Mir Literary Journal T h e
G u i l d
-March/April_2019-
The People. who have made this journal are as follows:
13.
14. Kyeyoung Lee
Jaeyoung Jung Heonsang You Inseo Yeo Jaehyeon Park Sooyeon Jeong
Emily Kim Daeun Kim Seungho Jun Shin Ji Won Yeong Seo Kim Jang Ji Won
And.
15.
Photos contributed by:
Jungbin Cha Seunghyeon Kim Yeonseo Hur Yunseo Hwang YoonHyuk Lee
Hyunji Lee Yurim Lee Eunjae Kim
Dear Reader. There are times. There are times where everything seems bleak and gloomy. This is not meant to be one of those times. This, is meant to be something else —at least, thus we hope it would be to you: a flutter of hope, a joyful shout, a lingering half-smile …something. That’s the power of poetry&prose, anyhow. -Kyeyoung Lee.
POETRY
summer tear YoonHyuk Lee the summer deepens. as spring farmers planted seeds, they became fathers and chanted lofty deeds. all things are pervading the wind of the noon, so are in the color of themselves. when whole nature gleams, the daydream turns to – the nightfall the milky cliff within the starry sky, is bridged with the mustard seeds. our feeling, finally, flows into the river now, for you who cannot stand in rain together. I will be the rain forever. the summer lightens.
Photo taken by Hyenji Lee
Make Our Word Seunghyeon Kim We could be perfect But we weren't Cheating each other, and also Eating each other Because we were perfect We destroyed ourselves Decide to make our 'Word' Check our spelling Check our mouth Look around before making it Look around us Finally, say it "······." So, we can't make our 'Word' again
Do not hug me. Kyeyoung Lee Do not hug me. Although it mightn’t be for you Know that I languish in your arms, choking upon the sickly scent of other people. Like a mouse under the hawk’s shadow, I tense—and I resist. This growing dread over skin touching skin grows slowly as ivy covering the old schools. But its malice is alive, making its way through every corner, eating up its fill What was inside me, sucked out and replaced by the ooze of other people. Like a spider under a parasite spell I tense—and I am no more. The force of enslavement At its own particular stride, The act of hugging An envelopment of the self. A manifestation of the other.
Reaching Out For the Stars Emily Kim Reaching out for the stars But failing Seeking clouds up high But falling Sometimes wondering What it would be like If I could Be free
Photo taken by Yurim Lee
Mother Nature Seung Ho, Jon Let me be free of your fetters Belong to you is not what I desire I dedicated my soul to be yours All I received in return was a danger Sometimes I ask myself Am I here to be manipulated? Should I let you pain yourself? A fit of anger from me is not gated But now I want to forgive you Though I writhe in the agony of your violence, Even if you ignore my wound that is from you, I will forgive you in peace But there is an only condition that I wish hopefully Promise to me that we will live harmoniously .
Photo taken by Eunjae Kim
PROSE
Welcome to Four Dime Yeonseo Hur The moment I saw it, I knew it could lead to the end of the cycle. Of course, the shopkeeper explained that they were abstract; concepts and emotions couldn’t be explained using words and pictures that existed in reality. Our reality. But it was a clear paradox (see, that’s another kind of paradox; an oxymoron.). Concepts don’t exist in real life; yet they are what makes it possible for everything to happen the way it is. Principles are thoughts that nothing can hold; yet they make people do things varying in magnitude from committing genocide to choosing to drop that quarter into the piggy bank instead of spending it. These abstract things were supposed to have no shape, or even a real existence. They only existed within the boundaries of our minds and imagination. Well, this was Four Dime. It was supposed to rebel against the very reality it existed in. The only thing about the exterior that indicated it wasn’t normal was that it didn’t really have an exterior; you imagined the exterior the way you wanted it to be and stepped in through wooden double doors, or a curtain of vines, or a large iron door with a fancy high-tech airlock (and still opened when you turned the handle for some reason), anything you could possibly imagine. Once you were inside, there was no leaving for at least an hour, the products on sale made sure of that. Near the entrance of the Four Dime was the counter, which was upside-down or on the right or on the left or stuck on the wall in the view of an outsider, but for the customer it was always upright. The counter was always bare save for a leather notebook where it wrote down all the customers’ purchases (and refunds, which covered nearly half of the contents of the notebook) by pressing their thumb down on the catch of the notebook where a terrifyingly ink-black oval was embedded. Although it kind of reminded me of the box of pain in “Dune” and anything that fell into it would never be found again, it did no physical harm to the customer. Besides, it was kind of fun watching the text appear on the paper like