more knitting revelations

1) A few weeks ago I was at my grandparents learning how to cable knit. I ran my thumb along the raised pattern. My grandmother put on her glasses, attached to a string around her neck, and waved me over to where she was sitting, in the process of knitting a sweater. "Looks good," she nodded. "Yeah, I messed up a couple times though, purled when I should've knit," I bent over and pointed. My grandmother removed her glasses, "Mmmhmm. It happens. The lady at the knit shop reminded me that, to be honest, nobody will notice these little things, so you shouldn't worry about it. They only stick out to you because you made them."

2) After finishing my scarf, I believe I was in Santa Barbara at the time, I was trying to explain to some friends how knitting works. It's all one string (unless you are making a sweater or something and have to sew the arms to the torso, but just ignore that for now) connecting the thousands of knots. That fact reminded me of the Buddhist concept that there is no self, that the only thing that strings our individual lives together on a day-to-day basis is the chain of memories and pain. It's like every day we wake up and are not the same person we were the day before, save for our memories. And it could be seen as bleak, but it could also be seen as a fresh start. Or a really great scarf. Ba dum chhh.

lessons in humility

It's healthy to be reminded of your place in the world, the fact that there are things above and below you in all matters. About two years ago, a fellow showed me one of his "favorite spots", which was simply the farthest point out on the wharf. Being dark out, there was nothing to disturb the surface or the sound of the water. If I stared directly out at the ocean, all dark dark blue and grays of the reflected moon, it felt like I wasn't standing on anything, that the water had swallowed me whole. On all sides I could see the heartbeat of the ocean, sliding steadily and sure and indestructible and silent. And it went in every direction, the same pulse all along the length of the beach as far as I could see. After barely being able to make sense of and stow away this image in its entirety, I remembered that what I was looking at was only the bay, the Monterey Bay, that the entire ocean spread out for thousands of miles past where I could see and unlike the land around me, punctuated and abridged and divided by trees and mountains and rivers, the ocean was one. The pulses I witnessed had traveled the length of its body, and I was simply witnessing the subtle twitch in the wrist of that body. I could feel myself shrinking in relation to the growth of my comprehension of that body of water. Along with it went my worries and my pride.

patrick's job

I currently hold the position of baker at the Spicy Pickle in Licoln Park, and I would like to officially declare the things I have learned in my month of employment there:

-the general weight and size of a 5 ounce ball of bread dough and a 4 ounce ball of cookie dough (I have had at least one dream in which I am chopping up an endless pile of dough, I am covered in flour, and I and weighing the pieces into 5 ounce balls- if I don't get it right I cry)
-that tedious tasks can have beautiful ends
-to trust my eyes
-to follow a recipe for gods sake, it makes things so simple!
-to take time
-that sleep doesn't disappear, it just reappears in new places of the day
-to clean up as I go
-that I can lift large bags of flour and gently measure ounces and cups and tablespoons of salt yeast and durum
-that I can bake in a large pickle costume
-that even if you mistake sugar for salt you can still save yourself; there is always a way to work it out so it won't happen again, there is always someone you can call.
-a trade, I have learned the basics of a craft, a skill set that brings people what can be considered a necessity; something that involves labor and mental capacity, and using my hands to create a gratifying and tangible result. I am able to take home a few of my rolls and have a reminder of my accomplishments, I can feed myself to a degree with what I do.

elements of the good days

I just came back from back from a mighty fine show at the Fun House tonight. I was condensing it into something more manageable while on my ride home. Here is what happened to come out of it.

what a joyful sound

He dances like 5 pine planks painted black and nailed together;
And another, he moves like those plug-in Santas that light up and jingle bell boogie.
Heads and arms are spinning like Saturn rings, their finger tips are many moons;
I dance like a lazy donkey, ears floppy and booted hoof so lightly stomping.

She dances like a three quarter full pitcher of lemonade perspiring
On a wobbly end-table, a July evening, before the lightning bugs are shining.
And everybody moves, but it will not be like me and it will not be like you-
Everybody moves but it has to be different if you want it to be true.




