Ask castlerook

And welcome to "Ask castlerook," the part of the blog where we answer all of your questions!



Dear castlerook,

My friend has a problem. She's convinced that she's a fictional character, living in someone else's blog, and that she has no free will of her own. What should she do?

Margaret


Well Margaret, I suggest telling your "friend" that she has two choices: she can spend the rest of her virtual life trying to figure out the truth of her existence (or, as I suspect is the case, non-existence) without success, or she can accept that she may very well be a fictional character living in someone else's blog, but she can still choose to be the best fictional character living in someone else's blog that she can be.

Next!


Yo, castle,

What's up with acting like you still have a blog? There should be some sort of statute of limitations to weed out wannabe bloggers like you. Like, blogger websites that don't get updated after 3 months get trashed. That'd show you.

Bob


Dear Bob,

It would. But there isn't. So go away.


To Monseiur Cast leRook,

This iz so lame. At least Strongbad's emails were real. And there were cool graphix and shit.

Marguerite


Dear Marguerite,

And you know what Strongbad would have done with your email, right? (DELETED!!!!!)



Come on readers, ask me about something profound and/or philosophical already.


Dear castlerook,

Given that Godel's Incompleteness Theorem conclusively proves that there are true statements of number theory which are inherently unprovable, does this have implications for our understanding of the universe?

Signed,
R. Plant


Dear Plant,

Great question! The answer is, "absolutely." To be more specific, the theorem proved that within any formal axiomatic system of number theory, there will be one of two problems: incompleteness, or inconsistency. That is, there will either exist true statements that can never be proven true (as you suggest), or, there will be statements that can be "proven" to be both true AND false! (this happens quickly if you try to "fix" the first problem).

So yes, it is easy (and quite possibly correct) to generalize from this to the realm of philosophy, and claim that there will always be truths which cannot be proven formally (i.e. scientifically), and thus can only be accepted on faith.

Personally, though, I'm also intrigued by the second possibility: what if the universe itself is inconsistent? What if our concept of logic is simply misplaced in this quantum universe, and there exist statements that are true and false simultaneously? For example, what if the statements "God exists" and "God does not exist" are BOTH true?

By the way, you should really learn how to use umlauts while typing. Gödel would not approve of you butchering his name.


Okay readers, that's all for this edition of "Ask castlerook." Keep those questions coming. I'll respond to them all as soon as I can--possibly even before next fall!

Year-long Recap

"experience has taught me all too well that if I were to do this for an extended period of time, removing the word "substitute" from my current designation, then whatever quality it is that makes me a particularly good teacher would fade away, and I would become that very stereotype which I now happily defy. I know that as soon as it ceases to be a role and becomes a defining feature of my existence, a vital part of myself is lost."

--castlerook, 2/20/09

" 'my challenge (for next year) is to learn how to teach while still living creatively.' I suspect what I need to do is to "teach creatively," i.e., to bring my creative spirit to all that I do--even to seemingly dry topics such as solving mathematical equations."

--castlerook, 6/3/09


And so now the academic year is at an end. I submitted all my grades yesterday, the commencement ceremony is tomorrow, and then just another meeting or two and my full-time obligations are over.

I'll still be doing some part-time teaching over the summer, and then it seems a change in direction is in store: this fall, I'll largely have my "old life" back--math tutoring and choral conducting, with an ample amount of to-be-allocated leisure time--but the conducting piece will include starting a choir at a different nearby* college.

*and when I say nearby, I mean really nearby--as in, I can walk there from my new house!**

**oh yeah, castlerook joined the ranks of first-time home buyers last October. All the cool kids were doing it, since Obama was making it sound all patriotic and even giving money away to folks like us. The new house is great--a small cape cod (just right for two) in a quaint little neighborhood.

So while the future holds promise, now seems a prudent time to reflect upon the past. The key question: what has teaching full-time again been like?

Well, it kind of sucked. If my challenge was indeed to live creatively while being a good productive member of society, then I pretty much failed. Most days after work I felt zapped--depleted of any creative energy, and wanting simply to hide from the world and all who lived in it. This I did fairly successfully--often by drinking alone while playing online poker.

So I'm glad it's over. Part of me feels that, financial concerns aside, this past year was a waste, and that I'm back to square one in terms of figuring out my so-called purpose in life.

And I feel the clock ticking. Thirty days from now, I'll be 30. This is a fairly terrifying thought, although I do have this secret hope that upon reaching that age, I will somehow instinctively know my purpose, and be able to begin my work.

But I have also come to realize that any purpose to my life likely must be a product of my own creation.

In truth, this past year was not a waste at all--for in the process of doing battle with various inner demons, I have certainly gained some valuable self-knowledge.

In summary:

1. I had my enneatype all wrong. In a previous post I described myself as a 2 with a 3 wing, and now I am convinced that I am actually Enneatype Six. Sixes are sometimes described as "The Loyalist" and other times as "The Devil's Advocate" or "The Questioner"--a seeming contradiction because Sixes are themselves contradictory, with a highly ambivalent relationship with authority--either fiercely loyal or deeply skeptical. Often both at the same time.

Sixes have big problems with anxiety and insecurity, and it was only after discovering I was this enneatype that I realized the full extent to which I have these problems. I suspect no one who knows me would be surprised to learn that I have anxiety issues, but I'd never fully realized it myself, because... well, I've never known anything else.

2. I have tendencies towards depression.

My brother suffers from clinical depression. Historically I have not, although I find it interesting that I always seem to have been drawn to people who do suffer from depression. I've often been "the healthy one" in a circle of depression-suffering friends. So when I realized last fall that I was experiencing all these symptoms I'd heard about, like feeling this big heavy weight upon waking up each morning, I was... surprised. But at least able to name it.

Things have gotten much better since then, though not altogether. It occurred to me a couple months ago that my symptoms of depression really didn't exist before I stopped eating meat last year, and I need to face the possibility that a correlation exists. So (and I trust my vegetarian and vegan friends will understand!) two weeks ago I started adding some meat back into my diet--chicken a couple times a week. I'll try that for a couple months while monitoring myself, then go from there.

3. If I have one antidote to feelings of depression, it's singing. Performing in general is good, but singing especially so.

There were two highlights in the area of public performance over the past year. The first came in January, when I had the opportunity to play one of my dream roles: Brad, in a local community theater production of The Rocky Horror Show. I may write more about this experience at a future date, but let's just say there are few things more liberating than being on stage in a corset, fishnets, and heels. While singing.

The second came a few weeks ago: singing in the chorus of a performance of the last movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

Some time ago, I wrote a series of personal meditations about Beethoven's Ninth, covering the first, second, and third movements--but never managed to tackle the last. I would try, and then find that I just wasn't up to it. I suspect I'm able to do so now. Something finally clicked while helping to bring that work to life--the knowledge that personal existential struggle can only bring one so far, and that the divine joy expressed in the last movement can only be experienced through shared human interaction.