someone invisible was writing it with a fountain pen. Behind the counter sat the shopkeeper, a stern-looking but informative person who was always dressed in a suit. The only thing about him that made people stare was that he had two extra arms and hands, both of which functioned as well as the other two. I assumed they were evolutionary and existed to help the shopkeeper in assisting customers and cleaning things up. No one knew if the shopkeeper was a man or a woman because he had features and traits of both, and when asked about this, he answered, “I am what you think I am.” So I immediately decided that he was a man. To me, at least. Past the counter was nothing much left to say, yet so much to see that it would take probably a lifetime to walk down the infinitely long hallway, and no one except the shopkeeper ever got out of the nonexistent end of the corridor. The walls were lined with an infinite amount of shelves filled with large orbs that were see-through and unbreakable, or at least that’s what the shopkeeper said. They were also the only objects that could exist in both the abstract and “real” world. They contained concepts and thoughts and feelings and God knows what else, churning away inside, attempting to escape. All of those abstract things were inside Four Dime, yet also outside of it. The shopkeeper explained that things that didn’t exist in the real world could warp and twist as much as they wanted, which was apparently the reason why they could coexist in two different places. It was extremely confusing, and after hearing it I never asked a question on that subject again.
The ones that were the most interesting to look at were the emotions with reason behind them. Plain fury was wild and alternated between random bursts of red and black, and it made my head spin just to look at it. Self-directed anger was more disturbing but easier to understand; the colors changed impulsively like a human’s mind. The only exception was happiness. Because you don’t need a reason to be happy. You just are. Other than emotions, principles and values were my favorite things to look at. Though I always avoided the ones labeled “Kill” and “Love” (because too less of it is always bloody, too much of it is always icky.), I couldn’t help looking at “Deceit” even though it made the snakes eat and replace the butterflies in my stomach. The surface was so clean and nearly transparent that it seemed to be coated in a layer tinted celeste. It was shaped like a slightly oblong sphere, and the swirls and ripples that passed the surface created wave-like patterns on it. But if you took the care to shine a light on it, you would see a tiny black dot in the center that started to grow and expand to a three-dimensional shape. It was mass of writhing color by the time it was struggling against the glass-clear surface, and it did not look the slightest bit like a rainbow. The thick, slimy snakes of lies and hatred and cowardice would just twist and squirm like worms until they grew so thick they shattered the fragile (and fake) surface and engulfed the interior of the orb in a thick fog that was almost black. If you took away the flashlight at this moment, the orb would be empty. Full of scary, meaningless emptiness. Every day I walked down the corridor looking for new emotions and thoughts, although I never had enough money on me to buy one. That day I discovered “Lost” and was watching a small fluffy gray ball contorting itself into a half-circle that somehow became a circle again when I saw another orb behind it. All the shelves had a single line of orbs so all of the contents could be seen, so I took "Lost", set it on the floor, took out the orb behind it and put the original orb back. Arduous business for a person with one arm. I picked up the remaining orb and squinted down the hallway to find an empty spot when the label caught my eye. It was so covered in layers and layers of dust that I couldn’t read what it was. Leaning the orb against the wall, I leaned against it so it was wedged securely between my torso and the imaginary cement. I carefully wiped off the dust that was resting on the flat surface of the engraving with my thumb. The rest of it stubbornly remained inside the crevasses of the engraving, making the words foggy. “Truth” I stared at the label for a long time. I hadn’t even looked at what was happening in the orb, but my mind was already whispering, “Yes. Yes. Yes.” before I even read the label. *** Friday, April 13th, 2007 I’m about to wipe my shoes on the doormat when I hear the water running. Only Brennan is supposed to be home, so I know he’s in the bathroom. Probably washing up. I don’t feel like hammering on the door and telling him to get out so I can wash my hands. Instead I splash my hands with water in the sink without using soap and sit down on the table to read a book. It’s “The Book Thief”. I read for three hours straight and realize Brennan’s still not out of the shower. There is another door in the bathroom that leads to his room but he boarded it up yesterday, so I go see what he’s up to.
