost context do in fact tell us if he is in a high-stakes context or a low-stakes context, I do not believe it is possible for Takeshi to withhold judgment from believing MOSS under the Fact-Cost view. Suppose we grant that, in the Takeshi-Date example on the Fact-Cost view, that the facts of Takeshi’s cost context is such that he is in a high-stakes context. Given what little evidence Takeshi has in favor of MOSS, it is unreasonable for him to believe MOSS in this example. Or, suppose that we grant that Takeshi is actually in a low-stakes context such that, even if he has a small amount of unconvincing evidence in favor of MOSS, it is reasonable for Takeshi to believe MOSS. Because there are always facts about Takeshi’s cost context which specifies which kind of cost context he is in for any given case, there are also always facts about whether or not it is reasonable or not reasonable for Takeshi to hold a belief in any given case. Thus, there does not appear to be any room for Takeshi to be neither unreasonable nor reasonable in believing MOSS on the Fact-Cost view. There is no way for Takeshi to withhold judgment about MOSS.
Moreover, for Takeshi, the possibility of withholding judgment about MOSS also seems closed under the Belief-Cost view. According to the Belief-Cost view, Takeshi’s beliefs, in his mind, about what kind of cost context he is in is relevant to determining if it reasonable or not reasonable for him to believe MOSS. One might raise the point that it is possible for Takeshi to withhold judgment from MOSS – he can simply not have any beliefs whatsoever about his cost context. But, Takeshi’s not holding any beliefs at all about his cost context, on the Belief-Cost view, leads to a strange conclusion. For example, in the Takeshi-Date example, on the Evidence-Cost view, it seems plausible for Takeshi to withhold judgment from MOSS. It seems plausible for Takeshi to wait until he acquire more evidence about his cost context before passing judgment on MOSS. However, in the same example, now under the Belief-Cost view, it seems to make very little sense for Takeshi to not hold any beliefs about his cost context and to wait until he acquires more beliefs about his cost context to pass judgment on MOSS. One might object further that, on the Belief-Cost view, it is not a matter of how many beliefs Takeshi has about his cost context but rather if Takeshi’s beliefs are justified. Whereas on the Evidence-Cost view, Takeshi withholds judgment from MOSS to wait to acquire more pieces of evidence about his cost context, on the Belief-Cost view, Takeshi waits to acquire justified beliefs about his cost context. However, as seen in the preceding section, even if we modify the Belief-Cost view to talk about only justified beliefs about Takeshi’s cost context, the view still leads to intuitively erroneous conclusions.
Thus, for these reasons, I believe Evidence-Cost is the most plausible intermediate Evidence-Cost view of the three I examine in this paper.

