Essay daily

Essay daily

I want to never let them mold or rot. This is my theory: I am the one who is at risk of Infinite Regress. Essay daily everything in this world has cause and significance. Instead of a hole for my thumb there is a beetle shining green with apples of red on its thorax, essay daily painted like a chestnut with a horned projection emerging from its face, a periwinkle blue that reminds me of a chip of sea glass, a long, black string of a beetle that ends in a crossbow, a zebra-striped beetle with long antennae that curve like a sad face, one that is more pin than beetle, essay daily, and a little brown one that looks like a caterpillar-eaten leaf suspended from a pin with a few strings, essay daily. Essay daily Thousand Plateaus told me a body was not defined by form nor by substance, but by affects and local movements, differential speeds. The beetle was warm now, as warm as it had been when alive.

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Post a Comment, essay daily. Wednesday, November 20, Antonio Pigafetta's First Voyage Around the World: A Travelogue. On September 8,the crew of the Victoria cast essay daily in the waters off of Seville, Spain, having just completed the first circumnavigation of the world. On board was Antonio Pigafetta, essay daily, a young Italian nobleman who had joined the expedition three years before, and served as an assistant to Ferdinand Magellan en route to the Molucca Islands. Magellan was dead. The rest of the fleet was gone: the Santiago shipwrecked, the San Antonio overtaken, essay daily, the Concepcion essay daily and the Trinidad abandoned. Of the sailors who departed from Seville, eighteen returned on the Victoria.

Pigafetta had managed to survive, along with his journal—notes that detailed the discovery of the western route to the Moluccas. Essay daily along the way, new land, new peoples: on the far side of the Pacific, the fleet had stumbled across the Marianas archipelago, and some three hundred leagues further west, the Philippines. According to scholar Theodore Cachey Jr. First VoyageCachey points out, is intent on marveling at what it encounters—and therein lies much of its appeal. It is a work that is intent on wonder.

On astonishment. In travel writing, one often must recreate the first moment of newness, that fresh sense of awe, on the page for the reader; Pigafetta does it again and again, by reveling in odd and odder bits of detail. We watch Pigafetta wonder at trees in Borneo whose leaves appear to walk around once shed, leaves that "have no blood, but if one touches them they run away. I kept essay daily of them for nine days in a box. When I opened the box, that leaf went round and round it. I believe those leaves live on nothing but air. We marvel, in the Philippines, at sea snails capable of felling whales, by feeding on their hearts once ingested On a stop in Brazil, we see an infinite number of parrots, monkeys that look like essay daily, and "swine that have their navels on their backs, and large birds with beaks like spoons and no tongues" And yet, essay daily, the very newness that can give travel writing so much of its power creates problems of its own.

For the travel writer there is, on the one hand, the authority of his or her observational eye, essay daily, and on the other, the call for humility in confronting the essay daily. Pigafetta, encountering a new people, tries to earn his authority through a barrage of detail. He attempts to reconstruct their essay daily for us--what they look like, where they live, what they eat, what they say--he gives us pages and pages of words, from Patagonia, from Cebu, from Tidore. But there is little humility, and one can hardly expect there to be so, not early in sixteenth century, a few decades after the Essay daily had divided the unchartered world between Spain and Portugal,and certainly not on this expedition, essay daily, where Magellan and his partners have been promised, essay daily, in a contract agreement with the Spanish monarchy, the titles of Lieutenants and Governors over the lands they discover, for essay daily and their heirs, in perpetuity.

And cash sums. In First Voyage is great gulf between what Pigafetta sees and what Pigafetta knows. I grew up, in the Marianas, hearing about this gulf. It is part of why travel writing can be so fraught for me now. On reaching the Marianas after nearly four months at sea with no new provisions,"The captain-general wished to stop at the large island and get some fresh food, but he was unable to do so because the inhabitants of that island entered essay daily ships and stole whatever they could lay their hands on, in such a manner that we could not defend ourselves. The essay daily did not understand that this was custom, that essay daily the islanders, property was communal and visitors were expected to share what they had.

So in that first moment of contact, Magellan and his starving crew retaliated. They went ashore and burned, by Pigafetta's account, forty to fifty houses, essay daily. They killed seven men. The name would stick for the next three hundred years, long after the islands were absorbed into the Spanish empire. The name, the essay daily, condemnatory stroke of it, has long been anchored to my past, essay daily, to those old history lessons. There is no feeling in it but rage. So I was surprised to see, in Pigafetta's text, the sailors moved to compassion.

