Ramblings From the South: Day 6

For someone who hardly rang in the new year in the same fashion as those on Bourbon Street, I woke up more exhausted and sluggish than I expected. Other hotel guestsdrifted by one another in the eating area, exchanging the same drowsy nod, signaling "You had a rough one too, huh?"

After housekeeping continually inquired if we still wanted our rooms cleaned, we made our way out the door. Heavily recommended by a native Louisianan we know back home, we spent the afternoon at the National World War II Museum, located just three blocks from our hotel . A seemingly peculiar place for such a museum, it does an incredible job of capturing and presenting not just the European front of the war, but also giving the Asia-Pacific War a thorough and impressive examination. Similarly, a well-done 4-D film, narrated by Tom Hanks, detailed the war efforts from the U.S.'s initial isolationist policy to the Allies' triumphs in Italy, Germany, and Japan. I realized how fortunate we are that we don't live in an era with the same fears and dangers, but I also realized that that fortune only came to be because the admirable feats and prevailing efforts of those that lived in a time where that was an everyday reality.

Following the museum and mass that would only take place in New Orleans, we made our best attempt to eat dinner, despite the restaurant's service's best efforts to prevent us for doing so. Fortunately, but eventually unfortunately, my dad's beloved Dallas Cowboys were playing in a season-defining and -ending game against the New York Giants to distract us at least a little bit.

There's not too much to tell from today, but I don't say that regrettably. Having covered hundreds of miles by car and on foot over the past five days, along with the sights we've seen along the way, we've earned a lazy and relaxing day, which seems counterintuitive to say on a vacation, and I think I'll do the same with this entry too.

Ramblings From the South: Day 5

On our first full day in New Orleans and last one in 2011, we were casual enough with it to wait until it was half over before finally leaving the hotel. Eventually, we made a brief visit to Mardi Gras World, the warehouse where the floats for the city's famous parade are kept. Jesters, creatures, icons from American tall tales, and Woody from Toy Story were all there, asleep with their eyes were wide open, bereft of life but waiting for the once-a-year revival.

After that, we strolled down St. Charles Avenue for a bit, a major thoroughfare that follows along the curve of the Mississippi River. We didn't walk the whole street, instead opting to hop on the St. Charles Avenue Line, the oldest continuously operating street railway system in the world. Since 1835, the line has carried New Orleanians back and forth from the east end of the city to the west. Rusty, antique, and timeworn, the streetcars and their charm take longtime and first-time passengers on a tour of New Orleans' various neighborhoods, arrayed with mansions, churches, and universities. The ride is clunky at times, jerky at others, but darling nonetheless.

We rode it all the way to the end of the line to the Carrollton neighborhood. There, walking along several southern live oaks and beautiful homes, we found where our final meal of the year would be: Jacques-Imo's. An eclectic and quirky restaurant split between two neighboring buildings, we dined outside as the afternoon became dusk, and dusk became night. We treated ourselves to shrimp, drum fish, scallops, and rabbit as the restaurant and surrounding area became more multifarious as it became more lively with midnight, and 2012, creeping ever closer.

After being ripped off for a fair fare by our cab driver, we set out to brave the French Quarter for the dropping of the giant fleur-de-lis in Jackson Square. It was about 7:30 by this point and heading down Decatur Street, the street leading up to park, was rich with revelry and merriment already. Eager to participate, we purchased customary, and essential, feathered Venetian masks and bead necklaces. My necklace featured skulls with jester hats, my brother's dice, and my sister's beignets.

We were fortunate enough to find a spot to sit on the steps in Jackson Square right by the "A NOLA New Year's Eve" stage, as most of the spots had already been claimed. It took a little less than a couple of hours before the official festivities got started onstage, but the ambiance was astir to keep anyone awake. Even if you just hoped to people-watch, all your senses were increasingly stimulated, from the colorful sounds to the loud visuals.