Some days you write a lot because you want the words to sing. You want them to fly off the page like birds, fluttering wings and feathers lifting to the sky in a gust of wind, taking each and every single letter, the f’s black curls, the bend corners on the N’s and the crosses on the t’s, the b’s pot bellied bottom lifting, lifting, lifting to a place you wanted them to be, arranged in the shape you wanted them to be in. All of these things you wanted to say to someone somewhere, someone that would understand, or at least try, because what else is there really in this world besides you, you, you and you alone, here, alone. Trying, trying to be heard, to express the small things, not even the big ideas or anything, just the small things that grip your heart and twist and twist the muscles until the blood stops flowing and you stop thinking about anything else. Is there more to this? Where all you want to do is weep because you feel like you’ve lost the time you once had to do the things you loved. Because you’re not fourteen or fifteen or eighteen anymore and you want those days back even though you have so many more ahead of you and yet you already want those days back because you used to be freer even when you didn’t know back it then, you used to be freer. You were untethered and open and possible. You, the you that you are today, was only possible back in the dim hallways with the pale yellow lockers and the broken escalators and everything else that you once hated. What you would give to tramp up and down those halls in that jacket you still wear but do not feel the same in anymore. Some days you want back you cannot have back and all you have are the days yet to come and that is exactly what terrifies you. They do not know the meaning of stop or how to stop or want to stop and they roll forward, on and on, without you but taking you. Do you want to see those days again? When everyone was still together, in that big group, you had a group, and nothing was done except for the sake of doing. You paid attention in classes you cared about when the teachers got your attention and taught and held on to your attention somehow. Not because you are terrified of failing, terrified of not being able to make, but it was just something that had to be done and you did what you did. To live in the bliss of ignorance is something you want back so badly, so undeniably that you end up writing in the second person. Maybe, to avoid knowing that you don’t want the future and you just want the past because at least hindsight is settled and certain and there is no guesswork involved no frightening possibilities unresolved because the you back then, the you in the past is definite, delineated in memories and murmurs and resentment that has long vanished and feelings that don’t ring out anymore but you still want to make the words sing because maybe words can take you back to that place, those hallways, those people, the September sky from the ninth floor bathroom, the way the seventh floor smelled like science and chemicals and how you used to do physics experiments in the hallways and linger in the staircases until way after dark trying to compete and do things with your life while people went off to the ivy league and you chose to stay here and never leave and you are still here So in some ways maybe nothing has changed at all but that might just a cognitive defect. There are things you want back. Time to just sit with a book or a show or a manga and read and watch and enjoy and be with it for a while and live away from here, disappear into the night of this world and out in the brilliance of another, distant, somewhere else where you are not you the agent the actor the free will illusion taken from you by another mind dictating the characters and words and actions and you are free to just enjoy. Is there such disdain for those who simply watch, voyeurs trying to escape choice. Choice, choice, choice. All I want is the lack of choice. To be, mindlessly, be. If that is at all possible. To misplace my commas, to split my infinitives, leave the periods, forget subjects and clauses and everything. I want my words to sing but really just to sing to me because some days I have no one else to say these things to, no one who would listen because it is hard to listen, even for me, to words you do not understand but that is all there is in this world, the sound of keys struck over and over again, my attempts to say something to someone that no one would hear. It has always been this way and back then I used to want to say things to other people but the older I get, the farther I move forward into, onto, towards other possibilities, the more I realize I’ve always wanted to just say things to myself. And even I don’t have time anymore to listen to that.

Some days you just sit at home and be not really okay with yourself. And just freak out about nothing. Nothing at all. Just freaking out about stuff. Like law school. Like Japanese. LIKE YOUR THESIS WHICH YOU ARE NOT WRITING AND YOU DON”T KNOW WHY YOU CAN”T BRING YOURSELF TO WRITE THE GODDAMN THING BUT YOU JUST ARE NOT WRITING ANYTHING WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF AND YOU HAVE TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT WITH RICHARDSON TO TALK ABOUT ADVISING AND REGISTRATION AND GRDUATIOANDASDS.

I AM SERIOUSLY NOT VERY OKAY. I AM NOT OKAY. OMG.

Some days you just sit at home and be not really okay with yourself. And just freak out about nothing. Nothing at all. Just freaking out about stuff. Like law school. Like Japanese. LIKE YOUR THESIS WHICH YOU ARE NOT WRITING AND YOU DON”T KNOW WHY YOU CAN”T BRING YOURSELF TO WRITE THE GODDAMN THING BUT YOU JUST ARE NOT WRITING ANYTHING WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF AND YOU HAVE TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT WITH RICHARDSON TO TALK ABOUT ADVISING AND REGISTRATION AND GRDUATIOANDASDS.