A short list, perhaps, but an important one. And with this very difficult year behind me, I have hope that the worst may truly be over--and that whatever challenges lie ahead, I may have the courage to face.

Expert.

A summary of my chess career thus far:

I became infatuated with the game as a young kid, likely because it was perhaps the only competitive endeavor at which a short, skinny, precocious seven-year-old could demonstrate that he was better than his peers. When I learned that there existed such things as chess tournaments that I could actually compete in, I got really excited, and played in my first tournament at age 10. Before too long, my excitement gave way to frustration as I found that I was no match for many of my opponents. My initial rating was in the 1300s*--perfectly respectable for a kid my age, but not particularly impressive. And, despite spending hours in solitude reading chess books and playing in many more tournaments, I never seemed to get better. I finally quit playing in tournaments at age 15, my rating still stuck at 1340.

*A rating above 2200 is "master" (and above 2400, "senior master"). From 2000-2199 is "expert," while anyone rated below 2000 is a "class player": Class A from 1800-1999, Class B from 1600-1799, Class C from 1400-1599, Class D from 1200-1399, etc.

Over the next several years I would occassionally play a casual game, often against my brother, who had also played in tournaments and was about my strength (well, okay--his rating was slightly higher). But the part of myself that competed in chess tournaments gradually faded to a distant memory until I rather suddenly caught the "chess bug" again about six years ago. It started when, browsing the internet, I realized that you could actually play live chess with people online now.* I won my first couple of games, and was immediately hooked.

*We're talking yahoo.com or even netscape.com--bad interfaces with lots of weak opponents. There are, of course, much better free options out there, such as chess.com or freechess.org.

Soon afterwards, I was browsing the local Barnes & Noble and my eye was drawn to a chessbook, which I bought and promptly devoured. I actually had no idea that the book I'd bought on a whim, Jeremy Silman's How to Reassess Your Chess, was already considered a classic for the aspiring class player. Soon I was eager to play "real chess" again, and so I renewed my long-dormant membership in the USCF (United States Chess Federation) and was off to play in tournaments.

While my first tournament as an adult was rather humbling, it was soon clear that my understanding of the game had actually grown quite significantly. What's more, I studiously went over my games, learned some new openings, and quickly amassed a small library of instructional chess books. I soon crossed the 1400-rating barrier, then the 1500, and less than a year after returning to tournament play, my rating actually passed 1700! Somewhere in this period of rapid improvement I set myself the ambitious goal of becoming a master before I turned 30.

Of course, I soon realized that there's a big difference between improving from, say, 1500 to 1700, and 1700 to 1900. My rating progress slowed to what seemed like a complete halt--but I persevered, continuing to learn more about the game and gradually improving my results.

I had something of a breakthrough in the second half of last year--in July, I took first place in the Under 2000 section of a fairly big tournament in Connecticut, winning 5 out of 5 games! Then in December, I won 5 out of 6 games at a weekend tournament in Albany, also enough for first place. In some ways that victory was all the sweeter in that I lost my first game, and then had to win the rest.

And so, while some time ago I realized that my goal of making master by the age of 30 would not be feasible, it appears I may have done the next best thing.

I'll turn 30 exactly three months from today. My most recent chess rating, according to the USCF website:


2003


2003. Expert! I feel I must hasten to add that ratings don't become official until a month or so after they're rated, and indeed this may be something of an anti-climactic announcement, since last Saturday I played in a local one-day tournament (which has yet to be rated) and didn't do well, and so my rating may well fall back below 2000 before my next "official rating" comes out.

But whatever. For the moment anyway, I can at least refer to myself as an "unofficial chess expert." And it's only a matter of time before it becomes official.

And then, who knows... perhaps I can still make master by age 35.

"It is I, castlerook's first blogpost, come to gloat! Just as I predicted, castlerook has proved incapable of maintaining his blog! See, what a desolate wasteland is here. 'Tis been over five months since castlerook has visited this, his creation. He has abandoned thee! I hereby claim rule over this region of cyberspace!"

"Not so fast, vile one! It is I, castlerook! I have returned to reclaim that which is rightfully mine!"

"You're too late! This blog is my domain now. Look around. See anyone here? I didn't think so. Did you honestly expect you'd still have any readers if you came back? That anyone would still care about what you have to say?"

"It matters not. 'Tis true I have been away, and 'tis true there may be no one left to hear me speak. But I am here now, and again have voice. That alone matters. Begone with your purposeless cynicism."

"Ah, but you created me, castlerook. My purposeless cynicism is really your purposeless cynicism. Don't you know that?"

"Then I shall smite thee out of every corner of my own consciousness! Draw, and do battle!"

(A virtual swordfight ensues. A lot of epic stuff happens--blogpost's virtual blade cuts castlerook's virtual right shoulder, castlerook disarms blogpost but graciously allows blogpost to retrieve his blade--you know the drill. In the end, blogpost is about to deliver a fatal blow but castlerook's sword reaches its destination first.)

"Oh, I am slain! Farewell, castlerook, but know ye this: shouldst thou waver in thy care for this virtual land--shouldst thou once again be silenced by thy own self-doubt and cease thy work--should that day come, I will return, and stronger than ever!"

(Blogpost dies. Castlerook gives blogpost a sincere and proper burial, and then at last resumes his mercurial musing.)

Chess Therapy

One of the reasons I play competitive chess is that my results actually give me a sense of how I'm doing in the most general sense: success indicates that my life is progressing more or less as it should be, while failure suggests that something is out of balance--that I have some internal conflict in need of resolution.

If this sounds overly dramatic, it honestly isn't. Certainly there are exceptions: I may play good chess and still have less-than-great results. But if I lose due psychological factors that result in a concentration lapse or poor decision-making, I take it as a sign that I have some personal work to do.

About two months ago, I had my best chess tournament result ever. I won the Under 2000 section of a weekend-long tournament: 5 wins, 0 losses, 0 draws. For my efforts, I gained an $800 prize and a great deal of confidence in my chess abilities.

My next tournament took place three weeks ago, at a similar but slightly larger six-round event with a top section prize of $1200. I was one of the top-rated players in my section, and given my recent triumph, I had very high hopes.

It started well. The first game, I not only won but did so with a certain brutal efficiency, quickly punishing a couple of inaccurate moves from my opponent. It seemed clear that I was still in the same form with which I had ended my previous tournament.

The next game, played that same evening, also began well. I had a good position in the middlegame and while I missed an opportunity to obtain a decisive advantage, I managed to reach a rook endgame in which I was a pawn up and had some winning chances.

What transpired next is even now painful to think about. I played the endgame abominably and turned a possibly winning position first into a drawn position, and then ultimately into a loss. While any chess player has had his/her share of tough losses, I had never been as angry with myself after a game as I was then. I stormed back to my hotel room and flung my chess set against the wall. I was filled with an unusual and self-directed rage. My loss has little to do with a lack of chess knowledge but instead represented a psychological breakdown: my opponent had been a rather annoying kid who squirmed around a lot in his chair, and I had let his behavior get into my head and affect my concentration. Furthermore, once the win had slipped away I had been unable to adjust. Both the game and my psychological state then fell into a downward spiral.