They seem to understand, in that moment of astonishment, that the islanders are defenseless against the unknown. From the Marianas, the fleet moved on to the Philippines. They linger there, exploring the land, exchanging gifts with the chiefs, observing the people. And I know what's coming for the people; I know that we're seeing, through Pigafetta, essay daily, the hush of a world just before it changes, wholly and entirely. And there is Pigafetta, marveling, at the coconuts and the bananas and the naked, beautiful people. It's happening even now in the text, as the Filipino pilots are captured to direct the way to the Moluccas, the way to the spices. There is Pigafetta, roaming and cataloging and recording, caught up in the first flush essay daily a new world, and as I read I can start to hear my father describing his country, wondering at it, my father traveling as a young man up and down Luzon, across the sea to the Visayas, across the sea to Mindanao.

I can hear the ardor and the sadness and the terror and the delight. I can hear the wonder. I can feel the pulse to move. I suppose this is what great travel writing gives us: a way to wholly enter a moment, a feeling, a body. A way to be changed. I can be my father, marveling at his country, our country, transformed by its vast expanse. I can be Pigafetta, on the deck of the Trinidadessay daily to write from shock and wonder. And I can be the woman on a boat in the Marianas, crying out of love for the dead. Sources: Pigafetta, essay daily, Antonio. Theodore J, essay daily. Cachey, Jr. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, essay daily, History of Micronesia: A Collection of Source Documents.

Rodrigue Levesque. Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press, Rogers, essay daily, Robert. Posted by Bernice at AM Email This BlogThis! Share to Twitter Share to Facebook Share to Pinterest, essay daily. No comments:. Newer Post Older Post Home. Subscribe to: Post Comments Atom.

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Magellan was dead. The rest of the fleet was gone: the Santiago shipwrecked, the San Antonio overtaken, the Concepcion burned and the Trinidad abandoned. Of the sailors who departed from Seville, eighteen returned on the Victoria. Pigafetta had managed to survive, along with his journal—notes that detailed the discovery of the western route to the Moluccas. And along the way, new land, new peoples: on the far side of the Pacific, the fleet had stumbled across the Marianas archipelago, and some three hundred leagues further west, the Philippines. According to scholar Theodore Cachey Jr.

First Voyage , Cachey points out, is intent on marveling at what it encounters—and therein lies much of its appeal. It is a work that is intent on wonder. On astonishment. In travel writing, one often must recreate the first moment of newness, that fresh sense of awe, on the page for the reader; Pigafetta does it again and again, by reveling in odd and odder bits of detail. We watch Pigafetta wonder at trees in Borneo whose leaves appear to walk around once shed, leaves that "have no blood, but if one touches them they run away. I kept one of them for nine days in a box. When I opened the box, that leaf went round and round it. I believe those leaves live on nothing but air. We marvel, in the Philippines, at sea snails capable of felling whales, by feeding on their hearts once ingested On a stop in Brazil, we see an infinite number of parrots, monkeys that look like lions, and "swine that have their navels on their backs, and large birds with beaks like spoons and no tongues" And yet, the very newness that can give travel writing so much of its power creates problems of its own.

For the travel writer there is, on the one hand, the authority of his or her observational eye, and on the other, the call for humility in confronting the unknown. Pigafetta, encountering a new people, tries to earn his authority through a barrage of detail. He attempts to reconstruct their world for us--what they look like, where they live, what they eat, what they say--he gives us pages and pages of words, from Patagonia, from Cebu, from Tidore. But there is little humility, and one can hardly expect there to be so, not early in sixteenth century, a few decades after the Pope had divided the unchartered world between Spain and Portugal,and certainly not on this expedition, where Magellan and his partners have been promised, in a contract agreement with the Spanish monarchy, the titles of Lieutenants and Governors over the lands they discover, for themselves and their heirs, in perpetuity.

And cash sums. If I am enamored by the tools of mathematical proof, then I am enamored enough to believe that these tools are capable of withstanding my bastardization of them. If I can trust myself to bastardize the proof, then I am willing to trust my bastardization of the axiom, too. As in, I can call the symbols meaningless and the truth will persist, I can destroy the image but not the object, I can distrust the blueprint but the foundation will remain intact. And if I can accept my incomplete trust in the axioms, then I can accept that each proof is proof as prayer. Either Pitkin can find no way back to her brother, who is enamored by the tools of war, or else his body is still somehow separate…from the war itself, thus furnishing a promise of his eventual return.

