“Less is more.”
I’ll give you ten dollars if you’ve never heard that before. In an unfortunate way, the English language falls flat on its face when tripped by this platitude. English speakers are forced to use a phrase or sentence (or furious hand gestures) to describe certain things that other languages already have words for. For example, “Sgiomlaireachd” is Scottish Gaelic for when people interrupt you at a meal. “Shlimazl” is Yiddish for someone who has nothing but bad luck. There’s an amazing list of some more of these foreign linguistic morsels. I know it works both ways, and that the English language probably has a lot of words for things that other languages don’t package into a single word, but these are the ones glaringly obvious to me as a native English speaker.
So here’s one for you, English enthusiasts: I visited Colby again this weekend for the first time in five months — since graduation. And maybe I R IDIOT but I’m struggling to find a word to describe how I felt: 49% like I never went there and 49% like I never left (2% brain/emotion space deleted with hangover). Any ideas?
We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us even in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. – Henry David Thoreau
My toes are cold. Like, verging-on-frostbite cold.
I wake up at the ass crack of dawn to volunteer for the Hartford Marathon. I am a cheer station. Great, my status of existence is demoted from human to “station” – AND I have to wake up early on a Saturday for it? I roll out of bed and get dressed in enough layers to make an eskimo look naked in comparison. I shuffle into my freezing car and head out to Hartford, getting lost at least four times while avoiding police blockades set up along the marathon route. I finally make it to the street I’m supposed to park on. It’s at mile 19 out of 26.2. I set up my TNT sign and gear – cowbells, bam bams, Mardi Gras beads, the works – all while shimmying back and forth between spots on the frost-capped grass where sunlight falls through the tree canopy, in hopes that the rays will warm some life back into the ten ice cubes in my boots. Here I am – Mile 19 Cheer Station – feeling anything but cheery.
And then the first marathoner emerges up the street. In a wheelchair. And a giant smile.
Then the next few marathoners appear behind him and pass by me, wearing inch-long shorts and a skimpy sleeveless racing jersey. Giant smiles included.
Then a group of boys no older than 8 years old (collectively) sprint by, poking each other and laughing as if they’re just merrily trotting about and it’s not 30 degrees and they’re not in t-shirts running mile 19 out of 26.2.
And then a man who looks old enough to disintegrate into ash at any moment passes me with lopsided, pigeon-toed steps. His face is so wrinkled that his eyes have sunken into their sockets, but their brightness belies his age. He flashes me a brilliant, toothy smile as he mouths “thank you” to my cheering and cowbell ringing and trots along, his grin showcasing a sense of purpose verging on ownership.
Suddenly, my toes aren’t so cold anymore.
It’s about the golf balls, guys (note: reading my blog is a golf ball, obviously).
Oh– and coffee, of course. (Which you should get here: my work place, and home to some of the best coffee anyone could find.)
Happy hump day! No, seriously, happy day. Hope you’re tackling it like this guy.
B-A-M-F: all 80 years of him