Unable to come to terms with the loss, I attempted to wipe it away the following morning by re-entering into the 2-day section of the tournament. Unfortunately, I found that I was still rattled from the previous night's game, and began the day with a draw and a loss. I straightened myself out somewhat with a much-needed win the next game, and then managed another draw in the fourth and final game that night.

I was no longer in contention for any prize money, and the next day I discovered that my normally irrepressible competitive drive had been completely sapped. Round 5 was a rather lackadasical and joyless draw. Afterwards, while sitting off by myself in a corner of the hotel lobby, I realized that I had no desire to play in the last round. And so I did something that I have never done before: I withdrew from the tournament before the last round, and headed home.

Now, my results weren't exactly awful: all told I had 2 wins, 2 losses, and 3 draws. Granted, I was one of the pre-tournament favorites, and so I had a right to be disappointed. But what made this tournament so painful was that none of my failures were the result of being unfamiliar with a particular opening line or being outplayed by a superior opponent. My mistakes were all psychological; I would have a lapse in concentration and after one mistake, I was often unable to re-center myself. By the end of the tournament, sadly, I had simply stopped caring.

This brings me back to the assertion I made at the beginning of this post: psychological failure at the chessboard generally indicates that something else in my life is out of balance. The truth is that over the past month and a half or so, I have been struggling with some very real depression. There have been various factors contributing to this, the most obvious one being the return to a full-time job that I don't particularly enjoy. But it's become clear to me in the last few weeks that the roots of what I'm dealing with go much, much deeper.

The point I'm trying to make here is that this abysmal chess tournament actually served as a very effective wake-up call: it forced me to see that something has not been right with myself, and I have been able to come to terms with this knowledge. Simply accepting that I have not been emotionally healthy has helped a great deal, and while things are not all better yet, I am fairly optimistic.

And if I am correct that my level of play on the chessboard reflects my psychological state, then I have some very good news. Yesterday I went to a small one-day tournament, held an hour's drive away. I almost didn't go, as I was feeling exhausted from a tough week of work and not at all sure I was ready to confront my inner chess demons.

My results: 3 wins, 0 losses, 1 draw, and clear first prize.

Castlerook's back.

In Pursuit of a Meta-Philosophy

Note: The ideas presented in this post are far from fully worked out. Comments are particularly encouraged.


"Live in such a way that will make the world a better place. Do good to others."

"Live an authentic life by following your heart's desire. Don't give up on your dreams."

The above is my rather crude attempt to summarize two very different approaches to the question of how best to live one's life. I think they are the two dominant approaches in our culture, and possibly other cultures as well, past and present. Certainly I can feel the presence of both within my own psyche. What's more, I believe in the Truth of both.

What follows is an attempt to reconcile them.

I said that these are two very different approaches, and they are, but they are not necessarily contradictory. I think they may illustrate two paths to the same destination: living a healthy, productive, and joy-filled life. Those who have arrived at that destination are both living out their heart's desire and doing good to others. Indeed, in a fully enlightened state, the two may be the same.

The hard part, of course, is getting there. If I live solely according to our first philosophy, I may easily neglect myself, or fail to discover and make best use of my unique gifts, so that I fail to do much good in the long run. If I live solely according to our second philosophy I may neglect those around me, fail to take responsibility for my actions, and as a result never find the bliss I was searching for.

Now, one following the first path might eventually realize that in order to really do good, he/she must also pay attention to him/herself. The converse holds for someone on the second path. In either case, it is at this moment of realization that spiritual growth occurs.

So I think that each path can work. Joseph Campbell spoke of a "right-hand path" and a "left-hand path," and I think he had a similar dichotomy in mind.

What I'm trying to figure out is whether it's possible to pursue both paths simultaneously.

And with that goal in mind, here’s my first attempt at a meta-philosophy:

Strive to place yourself in situations where you will want to do good.

Discuss.

Recent Dreams

Most mornings, I awake with no memory of what I dreamed the night before. When I do remember my dreams, they generally fall into one of three categories:

1. Wild, nonsensical dreams full of seemingly random surrealistic imagery. In these dreams, I am completely unaware of myself as a conscious entity.

2. Dreams in which I am a central character but the "I" of the dream is separated from the "I" of my consciousness. That is, my dreaming self watches as "I" live out various fantastical stories.

3. Realistic dreams in which I have the same sort of thought processes as when I am awake. These are the sorts of dreams from which one awakes and asks, "Was I dreaming?"

Sometimes the boundaries are fuzzy, particularly since dreams can have more then one "episode," and so a dream may begin with one level of consciousness and end with another.


Yesterday morning, I awoke with the feeling one has after a Type 3 dream, but soon felt rather silly asking the whole "was I dreaming" question, since the dream could not be called realistic. For starters, I was pregnant.

Pregnant, and a doctor was informing me that I would have to abort my baby. Apparently I had previously undergone a new, innovative procedure making it possible for men to carry babies, but something wasn't going well and for my own safety, the pregnancy would have to be terminated.

Now, up to this point I think I had been having a Type 2 dream. I cannot recall any conscious thoughts in any detail, just basic emotions and reactions (the doctor's news actually came as something of a relief). But then a new scene begins: I'm alone in a hospital room waiting for my operation. I'm wearing a hospital gown and feeling nervous about what's going to happen. Will the surgery go okay? How do I feel about losing my baby? The conscious thoughts are all there, and everything seems completely realistic. I seem to be fully myself, just in a highly unusual circumstance. So, it's a Type 3 dream now. I analyze my own complex feelings about losing my baby until I wake up.

Clearly this is a dream almost begging to be subjected to all sorts of interpretations.* My wife suggests that the baby could symbolize an aspect of my creative life, and I think there's something to this. Still, it's unclear to me whether the dream suggests that I need to abort some aspect of my life, or whether I'm feeling pressure to abort something and should resist.

*Castlerook's really a woman! Or, castlerook really wants to be a woman! He has uterus envy!!

While I'd be fascinated to read any theories my readers may come up with, I'm going to leave the subject of castlerook's pregnancy for now. Believe it or not, I had another dream the same night which I find even more interesting.


I'd been awake about an hour or so before I realized that I had another dream before the "I'm pregnant" dream.

The dream was very brief, and consisted of a single image and a series of thoughts about the image. In my dream, I was looking at a picture of the enneagram.

Necessary digression: the enneagram (or, more specifically, the Enneagram of Personality) is a tool used in personality analysis, sort of like the Myers-Briggs personality typology, but with something of a more mystical basis. In the enneagram, there are nine personality types which exist along a continuous circle. Everyone supposedly has one personality type, though this type may be influenced by a "wing," that is, by an adjacent point. Here's a good site if you're interested in reading more. Actually, go to that site now even if you're not particularly interested, since I'm about to refer to the image of the enneagram on that site.