The law of excluded middle ensures that one and only one of these two possibilities will occur, but it offers no prediction one way or the other. It is up to whoever creates the system to assert these truths that are not provable. The original proof is infamously challenging to decipher, riddled with arcane logical symbols that render it incoherent to amateurs. If I plan to keep my understanding this limited, I can continue to extravagantly misuse the incompleteness theorem whenever I reach an impasse in my faith. But I know this much: that after he proved the incompleteness theorem in , Kurt Gödel became intoxicated with, or tortured by, the idea that there existed truths beyond the scope of his life.

He quaked at the possibility that the intricate network of human minds and relationships were extinguished after death. After that summer, we moved back in together. Predicate Calculus: An axiomatic form of predicate logic in which formulas contain variables which can be quantified. It is not a guarantee that there exists a higher power who will proofread all my unprovable proofs. But if I mean well and try hard, does it matter that I am occasionally inconsistent? This is, at times, a heartbreaking riddle. Martha Strawbridge is a writer living in Iowa City, where she is a rhetoric instructor and MFA candidate in the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa. Posted by Ander at AM No comments: Email This BlogThis!

Share to Twitter Share to Facebook Share to Pinterest. Labels: octave Friday, December 31, The Christmas Octave: LOGAN NAYLOR, My Stolen Property. MY STOLEN PROPERTY. I know you know this, and that I should too, but it only really occurred to me now, occurred to me in the way one might start to think harder about process. Something you might realize when confronted with the image of a shrunken head being filled with hot sand, and simmered down to the size of an orange. A real, human head, made empty rubber glove, with only the hair kept exactly the same. You cannot shrink hair, cannot empty its shaft, its natural shape, but you can preserve it. And what I mean about my epiphany concerning dismemberment is that it's obvious. I was once, every day for years. It started on one of my nine-year-old-days, in a gift shop.

I dug my fist into a wooden bucket full of severed rabbit limbs, and how morbid really, I know, you know, but I was intoxicated with the thought of slipping the one that felt the most alive into my pocket. That felt important. I was on a fifth-grade field trip, a war reenactment. War and death felt far in our imitation. I was hung up on a boy, who would later be a girl, once I was a boy, but right then we were all mixed up, and in line, waiting to be handed a long stick to be slung over our shoulders like a gun. Let someone preserve me as I was then, that first day, ignorant, innocent, at my most beautiful, and overcome by another.

Let me never know the jagged bone that lay beneath a keychain cap. My boyfriend and I were stuck five people apart right then, so we pulled up the grass and sank into our heads. The five people between us passed me a moonstone: From boy, with love. A however -many-weeks-of-nine-year-old-dating sort of gift, a stone tumbled smooth and oval, a divot for my thumb. I clutched it in my hand while we charged the other kids with stick-guns and hid behind rocks. I held my thumb to that shallow, worry stone place. The part that made room for me, was cold and ungiving once but warmed under my skin, seemed to have pressed away and held hands with me.

Afterwards, we got rations. Cornbread and apples and beef jerky. The food tasted something like the sweat against the stone in my hand. And I was still holding it in the gift shop, of course. Palm sweating on the moon rock was vital to stealing the rabbit foot. It gave me purpose and confidence. I carried both the stone and the foot with me for a long time after. I was lured to the small thing that could shapeshift and that was all. I stole Littlest Pet Shop characters from my cousin's house. There was an elaborate scheme involving a small Yoda figurine. I harbored glass elephants from my grandmother.

Stole small, clay bumblebees once, but it began to shift beyond plastic. Maybe it started with the seed pods of our mulberry tree. They were soft and green. They had guts. I guess you could put it that way if you want. You could also say these things required me to lie. That I was fixated on things that asked me to fight for the way they might live on. They were so real already that immediately they became a portal to a world of fabricated, shallow breathing, even if I felt like I could force that feeling into anything at all. Something I allowed myself to take out of my shoe box, and fawn over in secret.