Among my favorites was this one man who was at least 60, maybe 65, but had chosen to ignore the conventions of his age; he had more of a youthful spirit than most of my peers. With hardly any reason other than conviviality, he stood up in front of the masses of people sitting, and turned them into an audience as he began to dance, inviting passers-by to join him. Around him, street entertainers in costumes that looked like they were straight out of New Orleans local folk stories and Voodoo legends complemented the mood. "Who dat?" someone shouted, a chant popular among Saints fans, and the crowd responded back with the same phrase. Even a cop accepted a handful of raisins from some twenty-somethings standing on a railing, just a misstep away from falling into the bushes. For some in Jackson Square, New Year's Eve was the reason to party; for others, it just so happened to be New Year's Eve while they were already looking to party.

A couple of local radio deejays eventually came out onto the stage and, after pandering to Virginia Tech and Michigan fans, the participants of Tuesday's Sugar Bowl, kicked off the musical portion. Three local groups - the Lagniappe Brass Band, MyNameIsJohnMichael, and Shamarr Allen and the Underdawgs - came out and performed, each featuring either a trombone or trumpet in their ensemble. From swinging instrumental numbers to a vibrant cover of "Rolling in the Deep," toddlers, college kids, parents, and old-timers tapped their toes, clapped their hands, and moved their bodies. With St. Louis Cathedral serving as the concert's backdrop, and Andrew Jackson's equestrian statue keeping a watchful eye all the while as well, the music seeped into everyone's veins as easily as the beer, champagne, margaritas, and whatever else was openly enjoyed in the streets.

Just before midnight struck, Mitch Landrieu, the city's mayor and latest member of the Louisiana political dynasty, raised a martini glass onstage to wish everyone the best in 2012. Then the countdown began. "Ten... nine...." Thousands of heads turn away from the stage to the neon fleur-de-lis atop Jax Brewery on the square's south corner. "Eight... seven..." The new year now appears closer than wherever the masses of people on Decatur, St. Peter, and St. Ann Street end, if they even dd. "Six... five..." Eagerness, anxiousness, anticipation, jubilation all mount. "Four... three..." Final glimpses of 2011 are caught by wandering eyes. "Two... one..." Immediately, horns blow, family and friends embrace, and fireworks thunder. It's 2012, and New Orleans likes what it sees so far.

Brass instruments blare over the speakers, and the first party of the year is underway. Cigar smoke and the perfume or cologne of whoever you just hugged are the welcoming scents of 2012. Hopeful gamblers, looking to test their luck right away, line up for a wait that looks like might take until the next December 31st. What lies ahead in the next few hours looks very similar to the last few, but it seems all too new in this unmarked year.

Both fittingly and unfittingly, "When the Saints Go Marching In" plays as we made our way out of Jackson Square; the song may be an anthem for the city, but saintly behavior hardly suited those going further into the French Quarter. But, if it's New Year's in New Orleans, and you want to be in that number, even the saints will probably give you a pass.

Bonne année à tous de la Nouvelle-Orléans!

Ramblings From the South: Day 4

When I was younger, I was fortunate enough to spend most of my spring breaks and Christmas vacations in Florida, spending nights at different port cities along the Gulf of Mexico in my Abuelo's boat. I became so accustomed to the Gulf that I took it for granted; that is, until I stopped going and realized just how spectacular.

I woke up in Biloxi this morning, and immediately flung aside the curtains to capitalize on our impressive view, and an impressive view it was. I know I go to school in a land with allegedly 10,000 lakes, but the vastness of the ocean goes unmatched compared to all of those put together. While daunting, the ocean provides a calming sentiment as well; I understand the geographic parameters of the Gulf of Mexico, but so much of it remains a mystery as well. We went down for a peaceful walk along the beach as a family. It was a warm enough day - about 70 degrees - but the water itself wasn't the most inviting, so we dipped the occasional toe in and admittedly played in the sand for a little bit before heading back to the room.

Only about an hour and a half from New Orleans, we took our time with the day. In Gulfport, the Mississippi Gulf Coast's main city, we found a seafood restaurant called Back Bay that was great and authentic in both food and atmosphere. We chowed down on frog legs, gator, flounder, shrimp, gumbo, and Creole pasta. An added perk: the restaurant claims to have the world's longest handicapped ramp, and I'm inclined to believe the legitimacy of that claim after having made the long and winding trek up it.