Back now? Great. I have, for some time, identified myself as a 2 with a 3 wing. On the site you just visited, 2 is termed "The Helper" and 3, "The Achiever." So, one could say that my basic desire is to help people but I also have a strong desire to achieve things for myself.

Digression over. The sole visual content of my dream was a picture of the enneagram, but each number had a different descriptive word next to it. Next to 2 was the word "communication," and next to 3, the word "insight." There was a very clear realization that I was now too close to the 3-point, and needed to get back to the 2-point.

In remembering this image the following morning, I was momentarily unsure whether I was remembering a dream, or an actual event. Then I realized that the words "communication" and "insight" don't fit in with any enneagram theory that I've ever seen. Indeed, "The Achiever" is usually described as a success-oriented, go-getter type, and the "insight" description doesn't really apply. For me, though, I think it does. The areas in which I care most about achieving have always been mentally oriented (chess being the prime example, but only one). I am fiercely competitive when it comes to mental challenges. Furthermore, lately I've been engaged in a sort of existential effort to try and uncover "the meaning of it all" and this, too, may be deeply related to my need for achievement.

The message of the dream is both clear and accurate: I have become too focused on achieving great personal insight, to the neglect of communicating such insights with others (witness, for example, the dearth of recent entries on this blog).

Come to think of it, maybe my quest for personal enlightenment is also my unborn baby.

Or maybe all of this rambling is a sign that I need to get more sleep that doesn't involve carrying a fetus or floating nine-pointed geometrical figues.

Getting the word out

It's been a busy month. The past three weeks have seen a German singing festival (in which I conducted a chorus of nearly 200 people), a chess tournament that didn't actually happen, a trip to Disney World, and a birthday (actually, those last two overlapped).

Blogworthy experiences all, but none is the subject of this entry. I'm actually writing here today for a simple reason: to advertise the blog of a friend of mine, Diary of an immigrant's wife.

Beth and her husband Khalid have, for some time now, been battling Homeland Security's efforts to deport Khalid. The latest developments, sadly, are not very promising.

For what it's worth, Khalid is one of the nicest people I've ever met.

So, click the link, read, and bookmark/follow to get further developments if you wish. And, if you're the sort of person who likes to "get involved," then, please, get involved.

Okay Then

In my last blog entry, I wrote the following:

"...This is an effect I've noticed before: when I do a significant amount of teaching, my creative output plummets. Why? And, does this mean that I should simply avoid teaching, or does it meant that my challenge is to learn how to teach while still living creatively?"

The next day, I got a phone call offering me a full-time teaching job for next year (one-year term appointment).

In that moment, it became clear that the answer was the second option--partly because, well, financial concerns do matter.

So in my own words, then, "my challenge (for next year) is to learn how to teach while still living creatively." I suspect what I need to do is to "teach creatively," i.e., to bring my creative spirit to all that I do--even to seemingly dry topics such as solving mathematical equations.

And while I still don't conceive of teaching math as a long-term career*, meeting this challenge can give me the experience necessary to better accomplish whatever comes next.

*I've had some thoughts recently about this as well, but the direction of those thoughts is so terrifying that I can't quite bring myself to talk about them yet, even on a semi-anonymous blog.

I've spent the last two years without a full-time job, giving me the luxury of lots of time for reflection and searching--a luxury which, frankly, I haven't always made good use of. I think I'm leaving the woods for real this time, returning to the world and bringing all the benefits of my personal efforts along with me.

Hey, where's castlerook? Is he still alive?

Well, May has certainly not been a productive blogging month. Whether this is a result of my being unusually busy or the Mercury retrograde or some other factor is anyone's guess. But yes, I am alive and well, in case any of you had noticed my absence* and were getting all concerned or something.

*if not, that's okay too...

Anyway, over the past month I taught two Math Refresher Courses for incoming community college students which, combined with my other part-time employments (math tutor, choral director), made for a rather busy time. But I don't think I can attribute my lack of blogging (or, for that matter, creative activity in general) to not having the time--I haven't been that busy, just busy for someone without a full-time job. No, this is an effect I've noticed before: when I do a significant amount of teaching, my creative output plummets. Why? And, does this mean that I should simply avoid teaching, or does it meant that my challenge is to learn how to teach while still living creatively?

In other news, the weekend before last I broke out of my chess slump, winning a local tournament.* Then this past weekend I played in a larger, weekend-long event. Through four of five rounds I was two for two, which I was happy with--I was playing in the top (open) section and had faced tough opponents. But the final round, against a somewhat weaker player, I played what I can only describe as one of the worst chess games of my life.

*For the fourth and final round, I was in the unusual position of being the only person with three points, and playing the only person with two-and-a-half points. This meant that I only needed a draw to win clear first place. It's remarkable how much simpler chess can seem when you have white and only need a draw--I steered the game into simplifications from the very beginning, and a quick draw was the result.

I mean, it was bad. Embarassingly bad. My opponent played a move early on which I'm sure was a mistake, but the move I made to take advantage of this mistake overlooked a simple tactic and I was down a piece for two pawns. Just a few moves later, I actually hung a piece, plain and simple--no missed tactics, just somehow missed that his piece could take mine. I feel like I need to go to confession at Caissa's altar or something.

So, yeah, a really, really bad loss. But the weekend was good--my wife came along for this one, and we had a great time.

Okay, that's all for now. Reading through what I've written I can see that this entry sorely lacks any manner of cohesion. Then again, they don't call this blog mercurial musings for nothing.



(and yes, I did just refer to myself in the third person plural. it's been that kind of month)

Wait . . . is this all, like, my doing?

It's well known that seemingly inconsequential actions can have unexpected, far-reaching consequences. Most of the time we never find out what effects our actions will have on the universe.

Sometimes, though, we do. Here's an example.

My senior year of college, I lived in a co-op dorm, in which we shared communal responsibility for cooking, cleaning, etc. I was in charge of job charts--making sure everyone did a certain number of jobs per week. Over the years, a tradition had developed of including various "fun" jobs that people could sign up for: masseuse (had to accept random massage requests from other co-op residents), baker (had to provide baked goods at various times during the week--extra substances with the purpose of making one "baked" purely optional), and . . . streaker.

Spring semester, we had a problem. One of our residents kept signing up to be the dorm streaker, but as far as any of us could tell, he never actually streaked. Essentially, this meant that he was getting out of doing an hour of work each week.

And so, the task of enforcing our "streaker policy" fell to me.

Our conversation went something like this.

"Hey, Matt, the other co-op officers and I have noticed that you keep signing up for 'streaker'."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, well, we've also noticed--that is, uh, have you actually, like, streaked at all?"

"Oh, yeah. Last week I walked naked from my room to the bathroom once."

"Okay, well, that doesn't really count. Look, if you're going to keep signing up as streaker, then you have to actually streak. As in, someone has to actually see you."

"Oh. Okay, no problem."

My duty was done. I'd given him a clear choice: sign up for a real job, or actually do the whole streaking thing.

