All I can say is, it’s time. It’s time to finally get back to writing. There may be some who used to read my blog entries*, and if so, perhaps they wondered where I went when I quietly slipped out of the blogosphere over one year ago now.
It may be an overused excuse, but in this case it’s true (and I hope it will be understood): I’ve been busy. To be specific, I have been hard at work pursuing a degree in professional accounting at the University of Houston-Clear Lake. I’ve enrolled in heavy course-loads year round (even summer), and anyone who has done full-time college work knows how busy such work can make you. On my welcome breaks from school, I’ve thought about starting to blog again, but I’ve never put serious effort into the undertaking until now. I still have a year of school left to go (and after that, Lord willing, an entry into the even busier workforce), so more busy times await me. However, the difference now is, that I shall attempt to blog when I can in between the homework and lectures.
But there is more to it than being busy. I have found that it is a fact that business school can sap your creativity if you’re not careful. You see, business school (to say nothing of accounting training) offers the student little in the way of creative or artistic studies. There is much, however, in the way of numbers, figures, ratios, percentages, mathematical problems, a little algebra here and there (but thankfully no calculus), Excel spreadsheets, and financial statements. In the business world, we use all of these things to figure out what the statistical, financial, and business reality of the world really is, and to determine, based on that, the most profitable way forward. There’s no poetry, no prose, no daydreaming, and no flights of fancy. Even the “out-of-the-box” thinking that is often encouraged in business continues to be strictly in a business sense, in the final analysis. All this to say, that if you were given to creative endeavors now and then (as I was) upon entering business school, then an extended stay in that black-and-white world of facts and figures can squeeze your creative juices dry if you let it.
Then there’s the little problem that, of all the characters that people the business world, accountants are probably the least literary.** I personally do not have this problem, since I have long nurtured a love for reading and writing. But this trait seems to be rare among accountants, who breathe daily the dusty atmosphere of numbers. Even the writing that we are called upon to do is often already written for us, as in the case of most audit opinions, which are extremely formulaic (with only a slight change here and there, if needed, to a set template). The footnotes of financial statements should force accountants to call upon whatever literary prowess the do possess, since it is there that the inner workings behind the numbers of a particular set of financial statements are explained so that the reader may understand. I say “should”, because a cursory reading of the average set of financial statements proves that this purpose has usually not been well-served except with regard to the most business-savvy among us.
If that were not proof enough of the literary weakness found in the accounting world, I once saw a flyer handed out by my university’s Accounting Association (which I would have expected to know better); on its title page, the word “Accounting” was spelled “Accaounting”.
But I assume you didn’t come here to read about the accounting world and all of its consolidations, methods, rules, and regulations, though I may have something to say about these mostly boring subjects in later entries. What did you, and (hopefully) what will you come here to read from time to time? I hope to provide anew some of the things I used to provide in this space – some humor, some serious and thought-provoking subjects, a few aimless ramblings interspersed among the other more coherent offerings. But I want to strive for a lot more. I want this blog to be a lively discussion (which, hopefully, with your input, does not have to be one-sided) about all the countless things that make up our world and define what it means to be alive and human. It may take different forms – non-fiction most of the time, but perhaps also fiction or even poetry.
I hope that time and business school have not dented in any way my ability or desire to write. I doubt that they have, and I am sure that with a little practice and creative thought I will regain my equilibrium. The bottom line is, there is only one way to find out, and that is to get writing again. I trust it will be a fun and productive journey. Won’t you join me?
*Author’s Note: Such people came under the heading “Last of a Dying Breed” back when I was actively blogging. Since then, I am sure they have gone the way of the Dodo Bird.
**Author’s Note: I was about to say that the accountants were the least creative. But have you seen a Goldman Sachs income statement lately?
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
In Memoriam
Stop. Whatever it is you’re doing. Maybe you’re at a get-together, or barbecuing, or shopping at a blockbuster holiday sale, or just sitting back, watching a ballgame, and enjoying the tail end of a three-day weekend. Whatever it is, stop for a moment. Stop and reflect on the fact that, whatever it is you’re doing, it came to you at a price paid by others. And that’s not just something we say because someone designated today as Memorial Day. It is a very real statement of fact.
Today we say “thank you” to those brave people who cannot hear us say it because they went to war “over there” and never came back. We remember the nameless, faceless figures who fill the pages of our history books, people our battle paintings, and are portrayed in our war movies. They may be only a concept to us, but each was a real person, with feelings and dreams and families and, in most cases, most of their lives ahead of them. But they chose to risk all of that for their country. Someone has wisely pointed out that America, for all of its great military power and reach, has neither asked nor gotten anything in return for its sorrow except enough ground to bury her dead. We are now, whether we realize it or not, reaping the fruit of the labors of those long dead, who neither knew us nor had us in mind when they died; they were thinking only of those back home, whom they would never see again – a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a spouse, a sweetheart, a best friend. We get to live the comparatively carefree lives they would have liked to have lived, in part because of their sacrifice.
Our generation is no stranger to armed conflict, and neither was our father’s, or our grandfather’s, or our great-grandfather’s. Perhaps you know someone who has gone off to war, and perhaps you know of one who did not come back. I myself have an ancestor, my great-grandmother’s brother, son of Slovak immigrants, who went back to the old continent to fight for the Allied cause in World War I. He was killed in a train accident just as he was coming back from the front when the war was over and won – a particularly tragic way to die in a theater filled with nothing but tragedy.
