Toy Soldiers

    Today I found a large bin of old toys I used to play with when I was a little kid.  It was piled high with various action figures, toy cars and trucks, and scattered or broken pieces from other toys.  There were probably over a thousand individual pieces in there.  It was quite impressive.  Most of this bin was filled with hundreds of toy soldiers; those minuscule green plastic men fiercely wielding their tiny weapons against an unseen plastic enemy.  
     Some of them were clearly American Civil War soldiers, half of them blue and half of them gray, with muskets and sabers.  Others were meant to be World War II era, probably my dad's childhood toys passed down to me.  Still more looked like they were American soldiers in Vietnam, with more modern uniforms and weapons than the older toys.  They came with horses, cannons, tanks, jeeps, and tents and buildings for bases.  They were fully prepared to do battle.
     I remembered back to when I was younger and I would play with these toy soldiers all the time.  I loved history even back then and I would sometimes try to recreate civil war battles complete with generals and cavalry charges.  Other times my imagination got the better of my love for historical accuracy and plastic dinosaurs and knights would fight alongside World War II soldiers.
    I guess it was a great outlet for a young imagination, but this pastime seems quite silly to me now. It made war seem like great fun, a giant playing field with formations and charges and guns and tanks and other exciting features.  I imagined myself as a general and a tactician, setting up my armies against the enemy.  I didn't care what or who I was fighting for, it was just seemed fun to fight.  As the battles progressed I swept aside the opposing soldiers as they died like I was the hand of God, ending countless plastic lives with my juvenile fingers.  I gave no thought whatsoever as to whether these little soldiers wanted to die, whether they had families, whether they volunteered or were drafted.
      On one level it didn't matter.  They were made of plastic.  They couldn't feel or think or live or die.  I don't think I could do it now though.  Now I see war on the news every day and read about it in books and magazines.  Back then all I knew about war was green plastic men shooting at each other with green plastic guns and whatever I could learn from children's history books.  My younger self sat in my basement and staged wars with glee, while around the world real soldiers who were not made of green plastic killed real people with real guns that were not made of green plastic.  These soldiers were so inanimate and innocent back then. Now I look at them and I see men who are prepared to kill and afraid to be killed, and I don't think a child should determine their fate so happily.

Ink

This is the ink reservoir of a pen.  When I get bored in classes, I take apart my pen and put it back together again, always amazed at the simple yet complex interactions of tiny pieces of plastic to form such a useful tool.  As I did this last week, I looked closely at the tube of dark blue-black ink inside the pen; specifically the stark boundary between the ink and the used-up and empty reservoir of gel.

A pen is an extraordinarily powerful tool.  A pen creates governments and overthrows them.  A pen writes every majestic symphony and every brilliant novel.  A pen makes us laugh and makes us cry. But without ink, a pen is a worthless piece of plastic.  Ink is the blood coursing through the veins of every word every human has ever written.  Ink gives life to dead and empty pages and pens.

But as this image proves, the ink will not remain in the pen forever.  The ink remains immortal on the page, living on for all to read forever, but not so in the pen. The pen is slowly used up, its core gradually transforming from a full and healthy dark blue to a hollow and ghostly white.  The pen bleeds out, having carefully used every last drop of its life to fulfill whatever its purpose may have been, and becomes a plastic skeleton, destined for a landfill where it will sit silent, unused, and dead for millennia, not feeling the joy or the pain caused by the words it has written.

This pen still has ink.

Introduction

   This is a blog.  I have never wanted to participate in any sort of social media, and I still do not, so starting a blog is not something that I would normally have had any interest in doing.  Generally, I believe that social media tends to waste time, encourage narcissism, and make people less aware of the world around them.  I know this view is unpopular, but it's just what I think. Because of this, I will try to only write things on here that I think are worth sharing with other people, so as not to waste anyone's time.
   Here is a brief introduction about myself:  I like reading books, watching TV, and listening to music, specifically rock from the 1960s and 70s.  My favorite books are Catch-22 by Joseph Heller and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.  My favorite musical artists are The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, and Pink Floyd.  I strongly dislike almost all popular music of this millennium; it lacks the creativity and musicianship of all the old stuff.  I love the outdoors,  hiking, and camping, as well as swimming and other sports.
  So I guess you can read this blog if you would like.