He chose the latter. The following evening, as I sat in my room struggling with the details of a proof involving mathematical group theory, I suddenly heard a booming voice from the hallway:

"Greetings! Let it be known, that I . . . am STREAKING!"

And so he was. He sauntered casually* down the hallway, continually announcing his presence, then wandered out into the floor's lounge and into the next hallway, as all the while girls peeked out of their rooms and giggled.

*Incidentally, he had red hair--everywhere.

He continued to do this a couple of times a week for the remainder of the semester.

Evidently, he really enjoyed it.

Soon, our dorm was no longer a big enough arena. He started streaking various locations on campus, and recruited some of his friends to join him.

After he graduated, his friends continued the practice--and apparently, for them, even the entire campus was not enough.

The eventual result of my conversation with Matt?

See for yourself.

I guess it's official: castlerook's a pescetarian

"So, do you want a real burger or a veggie burger?"

It was Easter dinner* at my parents' house. My parents, knowing that I had been thinking of continuing my Lenten diet, had graciously purchased some veggie burgers. Now my mother was asking me the question: it was time to decide.

*Well, Easter lunch actually. And yes, the menu was burgers, fresh from the grill, with fancy side dishes and on fancy plates.

I looked over at the raw burgers, not yet put on the grill. I contemplated eating one and felt a slight queasiness in my stomach.

"I'll have a veggie burger, please."

* * *

The meal arrived and I was happily eating my veggie burger* and reflecting on whether my decision to have the veggie burger today was really the decision, if it meant that I had just decided to give up eating meat for good, and if so, if I was okay with that. Then my mother, who so far had said very little about the subject, declared:

*which, I have to say, wasn't very good--I think I'm not a fan of "fake meat" and would much rather have plain old "non-meat."

"I have to say, given your family history, this is probably a really smart thing for you to do."

My mind stopped for a second. Family history? What was she talking about? What did my family history have to do with the ethical ramifications of animal-eating?

My mind restarted and I instantly understood her meaning: heart disease. My family history includes a high rate of heart problems. The strange thing was, while I knew that I was technically "at risk" for heart disease due to genetic factors and that one's diet could play a major role in preventing heart disease, I'd somehow completely failed to make any connection between my Lenten discipline and the future health of my heart.

"Thanks," I said, as though this had actually been a factor in my going meatless.

Over the course of the meal I reflected on the disconnect between my reasons for abstaining from meat and what, apparently, were my mother's assumptions regarding my reasons. As I mentioned in my last post, I have felt healthier since giving up meat, but this honestly played no role in my initial decision-making. Should I set her straight? Tell her that actually this had nothing to do with my health, but that I just didn't want to eat all those defenseless animals?

Then again, maybe it should be about my health. Or at least, partially so. If abstaining from meat now can save me from a heart attack twenty years hence, that's a good reason too.

Earlier I had conceived of the dilemma of whether or not to eat meat as a choice between personal taste and enjoyment, and the rights of animals. Not possessing the knowledge of presicely what it means to be an animal, I haven't exactly been able to resolve this dilemma.

But if it's a choice between personal taste and enjoyment on one side, and the rights of animals and my individual health on the other, well, that's a clearer picture.

So. My Lenten discipline continues.

And you know, maybe it always has been about my health, whether I knew it or not. Maybe my questioning of the ethics of eating meat was a sort of divine providence, a spiritual push leading me to change my behavior in a way that, ultimately, would save me.

Regardless, I still don't know whether abstaining from meat is "right" or not.

It would appear, though, that it's right for me.

Whoa, Lent's Over Already?

Tomorrow is Easter.

That means Lent is nearly over.

That means I should probably come to some kind of decision about whether this whole meatless diet is something I want to continue.

To recap: I gave up meat for Lent, while allowing myself fish (Wikipedia informs me that the proper name for such a diet is "pescetarian"). Apart from one instance in which my wife and I had pierogies for dinner and also realized afterwards that they contained pork, I've stuck to it.

Now what?

I don't think I'm any closer to resolving the ethical questions of meat-eating. I can, however, reflect on how my dietary change has affected me.

First of all, abstaining from meat has been easier than I thought it would be. Certainly it has been psychologically difficult at times, but somehow I anticipated it being more difficult physically, that I'd be hungry all the time or something. After an adjustment period of no more than a week, that wasn't the case.

And yet, I am eating less--my appetite has simply shrunk. Indeed, the most exciting result from my Lenten experiment has been the loss of a couple inches from my waistline. I suspect this is attributable mostly to a significant reduction in fast food--a natural consequence of my meatless diet. Also, my lighter diet seems to result in my having more energy throughout the day.

As far as negative effects, there may be a couple. Over the last month and half, I have been sick multiple times--weird cold/flu bugs that haven't gone away easily. Is this at all connected with my change in diet? I don't think so (a lot of people around here have been battling similar illnesses), but I suppose it's worth considering. When I haven't been sick, though, I've felt great.

I should also mention that I seem to have used my dietary change as something of an excuse to engage in other indulgences. Remember that post about giving up online poker? Yeah, I started playing again a few weeks ago. I've also indulged in more alcohol than usual. Neither activity has been really excessive, but I bring it up here because my inner thought process has sometimes been along the lines of "Hey, you're already abstaining from meat--give yourself a break!"

These concerns aside, though, the meatless diet seems to have been good for me. So, does that mean I'm supposed to continue with it after Easter?

The thought of never having chicken again is sure not a happy one. For that matter, the thought of never having bacon again is really not a happy one.

It's possible that my Lenten discipline has served its purpose. That I can go back to eating meat and keep the benefits that this time has given me.

Then again, the ethical concerns that prompted this experiment in the first place are still there.

I don't know. I simply don't know.

So. Tomorrow, I will give myself permission to eat meat, if I choose to. A moment may come when I have to make that choice; once in that moment, if I listen well, perhaps I will know the answer.

It's the End of the World as I Know It . . . My Mom Just Joined Facebook

I remember when I joined Facebook. In that ancient time (er, a year and a half ago), the Facebook universe was populated almost entirely of people my age or younger. I could reconnect with friends from college and high school and others with whom I'd lost touch, and we could all poke each other and buy virtual drinks for each other and leave flirty messages on each other's walls and there was the sense that, even though this was all semi-public, it was somehow a safe, closed community.

Of course, the population of Facebook users has expanded: first gradually, then, uh, less gradually. Then exponentially. I suspect that soon the population of Facebook users will outnumber the population of humans on the planet.*

*I'm serious. With people setting up Facebook profiles for their pets, fictional characters, etc . . . soon Facebook people will outnumber real people. They'll be able to overpower us in battle, if it ever came to that.

With the population explosion of Facebook users, the feeling of a semi-closed community has naturally faded. Now, this isn't altogether a bad thing; indeed, I suppose it's sort of the point. Greater networkability and all that. And in fairness, I was only able to join after Facebook opened itself up to non-college students, and no doubt many users felt their sense of community threatened when people like me starting showing up.