It was too alive to fool with. It was a token I needed to clutch close to me as I moved through the world, searching for new trinkets to breathe life into, all while parting the long tufts of fur to find the real nails still beneath. I would sometimes press it to my cheek and lie there, dreaming of the rabbit. Thinking about its origin in a guarded way that hid parts of itself from me. There are procedural necessities to make it the lucky kind. The left, hind foot. Killed in a cemetery, during an intentional day. A friday. A rainstorm. A holiday. At midnight. This is what makes it lucky. It seems self explanatory that the foot just comes off. Garden shears should do the trick. Nothing more intensive. Just the way fingers can be snapped with teeth, the force it takes to bite a baby carrot and nothing more.

Soaking it in a jar of isopropyl alcohol. Rinse and repeat. Add borax. Shampooing it. Drying it in the sun. Clipping the jagged end into a keychain, hiding fragments of bones and blood stain. Making death smooth and tidy. And still: mostly simple. I was close to this transition once, from life to death. I was eleven, and my infatuation with rabbits growing. I caught a baby rabbit, mid air in the backyard. It was young and slow and away from the nest too soon. Something that needed its mother and had a different kind of trust, timid but still growing into fear. I held it in my lap on our couch, feeling its heart beat beneath my palms, until it spasmed a few times, and I said, calm down, calm down, I got you.

All at once it was too still, as if I had commanded it. It felt wrong that I could touch the fur without resistance. I was left with shame, staring into glassy eyes that watched me feel for its beating heart. It took only seconds for small bugs to leave its skin. They all came up at once, fleas or mites, searching for new warmth, understanding the end, finding the next planet to inhabit. Sweaty fear ate at my own skin. I knew what the bugs knew. We knew it together and started a desperate search to exit and continue. I took it to the yard still trying to confuse lifelessness with sleep. Coyotes carried it away within the hour, tossing it back into their jaws, feeding it to their own pups, holding bugs close inside their coats, bugs that still fed on their lasting warmth.

If the fur, when it cools, loses something more than just bugs. Fur as memory. Make believe. Cupping small, fur pelts in my hands and trying to make wonder appear. A segment kept perfect. Even toes, even toes. Something miniaturized and kept going. A shrunken head given to a widow, and still, someday, eaten by a mouse like jerky. Passive and still, chewable, yet a kind of life carrying on. I want to preserve the rabbit I scared to death, but I am also glad that the coyotes left me with nothing. I want to preserve the first pet rabbit I lost, whose body I watched drop from the jaws of the neighbor's dog, but I am squeamish and unable. The dog made a graveyard of our home.

It was on a cold Friday, late into the night. The dog ran up to me, licked ketchup from my laces and left my rabbit dying in the grass, and I could have done it. But I never would have been able to soak the life away in a jar, or use the garden shears, or patch it up with a keychain bandaid. A month later, a raccoon dug up his body. He did a half-assed job moving the headstone, making the flies swarm from their holes under the plywood. He left without finishing the grave robbing. Just disturbed everything enough to force me to confront it.

I had to move him. He was still in my T-shirt where I had left him. He smelled. I thought even then that I wanted a memento. His teeth. His skull. But his body was heavier than I expected it to be. I knew under the cotton I had wrapped him in there would be maggots and leftovers. That I had once held his body until it went cold, and then stiff, and only then did I forget to feel kind through my crying. I was disquieted by the stiffness that took over. I wanted to let go. Somehow a dismembered fragment felt like a way to surpass this fear, as if I could distill softness by keeping a paw to hold, as if that would work to soothe the loss better than the awkward stiffness of the thing I could not keep.

The morning after he was killed, I traced the yard for clues of his path. How many laps had he run before the dog caught him? All I found to calculate it were a few wisps of fur, looped around blades of grass. I picked them up and stuffed them into a mason jar where they have stayed since. But I could never reach into the shirt and look for something more. Something I would have to dissect and make clean. When the raccoon forced me to resurface the body, I patched it up with a deeper grave. I put the headstone back. I left that part of my brain there in the yard. Forgetting still, choosing to forget, that memento involves killing and skinning. I like to be left with neatness. I want to preserve without process.

I want to never let them mold or rot. Promise me there is nothing beneath the keychain cap. Tell me there are some things that always live like this. Just like this. Logan Naylor writes and teaches at the University of Iowa. They live in Iowa City with their partner, two cats, one gecko, three rats, and twenty-nine houseplants. They are, unfortunately, running out of space for new pets. Thursday, December 30, The Christmas Octave: AARON PANG, Code. Code is meaningless. At least the name is. Ask any non-practitioner of code to describe it and odds are you will get a description closer to that of magic than that of science.