Outlining the Gulf along the scenic U.S. Route 90, we made our way towards New Orleans, eventually making it into our hotel after driving past lakes and bayous. As we approached the city, the effects of Hurricane Katrina became more visible as we drove by abandoned and damaged homes, buildings, and even a large hotel. It's saddening that the destruction is still so apparent, whether it's physically to the structures or psychologically to its former residents.

After settling into our hotel rooms and resting for a bit, we decided to make the night's adventure to the French Quarter. Typical? Yes. Essential? There's no denying it. We unintentionally but gladly embarked for the Vieux Carré just before dusk, so we observed as the city transformed from one with unique architecture to one of even more unique dwellers on our 20-minute stroll.

Bourbon Street is one part Amsterdam, one part frat party, one part Sanfermines, and one part Times Square. Sleazy, chintzy, tawdry, and tacky, it's also hard to deny its appeal, and not necessarily from an overindulgent standpoint. The bright lights, the live music, and the diversity of outlandish personalities and characters all come together on this festive rue for an ambiance that's just as intoxicating as the shots that the nearly bare-skinned ladies use to lure in bacchanalian out-of-towners. Even though I could hardly handle stimulation on the casual walk down the street, it's definitely an entertaining experience, and one we'll see it in even fuller force tomorrow for the New Year's Eve celebrations.

As the night dwindled down, we had some dinner, and then went to the all-important stop at Café du Monde for beignets, which are well worth the feeling of selling out to the typical New Orleans traveler's itinerary. Right by Jackson Square, the city's main park, we made our way up a ramp to perch that overlooked the park and gazed upon the St. Louis Cathedral, which looks like Disney World's Cinderella Castle's little brother.

Like I said earlier, after tonight, we're well aware of the undertaking that navigating through the French Quarter, Jackson Square, and any other part of New Orleans, so getting plenty rest is a priority for us. Even if the Big Easy proves to have its share of challenges tomorrow night, we're up for the adventure, and making 2012's initial moments ones to remember in the City the City That Care Forgot.

Ramblings From the South: Day 3

The day kicked off the day driving most of the 16-mile tour road at Vicksburg National Military Park. The tour took us past countless memorials and important spots related to the Siege of Vicksburg, providing both great context and appreciation for the 47-day ordeal by equally telling it from the Union and Confederate perspective. Civil War battlefields are commonplace are on family vacations because of my dad's fascination with the war itself, but I learned that this was the first ever Civil War battle site he ever visited when he wasn't even 10 years-old. Seeing my little sister in the car sitting behind him, perhaps she'll someday say the same.

From Vicksburg, we headed east on a 45-mile drive to Jackson, Mississippi's capital and largest city. Unexpectedly, we hit immovable traffic. Better yet, in this bumper-to-bumper gridlock, the pickup truck directly in front of us had a very vocal Chocolate Lab mindlessly barking away. While we stood still, ol' Scooter (my made-up name for him) scampered around from one end of the cargo bed to the other, first arfing at the semi-truck driver next to it, then the flowing traffic heading the other direction, then back to the driver. After about 20 nonstop minutes of that, we desperately looked for a detour, giving us a much more tranquil and scenic drive through some Mississippi back roads.

Eventually, we made it to Jackson. For a capital city, as well as the most populated one, it was eerily empty, particularly for mid-afternoon on a weekday. Hardly any cars on the roads, pedestrians a rarity, and shops and restaurants closed. When we finally found someone to ask for suggestions for where to grab some food, he quizzically responded, "Well, it's about 3:30, so it might be hard to find somewhere."

I'm not sure if it's the holiday season or if this is the typical hours of operation in Jackson, but the main reason we stopped there was to see the Mississippi (by the way, typing "Mississippi" repeatedly for these entries has been oddly entertaining) State Capitol. As a fan of state and local politics, I make it a point to swing by capitol buildings whenever I can, and Mississippi's was impressive. Ornate, domed, and magisterial, like most state capitol buildings, what stands out are the elements that make it uniquely representative of their respective state. Official seals, state flags, historical icons, and images of its past adorned the various chambers as appropriate accompaniment to its constituency. It's a welcomed reminder of while federal politicians may be national rockstars and that the DC area back home is the center of governmental world, there are people back in Jackson, St. Paul, Madison, Richmond, and wherever else dedicating themselves and making decisions for their neighbors in ways that no one outside of those halls or state's borders will ever know.