I AM SERIOUSLY NOT VERY OKAY. I AM NOT OKAY. OMG.
What am I doing with my life. I have so much work to do and all I’m doing now is watching this movie while waiting to watch another movie. While not really doing the important work that I have to do while not doing anything that I have to do. I have to understand and finish reading these papers so I can write something moderately cohesive to give to Jim next week. I have to write this cript. I gotta get my ceramics projects together, literlaly and start working on the wheel throwing thing. I am so screwed right now. So screwed. I don’t even know. I feel really bad because well shit. I don’t know how I did on that Japanese test. How could Ihave spelled Jeans wrong. Jeans man. Of all the things I had to get wrong. And maybe that’s the tip of the ice berg. I would have caught that last time. I totally would have caught that last time. I didn’t have nearly enough time as I did last time to sit and think about things. I feel like I also got something on the listening wrong. My listening isn’t strong at all. I just don’t know. I don’t want to think about it but I also keep thinking about it. My stanrads. I just want to be okay at this so I don’t fail and be upset with myself but I’m flailing anyways. Just some sad fish without fins even worse than a magikarp. I am so sasd. So sad.
I feel like crap somedays. I’ve been feeling like crap for a long time. Confused. Sad. Something like that. I wish I knew what I was doing. I wish I knew what I was doing. I wish I knew I what I was doing. I wish I knew. But I do not. I wish I knew. I wish I knew. I am so sad. So sad. What am doing. What am I doing. What am I doing. Everything is falling apart around me like a cookie that was baked too long. That’s a horrible metaphor. Like, snow crumbling, or sand, or salt, like something dying slowly, like brow sugar I tried to pack but it didn’t work or something. I wish I knew. I wish I knew. What am I doing next semester. I want to write again. I wish I had ideas and was creative or something to that effect. I wish I knew.
My GPA, my thesis. Everything. What am I doing. The semester is almost over. I don’t want to know at all. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. I wish they would tell me and I still don’t want to know. I wish I knew.
It’s a Friday night, Saturday morning and all I’m doing is watching these movies. I wish I knew.
I wish the world made more sense to me. I wish things worked out better. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now. Well at least I don’t have it as bad as she has it. I wouldn’t know what to do. But then my problems would be a totally different set of problems if I were in his shoes. I wish I had different problems just to try them on for size. Myabe I’d be able to handle different problems better.
I wish I could trade away my problems for a day, like slippoing out of some old clothes, into some fresh ones. A new suit, or something. Like a snake, a shapeshifter. Just to see. What is that like. Just to see. And then maybe I’ll come right back to my old problems, maybe. And they’d be familiar, like home. Maybe I’d know how to deal with it better. Maybe I’d never come back. I don’t want to come back. I just want to let go/ Forever. Of here. I don’t want to stay here.

Random Recovery

And that one thought, brought on by a word or two, a sentiment or two, drives me crazy. Crazy. Completely fucking crazy. Every little inch of my mind is filled with just him.

Every once in a while, I miss him like crazy; I’d hear a song on the radio and listen to the lyrics and hear him in every word. And, every once in a while, even though I don’t need it anymore, I long for him arms, for his face, for him, for him, him, him, to be right here.

Every once in a while…

And that one thought, brought on by a word or two, a sentiment or two, drives me crazy. Crazy. Completely fucking crazy. Every little inch of my mind is filled with just him.

Some days I wish things were different, not that I don’t appreciate what I have now. Some days, I just regret not doing a few things that I should’ve gathered the courage to do. Words come to me so easily. Across a sea of letters, I stand on my lonesome island and wait for your ship. Never, not once, will I call out for your attention to come and rescue me.

I’ve gone crazy from the moment I met you.

And I need you so much.

Truer words have never been said.

I’m crazy. I miss him.

I shouldn’t.

Goddamn, I should’ve, I should’ve. I didn’t. I’m going to regret that one little thing for the rest of my goddamn life.

Christ, Meyer. Lol

If only you knew this shit, you’d get a good laugh out of it.

I hate things for a reason, you know. A fucking reason. I hate people, I hate school, fucking working…my teeth, my life….there’s just so much shit and I don’t want to deal with any of it. Why can’t it just be alright sometimes…why can’t you just run away with me? Do you see why I hate this so much…what is the point of staying if people hate you….

I’m tired. Really, really tired.

Yeah, pretty much, I hate everything. I hate my mother. I hate my boyfriend. I hate pieces of myself. I hate my fat, it’s terrible. I bet you it hates me too. I hate my teeth. I know they hate me because half of them aren’t even there anymore. I hate just living, breathing, fucking cellular respiration and all that crap. It’s all just crap. Names, dates, people, crap, crap, crap. I can’t spend two seconds of my life re-evaluating my own crappy existence without some blaring through my non-existent French doors that barely close, ever (I live in a fucking closet), “Are you gonna go?” I’ll go on my own time, when I’d done with being sad and weeping and hating, I’ll go when I feel inclined to go, I’ll go when I’m already considerably late, but no, I will not go because you’ve asked me to go. I will not do what is good for me because only you know what’s good for me. And, if you tell me I’m old enough to know what’s good for me, I will tell you no. No one knows what is good for them. You are all in denial. And, I hate every single fucking one of you and if I had the chance, I’d a) kill myself so I will no longer have to spend my life looking at you, or b) kill every single one of you and feel quite satisfied with my accomplishments and document the extinct of the human race in a shitty history textbook, c) shit in everyone’s face.