I open the door and the first thing I see is Brennan, his hair drenched and his pale, almost white skin glistening with water, lying on the floor. *** I never shower in a bathroom with a tub. It makes it very hard for my family to stay in hotels. Not that we travel much. *** I carefully set the orb on the marble floor and rummaged my pocket for four dimes. A quarter. A dime. Four pennies. I was short one cent. I sighed and plopped down next to the orb on the floor. Even the glass was coated in a layer of fine dust. I didn’t feel like getting my hand even dirtier than it was already, so I pressed my thumb against it, leaving an oval-shaped impression. Like a window to peek at the truth. Maybe not the truth. Just some of it. I didn’t want to see too much yet. There was a silvery gray fog inside the orb, floating slowly as if unsure of which way to go. When I carefully tapped the window with my index finger, it abruptly withdrew from the glass and huddled to the opposite side of the window like an animal shrinking to a corner in its cage. It continued to swirl in that location, hesitantly and warily. But it wasn’t about to spread all over again. I waited. *** Sunday, April 13th, 2008 I’m supposed to go to the cemetery for the anniversary but I don’t feel like getting up. I do, though. Mom’s got enough things to stress over already. We have pancakes with honey and chopped peaches. It’s Brennan’s favorite breakfast, the kind that mom only makes on a special occasion. I guess that’s what you could call this day. A special occasion. “It’s Brennan’s favorite breakfast,” I whisper aloud. I don’t bother about being too quiet, I know mom knows I’m thinking it anyway. *** When I was little, I would start whining about buying a new toy or get the sniffles from a bad scrape. Mom would immediately put my arms around me and say, “Remember, Kat, crying and whining isn’t going to do anything.” I got used to the routine over time, so I hadn’t heard this phrase for a long time.
*** Mom stops flipping more pancakes and puts down the pan. I wonder for a second if I offended her, but she comes and hugs me from behind. Something wet hits my bangs and slides down my forehead. “‘Crying and whining isn’t going to do anything.’” I say quietly. Mom’s voice is scratchy from swallowing tears. “Sometimes it’s different,” she says whispers. “Sometimes when getting what you want is impossible you have to let it all out instead of leaking for the rest of your life.” “You know he didn’t kill himself.” My voice jerks and wobbles and I hate it. I’ve said this like a thousand times but mom doesn’t let out an exasperated sigh. “You know what’s true, Kat. Denying doesn’t change anything. Just like the crying and the whining.” *** Right after Brennan died, I’d practically lived in Four Dime. I didn’t really look at so much as stare right through the orbs, and even if I did the fog would always change into Brennan. Usually he would be sitting in his chair with his head down, his hair falling over his face as blood dripped from his forearms onto the floor, like when I forgot to knock and accidentally caught him with the shattered plastic barrel of a ballpoint pen. But sometimes he would be lying down the same way I'd found him. His head almost looked like it had been deliberately placed right in front of the door so that whoever opened it would inevitably and unwillingly drive the splintering wooden point of the door into his skull. The position had been so accurate it almost seemed like he'd risen up after drowning himself and lain back down, like he was trying to perform some kind of posthumous self-harm. Only his twisted limbs had indicated that he'd tumbled backwards and that he'd failed to wait for the life to leave himself through his veins. The last thing I'd glimpsed before closing the door again were his eyes. They were pointed directly at the moss-infested corner of the bathroom, as if he'd tried to look the farthest away from the mirror so as not to be faced with the demon he'd been fighting with. *** In novels, people describe a dying person's eyes as transitioning from lucid to glazed over and glassy as "the life left her