After finally grabbing lunch/dinner at a Mexican restaurant just outside the city, we readjust our plans. Originally, we were going to make our way to Alabama, either to Mobile or Gulf Shores. Due to delayed starts and spending more time in other places, we were constrained by time and not up for a lengthy drive. We decided to make our way further south to Biloxi, Mississippi. With that settled, I made unannounced plans for a pit stop along the way.

If you haven't met my Guatemalan grandfather - or my Abuelo as I call him - you know he's a man whose life story is impossible to do justice, only because it's so rich and extraordinary. I won't attempt to recount his experiences and accomplishments over his near eight decades, which have led him to positions in Guatemala City to Geneva to Washington D.C., but we were fortunate enough to coincidentally drive by another important place in his life: Brooklyn, Mississippi.

From a respectable but still humble upbringing in Guatemala, his father - my great-grandfather - gave his sons the best gift he could provide them with, which was an education in the United States. He sent my Abuelo and his brother to Forrest County Agricultural High School in Brooklyn, a gentle town of less than 1,000 people. A few miles off of U.S. Route 49, hardly a major highway itself, we pulled into the school's parking lot to my mom's surprise, giving her the chance to see where her own father spent his youth, when her mother, her siblings, and our entire family were but a distant purpose.

In a surprise of her own, she called him from the steps, and he immediately gave us a tour from the other end of the phone. "There's a pond to the right of the main building," he said to her, with nostalgia ringing through, and sure enough there was, "and the boarding is in back." He told her about the time he broke his ankle playing tennis there, and how he shoveled coal to make some extra money while he was a student (coincidentally enough, to have for weekend trips to Biloxi). He graduated an FCAHS Aggie in 1949, and I assured him the building remained in more or less its same state from when he left it that same year; it had been made a Mississippi Landmark in 1996 by its Department of Archives and History due to its reputation for enrolling students from several foreign countries.

To the handful of cars that drove by and wondered why a family of six was parked outside this ordinary high school so late at night, taking pictures of the entrance sign and buildings, we must have raised questions, if not suspicions. Nevertheless, Brooklyn, Mississippi allowed us an opportunity to appreciate our family in a way we never would have otherwise. It's significance to us and our family's history was always there - our visit didn't make it any more important to who we are - but we finally got a chance to realize and acknowledge that significance by visiting. I don't know if any other member of our family, present or future, will ever see that school again, but up those modest steps and through that unassuming single-door entrance lives a part of them, one that I was fortunate enough to grace only after my Abuelo had already done so.

We bid farewell and continued to head almost directly south to Biloxi, a Gulf Coast city with neon casinos scattered across its beaches (after all, Mississippi has one of the highest gambling revenues in the country, behind only Nevada and New Jersey). We fell victim to the tacky charm of the Doo Woop-style hotels aglow along the ocean, but only after much deliberation. As luck would have it, we were able to find a suite with a balcony looking out onto the Gulf of Mexico, with a beach just a few floors down. What could make it better? One of the bedrooms has bunk beds, which I claimed immediately.

We've already hit the hay in hopes of hitting the sand tomorrow before continuing on U.S. 90, which laces the Gulf. It'll eventually merge into a couple other highways and lead us to New Orleans, where we'll stay for the rest of our trip. We've had a thorough and enriching visit to the Magnolia State over the past couple of days, and I find myself wishing we had more time to swing by places like Oxford, Meridian, and the Delta region. I'm glad we planned it this way though, rather than just stay put in New Orleans for the entire week, otherwise we would've left out a memorable experience. Native son William Faulkner once said, "To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi." While it would be unfair to claim I fully "understand" the state after just two nights here, I can say my understanding of the world as a whole, as well as my own, has definitely been enhanced by our brief visit. Hopefully, it won't be the last, but if it is, then thank you for making it such a great one.