---------

Patrick amasses some recent little revelations

- People drive over speed bumps in different ways and at different speeds, and I like to pretend that that is the way they approach events in their life.
-I miss my best friend much more than I could have imagined, and it is only deepened by the fact that I can't contact her in any way. But then again I know when I see her it will be a(these are the only words I can possibly think to describe it)golden jubilee.
-The strange aphorisms of Frances Caroline Waldear make me giggle and are rarely understood by people who do not see them come out her mouth. Ask her for her opinion if you see her, it will be one of the best you have ever heard. If you live in Chicago I suggest you ask Martha Lein, she has been on a roll recently (who am I kidding Martha is always on a roll).
-If I could choose anything to remember most clearly from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs show, it how RoRo's eyes looked everytime they played and old song.
-Stewing in your own sweaty discomfort, both physically and mental, doesn't always bring you comfort. Sometimes you just end up over ripened and sad.
- When I open myself up to the world, I feel like a milk bottle pyrimd at a carnival. Some people are able to knock me down better than others, but but there is always a chance that they will miss. And even if I do get hit I rarely am knocked over completely. And even if they win, at least they get a prize. It also allows me to see people who try to knock me down as bloated from cotton candy and chili con carne. Thats my prize.

Patrick has a new mantra

No one asks to be born- but that doesn't mean you have to hate that you are here.

You can be like yourself just with a new pair of sunglasses, you can be yourself with just a touch of someone else.

Have you ever performed an action you would never associate with your character (in fact it is some action that you associate with someone else entirely) and you realize it only after its done, making you smile and laugh a little to yourself. To condense that: have you ever done something you don't do, that someone else does, and liked it. If you couldn't tell, that was the gist of my thursday morning, I became for a brief stretch of time, Jeff Gill.

Jeff Gill is my brother. He is my rock of Gibraltar while being the bane of my existence, he is the ringing in my ear when something I am wearing is too loud and sometimes a philosopher king; but all metaphors aside, Jeff Gill is my brother. I love him dearly. And I could not be alive and well without my brother in my life. So when I woke up, on a day where my work was canceled, I refilled the coffee maker with dark, fair trade, coffee and some cheap espresso powder I bought at Aldi . It was just like getting ready any other day, but without the pressure of leaving. I then had a taste in my mouth for something nostalgic but new. I had time to kill. I remembered I had always wanted to get into the band X, the southern California punk icons who have delivered a continual onslaught of sonic glory on the world for decades. So I went to youtube and shamelessly listened to their live stuff (youtube is a good point of reference, when discovering new bands, and judging me is stupid because I judge myself so much already); X is everything I wanted in a solid and beautiful punk band(steady speed, angsty but not trite, no instrument overshadowing another, and the plus point of a good female vocalist). I then made a Pandora station of them, I was then lost in wonder. The Ramones and the Clash came on, the Decedents, the Jam, the Misfits,and the Dead Kennedys whipped through too. I even got Video Romeo and Siouxse and the Banshees. And X would come up over and over again, bringing to my table what I had been missing for years. My coffeemaker was soon sputtering that it was all out of water, so I took of the pot and poured the smoldering liquid into my cup ( the one with the lords prayer and Myrtle Beach painted on it). I mixed in some sugar from my lovely old time sugar bowl, and decided while the good music was playing I could get in the zone to read some for my classes. The beat helped my keep on point, but sometimes I would get distracted by my eye twitching from caffeine or the chorus of a song. After around an hour or so of this kind of living though, I almost dropped my coffee in my lap and my eyes blasted open and felt like a window in a windstorm. I had become Jeff Gill. Or at least I had woken up and gone on with my day in the way I thought Jeff Gill would have. Every time we talked while he was in college he would proclaim the glories of coffee with more coffee and bar chords with more bar chords and being at peace with yourself when this all twined together. Granted I wasn't reading the Financial Times like him, but 19th century British poems could suffice. I told him about this when he called later that day, and I would like to think I made his drive through East Texas bearable. He laughed, and proceeded to tell me how he filled up two bottles of powerade with his urine, and was driving safer than he used to back home ("No no no Patrick, I drive much safer now, like 80 to 90, not 90 to 100.)