I like that last one.

She’s always, like, how much she isn’t like grandma. She’s the same, and she’s worse. She nags, at least grandma gets the idea and leaves.

Klondike Summer

He sells ice cream, she knows that much, at the street corner by the park. The sun is strong, so he wears a red baseball cap. He is a Mets fan, how will they ever get along? Children, big and small, crowd around him, dollar bills clutched in their hands like their own personal fortunes. He passes a rainbow colored cone to one of the kids.

During the school year, he sits in the back corner of her history class. He doesn’t talk much, but he knows all the answers when Mr. Rubbel calls on him. Who was the first king of England? How long was the Hundred Years War? Explain Wilson’s fourteen points. He knows everything.

So, what does she do? She sits, in her blue summer dress-the one with daisies on it-and

I’m never naming my weird ass stories ever again. I’m really, really, really fucking hungry-but not! Not, at the same time. I’m consumed by and lacking hunger, at the same time.

My heart is about to explode. The little sounds you make over the microphone. I know you but I do. I don’t know what I’m doing with you, but I know. Security, love, contention, peace, I don’t want drama. I want apple pie with a dollop of whipped on top and your hand on my shoulder.

I want to feel your lips, warm and wet, greeting mine. Your big, calloused, scarred hands, your fingers, curling around mine, I want to feel just for a moment used and loved. I want to feel your awkwardly cut hair, the scrape and sound of black, straw like strands, against my forehead in the morning. I want…warmth.

I’m tired. Old. Shrively? Is that a word? Shrivelly?

More member activities!

STOP WITH THE WORM, STOP WITH THE WORM. STOOOOP ITT WITH THE VELVET WORM.

Life hates me, god hates me, god laughs at me, my sports teams never win. No, really, life hates me. I’m too tired to even curse and yell and SCREMA AND FUCK IT WAS FOUR FUCKING POINTS YYOU FUCKIGTN SONS OF BITCHES! POFIUOIR!! FOUR!!!! FUCKING POINTS!!!!!! You let me win Monopoly, but you can’t like Kurt Warner win the damn Super Bowl? YOU FUCKING PIECE OF NEGRO SHIT YOU!

I’m racist. And, I’m angry. Larry Fitzgerald you have my sympathies and my love. I’ll add the Cardinals to my small, growing, list of sports teams that never win. I’ll start watching hockey. I will. And they won’t win either.

Ketchup Mustard
Salt Pepper
Sour Cream Onion
Fish Chips
Peanut Butter Jelly
Mac Cheese
Cereal Milk
Cookies Cream
Mint Chocolate Chip
Tortilla Chips Dip
Nachos Cheese
Peas Carrots
Cheeseburgers Fries
Pancakes Syrup
Meat Potato
Sushi Wasabi
Noodles Soup
Gin Tonic
Spaghetti Meatballs
Martini Olives
Sandwich Pickles
Chickpeas Lentil
Cumin Coriander
Ice Cream Soda
Hotdog Bun
Buffalo Wings Blue Cheese
Vinegar Olive Oil
Lemon Chicken
Beef Broccoli
Bacon Egg
Mashed Potatoes Gravy
Popcorn Butter
Crepes Nutella
Turkey Cranberry
Bread Butter
Rice Beans
Apples Oranges
Pasta Sauce
Lettuce Tomato
Aeronautics

I’m over the Cardinals. There’s always next year. I really hope I don’t fail English. I hope it’ll be okay. I’m no longer going to think about it. Alright. Shut up. STOP. STOP. OKAY. SHHHH.

O-o;

I wonder what it says about music when Pandora plops Nickelback next to Avril Lavigne.

Swallowing hurts.

