LOST: The Final Season

ON DVD. THERE IS NOTHING BETTER

Too Much of the Same

I have never left the country. I've been to Florida, Texas, Colorado, and a handful of other states, which are all fun and lovely and whatnot, and I realize that there are amazing places worth visiting right here in the U.S, but I feel the need to branch out. There are many kids at my school who are substantially well-traveled individuals. I listen as they list the foreign lands on which they've stood, the foods they ate and the things they saw. I feel so constrained here. I understand that I have no room to complain; I am very fortunate to be a United States citizen, and I'm grateful for all the opportunities I have been given. However, I live by the saying, "I am a student of the world," that life is a chance to learn as much as possible and to experience as much as possible. New and different are what I strive for. I try not to clutter my mind with unimportant distractions. Seeing as we only live once, why waste such precious time with unnecessary aberrations?

The cup analogy is often used to describe the brain, and while cliche, it makes a valid point. A cup represents any one person's mind, the summation of their thoughts, ideas, and beliefs. Through out your life, you slowly fill this cup. Some people tend to fill it earlier than others, at a quicker pace, and they are the ones I aim to be the exact opposite of. I want to keep an open mind, because I realize how little of the world I truly understand. By making up their minds so early, with an "I know enough already" attitude, many shield themselves from the wonders patiently waiting for them to discover (this is why I have no place for organized religion in my life, but that's a whole other post.) You can't fill a cup that's already full, and once it's filled, it's damn difficult to empty.

By admitting to myself that what I know is only a fraction of the big picture, that there is a world outside of this hum-drum town, I have learned the true meaning of humility. It's very humbling, and by accepting it I feel I have set myself up to be an A+ "student." In the word's of the late Carl Sagan, "Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known." Nobody knows what that something is, but finding out is the journey, and I'm all set to go.

Good Idea

I've started a new, experimental project called "Doing homework right after school." It's very interesting. I come home, walk into the kitchen, grab a snack, head up to my room, and do homework until it's finished. Never in a million years would i have thought that such a feat was possible, but nearly a week of homework-less evenings prove quite the opposite. I'll continue this experiment for as long as I can, hopefully to the point where it becomes an incessant habit. Wish me luck!

HEY!

School starts tomorrow. I'm looking forward to AP English and Newspaper, and that's about it.

Beaver Island

My parents say getting to Beaver Island is half the fun. This is a lie. The island sits in the middle of Lake Michigan 30 miles south of the UP, and we live in Elkhart, a good 5 hours away. Driving there, which we do 99% of the time, is a tour through the lonely corridors of boredom. US 131 takes you up the entire state of Michigan, in our case to Charlevoix, and only begins to liven up in the last hour, where we cut through northern Michigan's rolling hills and woodland.

As a kid, I would marvel at the endless sea of pines and conifers, complaining as my ears popped from the changing altitude. This trip was different. Our caravan, consisting of my father, myself, 4 of my friends and one of their dads, traversed 131 in 2 cars, one of which was driven by myself. Never have five hours gone by so slow. Everyone in my car was asleep, and ahead of me lay nothing but a vast stretch of asphalt. I was scared out of my wits by Grand Rapids, (which turned out to be not so bad), and in regular intervals my left and right leg fell asleep. But in the midst of all this, I had to keep cool. I knew what awaited me was definitely worth the trip.

Upon arriving at Charlevoix, our group refueled at a Subway and advanced to the Island Airways airport. We prefer to fly to the island instead of taking the ferry, mostly for the experience and the great views, but also because the ferry, while scenic and lovely and whatnot, runs a little over two hours---flying takes 15. The planes we fly in are small, double-propeller "hoppers," as I like to call them. On the flight over, one can see the entire island, point to point. It truly is a breathtaking view, and I'm always excited to watch newcomers see it for the first time.


Setting foot on the dusty runway, my heart soared. After hours of travel, we had finally made it in one piece. An enticing concoction of smells infiltrates my nose and brings me back to my last visit. I forgot how much I loved it up there, all the fun times I shared with family and friends. I was ready to experience it all again.

Our place of residence for the weekend sits on the cusp of a cul-de-sac, a whimsical grey-blue log cabin belonging to my grandparents. Every year for as long as I can remember we've stayed there, sometimes for a few days and others for weeks on end. On the east-facing side, we overlook a beautiful sandy bay, stretching for miles. At the end of the cul-de-sac, a small walkway parts a grassy limbo on its way to the an amazing beach. It is here we spend most of our time, enjoying the sun and riding waverunners.