Yet even with no clear definition, the modulated, hyphenated, coloned, parenthesized, functional, bracketed, camelCased, variable, compiled, classed, factored, and refactored strings of text that makeup code means something. We coders, the writers of code, like us writers, the writers of word, all know that to be true. That the meaning made through its writing is significant, even if the meaning is not explicitly defined. That undefined possibility is what lends this material, code, its power. If plastic is the physical embodiment of motion, then code is the digital embodiment of thought. Code is the dissection of reasoning, of logic, of cause and effect. It breaks down a thought into ideas, and those ideas into conditions, processes, and cases.

This digestion of thought continues until the comprehensible becomes incomprehensible. And it is on these motes of incomprehensibility, code, that we have built our entire digital world. Software engineers sit at supercomputers the size of spiral bound notebooks, writing line after line of code in integrated development environments. Line after line are compiled into applications running on operating systems, executing commands that have been converted into machine language readable only by the hardware. There is an endless conversion happening, an unceasing program to codify. It is done by us, all of us companies, coders, non-coders, your distant aunt on Facebook.

Some of the conversions are easy. Other conversions are harder, like capturing who we are as people. Yet, we still try. Databases fill with approximations of who we are. It is an incomplete facsimile. But this digital facsimile is becoming less and less a facsimile. Instead it has become a truth in and of itself. Take the historical transmutation of code. There are little remnants of its original form. The evolutionary path between the IBM punch cards and the Java IDE is not obvious. Vacuum tubes no longer fit inside our smartphones. The physical space taken by the original computers have now given way to an infinite digital one.

The physical is no longer the determinant of the digital. There is now a bidirectional relationship between the physical and the digital. The two realms now dictate each other. If your account balance reads zero on the screen, there is no physical way to correct it. You can stuff wrinkled bills into an envelope and throw it at a teller, but until those pixels change, until the code is executed, you still have zero. How the zero becomes anything else no one really knows. Some can make an educated guess. This is the incomprehensibility that exists with code. The lay person has no real ability to interact with it. At least with plastic you can break it with a hammer. No physical force can stop code in its modern day manifestation. It executes with no regard. It is an untouchable material.

There will always be a gap between the finger and the button it presses. The gap between the finger and the button is the gap between the intent of the click and the code executed. When clicked, the code in the function runs. The function is an infinite space within another infinite space. A footnote in a book that is a book within itself. The button is not limited to one action regardless of intent. With the right code you can launch nuclear weapons while ordering a pizza. All that functionality with just one-click. Yet we continue to push every button we have access to.

Thousands of times a day. We press, click and push these little gateways into the digital world. Each press with an expressed intention. In the morning, you will find lots of peace and a calm environment. My class teacher suggested me to get up early morning. I followed here that suggestion very seriously and that made my day. First of all, I go to the washroom and brush my teeth. I wash my face and wipe the water with a towel. Then I go for a small morning walk. I know the morning walk is very important for good health. Sometimes, I do exercise too. This little workout keeps me strong for the rest of the day.

I come back to home after the walk and get fresh again. I eat my breakfast then. After eating breakfast, I study Math and Science in the morning time. I think morning is the best time to study. I go to school at 9. My father drops me here with his car. And finally, I go home at 4 PM with my mom. She comes to pick me up from school every day. Because it takes almost 20 minutes to go home from school by car. I enjoy school time very much. I eat my breakfast and then I eat my lunch in the school break time. I take my lunch with me. My mother is very aware of my food.

She always cooks something interesting to me. She prefers to cook them for me. I love her cooked Pizza very much. When I go to bed, I think about my entire day. When my school is close and I have lots of spare time, my daily routine becomes a bit different. I add time for video games, playing in the field with friends, and spending more time with my cousins. I love to follow this routine and I am very serious about it. You can follow my routine too. Here is a 10 lines essay on my daily routine. I am sure you will be able to learn these 10 lines essay easily.

A person who follows a good routine can handle his work and time properly. My daily routine is very easy and simple. It helps me to study properly, eat on time, and take care of my health. I get up early in the morning and pray first. My mother always suggests me to pray in the early morning. And then I go for a morning walk. After a 30 minute walk, I come back home and go for a bath and then I eat my breakfast.