eyes", etc., etc. Brennan's eyes weren't really like that. They were well dead and dulled by the time I'd found him, the last excruciating moments of pain only numbed by asphyxiation and blood loss. *** Once, his eyes turned from the corner and finally looked at me, as if he'd answered my silent begging that had been wailing louder and louder while I crouched next to the bathroom after having closed the door without hearing the quiet click. His eyes still looked awfully dead and his skin still pale and his hair drenched with tap water, but he'd waveringly stood up and smiled wearily at me. The less the distance between us, the more steam from the bathroom had seemed to
rise, accentuating Brennan's form against the background. But for some reason my feet wouldn't move, and the moment I stared at his eyes his figure seemed to quiver like the glitches that appeared on a TV screen or a visualization of a radio riddled with static. Blinking rapidly, I suddenly saw him shifting into myself, identical to my real self except that I was holding a noose that was looped around Brennan's crooked neck. I'd woken up to the sound of my screaming and realized that I'd been staring at "Deceit". After making my way (rather shakily) to the counter, the shopkeeper had told me that all of the orbs look different depending on who looks at it. Especially the feelings. The emotions were shown as those of the customers’ own. A guilt-ridden person would look at “Anxiety” and see it hammering against the glass with its red fists. A sociopath would look at “Joy” and see it slowly become imbrued with a blood-crimson color as it twisted and convulsed violently. I would look at “Truth” and see my own. Not wanting to believe, wanting to know but maybe not, startled by the slightest poke, hiding in the darkest corner of my mind. I sat there staring at the orb for at least four hours until it started to slowly spread out again. Cautiously, I lowered myself so my eyes were level to the window. I can’t even describe what I saw inside it. But the very moment I saw what was inside, I just knew what had happened. I pulled out what I had known all along, had dreaded to know, but somehow knew already. For some reason, though, I could also see his truth. It was intertwined with mine, like a beanstalk, and every step required both stems to support the climber. My knowledge, my mind, got closer and closer to the sky; the real truth. But even before I reached it, I already knew what it was. So instead of getting that information hurled at me, I found myself suddenly knotted to the abstract world. I was in Four Dime in the real world, since one living person being in two places at the same time was impossible. I could feel the cold marble slabs and see the shelves, but they all felt strangely empty. Don’t the orbs exist in both worlds, though? Doesn’t that mean that quantum physics don’t work in…both worlds? You could exist in both places at once, but that meant one “copy” of you had to be dead in one world or the other, or at least that was what I was taught. Then how…? Before I could even grasp my mind around that fact someone grabbed me on the shoulders, and I found myself crouched in a nook between the bookshelves, the orb sitting between my legs. I looked up and saw that the shopkeeper had brought me back to our reality. I was about to thank him when he cut me off abruptly. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me? If you’d gone any further into discovering what lies in that world you would’ve been entered the Event Horizon and reached the singularity in seconds! Never look at the “Truth” orb again, or you will be committing suicide without realizing you’re doing anything at all. Is that clear?” I stared at him open-mouthed. I’d never seen him speak this fast or with as much fury. It was almost like there was a second person inside his emotionless, placid face. “I said, is that clear?” he hissed. Somehow it was worse than shouting. I’d never seen eyes so fierce. They were almost all blackened by the fire that was burning in his pupils. “Y-yes.” I must’ve looked extremely petrified because his features softened the slightest bit.