Ramblings From the South: Day 2

Technically, every calendar day begins at 12 a.m.; for our family though, it begins closer to 12 p.m. Hitting the road just before noon - over an hour later than initially planned - looked to put our entire day's plans into disarray, but the unplanned has a tendency of wiping the slate of expectations clean and then filling them with what may end up being more memorable experiences.

If I had to typecast the first scenes of one's trip Louisiana, Interstate 55 would be cast to play the part. For about 22 miles, the highway hovers over the Manchac Swamp, bordered by mangrove trees and hopeful potential for alligator sightings. Instead, we settled for occasional fishermen, seemingly at peace and "away from it all" despite several lanes of overhead traffic. It's hard to not immediately recognize the region's distinct topography, because it's so unlike anywhere else I've seen. Sure, the moss looks icky and you're not really certain where the grime ends and the water begins, but it's captivating nonetheless. When most people envision "nature," it's pristine but, in this case, the swamp's grunginess is just as pleasing and interesting to look at as anything else.

Already thinking of New Orleans as homebase after spending just one night there, we eventually crossed over from Louisiana into Mississippi over the course of a couple hour drive. It's fitting that our first stop in the state was in its capital when it was established as the Mississippi Territory in 1798. Overlooking the Mississippi River, with Vidalia, Louisiana just across the bridge, Natchez is a city that the present may have not completely forgotten, but hadn't quite taken much care of either. A deadly tornado here, a Civil War there, and a place once considered the state's cultural hotspot starts to lose its flare. Thankfully though, this preserved-in-time feeling is what made it worth the visit.

Sprinkled about the city are picturesque antebellum, or pre-Civil War, homes, hearkening back to when Natchez had the most millionaires per capita of any city in the US. But of course, with manors galore, we decided to tour the unfinished one: Longwood.

Check my Twitter feed (@AndrewE_Johnson) for a picture, but even though its construction was cut short, it is still considered among the grandest examples of the era's affluent housing. Designed by a Philadelphia architect in 1859, the project was stopped when he fled back up North in support of the Union when the Civil War broke two years later. The wealthy Nutt family, Longwood's proprietors, were forced to drastically settle for a downsizing, going from its original 32 rooms to only nine completed basement floor level rooms.

The exterior - from the lengthy drive from the gate to the house, its dome, and its grandiose balconies along its octagonal shape to its dome - was completed, but the top seven of its eight floors are just wooden floorboards, abandoned tools, and unfulfilled opulence. For decades, due to the Nutt father's death in 1864 and financial constraints, Longwood maintained only a livable basement. As a visitor, you sympathize with and relate to the family. The missed joy that would've resulted from a realized Longwood leaves you unsatisfied and, more so, disappointed; your marvel is just as incomplete as the house.

We then made our way into downtown Natchez and wandered around Main Street. Every block seemed to have multiple plaque designating a building as some sort of historical landmark, displaying the city's past significance to not just the state, but the entire country. Some of the shops were open, others had kindly posted signs saying they were closed for the week to enjoy the holidays. Permanently closed though was the old movie 1950s-era theater, with the blank marquee hanging over the boarded up entrance. Despite nearly a century apart in activity, the theater felt like what I imagine the antebellum homes did after their initial purpose had peaked: once a proud symbol of the city, now a standing remainder of what has been lost.

We had dinner in a section called Natchez-Under-the-Hill, a short walk down towards the Mississippi River from the city's perch atop the hill. A few buildings have managed to squeeze onto a slight sliver of land right on the River, allowing for a gorgeous view as we dug into our shrimp and catfish and the sun dug into the horizon. It is awesome - in the truest sense of that word - to realize that this river is the very same one that's mere blocks from my apartment in Minneapolis. That's an observation that will continue to impress me throughout the trip.

Eventually, we left Natchez in the same way so much else has. I tend to get nostalgic for somewhere's yesteryears, even when it's my first time ever visiting there. While, like in Natchez's case, it may involve a fall from prominence and import, I still enjoy the sentiment of reminiscence because it allows me to put a figurative face to a history, culture, and lifestyle of somewhere outside of what I already know. It has its faults and its shortcomings, but what place doesn't? It's still standing and we remember it, so there's something to be said of that and what it represents.