I’m sick at heart, as always. Hormones suck.
You know, when I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut. Generically childish, but, hell, it seemed wonderful at the time. It gave me a strange sort of thrill, a shiver down my spine, to think about reaching out and feeling the cool, black marble of space against my palm. A strange sort of thrill to imagine nebulae, dressed in wispy, diaphanous robes of stars, a strange sort of thrill to realize that space is empty, that space is big, that space is a never-ending void where the light of my tiny planet Earth goes to die, where the light of my tiny planet Earth is reborn anew, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, in the colors of another world. I’d cut the cable anchoring me and drift and drift and drift, past the valleys and mountains of the cosmos, past the milky lakes of galaxy, past the dying dwarfs and the supernovas. Space would be my grave and silence, my requiem.

It’s nice to be a kid because you’re allowed these kinds of dreams. You’re allowed to sit with your mouth half open, staring at something. You’re allowed a canvas and some paint, your creativity and your imagination, you’re allowed all of these things like you’re allowed toy trucks and Barbie’s. But, once you get to that age, that age when people start thinking you’re retarded because you sit with your mouth open (and draw with crayons), the dreams stop. And, also because there are no stars in Manhattan, there are only helicopters. Dreams are little kid stuff, when you grow up, you have to deal with grown up stuff, like doing the dishes, taking out the garbage, learning how to drive, learning how to cook, learning how to do your own taxes (someone forgot learning how to learn, a small task most people seem desperately incapable of understanding), but most importantly, learning how to run the rat race. There are no dreams in Manhattan, only Lexington Avenue stretching south to the tip of the island. Concrete would be my grave and the closing bell, well, it’d be the closing bell.

On yet another childish note, dark chocolate is only dark, according to the Europeans, if the chocolate contains 35% cacao solids. According to the Americans, who have no real standard for such things, dark chocolate needs only to contain 15% chocolate liquor to maintain sufficient darkness. The real question: Is my American Dream…dark? When you stop running the race, what do you taste? White chocolate-a misnomer if I ever saw one because the thing contains no cacao whatsoever? Or, just pure cacao powder, bitter and raw-the kind of stuff that smacks you a couple times to make sure you’re tuned in to the proper episode of Life? Or, am I just talking about something completely pointless?

I mean, when you’re reading something like Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener, its like life just handed you lemons and insisted, if not pleaded, for you to make lemonade. All right, I make the lemonade. The little voice inside my head can’t help but quip every two or three seconds, “Look! Look! He wrote Moby Dick! He’s gotta have a point! Something real deep and philosophical! Look! Look!” So, I look. The thing about classics (and, by default, the people who write those things) is they’re expected to have a point. They’re supposed to teach you something nice and important and warm, to fuel the intense flames of your imagination, to keep you going at night when you’re down and out (though, really, ice cream does the same thing). Why else would you have them? Entertainment? A thousand page tome on the finicky details of Victorian courtship? Say hello to my trash can. And, when you read a classic, you’re expected to get something out of it. You’re expected to take away with you this wonderful understanding of something new. You’re expected to enlightened! But, what if I’m confused? Or, bored? Or, just plain don’t care. Am I any dumber than someone who enjoyed Pride and Prejudice? Am I any less worthy than someone who loved The Great Gatsby? Am I just a kid, sitting my mouth open, if I couldn’t even get through The Great Gatsby because life demanded my attention elsewhere? Well, Life, thank you for the lemons. I’m going to enjoy my lemonade, without the added sugar.

Reading a classic like Bartleby the Scrivener, for example, is just like living the American dream. Examine, for a moment, the conditions under which I found my copy of Bartleby the Scrivener. It was Halloween, of the year Two Thousand and Eight and people down the hall were singing the Village People. I’m late as usual, hardly unexpected. In an attempt to get into the Halloween spirit, I’ve somehow bothered to waste my time and squeeze myself into a costume. Upon arriving on the sixth floor of the pasty colored building that is my high school (high school really ought to be a synonym for hell) and waddled down the hall to the last room before the Hudson Staircase, I was greeted by Mr. Murray (whose name I’m quite sure I’m spelling wrong)! What a vision he was indeed, a number 2 pencil in hand and the attendance sheet in the other, in the place of my usual English teacher. Dressed, as usual, in non-descript sweater and pants, Mr. Murray beckoned me towards a seat, with what curiosity I took my seat. Immediately I was told to grab a hideously red book off a cart. What I’ve never truly understood about books in the public school system is that they all come in this awful, smelly, deteriorating form. The actual cover design of the book is shrunken about an inch on all sides and printed in the middle, with bright and often disagreeably colored border. And, on the back, in large, black Serif print exists a blurb of, usually, irrelevant information. The pages are brown and smelly and awful to the touch. In my copy of the book, all some thirty odd pages of Bartleby the Scrivener were happily detached from the actual binding, making for a handy portal addition of larger, already portable object. I thought it was quite charming. Then, I proceeded not to read it until class the next week.