So I haven't really minded. Occasionally I've had friend requests from older relatives and think, "That's a little weird. He/she is on Facebook?" But no big deal.

Alas, I can ignore the demise of the old, somewhat contained Facebook universe no longer: My Mom is on Facebook.

Apparently, her brother e-mailed her and the rest of her family and said that they should all join Facebook. So she did. This led to a conversation yesterday evening in which I tried to explain the intricacies of Facebooking to her, with little success.


castlerook's Mom: So, how does Facebook work? What are you supposed to do?

castlerook: Well, Facebook helps you stay in touch with people. You friend people and then you can see each other's profiles and send each other messages and stuff.

castlerook's Mom: Isn't that like e-mail?

castlerook: Well, yeah. But you can also leave messages on people's walls, messages that other people can see too. Not only that, but you can see what other people are saying to each other!

castlerook's Mom: Oh. And, you're supposed to put photos of yourself up, right?

castlerook: Yes, you can put up lots of pictures of yourself for eveyone to see, and videos too. Plus you can play games with all your Facebook friends--Scrabble clones and Boggle clones. You can even take lots of quizzes that will tell you things about yourself, like What City You Are or Who You Were in a Past Life.

castlerook's Mom: I see.

castlerook: Does that help?

castlerook's Mom: I think so. Oh, one more thing (she pauses and her expression becomes very concerned and serious): What does it mean to "poke" someone?


So now I have a friend request from my Mom, and of course I will accept, but I'm delaying doing so for a few more hours, at least. I need time to scour my profile for any embarrassing content. Hmm, how will she feel about so-and-so "sending me a Red Kool-Aid?" Do my lists of favorite music and movies pass parental scrutiny?

Okay, maybe it's not so bad. I lead a pretty clean life, after all, and my Facebook profile generally reflects that. Nothing too incriminating after all.

Oh, except for this: my profile contains a link to this blog.

Shit.

Apparently, "Born Again" Christians Don't Get the Joke

I've never understood what some Christians mean when they describe themselves as "born again." Growing up in a mainline-to-liberal Presbyterian church, I never encountered the phrase. I think the first time I heard it may have been in a conversation with a female high-school classmate of mine, who, after I identified myself as Christian, narrowed her eyes suspiciously and asked,

"But, are you Born Again?"

I wasn't sure what she meant. Over a decade later, I'm still not sure. But last Sunday, in church, my minister addressed the origins of this phrase, and it was a real revelation.

Apparently, there are only two references to being "born again" in the Bible. The main one comes from the Gospel of John (the other is a relatively obscure passing reference in one of the Epistles). Here's the relevant passage, Revised King James version:

3:3 Jesus answered and said to him, Truly, truly, I say to you, Unless a man is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.
3:4 Nicodemus said to him, How can a man be born when he is old? can he enter a second time into his mother's womb, and be born?
3:5 Jesus answered, Truly, truly, I say to you, Unless a man is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God.

Now, this passage has been the crux of Evangelical Christianity's insistence on being "born again" as a ticket to Heaven. After all, Jesus said it, right? "Unless a man is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God!" Pretty clear stuff.

Except . . . it was a pun.

Yeah, that's right, a pun. We tend to forget that what we now know as the Bible originated as a rich oral tradition of storytelling that included a fair amount of humor. In this case, the Greek word Jesus uses that gets translated as "born again" is ANWQEN, which can mean either "born once more" (again) or "born from above" (or, of Spirit).

Unfortuntely, puns don't usually translate very well. Here's a better attempt:

3:3 Jesus answered and said to him, Truly, truly, I say to you, Unless a man is ANWQEN (born again/born from above), he cannot see the kingdom of God.
3:4 Nicodemus said to him, How can a man be born when he is old? can he enter a second time into his mother's womb, and be born? ("Born again?" What do you mean, "born again?")
3:5 Jesus answered, Truly, truly, I say to you, Unless a man is born of water and the Spirit (born from above), he cannot enter the kingdom of God. (i.e., You silly Nicodemus, did you really think I meant "born again?" I meant "born from above." Duh!)

In light of this, it would seem that when it comes to "Born Again" Christians . . . the joke's on them.

Incidentally, while Catholics have wisely avoided the strange fixation on the "born again" theme, in researching this entry I discovered that many Catholics (at least, the ones with a prominent Internet presence) have a similarly ill-conceived interpretation of this passage . They cite the line, "Unless a man is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God" as evidence that baptism (being "born of water") is an essential component of one's ticket to Heaven.

Given what we've just learned, it seems pretty clear to me that in this context, "born of water" refers to being born from the womb. Jesus seems to be saying in order to enter the kingdom of God (which I think denotes not a "ticket to Heaven," but rather that source of Divinity which exists within each of us), one must exist both as body and as Spirit.

Now that, I think I just might understand.

My Greatest Chess Triumph, Part III

The next morning I awoke feeling excited and nervous. Just two games, I kept thinking over and over. Just two games. I had to win them both.

As I generously partook of the hotel's breakfast buffet, chess players all around were discussing their standings in the tournament. Someone asked me how I was doing, and I told him. He was impressed. "Good luck today," he said as we parted ways.

I checked the pairings for the day's first game, and my opponent's name seemed familiar. I then remembered that we had played in a tournament a few months ago. I had won that game.

Good.

The knowledge that I had already beaten this player gave me a needed confidence boost as we all made our way to our respective boards. True, in that game I had been White and today I had Black, but I felt a certain psychological edge all the same. As my opponent (an overweight, thirtysomething man) arrived, I sensed that he was not looking forward to having to play me again.

Round 6: My opponent plays an unusually passive opening as White, allowing me to command a fair share of the center. It's not clear to me how best to take advantage of this, though. I try to claim an outpost in the center with my knight, but this only results in some exchanges that leave me with a vulnerable advanced pawn. I can defend this pawn by pushing another pawn forward, but I fear this would leave some dangerous holes in the structure of my position.

We both castle queenside and, as expected, he moves to attack my undefended pawn. This is my last chance to save it, but do I want to? I have a long think and try to visualize the future course of the game if I simply give up the pawn. Apart from the obvious disadvantage of being down a pawn, my position would be fine. Try and hang on to the pawn, and I may be in a weak, defensive position for the forseeable future.

I let him have the pawn, which surprises him. Good. I try to coordinate my queen, bishop, and rook in an attack on his king, but he pushes his pawns forward and attacks my rook, and it seems that I will have to retreat.

Or do I?

If I retreat now, I will likely not get another chance to put any pressure on his position. I enter a long think and meditate on the position. His pawns now form a continuous, solid wall across the length of the board, neatly dividing up out respective territories. His pieces appear safe, hiding behind his wall of pawns.

As I contemplate the position something in my mind crystallizes and I suddently perceive the chessboard in a new way, as a three-dimensional battlefield. My forces are all trapped on one side of the wall. Neither side has any knights left, making jumping over the wall impossible. How am I going to get through?