Doing this welcomed into my mind so many feelings: pride, honor, commradire, excitment, dehydration, and a strange sense of liberation. First of all, it is understandably confusing to feel free while acting like someone else; but in essence what what I was doing was not acting like Jeff, but simply taking what I saw and heard from him, distilling his thoughts and applying myself to them. If this brought me joy without me trying, what could happen if I did this actively? To go even deeper into my mind, when I felt angsty in my teenage years and rejected even by my so closely knit family (If you know them, don't ask how I came to the conclusion that they hated me sometimes), I made a decision to never be like Jeff. Jeff was my best friend growing up, and I felt abandoned when he left for college and changed. I never wanted to like what he liked in college: fast driving, dark coffee, fast music, philosophy. I already have brought philosophy into my life, but not in the way Jeff had. And for a few years I had myself fooled into believing I could never like fast and hard music again; finally when I brought it together with lovely lovely coffee, I felt happy, and not just because Jeff did it, but because those were all things I actually liked. It was almost as if I had been denying myself these things because they are liked by Jeff. Don't deny yourself of something you love just because it may associate you with someone you don't want to. You could be embarrassed by your love, but its still something wonderful to you.

Taking up someone else's process can make daily living an exploration, and it can sometimes create a bond between you and the person you are imitating. In a strange way I saw myself venerating my brother, and taking up a similar method to our life goal: living happily. That moves me to the second thing I felt while I sipped my coffee: I felt like I was honoring my brother in a small way. I was doing something he swore by, something that he would jokingly say was integral for human survival. And it was just as good as he described it, the computer shuttering as it emitted heavy and fast waves of sound, the second pot of coffee roaring as it was close to burning, and me reading, shutting out all other stimuli save those three. And though I love these things all well, I felt like Jeff was proud of me for taking on his traditions and enjoying them. I felt that I validated, barely and possibly only in my own mind, some of the things he did and showed him how much he meant to me. And the feeling of someone being proud of me, is so beautiful, so beautiful.

Yes a small thing like waking up to coffee and punk can show someone you love them, so think then what things you enjoy that someone else does, that you can bring into your life and hold special with them. People don't have to be dead for you to honor them. And you don't have to do something completely original to be free. I am not saying every action you undertake must be lifted from someone else, if that we to happen... oh lord that is a whole other stories worth of metaphor and bombast. I am simply saying that you can take from your own time a small space, and take from someone close to you a small action, and fuse them into something harmonious and yours. You can be like yourself just with a new pair of sunglasses, you can be yourself with just a touch of someone else. And it can make you feel good, you can feel good.

"is there a text in this class?"

"in the procedures i would urge, the reader's activities are at the center of attention, where they are regarded not as leading to meaning but as having meaning. the text is an experience; it occurs; it does something: it makes us do something."
stanley fish

you run and hide from your buck teeth and split ends

(SPOILER ALERT!)
Have you ever seen "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"? Yeah, I saw it the night I broke up with my first boyfriend and the idea of erasing my memory was never so appealing. But part of the allure of the storyline was the fact that, at the end, they both fall into the same trap. They were meant to find each other, to fall (literally) madly in love and hurt each other. Maybe I just have an unhealthy view, but it seems half of the excitement of falling in love is being completely unsure what the other will do to you when you are completely vulnerable, have offered yourself completely to them to either discard or embrace. And sure, no one likes arguments with loved ones with icey stares and cold shoulders, but what would love be without making up, without having to say I'm sorry, no really, it was my fault, I realize I really do need you. Do you know what I mean? (END SPOILER HERE!)
You can't have the light with out the dark. Without the shadows, our world would be washed out, blinding, until you could not see the individual features. Most happy people I know, including myself, have reached that highpoint because of the low points before. Excuse this cliche image, but like a rollercoaster gains momentum to climb its peaks from the descent, how can we climb new heights without having crawled through new depths?
Anyways, you are probably wondering when I will get to the point. A few weeks ago, there was an article on the front page of the New York Times about scientists getting closer and closer to being able to erase specific memories from humans' brains. The article claims this discovery will help people overcome addictions, bad habits and help us better understand the lump of tissue that is our brains.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/06/health/research/06brain.html

Benedict Carey, the author of the piece, poses the same questions I worry about, "Millions of people might be tempted to erase a severely painful memory, for instance — but what if, in the process, they lost other, personally important memories that were somehow related? Would a treatment that “cleared” the learned habits of addiction only tempt people to experiment more widely?...

...Yet any such drug, Dr. Hyman and others argue, could be misused to erase or block memories of bad behavior, even of crimes. If traumatic memories are like malicious stalkers, then troubling memories — and a healthy dread of them — form the foundation of a moral conscience....

...A substance that improved memory would immediately raise larger social concerns, as well. “We know that people already use smart drugs and performance enhancers of all kinds, so a substance that actually improved memory could lead to an arms race,” Dr. Hyman said."

