RyanHarne.com

I’m sidetracking myself for a second to mention that today I had myself professionally impaled for the third and last time. I can now laugh in the face of hepatitis B. Somehow that gives me world domination powers, I just know it.

Also Tech pulled through, much unlike this year’s football team, and correctly forwarded my lost Amazon package home. Now I am flashed.

Additionally, I spent some time at Given’s last night. I got #1, #2, #3, plus a mini-mocha latté (mini on the mocha, not on the latté).

Ok, finally; what I want to mention:

I finished Les Mis. Yes, finished. Completed. Actually read the whole thing. Actually loved it. But let me say no more. I have (as you will soon read on further) decided to analyze/journal my thoughts every day this week. For example, the following was written yesterday after the last line pranced about my head; I’m leaving myself one day of delay for proofing and slight editting.

Thus I give you Ryan’s Commentary and Reflection Upon a Classic, Les Mis:

Part #1

After contemplating several ways of approaching a personal analysis to Les Mis, I decided it best to spread out my thoughts over the course of a week, letting the novel settle in my mind and not just spurting out my first instinctive impression.

As with many of the books I complete, the immediate effect I received post-finishing Les Mis was one of regret. “It’s over…now what?” Well, this time I hope to gather my thoughts before pouring myself over another good book. This time I hope I discover an internal grasping of the work rather than a hazy glance from classic literature.

Simply put: Les Mis was profound. Instantly, I could understand the universal praise it has gleaned from ages past. Victor Hugo conjures up a magnificent storyline and reiterates all detail to leave a reader only with the most consummate version of the story. I can’t imagine the many abridged versions of this book are nearly as amazing; Hugo’s distinctive style deserves to be appreciated in its fullest. I was enthralled by his elaborate flashes across setting and era; a book-long discourse on Waterloo gave superb background for much of the book, even though it initially seemed out-of-place and long-winded. Other examples of such jumps occur all throughout the text, but never does a reader experience so long of a hiatus that they entirely forget the present events (a careless reader may, however, lose focus if he doesn’t also spend the time to taste each element of Hugo’s work).

Indeed, the novel is long, is lengthy, and, at times, is exhausting; yet no honor is enough for a work that standardizes immaculate literature. Les Mis studies social depravity, social stimulae, social wealth, and social self-destruction in ways far superior than any other work of literature I am aware of. Not quite a textbook, but certainly no storybook, Les Mis defines, characterizes, and fantasizes the best and worst in all of us.

“So is it true? The soul may be cured, but not fate. Fearful thing, an incurable destiny!” - Les Mis

My last weekend at home was rather ruthless and hectic. My siblings and their spouses were here, as were my grandparents, an uncle and aunt, and some family friends. Saturday was a surprise 50th b-day party for my father, so chaos of sorts ensued.

Eventually, all went well, but preparation, especially the instant needs, was rather exciting. Overall, lots of food and rapid exhaustion.

Saturday night I went to see Spiderman 2 with my sister and brother-in-law. It was pleasing to finally view a comic book movie aimed at being nothing but a comic book movie. Hulk, Daredevil, and even Spiderman were mediocre, action-fueled blockbusters that only succeed with their special effects and psuedo-gallant battles. Spiderman 2 targetted a more whimsical style and approach by adding elements of cinematography and action that nearly make you feel as if you’re reading the plot block-by-block from a dot-matrix comic book. While rather hard to explain, I think the producers and directors did a Marvel-ous job of keeping the fanciful gestures common to comic books. Anyways. Good movie.

So, now, I take on my last full week of Lynchburg. I am ready. Last week of work too *woot!*

There are innumerable types of days, each and every quality, nature, and nuance allows itself free reign within the continuous 24-hour spectrums alloted to us. While far from perfect, far from consummate, today has been blissful.

What better way to begin a Friday, and a weekend full of expectations, than with a performance by the heavens? On my drive to work early this morning, I witnessed a falling star, more correctly a meteorite careening towards self-destruction somewhere within 30-50 miles of here (it appeared as so, at least). I was instantly awestruck. Certainly, with no one else testifying to its sudden descent, I was affirmed that this star was for me. And me only My star!

Work was blah in the morning. However, there must be the polar opposites of baseness and vulgarity to accent the subtle tones of felicity.