“You could’ve been spaghettified as soon as you reached the Event Horizon, and if you were one step inside it…” he shuddered. “You had a 50/50 chance of becoming yourself in the singularity or in here. Life or death. That was extremely close.” I don’t even remember how I walked home. The shopkeeper didn’t charge me anything, and when I tried to press my thumb on the notebook, he grabbed my hand and said, “Tell no one about this, alright? And don’t touch that hole anymore. Your whole self might get sucked in again instead of one particle. It’s extremely dangerous.” I opened the door to my house and I was about to wipe my shoes on the doormat when I realized. It had been exactly twelve years when I stood at the very same door and heard the water running, unaware that my life was about to change forever. I slowly walked towards the bathroom, the one that was boarded off with lopsided planks. The nails hadn’t penetrated the door itself and the door wasn’t locked, so I took off my shoes, ducked between the planks and carefully crept inside. Everything was covered in a layer of fine dust, like the “Truth” orb. The oval mirror looked like a storm cloud had been plastered on top of it, and my reflection was slightly blurry. But I could still see that my right sleeve dangled. Thirteen years ago, I was crossing the street with Brennan, and we were, of course, not paying attention to the traffic lights. I stumble and a car decided to speed up at that moment and of course, Brennan jumped out of the way, because that’s what anyone would do if a car was going to crash straight into you. I would’ve done the same thing. But I had tripped. I’d only managed to slightly get out of the way when the car crashed. When I woke up the doctors asked me if I was right-handed or left-handed. I said right. They looked at me soberly and shook their heads in pity. A year later, I found Brennan, dead, in this same bathroom. *** Somehow I made myself believe he hadn’t offed himself, that it was someone else. My truth denied. It was fake but true at the same time. It didn’t make any sense at all. When I looked back to where I’d found him twelve years ago, I saw him sitting on the porcelain tiles. For some reason, I didn’t bolt out of the room, even though my heart was hammering away on my ribcage. There was no water on the floor, since it had already evaporated, but Brennan’s hair was still shiny and wet. We stared at each other for a long time until he spoke. Well, most likely I was seeing and hearing things from having gone into the abstract world for a second, but it was extremely realistic. He didn’t even look half-transparent. It was just Brennan. My brother. “I’m sorry I made the wrong decisions.” The words were rusty, like they’d been kept for too long, but rusted metal is still metal. In a literal sense, anyway. It was true. “I know forgiving is impossible, after I left you on the street and left again…” he trailed off. His gaze was now directed at the tiles under my feet. “I can’t even say how mean this is, and this could be another wrong decision, but please stop trying to look for me. You know the truth. We all know the truth.” “Is that so?” I felt strangely emotionless.
Brennan sighed in his own impatient way. “That’s not the point. The point is that it’s true. You’re denying what you know in your mind. You have to accept it. I am dead, and I am responsible for that. Not anyone else. Okay?” His last words hit me like a train. I think I might’ve staggered, because suddenly the whole world started spinning like I was on a roller coaster, and Brennan’s face contorted with pain, then hardened again as I vaguely heard him say something like “Truth is warped, Kyle, but it’s still the truth.” When I finally regained my normal balance, Brennan was gone. I sat down on the cold tiles and stared at where he’d been just moments ago. Truth is warped. It was true, and that just starts another infinite cycle. Truth doesn’t end the cycle of lies. But it did end my cycle of lies my truth was making. Look at me, even truth isn’t entirely true because they are what I want to believe. But somehow it’s still supposed to be true in my imagination. It’s like people existing both outside and inside a black hole, both inside and outside the abstract world. It’s like trying really hard but doing nothing at all at the same time. None of it makes sense. But it’s real.
The Machiavellian Literature, ‘The Prince’ Jungbin Cha Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’, is basically the guide for a prince to rule and maintain a regime. ‘The Prince’ has developed a reputation of being purely evil for its ruthless advice on ruling a kingdom. But now emerges the need to define evil; what does being evil precisely point to? Despite the many debates and discussions related to what evil is, only one solid, accurate definition can exist; evil is doing things that are morally disagreed by the social norms, and committing actions in an egocentric manner even if it harms others. Even if it is the realistic solution that should be taken, if it goes against the basic ethical outlines, that is evil. Following this definition, Machiavelli’s book has no excuses against its atrocious reputation – enough to create the word, Machiavellian – for its arguments which consist solely of practical and calculative reasons, devoid of any emotions and morals. Machiavelli’s “The Prince” is cold and merciless; Machiavelli suggests the reader to do every and only the beneficial actions to themselves. Therefore, because of its egocentric, manipulative, and brutal qualities, ‘The Prince’ indeed, is extremely evil. ‘The Prince’ is extremely selfish and self-centered. Its advice only concerns the ruler, the prince’s growth and preservation and none about others. This manner is laid throughout the entire book, leading readers towards solutions and actions to only boost one’s position and lower others’. However, this selfish and immoral nature