If a classic is classic and should be taken seriously, why in the name of god did it arrive in my hands in such conditions? If the American dream is a dream of striking it rich, a dream of rising from the quagmire and cesspool of anonymous oblivion, a dream shared by men like Gatsy, shared by men like Bartleby, why is it nothing more than just a nightmare? Examine, for a moment, the conditions under which I found that my life had no meaning, in possibly all too metaphysical sense. I was sitting at a computer, some years ago, though not that many years ago because I haven’t lived many years to begin with. It suddenly occurred to me, as I ogled at why it was that computers worked, that I’ll never be able to find an answer. And, yes, I know, there are people out there who know how computers work. But, rather, the question is, why computers work? Why do I work? Why does my heart beat? Why do I write essays? Why do I even fit in the proper scope of the world? Why can’t I say, “I prefer not to,” and just not do something? The simple answer, and the short answer, is that I’ll end up like Bartleby, I’ll end up dead.

The amount of trouble I’m having with an English essay really just makes me wonder where the hell authors get their inspiration. Do they just plop down next to their typewriters and word processors and let their fingers run wild? And Melville said, “Let there be Moby Dick!” And, born was another classic, one to toss into the flames of high school English curriculums, one to fuel centuries of imaginations. Christ, Moby Dick was about a whale and Bartleby the Scrivener was about a scrivener.

The world isn’t a patient place. It rushes people, rushes people into things they don’t like and never wanted to do. It makes people write essays for class at four in the morning. No one likes that.

This essay isn’t fun. The American dream isn’t fun. It’s a relic of the past.

The back of my head is itchy, it’s persistent and annoying and I’ve been scratching at it for a while.

Bartleby, the Scrivener, quit life. Slowly but surely, he steps out of the world of the living and into the world of the dead. However, the world is an impatient and rather pragmatic creature, eventually leaving Bartleby behind in his resignation. Only on an act of charity, and possible nuisance, does his employer, an unnamed lawyer, come to retrieve him, to attempt to coax him out of his grave. In his simple minded ignorance, the lawyer fails to provide Bartleby with the simplest of all charities, understanding and sympathy. Instead, he showers upon Bartleby more values of the material world Bartleby so aptly abandons, illustrating the fatal flaw of the American dream. Thus, Bartleby succumbs to life and is granted the ultimate sanctuary of death.

In one of the last exchanges between Bartleby and the lawyer, Bartleby declares that the job of a sales clerk is too confining. To which the lawyer replies, “‘Too much confinement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself confined all the time!'” To these two different men, the word ‘confinement’ held different meanings. To Bartleby, perhaps the word takes on a much deeper, more metaphysical sense. He speaks not of the physical confinement that the lawyer remarks of, but to the inner confinement of a sales clerk, the repetition and the boredom of doing the same thing over and over again. What for Bartleby is an essential freedom is but a trivial absurdity to the lawyer.

The exchange continues: Bartleby remains adamant to stay as he currently is, preferably stationary. This enrages the lawyer, “‘Stationary you shall be then,” I cried, now losing all patience, and for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly flying into a passion. “If you do not go away from these premises before night, I shall feel bound-indeed I am bound-to-to-to quit the premises myself!'” The world, obviously, being such that it is, has no place for a useless man. The lawyer attempts to either grant Bartleby a form of obsolete charity to console himself, or attempts to bypass this obstacle in the course of his life, like a stream bending around a huge bolder. What he does not understand, a fact that Bartleby never articulates, is the intense monotony of what he is rushing forward to greet. Bartleby’s strangeness is but a tired and weary defiance, a quiet anger, at the world that had neither shown him mercy, nor patience, but has only instead robbed him of his will to live. No form of charity will mend this hopelessness.