These possibilities are all worrisome. I'm sure that, once available to the public, there will be laws, rules, at least some sort of interview process before you can go through with the procedure. Well, the same thing is true for plastic surgery, for sex changes. But that doesn't mean there aren't a handful of doctors who in certain situations put profit before their patient's health.
Then, you could argue, the good that this procedure would overcome the bad. Rape victims, child soldiers all could use a clean slate, a sturdy foundation to base their trust in humanity. After such traumatic events it is nearly impossible to lead a normal life.
Now, excuse me for a moment, because I feel I may insult some. I still do not feel it would be right to erase these memories. No one deserves these experiences but life is the good and the bad. Life is overcoming obstacles and life is getting hurt.
Last night, a former sex slave spoke at my school. His babysitter started prostituting him at the age of seven. He was still turning tricks at twelve, but at this point it was to feed his meth addiction. In his twenties he suffered a mental breakdown and was hospitalized several times. Now, this man works for S.A.G.E. (Standing Against Global Exploitation) in San Francisco. His job within this organization is to teach "Johns" (men who have used prostitutes) the physical and emotional consequences of their actions, to themselves and to the women (or even men, or even young girls and boys) that they are sleeping with. They also take leads and tips to free victims of human trafficking in the area. If there is someone taking part in the sex trade against their will, they do everything in their power to remove them from that situation and help them stand firmly on their own. This man, standing up tall and proud in front of the crowd, acknowledged his unstable childhood and acknowledged its necessity. Without his experiences, he would not be the man he is today, he said. He would also not be able to help S.A.G.E. in the same way he does now, as he would not be able to relate to the victims he sees on a daily basis.
The ability to embrace one's painful memories and realize that they are another building block in the person you have become today is an admirable and incredibly mature quality. It shows you are confident in the person you are now, that with the cards you were dealt you were able to build a castle of sorts.
I'll end with a quote from George Orwell's essay "Reflections on Ghandi" (yeah, he went there);
"The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection, that one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty, that one does not push asceticism to the point where it makes friendly intercourse impossible, and that one is prepared in the end to be defeated and broken up by life, which is the inevitable price of fastening one's love upon other human individuals".

inspired by interiors

This spring break I traveled. I met new people, refreshed my outlook, charged my heart's batteries. One night, after watching Crimes and Misdemeanors (Woody Allen) with some new friends, I fell asleep thinking about Interiors (another Woody Allen movie). There is one line from Interiors that always ends up echoing in my head and I end up arguing with it. The argument is always the same, and goes something like this:
Head (which sounds suspiciously similar to Diane Keaton's character in 'Interiors'): "Life loses its meaning in the face of death."
Jenny: Really? You think so?
Head: What's the point? I mean, you saw 'Stardust Memories'- no matter which route you take or how much money you spend on your first class ticket you end up in the same dump.
Jenny: I'm not sure I agree with you. I can see why some would. Because death would mean that, no matter the course of our lives, we end up in the same spot, like what you said. That makes sense. We can struggle continuously without really moving anywhere.
This is not, however, absent of meaning. If life were never ending, if we were immortal, how would that infuse any more meaning? I think it would dilute any meaning. Our actions and thoughts would not be as precious. Since we would have all of the time in the world, we would simply be running this metaphorical treadmill infinitely.
Life, in the face of death, is a choice. We are allotted a certain amount of time and the way we ration it out is meaningful. A sunset is beautiful because its colors are so intense and fleeting. Would it not lose its beauty if the sun never dipped below the horizon?

material: liquid

Every morning I sit down at my desk and drink a cup of warm tea. Although redundant, this ritual is not buried beneath the persistent second-hand of my morning clock. As I grip the ceramic in both hands, I can feel the warmth spread through my palms and as I tip the cup it travels down my throat, past my lungs and heart until it finally falls to the pit of my stomach. Within moments my thoughts are clearer and my head lighter. I am especially grateful for these moments during the cold winter months when warmth is hard to come by. Many fend off the chills with coats and hats and leggings, but the wind always finds a way into that nook between your neck and shoulder where your scarf doesn't quite reach. And it's not an independent chill, content to sit upon your collar bone while you walk the sidewalk, head bowed. It seeps like thick ink across a page, rendering your armor practically useless. But, my cup of tea is my elixir, raising my body temperature from within so that I may more squarely face the rain and wind.
So my advice is to prepare yourself. Even before you know of a cold front headed your way, to build your defenses from the inside. Construct the strongest of fortresses so that you may endure the thickest of arrow falls. You'll still get the glory of battle, but with your head intact.