is shown best in chapter four. In chapter four Machiavelli discusses about the matter of how to govern a principality. During these contents, Machiavelli comes to the closing remark by stating, “So, then, a prince who is provident and wise ought to carry himself so that in all places, times, and occasions the people may have need of his administration and regiment, and ever after they shall be faithful and true.” (The Prince, 45) In this quote ‘The Prince’ steps over the line of simply caring more for one self’s own growth and gain, but disregarding one’s duty and resorting people into a position where they have no choice but to add to his benefits. The quote straightforwardly states that a prince must make himself so that the people have to need him, disregarding the fact that it should be the prince and the ruler that should be serving the people. Machiavelli is advising the prince to basically enslave the people so they cannot continue to live without the prince, allowing the prince to exercise one’s powers to the fullest extent upon the regime without having put in even an ounce of effort. The people are reduced to almost drug-addiction; in a position where they become wholly dependent on the substance, unable to continue life without it. In this part of the quote especially, and from the rest of the book, we can sight selfishness without any difficulty. ‘The Prince’ also proves its evil aspects by revealing its manipulative characteristics. Machiavelli advises the readers to do actions resulting to manipulation of other people, perhaps emotions of people, and twisting others to own will with terrible cunning and slyness. Manipulation, twisting other’s feelings and emotions, wills and faultless ambitions to one’s own power is perhaps, the cruelest, most coldblooded act that one can commit. And this aspect of evil is best shown, if not through the entire book, in chapter ten. In chapter ten ‘The Prince’ elaborates on how strength of principalities should be measured and mentions upon armies and defense. And here, he states, “…. they (the people) will find there is no remedy, and join more cordially with the prince, looking upon him as under an obligation to them for having sacrificed their houses and estates in his defense. And the nature of man is such to take as much pleasure in having obliged another as in being obliged himself.” (The Prince, 48) Machiavelli is explaining that when people have lost their houses, family and so on because of a siege, instead of turning against the prince, they are more likely to support the prince even more due to patriotism. This is truly evil if we are able to think through his words; Machiavelli is manipulating the hearts of fallen people – perhaps a mother who lost a son, a family witnessing their burning house – and their torn hearts into patriotism towards the country and the prince. He is, in fact manipulating the people to love and sacrifice themselves for what their loss was caused by. He is twisting the innocent sadness and lamentations into his own benefit, only looking for gain even when looking into the eyes of hopeless people.
Lastly, Machiavelli’s polishes his evil with cruelness and violence; resorting to violent ways without hesitation or a hint of reluctance if it is deemed necessary. And this nature reaches its peak when he discusses the matter of mixed principalities and which is better for being maintained, in chapter three. Here he so casually asserts, “…and to secure the possession there needs no more than to extirpate the family of the prince which governed before”. (The Prince, 7) Here he notes with such casualty to simply assassinate the prince, but not only the prince but the whole family which we can say is innocent and irrelevant, not necessary to kill. But Machiavelli cares nothing of morality or even being a human; he simply states to ruthlessly murder the family. There are points in the book where he recommends the prince to avoid violent measures, but that is only when that would result as a backfire to the prince, not out of morality or concerns of being at least a decent human being. If it’s not one of those situations, Machiavelli simply states to ruthlessly proceed to the violent ways. Disregarding the sanctity of life and feeling no remorse over gruesome acts of becoming a murderer shows most evidently that not only Machiavelli, but his book, ‘The Prince’ indeed possesses the qualities of evilness. Plundering life – instantly depriving one of future, of dreams, of hopes and everything, tearing one’s world apart – is all agreed upon the global society that it is perhaps, or most definitely, the most inhumane act a human can commit. And ‘The Prince’ casually tells the readers to commit murder, to plunder lives and the world, therefore becoming instantly the most heinous literature existing. Machiavelli’s advice consist solely of calculative and beneficial reasons which are likely to lead to the ‘best’ outcome – only for the prince, of course – and no hesitation can be found in his words. It is perhaps true, that if we did not consider moral reasons and ethics, much more could have been achieved. But can we call that a true achievement? Are you really able to call yourself the king if you got there solely by killing everyone else and standing upon the mountain of sins and corpses? Morality and ethics must be pursued if the society wants to maintain its existence; for morality, respect for life and dignity is its pillars sustaining the roof. But Machiavelli fails to recognize this and pursues a success only for one alone; a fake, meaningless success. Not all success is to be esteemed. It is perhaps, better to meet a failure trying to pursue the ethical way of dignity than to reach the summit by cruel means. Machiavelli’s book, ‘The Prince’, which is devoid of even a hint for human dignity and morality, advises its readers to pursue the false success and therefore, is heinous from the very root.