But there were other scenes no less tragic. Think of the soldier who falls on a live grenade to save his buddies. Think of the man who died charging up that hill which no one ever noted or long remembered, or ever knew why it was worth charging up. Think of the countless numbers who died swimming ashore at Normandy and never got to liberate France or the rest of tyranny-enslaved Europe. Think of those hundreds of thousands who died at the hands of their own countrymen in the Civil War. Think of those surprised by death at Pearl Harbor, or taken off-guard by a harmless-looking suicide bomber in Iraq or an invisible guerrilla in Vietnam.
We can shudder as we read numbers. Over half a million died in the Civil War. Almost that many died in World War II. America was in World War I for only a year and a half, but over 100,000 died there. And there are thousands and thousands more. But behind all of those numbers – each digit and each comma – there is a face, a real person who once lived and breathed like we all do today. We have each and every one of those individuals to thank, and as Abraham Lincoln said, we cannot ever repay those who gave the last full measure of devotion.
They did not die just for watermelons and hot dogs and volleyball and baseball and furniture sales and fireworks. They died for freedom. They stopped living so that we could continue to live by the ideal that all men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Without their sacrifice we might be in danger today of being thrown in prison for disagreeing with the government, or put on trial for something we wore, or killed for being Jewish or for worshipping God. We might be speaking another language or be occupied by a foreign power, were it not for the struggles of many on our behalf. It is not only we who give thanks today, but hopefully all the millions in the other countries for which American blood was and is shed.
You can go on now. Eat your watermelon – it won’t be cold much longer. Get back to your conversation or your friendly game. Un-mute your TV or continue with your bargain-hunting. I just wanted to make sure we all remembered what this day was really all about. On the face of it, all these things are free – but they’re really not. Somebody else paid for them. Freedom isn’t free. If we ever stop stopping now and then to remember that, I suppose we won’t be free anymore. Oh, and one more thing – if you’re reading this and you did come back from “over there” – thank you. Thank you for your service to our great nation.
Today we say “thank you” to those brave people who cannot hear us say it because they went to war “over there” and never came back. We remember the nameless, faceless figures who fill the pages of our history books, people our battle paintings, and are portrayed in our war movies. They may be only a concept to us, but each was a real person, with feelings and dreams and families and, in most cases, most of their lives ahead of them. But they chose to risk all of that for their country. Someone has wisely pointed out that America, for all of its great military power and reach, has neither asked nor gotten anything in return for its sorrow except enough ground to bury her dead. We are now, whether we realize it or not, reaping the fruit of the labors of those long dead, who neither knew us nor had us in mind when they died; they were thinking only of those back home, whom they would never see again – a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a spouse, a sweetheart, a best friend. We get to live the comparatively carefree lives they would have liked to have lived, in part because of their sacrifice.
Our generation is no stranger to armed conflict, and neither was our father’s, or our grandfather’s, or our great-grandfather’s. Perhaps you know someone who has gone off to war, and perhaps you know of one who did not come back. I myself have an ancestor, my great-grandmother’s brother, son of Slovak immigrants, who went back to the old continent to fight for the Allied cause in World War I. He was killed in a train accident just as he was coming back from the front when the war was over and won – a particularly tragic way to die in a theater filled with nothing but tragedy.
But there were other scenes no less tragic. Think of the soldier who falls on a live grenade to save his buddies. Think of the man who died charging up that hill which no one ever noted or long remembered, or ever knew why it was worth charging up. Think of the countless numbers who died swimming ashore at Normandy and never got to liberate France or the rest of tyranny-enslaved Europe. Think of those hundreds of thousands who died at the hands of their own countrymen in the Civil War. Think of those surprised by death at Pearl Harbor, or taken off-guard by a harmless-looking suicide bomber in Iraq or an invisible guerrilla in Vietnam.
We can shudder as we read numbers. Over half a million died in the Civil War. Almost that many died in World War II. America was in World War I for only a year and a half, but over 100,000 died there. And there are thousands and thousands more. But behind all of those numbers – each digit and each comma – there is a face, a real person who once lived and breathed like we all do today. We have each and every one of those individuals to thank, and as Abraham Lincoln said, we cannot ever repay those who gave the last full measure of devotion.
They did not die just for watermelons and hot dogs and volleyball and baseball and furniture sales and fireworks. They died for freedom. They stopped living so that we could continue to live by the ideal that all men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Without their sacrifice we might be in danger today of being thrown in prison for disagreeing with the government, or put on trial for something we wore, or killed for being Jewish or for worshipping God. We might be speaking another language or be occupied by a foreign power, were it not for the struggles of many on our behalf. It is not only we who give thanks today, but hopefully all the millions in the other countries for which American blood was and is shed.
You can go on now. Eat your watermelon – it won’t be cold much longer. Get back to your conversation or your friendly game. Un-mute your TV or continue with your bargain-hunting. I just wanted to make sure we all remembered what this day was really all about. On the face of it, all these things are free – but they’re really not. Somebody else paid for them. Freedom isn’t free. If we ever stop stopping now and then to remember that, I suppose we won’t be free anymore. Oh, and one more thing – if you’re reading this and you did come back from “over there” – thank you. Thank you for your service to our great nation.
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