(what im trying to say is that cold weather/battles represent the hard times, and it's best to prepare for the hard times by strengthening yourself from within because we can't always change what is around us, we can only control our reactions to it, i just wanted to have fun with some extended metaphors.)

second hand news comes to Patrick

Classes started for me today, and I believe that because I woke up and had a symmetrical breakfast, two cups of coffee with two pieces of toast and two apples, I entered this day with the true joy. Granted I could not initially find the building for my first class, and after stumbling into the correct room just after its beginning, everything was still looking up. The class was Reading and Writing Poetry, and as a side note the professor wore a sleek gray and black three piece suit complete with pocket square,and spoke with a very deliberate and almost theatrical aplomb (if you don't know me personally, these things garner a great amount of respect). You could actually tell that this man not only enjoyed the subject matter, but he loved to expand upon the idea of what a poem can say and he wanted to defend it from critics who found his love of poetic expression frivolous. But it was not what he said about poetry that I kept with me throughout the day. It starts as we were discussing the Ezra Pound poem, which I will place right here right now:

"In a Station of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.


The words are beautiful in and of them self. In the discussion afterwards my professor said that sociological studies have shown in moments that we make eye contact with strangers, on the train or bus, in the grocery store, walking down the street, when we make that brief connection and "give them that closed lip smile", we (almost everyone) believe for a moment we connected to that person and that psychologically we are going through the same thing. We make instant eye contact and instant eye contact causes a moment of connection. I know little connections like this happen to me, though few and far between. But I have decided to let people know I will empathize, as long as they are willing to make eye contact.

confessions of a materialist

I recently applied as a transfer student to some of the UCs. One of the application essay questions asked very generally about me as a person, so I decided to write about this blog and how it shapes who I am. There are some bits that I have been meaning to post at the end, but here is the whole thing. I will highlight and organize it into bits.

The ways I view and interact with the world have changed significantly since I started to write for my blog, the big blanket. I felt that many of the people around me had grown disenchanted with their life and what it has to offer. Although I agreed with many of the pessimistic points they made, I realized that we all have the power to change our perceptions and be grateful, even mystified, by the chance we are given to live. One of the recurring posts my best friend, Patrick, and I write are lists of events, emotions or things that, while by most may be considered insignificant, are examples of the beauty, humor and poignancy that can be found in day to day life. Whether it is the rhythmic motion of the bus, the sensuality of cooking with your bare hands or the fleeting romance of making eye contact with strangers, I wanted to express to those around me that in every moment there is a chance to make art, find love and be happy. Through writing this blog, I have taken on the mindset I have hoped to bestow on its readers. I find myself constantly trying to keep my eyes, and heart, open to the world around me. Not only are films, essays and books chances to learn, but also conversations, solitary walks and chance encounters.

KNITTING
For instance, I had always thought of knitting as an incredibly passive activity that while relaxing, was rather redundant. My perception slowly changed, however, and I realized that by knitting, I am creating something beautiful and functional out of a series of knots. This was a good way to think about life's hardships, I realized, and that although times may be difficult, to keep in mind that by looking at the bigger picture, it is worth the struggle.
CASSETTES
In another instance, I was frustrated that my favorite band only sold musics on cassettes, which I found to be so archaic, inefficient and bulky. After finally buying the cassette, the chunky plastic rectangle started to grow on me. The good thing about tapes, I thought to myself, is that you are forced to listen to the album all the way through. With a tape you slowly build connections with each song and accept it as a whole entity, as opposed to gleaming out your favorites like with a MP3 player. This taught me a lesson about human relationships. No individual person is free of flaws or will complement your qualities perfectly. Friendship should not only take place when it is convenient- in fact it is most significant when it is not. Looking back on it, the healthiest relationships have the occasional weak spots and arguments as it proves each individuals dedication, patience and understanding to the other.

These are only a couple of examples of the small and large changes I have made in my thoughts, actions and interactions that have altered the way I view the world; I appreciate life's small rewards and accept life's big downfalls, while also living in the present moment. This has also helped me reconcile my spiritual beliefs. It is increasingly more and more difficult to find meaning in a world where we make friends with computer screens, run miles on a conveyor belt and prescribe well being in a pill. I have opened my eyes to the beauty that still exists in our world and only hope to help others do the same.
(the end).