THE BRAIN: the story of you [review] Yunseo Hwang I read a book called “THE BRAIN : the story of you” by David Eagleman. Although I didn’t quite finish the book, I really liked it so far. The book was so astonishing, so I would like to write about some parts of this book. “THE BRAIN” tells us about how biology generates the mind, and makes us think about several questions like “How brain works?”, “How does the brain bind seeing, hearing, and touch?”, and “How does the sense affects sentiment?” Our brain is made up of billions of nerve cells which are arranged in patterns. They coordinate behavior, movement, sensation and even decide our thought and emotion. A complicated nerves system connects your brain to the rest of your body, so communication which controls everything from finger movement to your mood can occur in split second. Next question is “Who’s in control, and What is over our free will?” Johns Hopkins University research team devised a novel experiment tracking a person’s focus of attention. Researchers were able to see both what happens in a human brain when free choice is made, and what happens during the lead-up to that decision—how the brain behaves during the deliberation over whether to act. The actual switching of attention from one side to the other was closely linked to activity in the parietal lobe, near the back of the brain. The activity leading up to the choice—that is, the period of deliberation—occurred in the frontal cortex. Source : FUTURITY : here’s what ‘free will’ looks like in your brain, ‘A KIND OF HIGH-TECH MIND-READING’ research made by Johns Hopkins University https://www.futurity.org/brain-free-will-choice-1203302-2/ Now scientists have a way to track choices made from free will, and determine what’s happening in the brain. Through this technique we can reveal the principle how brain thinks, and further apply it to AI. Then, we arrive at the question, “Can AI replace the Brain?” At this point we encounter philosophical speculation. Although computers know the process of thinking, do they have identities, the source of thinking? Our identity is just like a moving target. It never reaches to the final destination. It means that our brain and identity are affected by our life pattern, environment, culture and everything else around us during lifetime. And that’s why I think my BRAIN is telling me the whole story of me. Source : FUTURITY : here’s what ‘free will’ looks like in your brain, ‘A KIND OF HIGH-TECH MIND-READING’ research made by Johns Hopkins University https://www.futurity.org/brain-free-will-choice-1203302-2/ The Brain: the story of you (David Eagleman)
The Twisted Heroism of Cap. America Shin Ji Won When asked to think of a questionable hero in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, most would agree that Iron Man, Black Widow, and Loki are the poster-children for controversy. Few would be reminded of Captain America, a man endowed with super-human strength in order to serve his country as a weapon. Fans of Captain America would go as far as to say that Captain America is the epitome of righteousness, the very embodiment of kindness, and the pinnacle of selflessness. However, Steve Rogers is less than a perfect example of a hero because he is outdated and exploitable, incapable of innovation, and overall a threat even if he is not misused. Captain America is a prisoner of the times when conflict was relatively simple. Conflicts with the Nazi and HYDRA were moderately easy to determine right from wrong. However, the modern world is different from post-World War 1. Even SHIELD, an organization supposedly defending justice, has multiple agendas and contradictory stances. Steve cares about the starspangled banner, freedom, and safety, but even he himself isn't sure of what SHIELD is really trying to achieve. Rogers takes part in battles he is not even sure which side he is on. This has many more consequences than one may think. Captain America is an endearing individual, which means if anyone can get Captain America on their side, they would be able to use Steve Rogers as propaganda, a reason why people should support them. Captain America's image, the very symbol of freedom and trust, could be reduced to a simple poster boy. This is a man who believes that he is the only person that can truly tell the difference between right and wrong. His outdated moral compass is the only thing he relies on. Captain America’s conceited attitude on morality and righteousness is dangerous, as is his status as an icon. Steve Rogers is stuck in the 1940s, which is understandable since he has been a "Capsicle" for seventy years. Still, judging by his refusal to adapt to the contemporary world and his denial of obvious facts, Steve Rogers should have been nothing more than a celebrated monument. A hero is someone who is able to fight for the greater good, a person who is able to, if not innovate, at least keep up with the changes society so desperately needs. Captain America will never be that. Steve Rogers will never be the one to turn the world into a better place. His values are infuriatingly traditionalist, as opposed to Tony Stark, who is willing to find out-of-the-world solutions to out-of-the-world problems. Captain America is a tragic man, with the only people from his time dead or nearing death. This means that he is alone and that he has nothing to fight for, with the exception of himself and his pride. This is alarmingly identical to Thanos’ situation. Thanos was willing to give up enormous things, things that were not even his, in order to achieve what he believed was right. Captain America once said, “If the Captain America’s disregard and ignorance towards diverging opinions characterize him as a strong visionary, which also means that he is an idealistic, stubborn, close-minded, arrogant person, who voices his irrelevant opinions as if they matter, just like Thanos. He has no personal link or personal level of affection for the modern world, which he is slowly beginning to accept his disconnection. The more detached Captain America feels, the less empathy he will have for individual happiness and ephemeral peace. These nihilistic traits Steve portrays turn him into an unfeeling, idle man, as can be observed from Steve's increasing discomfort and lack of motivation to cooperate with any of the other Avengers. With his power and influence, Captain America has the potential to become Thanos the Second.
