Mulroy. Again.

My dad's best friend died early this morning.
Yeah.
I had the most horrible dream last night, involving the death of my own father.
It's actually the worst nightmare I've had in my life.
When I woke up crying, I had this terrible knowing feeling that my mom was going to call me and tell me my dad was dead. I think this simply because me and my dad are tight, emotionally and mentally. If there is anyone who I can go to for understanding and counsel, it's my father. So this dream, the sheer reality of the fear and possibility behind it, was almost unbearable at two'o'clock this morning.
When she called uncharacteristically early (even for her), the terror from the dream shot from the depths of my soul. Only, it was Dad's best friend, who has been struggling with cancer for only a couple of months, who is now on his way to the funeral house.

I tell you this story for a purpose, I promise.
I believe this is the central idea behind Mulroy's point. Not my dad's friends death, but something that goes along with that. The meat behind somebody telling anybody else anything. To gain access to understanding/knowledge/empathy. To communicate effectively, not with just robotic word sytax, but to convey the essences of humanity. I could tell this story, and it could be read by millions of eyes, all from different countries, and the minds would understand, emotion would be conveyed, understanding would come. Simply because standard English has been perpetuated throughout the public schools systems on so many different continents beside our own. Standard English is a leveling tool. Though I've probably compromised so many grammar rules already in this short blurb, I now see even more the need for communication, for expression, for understanding, not just with people who have the same flesh tones as I do, but for anybody who has had to deal with something that life has offered up to them. I want to know, to understand, to see clearly, and the uncompromising qualities of standard English teachers make that possible. Cheers to you.

A Look At A Grammar Puss

http://pinker.wjh.harvard.edu/articles/media/1994_01_24_thenewrepublic.html

The link above is an article we had to read for class, analyzing all sorts of ways we screw up the English language. Refreshingly enough, I actually liked what he had to say. Of course I will most likely always displace my frustration with grammar onto the shoulders of minds that already understand proper placement of verbs and such, but at least he sort of kept my interest as I had to read through his long-winded article.

One of the parts that actually caught my attention was the mentioning of the debacle between Latin rules of enlightenment and English copy-catting. With trying to keep up with the fad of enlightenment, the English language tried to adopt complex rules to fit simple sentences, leading us in knots of "grammar misusage." We tried to do something fancy with our language to look cool, and now it just gives us fits within the public school setting. Thanks England. Just another example of why I should know the language, and even the history behind the language I speak, so that I can put in witty pieces of information within conversations of proper grammar usage. Because those happen all the time....

I did like his words. I liked the way he utilized the always fun tool of sarcasm, even while he was being a nerd about it. I could aspire to be like him, but for now, I'll just say "job well done" and envy him secretly.

kind of a lot of things...

Kind of...

Growing into adulthood.

I have crossed the line. I don't know when I stepped over the chalk outlines of my adolescence into this new reality of speaking with my parents about sex, politics, and alcohol preference, but the realization brought my cloudy eyes to light. I go where I want on my own. I eat what I want (or what I can afford). I spend time with whoever I want. I've become comfortable with the freedom of choice. It's old hat now. What were once crucial issues are now simple preferences based on simple prerogatives. Soon, not only will I be feeding myself and wiping my own ass, but I'll be paying my car, health, life insurance all on my own. What a thrill that will be.

In love.

Fear. Fear of loss. That was (kinda still is) the initial overwhelming feeling once I realized how deep into an emotion you can be. Sure I went through the giddiness. The doubt. The infatuation. But now. Here I am. I've always wondered how far in you can get before you know it's actually real. Now I know. And I only go deeper with him. I can convince myself that true love has no fear in it, chant myself to sleep as I deny the fact that inevitably, one day, he will be gone. Whether by emotional dissatisfaction or plagues of locusts, he will cease to be in my life. And that's what hurts the most. Loving him so much, and experiencing the loss even before it happens. Within that love. Being prepared for it, trusting in him, trusting in my ability to survive, spitting in fate's eye as I accept the destiny given me. I know I can survive. I just don't want to have to try and find out how without him. That's all.

Unsurely Sure.

I have no idea about the rest of my life. I have no idea about the rest of this week. I'm fighting every urge to uproot and move to a secluded town in far off...somewhere. But then I want him with me. But then I want to be near my Mom and Dad. And then what if... what if. The what ifs are a pain in the ass. They keep people from moving forward. The put fear into people when it ought not be there. But I guess this week has to happen before next week comes, so I guess I'll try to make the best of it. Hopefully by living not with the what ifs, but propelling off of the things already given me. Like assurance. Support. And of course love. And a pair of blue eyes that light up my world. So no more what ifs for now. Let's just be alive in love this week.

Interviews kinda make me happy.

So me and Kasey interviewed Robin Murphy about all this grammar jazz. Enlightening to say the least. I never knew about the secret undertows of the English world until I got to spend some brief moments with a composition cohort. What I really imagined in my head was a V For Vendetta-esque scenario emerging between the Compositionists and Literature Theorists. Murphy was shaved headed and everything.

To make a short interview even shorter, I can just say she gagged at most of Mulroy's notions of grammar being a lessening subject within the public school system. She examined his sources and qualifications, adding her own personal touch of wit and charm, leaving us in stitches with some of the conclusions she came up with.
1. A Lit theorist shouldn't be ranting about grammar in composition. It's like finding a macaroni noodle in your animal cracker box.
2. His sources were as ancient as Greece itself.
3. We could have a public book burning in protest.

Ok. Maybe that last one was my thought on the matter.

Err.... ummmm...or.

The first three pages of Larry Beason's "Ethos and Error" were... um... irksome?
Yeah. That could be it. By the end of a couple of pages, my head (nerves?) ached. Cute idea to jumble all the words, but I was trying to figure out if he was trying to be cute with the way he smushed all the letters together in the reflection of error, or if my version of the text-massed email held a speacial glitch, especially for me to ponder. So as I'm trying to figure out if this guy is a goob or not, I can't even remeber what I'm reading.
I tell myself, "I need to care", as my mind opposes in a more colorful fashion.

But he has a good point. Even though he had to be painfully annoying to get to it. He basically shows me that content, though important, is dependent on style, on precision, on correcting your damn papers so that whoever is trying to read and interpret your all-over-the-place thoughts can do so, with as little head hurt as possible.

So. I See some Light. Some.

So. The Second chapter of Mulroy's "The War Against Grammar" brings some relevant reasoning to the table, thankfully.
When he began linking the foundations of thought to the necessity of grammar, in the whole scheme of the seven disciplines of liberal arts studies, I found his argument somewhat fascinating. That the preservation of history and culture relied on the simple fact of eloquence.
I also liked this tid-bit of wit.
"Questioning the value of grammar is like asking whether farmers should know the names of their crops and animals."
I appreciated his way of transforming the acidic grammar regurgitation into a succulent dish to be surveyed and savored.
I'm actually looking forward to chapter three, when I catch up.
Hopefully there's more to come on this post, but my mind fails me at the moment.