At approximately 10:25 AM EST, the skies became as lush as the grounds that I tend to. The temperature dropped, a breeze began fleeing from the west (although, its mind was never quite made up as to where exactly it needed to go from there), and the sun, clouds, and remnant of moon harmonized softly. All became jovial at that instant. Suddenly, floods of people appeared on the sidewalks riding bikes, pushing their tri-wheeled baby carriages, or speedwalking. The day became one great adrenaline rush. After that point, work was not bad at all. Time does indeed fly when it sees you’re enjoying yourself too much.

Post-work: Starbucks for some Les Mis (I am close to completion; a full critical analysis when I am through). The weather continued to perfect itself even then.

Not long after I got home, my sister and brother-in-law showed up for the weekend and we chatted and such. Then dinner. And I escaped for an hour to sip at Drowsy/Givens.

Perfect days are overrated. What I want is peace. The first Friday of August, in the year 2004, solved my summer-long search for a worthy inner bliss.

Plus I was able to fix the Amazon order problem thanks to package-fowarding provided by Tech.

Plus Tech has taken back its charge for Wi-Fi next year.

Plus my family is getting DSL next week.

Plus I got a package from Abigail!

Today has been exemplary.

Happy Birthday to my brother. His name is Garren. By now, securely in his twenties, graduated, and married, he won’t mind me mentioning that it was him to who backed the white Mercedes into the lamppost at school, that he was quite inferior to me in Tecmo Super Bowl, and that he always hit me first. Regardless of the stated truths, I wish him very well on this day.

Hugo mentioned it in Les Mis, and I saw it tangibly today - arguably, one of the most uncommon geometric proportions in nature is the right angle; it seems that it was man who fashioned the art of order that such ninety degrees decrees. In our yard, I noticed a branch that had fallen from the last night’s thunderstorm. Certainly, this is almost perfectly a right angle on this branch. Check the photo.

Adam says it is phenominal. But I think the trailer just hyped it up. Or maybe I’m not that suited for “text-based, graphical adventures.” Only one star for Peasant’s Quest.

It’s not a blinding discovery for me to tell you that most of my blogging is adapted and commentative summary of my life. Yet, on occasion I reflect a few steps deeper, “turn up the heat” on my blogging, so to say.

I’ve had to field many comments and statements in the past months, some in jest and others more so sober, regarding my stature. Such words as “thin”, “skinny”, and “obsessed” have been used to define my size and health condition. It’s also been suggested that I may have an eating disorder; that last one would be no more correct than classifying a minor scuffle, post-honeymoon, as reason for divorce. Yes, it’s true that I’ve shed approximately 10 pounds in the past year and have dropped two waist sizes as result, but I simply can not be persuaded that the outlook I have for myself is flawed.

America is fat, really fat. Who can tell me otherwise? The freedoms expressed in the Bill Of Rights seem also to carry a graceful ballet into our eating habits; anything goes. Fried chicken, 12+ ounce steaks, onion rings, pies; a list that has no end. Naturally, “all things are permissible, but not everything is beneficial.” There’s nothing wrong with a thick, tenderloin steak, but the regular consumption of such fatty, red meats is an invitation for heart problems later in life. Casting off a sense of self-control in our eating is foolishness; meals that leave your stomach bulging are a sign of sheer irresponsibility.

My case in argument has further support: consistent, strenuous exercise is pivotal for a balanced, healthy lifestyle. We need to sweat; our hearts, lungs, and muscles need that exhausting rush that solely produces the stimulus of adrenaline. While each person’s level of exercise should be tailored individually, it is safe to blanket my opinion by saying everyone needs to become more aggresive and active with their body. My fervency for this area is not out of a desire to watch America slim down and fine-tune their biceps; but rather, I hope that we will contemplate the millions of premature deaths caused by heart failure, diabetes, and stroke. Families, relatives, friends all suffer thanks, in part, to a person’s negligence to their health. That may sound too drastic, but let me say I do believe it is possible for anyone to add a few more years onto their lives with the right combination of diet and exercise. We should care and love others enough to notice the small inconsistencies in our own lives and fix them before they fester.

With that said, my beliefs regarding my own health can be understood, hopefully. I’m not trying to eat less to lose weight, I’m not working out to gain amazing pecs and abs; rather, I am watching my diet, training my body, and enhancing my mind so that I may enjoy a fuller life than those who lack such motivation.

My purpose for these habits is not selfish, but altruistic.

Ok, I’ve said my piece. My peace.

This weekend is over.