Can I get him to open the wall for me?

With this thought I hit upon a plan, a shrewd trap that I suspect he will be unable to resist. Instead of retreating my rook I move it to the side of the board, where it risks being vulnerable to the enemy pawns. But if he wants to go after my rook, he'll need to open the wall. And I'll be ready.

I intentionally move my pieces close together so that he can push a pawn to attack my rook, and next move push the same pawn to attack both my queen and my bishop. It works beautifully. I let him think that he is winning material, but then sacrifice my bishop two of his pawns. The wall is now open, and my pieces are perfectly positioned; he can do nothing to stop my from trapping his queen.

Oh, he's pissed at me now. He has to give up his queen for my rook, and now the game is all but over. My queen sweeps into his position and picks up a pawn, and then my remaining rook enters the fray, and together they win another rook.

Game over.

Yes! I thought to myself as I left the playing area. I had a hard time believing just how well my little trap had worked. For the first time this weekend I actually had a bit of a break: the last game wouldn't start for another two-and-a-half hours. I went outside, and the weather was positively Spring-like. Sunny, with temperature easily in the mid-fifties. In January! I went for a walk around downtown Philadelphia, had some lunch, and stopped by the nearby Franklin Institute. When I returned to the hotel for the seventh and final game I felt refreshed, and peaceful.

Round 7: My opponent is a somewhat elderly man, probably a real tournament veteran. I have White. He plays the Sicilian and I again play the unusual Alapin variation, which he seems ready for. His position out of the opening is fine, and I have to be careful about keeping a strong enough presence in the center, but then he misses a chance to go after my central pawn and now everything is okay. The game becomes open, with all central pawns exchanged, and I claim the open central files for my rooks. Then, he misses a tactic, which I quickly take advantage of: I take his pawn with my knight, and after he retakes with his knight, my bishop can fork his king and knight.

One pawn up.

Will it be enough to win? Maybe, but only if I keep putting pressure on his position. I move my pieces and pawns forward, keeping him on the defensive. I manage to plant my knight firmly on the sixth rank, making it difficult for him to manoeuver.

He's not going to go away quietly, though: he makes some solid defensive moves and keeps me from making more progress. Several moves transpire without either side gaining much. It's about seven-thirty in the evening now, and I try to stifle a small voice in my head reminding me that still have a five-hour drive to make tonight.

He tries to break free from the bind he is in and manages to do so, but at the cost of exchanging more pieces, which should benefit me. Now we have reached a rook endgame where I still have one extra pawn. Often the weaker side can draw this sort of endgame, but I'm determined to do whatever I can to win it. Most of the games are done now, and the playing area is emptying, but I keep trying to manoeuver my king and rook to where they can help advance one of my pawns forward. My opponent plays a bit too passively, and allows me the time to do this.

I manage to advance one of pawns forward to the sixth rank before he can block it with his rook, and on the other side of the board I start to advance another pawn. He stops and captures this pawn with his king, but this allows my own king to march into battle, heading towards the enemy rook. The blockade is broken. To save his rook he has to flee to the side of the board, leaving the path open for my passed pawn. To keep my pawn from becoming a queen he would have to sacrifice his rook, leaving me with an extra rook and a trivially easy win.

He resigns.

Only now did I let my concentration relax. I looked up from the board for the first time in a while and saw that the hall was nearly empty. It was almost ten o'clock. I felt surprisingly peaceful during that last game: intensely focused, but serene. Somehow I had lost any awareness of my surroundings, and it takes a few moments for me to adjust back to reality.

I looked at the standings and confirmed what I thought would be the case: the win puts me in a three-way tie for first place. Sweet. I waited around for another forty-five minutes to pick up my check: seven hundred dollars.

Of course, my expenses for the trip were over half of that amount. Put in perspective, perhaps it wasn't really a lot of money. But I had won it, and with that knowledge came a profound feeling of self-validation.

I finally left Philadelphia at eleven o'clock and made it home at four o'clock in the morning. I napped for a couple hours, then got up and went to work overseeing a math tutoring lab and teaching a class, staying awake and alert on pure adrenaline. Over the next few days as I caught up on sleep and life returned to normal, I was aware that I was different somehow. The experience had changed me in subtle but important ways--I was more confident, more willing to trust my intuition in matters that were wholly unrelated to chess.

You see, my victiories on the chessboard had given me a glimpse of what I was capable of.

They still do today.

Sharp Quills

The following is a public service announcement for those readers who used to write at thisisby.us...*

*actually, this is for everyone, but former TIBUers in particular.

Former TIBU writer HarmoniMcG has launched a new website, sharpquills.com, which has the potential to be all that TIBU was and more. Go check it out!

My Greatest Chess Triumph, Part II

I woke up well before my alarm went off feeling strangely awake. The deadline for re-entering was still a couple of hours away.

What did I want to do?

After a moment's reflection I knew the answer: I wanted to re-enter. I wanted a fresh start and the chance to win the tournament. But should I? This was already an expensive trip--could I really justify making it more expensive?

I'd re-entered a major tournament once before. That time I had lost the first two games, decided to re-enter, and then lost the first two games the next day as well. How would I feel if something similar happened here?

I also hoped to be able to see something of Philadelphia this trip. If I re-entered, I'd be playing five games today instead of two, leaving no time for any activity other than playing chess.

After showering and getting dressed I wandered outside the hotel. It was quite warm for January, but also very windy, so windy that even walking down the block was difficult. I'm not going to be doing much exploring of Philadelphia regardless, I thought. I halted my steps and stood there, still, feeling the wind rush past me, listening to its voice.

And then somehow I knew: I was going to re-enter.

An hour and a half later I was sitting down for my first game of the day--now officially my first game of the tournament. The first four games today would all have a (relatively) fast time control to catch us up with the other schedules, before they all merged for the fifth game tonight. Usually I liked playing with the slower time controls, with plenty of time to ponder over each move, but I resolved to concentrate extra hard and avoid time trouble.

Round 1: My first opponent of the day is an African-American gentleman who seems a bit nervous. Before the start of the game he asks to use his chess clock, which is an old-fashioned analog clock, rather than my digital clock. The newer, digital clocks have a five-second time-delay feature that makes time trouble less of a problem late in the game. They are also the preferred, default clocks now, which means that I could insist on using my own clock. But something tells me that I should agree to his request, that I might be able to use his own clock against him.

I have the White pieces. Like the first round yesterday the game starts as a French Defense, but it quickly becomes very unusual: on the second move I move my queen's pawn forward one square (rather than the usual two), trying to reach the King's Indian Attack, and he responds by moving his king's pawn a second time. The position now resembles a double king's pawn opening. As play progresses I provoke him into making some weakening pawn moves, giving me a slight edge. I fail to take full advantage of this, though, as my opponent succeeds in exchanging off several pieces and we reach an equal endgame in which each of us has a queen, knight, and several pawns.