On top of this, I would like to add the act of
COLLAGING
The other day I was joking with my friend Franny while I cut out pictures for a soon-to-be collage. I mentioned how collage is often seen as a lesser art form, if an art form at all. I understand why people think this, but I see something more romantic than stealing and rearranging others' paintings and photos. First of all, I like to think I am recycling artistically. Other than this, when I collage, I create whole new worlds out of what I usually assume is a stable world, how the world "is supposed to be". But I take these elements, remove them from their "natural home" and place them in a completely new environment. This gives me the courage to create, mold and alter my world and my views. Most of life and our relationships can also be seen as collages; as random assortments of colors, vocal points, national geographic clippings, all from different magazines and books but when they come together make something beautiful, bizarre, sometimes even eerie. Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, these images are even more beautiful in their new surroundings. They are no longer stiff and confined to the stiff pages of textbooks. They form a cacophony of paper that eventually learns to harmonize.
When I collage, it gives new meaning, purpose and beauty to otherwise discarded scraps of newspaper. They are given a second chance at infinity, immortality. Sometimes it makes me think that maybe I, too, in memory, in spoken word, may find some sort of immortality. That the words I speak will ring forever in the ears of my peers, like an echo in a cave caused by a rock that has long since quit tumbling but whose presence lingers on. That maybe all that I have done, said and felt may reverberate continuously through the world. These actions are the notes which cause(along with many many many others) the tuning fork (the world) to hum, and long after the key has been played, the vibrations can be felt.

the view/throwing rocks at trees

the gist of the lyrics:

Your gun went off.
Well you shot off your mouth and look where it got you.
My mouth runs on too.

Shouts from both sides,
"Well we've got the land but they've got the view!"
Well now here's the clue.

Life it rents us.
And yeah I hope it put plenty on you.
Well I hope mine did too.

As life gets longer, awful feels softer.
Well it feels pretty soft to me.
And if it takes shit to make bliss,
then I feel pretty blissfully.

We are fixed right where we stand.

For every invention made how much time did we save?
We're not much farther than we were in the cave.

If life's not beautiful without the pain,
well I'd just rather never ever even see beauty again.
Well as life gets longer, awful feels softer.
And it feels pretty soft to me.

For every good deed done there is a crime committed.
We are fixed.
For every step ahead we could have just been seated.
We are fixed.

We are fixed.
We are fixed.
We are fixed right where we stand.


I was listening to this song while I was on a walk and some of the lyrics really struck me. It relates to a post that I have been brewing up in my mind for an awful long while and so this was the straw on the camel's back to get me to start writing it. I know a while back I wrote that the only thing keeping yourself from being what you want to be is yourself and if you want to you could easily bridge that gap. Also, that happiness is attainable if you so choose, you just need to tweak your definition of it. In my opinion, these are all true, but it is not like happiness is a point you reach and then stay there forever after. It is not something you can hold onto for very long or ever fully comprehend. And, to be honest, would happiness be all that it is worked up to be if you could so easily bask in it at your leisure once you reached that level? No, it would be taken for granted. People would still be searching for that next high, that bliss that is another step above where they already are. So then, if these last few statements are true, happiness is for the most part unattainable, save for momentary glimpses. The closest we can get to happiness is striving for it. To always be working towards it, changing yourself, inventing new contraptions to reach it. As long as we are constantly toiling and yearning, we are getting closer, and in a sense, already there. I know I have contradicted myself several times, but something as complex as happiness, I'm sure, folds onto itself repeatedly so that any mere mortals words of reason can only claw at the surface. Here is an excerpt from an essay I wrote about utopia for my science fiction class that is applicable:

"...Furthermore, it may not be possible for a true Utopia to exist. Not only does everyone have a different definition of Utopia, but living within an actual perfect, peaceful, constant world might even be considered Dystopian by some. It is not a state that can be reached and maintained by reforming some laws or rearranging our genes; even after these changes, a constant struggle would still be necessary. Attempting to reach Utopia is similar to Shevek's example of throwing a rock at a tree because “[i]t doesn't matter how far it's gone, there's always a place, only it's a time really, that's halfway between the last place it was and the tree” (29). As Shevek exclaims when on Urras: “[t]he means are the end” (296), and therefore, the closest we can actually get to Utopia is striving for it."