The true beauty of the island can be found in its heavily forested interior. At 6 by 12 miles long, it is relatively small, but you'd be surprised at what it successfully hides. Beaver Island's human history goes back many centuries, and contains a spectacular amount of mystery and adventure. It was first inhabited by Native Americans, who lived peacefully for quite a while, until the Mormons arrived. The Mormons claimed the island as their own, and clashed repeatedly with the natives along with other religious sects. One Mormon, James Strang, proclaimed himself KIng of the Mormons and of all of the island (I'm not making this up). He was then shot in the head by a distraught opposer. He is the only officially documented King to ever declare rule on American soil.

Beaver Island's colorful past is matched only by its geography. It contains 7 inland lakes, one of which is larger than our very own Simonton Lake in Indiana. On the western side, sand dunes tower above the surrounding forest. One dune in particular, named Mount Pisgah, reaches nearly 800 feet above the waterline. To the south, a large national forest preserves most of the island's wildlife and is, in some parts, unexplored. It is in this vast wilderness that most of the island "attractions" can be found, including a massive, curiously isolated rock of unknown origin ingeniously entitled "Big Rock", and North America's largest birch tree (unnamed).

It is a staple of our yearly trip to visit these places, along with various restaurants, shops and boutiques. St. James, located in the north east corner of the island, hugs the shore of Paradise Bay, and is the only town. Paradise Bay is a perfect little harbor, and is the center of the island's commerce. During our trip, we enjoyed fresh, caught-moments-ago Lake Perch, delicious ice cream, and hearty Southwestern omelets, all within a 2 mile radius of each other!

In Beaver Island's isolation lies the secret to its success. Instead of drying up in the downturned economy, it held strong. It's a place where fast food is a myth, where commercial chains are forbidden. It's an island of originality. In place of McDonalds and Walgreens, they have Stoney Acre Grill and The Toy Museum. It helps to remind me that there are places outside this lusterless hole in the ground we call Elkhart that radiate pure joy.


Our departure, after a weekend of unimaginable fun, was a somber one---to put it lightly. The drive home was painstaking, but had to be done. All good things must come to an end I suppose, but the best part about Beaver Island is that, no matter how old you get, how lost you are, how much you have forgotten, it's always there, patiently waiting for you like an old friend. Every routine visit, every signature in the old "guest book," I hold on to dearly, because if there's one thing I've pulled from my experiences on that island, it's that one of the most precious parts of life are the good times you share with the ones you love, the memories you make with them, and the adventures yet to come.

The Yiddish Policeman's Union

I know I promised an enumeration of the events of my trip, but I happened to finish the book I've been reading and I figure it best to write about it before my memory fades. So here goes...

I've never read a book by Michael Chabon until now. I found The Yiddish Policeman's Union, once again, at Barnes and Noble (I really do love it there) while strolling down the fiction isles. What engaged me to pick it up I do not know, but I'm glad I did.
I'll go as far as to say that it may be one of the best books I've read. It's unlike anything I've ever read before, a mystery of rare depth and composure.

Chabon whisks us away to an alternate history, where in 1948 the Holy Land of Israel is evacuated and abandoned by the Jews in wake of political turmoil. The American government, in its abounding kindness, relocates the Jews to Sitka, an island off the coast of Alaska. They are there for nearly 60 years, until the United States decides to initiate "The Reversion," which reinstates Sitka as Alaskan territory, ending its long run as an independent district.

The story, set in present day, follows Detective Meyer Landsman and his partner Berko as they attempt to solve a murder before this Reversion wipes clean their cases. The details I will not discuss. It would spoil the originality of Chabon's intricately detailed universe. I have great respect for a man who can create a wholly alien, backward world and turn it into a compelling backdrop for a detective mystery.

What makes The Yiddish Policeman's Union so special is the way Chabon constructs the world of Sitka, the mind of Detective Landsman, and the conglomeration of the two through long, drawn out descriptions. His extensive use of metaphor and symbolism turn the generally bland into flashy, exuberant prose. The overall premise, I believe, benefits greatly from this unique writing style. Here is a story that hits all the right notes. It never loses itself within the labyrinth of its own gloriously convoluted plot. It's story of love, uncertainty, violence and forgiveness, and I enjoyed every second of it.

To anyone who is interested in checking this book out, I give you a very enthusiastic recommendation. You wont be disappointed.

Back!

I have returned from vacation with a full recap of the trip to come. With pictures!