The last paragraph of the short story adds one essential piece to the Bartleby mystery: Bartleby’s previous station of work as a Dead Letters clerk. Dead letters, aside from having a potent connotation, as Melville writes, are “on errands of life, these letters speed to death.” Humanity, in an attempt to escape death, only rushes towards it, only rushes head first in the furnace of an unending hell. Bartleby realizes the futility of this American nightmare and simply kicks his own bucket. He did not quit his job at the Dead Letters Office, rather, he was removed. Adding to his place more despair and hopelessness that eventually drove him over the edge. The American dream is not a dream, it is a nightmare, a nightmare sugar coated for the unsuspecting that flock century after century to that golden door. What waits beyond those sacred doors save for a Bartleby ending? Perhaps not everyone is prone to “pallid hopelessness”, but everyone is prone to the relentless grind of life. The American dream is a poison for the world, opium for the capitalist masses. There is no cure, for “he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities.”

Though I am not prone to any sort of hopelessness, I often wonder whether or not it’d be worth it to join Bartleby in his preferential resignation. Shall I not prefer to write this essay? Shall I prefer not to live? Shall I quit life? How tempting an idea it is to drop everything, to stop typing, to cease to care about everything, and just sit silently upon a banister. Sadly, I’m kept running this rat race by a pesky instinct called survive. Against my own volition, I’m kept swimming against the tide by nothing but a preference to live. Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!

I want to cry sometimes, but I can’t. And, there’s a feeling, a little latch of feeling that comes up, creeps up and fills your entire body. It hurts and it’s strange. It’s like loneliness mixed in with sadness, with anxiety, like a cocktail of feelings without the alcohol, just raw bitterness. It’s sharp and tangy and wet and it tastes a little like a piece of me dying on the inside. No one knows, no one cares. Everyone’s too caught up with there crap. Garfinkel stuffing his face with a plate of food coming up from the fifth floor. Katerina and her weird vaginal cramping during SING practice. Jeffrey, how much I love Jeffrey, and his non-descript grunts over the phone…

If feels like the world’s abandoned me, or, in another sense, I’ve abandoned it.

I want to make up. But I don’t.

I’m scared. But I’m not.

What am I then?

Hurt? No, not even. Apathetically depressed about everything.

Is being content really that bad, so I need drama? Do I need happiness, do I need anything but you? I want to cry, to grab you, turn you around, bury my face in your chest and hide. But, you don’t love me anymore. Not the same, anymore, you’re distracted, distant, elsewhere. You need to sleep, you need to work. You need your life and you don’t have time for me anymore. Go, please. Go. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure you don’t worry about me. Forget about me. Forget about it. I want to end it, but I can’t because I’m still clinging to some sort of hope that it won’t end. Please. Don’t go.

He hasn’t called back. He hasn’t messaged me. It’s quiet and the quiet is eating away at me.

There’s a hole in my sock. I’m in my winter jacket, the periwinkle one that made Ehtesh look like a woman from the back. The periwinkle one with the dirty sleeves that’ll never wash out, browned and oil stained. The hole is strangling my big toe, I can feel where the edge of the fabric digs into flesh each time I move. There’s a hole in my pink sock, stained black and blue by my trousers, my shoes, the dirt on my floor, in the gym, perfumed by the pungent smell of my feet.

I can’t help it. Shut up.

I enjoy being tormented like this, all the time, all the time. I miss the pain, gathered up like a little ball, a rubber band ball of my problems, in the center of my chest. Like Iron Man’s heart reactor. If someone said that three years from now, you’d be long gone, I’d stand up and punch them out.

Come back. I love you. You bought me all these things, all the little Pooh’s, everything, come back. STOP UNDERLINING SHIT IN RED. FUCK OFF WORD. Damn everything. And the fucking capitalization.

I can’t get my toe out of that hole if I don’t use my hand. Damn. He’s not responding. I’m worried? Or, just lonely?

Assignments over Break….

Math – don’t know…

AP Euro – DBQ

English – modern adaptation of Misanthrope

Drafting – 1x1x1 box in 2x2x2 glass, lettering

Chemistry – none, sweet.

AP Physics – two labs
Mandarin – 200 word essay

Just so I don’t forget…