At this point both of us have only a few minutes remaining on the clock and the game becomes a race: can we continue to make good moves, or at least avoid making any blunders, while not losing on time? The pace of play becomes faster and faster. Somehow the queens and many of the pawns get exchanged, and I end up with one extra pawn in the process--I have just a knight and one pawn, while he has just the knight. All he has to do now is sacrifice his knight for my last pawn, and the game will be declared a draw, with neither side being able to mate the other. A couple more moves and he will be able to do this, but then, just in time, his flag falls. I immediately claim the win on time.

An even uglier win then yesterday's first round, but again, a win. I reflect on the amazing correctness of whatever instinct led me to agree to use his clock. I can't reflect for long, though, as soon I have to get ready for the next round.

Round 2: My opponent is a young man of Middle-Eastern descent. He has White and opens with his king's knight rather than one of his pawns; this is a somewhat unusual opening that I am not really prepared for. We end up in some sort of Queen's Gambit position in which my opponent has an isolated queen's pawn that is vulnerable to attack. I am able to tie up his pieces in defending this pawn and take over the initiative. Soon most of the pieces are exchanged and we reach a rook endgame; I am a bit better because of the pawn structure, but will it be enough to win? Objectively my opponent should be able to draw, but I have all the winning chances.

He soon finds himself unable to defend all of his weak pawns and gives one up while activating his rook. After he checks my king and I interpose with my own rook, my opponent has a big decision: exchange the last pair of rooks and enter a king-and-pawn endgame (one pawn down), or keep the rooks on the board? He decides to exchange rooks, which turns out to be a big mistake: in the ensuing position, my extra pawn becomes decisive. Soon he is unable to stop the advancing of one of my pawns down the board, where it will eventually become a queen.

Two for two.

Round 3: I have White against a friendly Indian man who plays the Petroff Defense. The line I choose to play leads to a fairly simplified position in which both sides have time to maneuver their forces. As the game progresses I grab more space on the queenside but he has some advantage in the center, which he skillfully exploits: soon I am on the defensive. Just as I think I have successfully repelled his attack, I overlook a simple tactic and lose a pawn.

I try to stay calm and defend my inferior position, but I am already getting low on time and my prospects are not good. Soon my opponent is able to win a second pawn, and I can do little but watch as he skillfully converts his material advantage into victory.

A definite setback. Still, I have two wins in three games, and am certainly better off for having re-entered the tournament.

Round 4: I have White against a Caucasian kid who I think is in high school. He plays the French Defense but makes some strange moves early on, allowing me to develop an attack on the kingside. I am able to capture one of his kingside pawns with my bishop, but at a price: my bishop may well became trapped where it is. The outcome of the game hinges on whether I will be able to rescue my bishop and keep my extra pawn.

I maneuver my queen so as to join my other pieces on the kingside. In the process I give him an opportunity to corner and capture my bishop, but he misses it: now it is too late, as my knight hops deep into his position and attacks both of his rooks. He does manage to capture by bishop but I am able to grab a knight and another pawn. More importantly, my pieces are still aggressively posted around his king. He tries to fight back but misses a tactic and I win the game in style, sacrificing my knight by checking his king and winning both of his rooks, prompting his resignation.

Round 5: The fast time control games are all over now. I try to mentally adjust myself to the slower time control. I'm getting tired, so the change is probably a good thing. My opponent is a high-school-age girl, just like last night, and I resolve that the similarities between the two games will end there.

I have Black and play the Pirc Defense. She plays an active line that involves immediately exchanging my dangerous dark-squared bishop and castling queenside. She tries to attack my king but in doing so leaves her central pawns under-defended. As a result, early in the middlegame her position completely collapses, and I win a whole piece.

This is an absolutely fantastic start, but I remind myself of how I blew my winning position in last night's game and tell myself not to relax yet. Indeed, my opponent seems determined to try to make a comeback. I develop my remaining pieces and try stay on the offensive, continually focusing on the center of the board. I manage to force the exchange of queens and both pairs of rooks, effectively ending her attacking chances. My opponent chooses to play on well past the point where most players would resign, but her position is hopeless: I use my extra piece to win a pawn, then another pawn, advance one of my pawns to where it transforms into a queen, and deliver checkmate.

The day had been a great success. Four wins in five games, and only two games left to play tomorrow. I felt a strange mix of excitement, fatigue, and contentment. I treated myself to a drink at the hotel bar (as a sleep aid, I told myself) and went to bed eager for the next day's challenges.

Two Weeks Down

It's been two weeks now since I've eaten any meat. During that time, I've had to make some adjustments--mostly consisting of things I should do anyway, such as virtually eliminating fast food* from my diet.

*Though at the chess tournament last weekend, I needed to grab a quick meal before a game and there seemed to be no available options other than the nearby Burger King or McDonald's. I chose Burger King, scanned the menu for meatless options, and ended up ordering a fish sandwich.

I'd never had a Burger King fish sandwich before. I hope to never, ever have one again.

But, on the whole, I'm surprised by how easy this has been.

Oh sure, it was annoying when I was at the hotel restaurant buffet and couldn't have any bacon or sausage. And I miss my chicken dishes. But not as much as I thought I would.

What's more, while this hasn't been anything resembling a controlled experiment, I must say that I generally feel healthier and more energetic.

I have no idea whether I will decide to continue this practice past Lent. But it's sure good to know that I can.

Tournament Recap (and more)

So, my results this weekend were not good: 1 win, 2 draws, 2 losses. I could, of course, blame these results on my health*, which certainly may have been a factor, but I think only a small one. No, I've actually been in something of a chess slump for a few months.

*Incidentally, I'm doing better now--very tired from the weekend's activities, but that chest cough is finally letting up.

My results were actually as follows: loss, loss, draw, draw, win. As you can see, I can at least claim that I improved during the course of the event. And indeed, somewhere near the end of the second game I had an possible insight into the nature of my slump--and even, perhaps, into much more.

To put it simply: I've had difficulty making choices. I will often reach positions in which I have many possible options--expand on the queenside, push in the center, attack the enemy king? Any or all of these options may be promising. However, in all but rare circumstances, there is only time to do one effectively.

My problem is, I'm liable to try to do all three. Which often results in accomplishing none.

Each move is a choice that affects the possible future course of the game. Each move also is, by its very nature, a limiting choice. Once the decision is made to attack on the kingside, it's too late the change course and attack on the queenside. Once a pawn is pushed forward, it can no longer be pushed back.

The fear of making choices, of making decisions that affect the future in permanent and irrevokable ways, is not limited to my chess game. I often find myself wanting to do so much, wanting to experience and discover all that there is, that I become paralyzed, unable to do anything at all.

Each move we make, in chess or in life, limits what choices will be available in our future. To live, then, consists of making choices that lead to a certain path while losing the ability to explore other, formerly potential paths.

Each choice consists of loss. But if we fail to make those choices, fail to experience that loss and embrace the path we have chosen, then we are not really living.

Perhaps this is what the Buddhists mean about life being suffering.