On Shakespeare Anonymous Shakespeare’s two types of plays are different with simple and one dimensional factors: the ending and the tone. Compared to the tragedies, the comedies have a much light-hearted and gleeful ending, while relatively, the tragedies end sadly with the death of the main character. This can be shown in Macbeth or Hamlet, where the main character of the story faces their doom, and in Much ado about nothing or the Marchant of Venice, where the main character walks away without any harm done to themselves. This simple yet distinct feature is the only definite difference between the two. To talk about the tone, the synopsis can be a valid supporting point. The story of the comedies are not as gay as people think it is. In Merchant of Venice, the Jewish Shylock demands the main character’s flesh as a repayment. In the Taming of the Shrew, an independent (yet psychotic) woman is ‘tamed’ to follow her husband. Another example could be Othello, an over protective husband. Shakespeare didn’t intend to name the 9 plays out of many he wrote 5 comedies and 4 tragedies when he was creating these plays, and those naming have been added by the others who have values his work. Therefore the only point that could be distinctly contrasted is the tone of the whole play. With subtle language and depressing tone, the Merchant of Venice can be a tragedy and with witty writing and delightful tone, Othello could be a comedy. A debt that could only be repaid in the equal amount of human flesh. An independent but psychotic woman ‘tamed’ to obey her husband without questions. These surprisingly dark, greedy, and somewhat depressing storylines originates from Shakespeare’s comedies. Though some may weigh and look at these two forms to be different, stripped down to the bare minimum, comedies don’t seem like comedies. The two factors that actually alter or decide comedies from tragedies are its ending and its overall tone. Though the overall storyline sum-up might appear as similar for both of the forms, a simple yet distinct difference can be found. The Ending. The ending is the simplest yet most obvious contrast between the two. The comedies of Shakespeare have a much light-hearted and gleeful ending, while the tragedies end sadly with the death of the main character, whether he was portrayed a villain or a victim. A prime example of this is the direct contrast between Macbeth, King Lear and Taming of the Shrew. Macbeth, the villain, is killed off after his bloody killing spree and reign as a tyrant, thus climaxing the story. King Lear, the victim, lays crippled and degraded, with his dying daughter in his arms. Now, in the opposite side, Taming the Shrew has a witty and gleeful ending, without any harm whatsoever done to the protagonists or even the slightest feeling of sadness left behind for the audience. The concluding atmosphere felt by the crowd is the most important factor of deciding a comedy from a tragedy. Shakespeare’s two forms of play all have a specific tone that is used in each form. He gives joy to the audience by adding sarcastic humor into his dialogues of comedies and gives the same factor, though more sadistic, through troubled and disturbing tone in tragedies. The story of the comedies are not as happy as people think it is. In Merchant of Venice, Shylock demands the main character’s flesh as a repayment. In the Taming of the Shrew, an independent (yet psychotic) woman is ‘tamed’ to obey her husband. The only point that could be distinctly contrasted is the tone of the whole play. With subtle language and depressing tone, the Merchant of Venice can be a tragedy and with witty writing and delightful tone, Othello could be a comedy. The intensity of its language and the significant meanings or mottos the plays depict also affect the tone of the play, shown by the examples that were given.
fin.