Right now, we're an hour north of Natchez, spending the night in Vicksburg before heading to see the battle site of the city's siege by Union troops, a total swing in momentum at the midpoint of the Civil War, tomorrow morning. From there, we'll make a few stops, including in Jackson, as we drive some more, before hopefully ending up in Alabama for a night. Seeing that this morning's late start didn't quash the enjoyment of the day, I'll take a lesson from Natchez and make the most of what we have to work with, be it daylight or patience, and value what I already have, an already-great trip and time with family.

Ramblings From the South: Day 1

Tonight marks the initial moments of my family's vacation in the Deep South, more specifically Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. As an excuse to blog again as well as have, and share, a chronicle of our adventure, I'll try to do a nightly review of our day's adventures - the places we stopped, the food we ate, the observations I made.

It's only been a few hours since we landed in New Orleans' Louis Armstrong International Airport, so I can't say much has happened. Already, there have already been multiple sightings of Drew Brees jerseys and I've tried to read the French translations on the occasional signs, but it's been uneventful beyond that, if you can even call those two "eventful." Our shuttle bus driver, Ricky, was an authentically nice first interaction though; he talked a bit about the difference between Florida alligators and Louisiana ones (Florida's are "better"). Other than that, all we've really done is pick up the rental car and driven to our nearby airport hotel. I could try and embellish that whole experience, but you have better things to read.

Tomorrow morning is really the beginning of our trip. From here, our humble and functional hotel in Kenner, Louisiana, we'll hit the road for Mississippi. Driving north along its name-bearing river, our stops will be in the quaint city of Natchez, the state's former capital (at two different points in its history) and the go-to for traditional Antebellum Southern housing, before heading to Vicksburg, the site of the crucial siege against the Confederate Army for Union control of the Mississippi River. It's about four total hours of driver - two and a half to Natchez, and the rest to Vicksburg - so we'll see a good chunk of the state, which I'm excited for, as some of the most genuine parts of a trip tend to be in route from one place to another.

It seems contradictory to not know what to expect while also holding high expectations for a trip such as this one, but that's the very reason that I proposed this vacation to my folks: to explore a part of my own country that I've never been to before (and with 39 states already under my belt, this sort of opportunity is becoming less and less available). While this entry may seem like a bland, uninspiring introduction, I'm sure what follows on our trip will be more colorful, insightful, and enriching, both acquainting myself with elements I'm unfamiliar with and bettering my understanding of others. For now though, I'll prepare myself for whatever Dixie has in store for us.

See y'all tomorrow!

The Truth About Lying

“The will of the spirit is to fulfill its own concept.”

This statement alone, said by German philosopher GWF Hegel, is reason to believe that man has some sort of innate standard, perhaps even imposed divinely, that he holds himself to and strives to achieve. Upon each of our daily, hourly, minutely, and even secondly decisions that we make, we are making steps towards – or away from – our “own concept” of what we wish to be. This self-awareness of our potential seems almost inborn and we undoubtedly are heralded in the obvious and unquestionable progressions of meeting it. Inversely, we are chastised and reprimanded by the masses in our blatant attempts to ignore it. So when we ourselves choose to ignore that we are ignoring it, where does that put us?

It brings forth the lie.

In a less comical explanation than Ricky Gervais gave, the lie is the root of wanting something that you do not deserve yet believe you should, especially as it pertains to Hegel’s quotation. When one lies, one is actively seeking to present his or herself in a manner that is inauthentic and removed from reality. By definition, this practice not only suggests that the individual is perceptive of the truth, but also aware enough to reject it.

Other than gaining an escape from a more than likely inconvenient and undesirable situation, one loses so much more. Unfortunately, these losses cannot be measured in a tangible manner that displays the damages to the pretender. Therefore, two possible outcomes ensue. The first being the aforementioned escape as well as the false notion that the ends justified the means in this scenario. The other result, which is not entirely separate but feasible, is a state of denial and the self-manipulation of what actually happened.

This contradiction of the lie and the truth proves that an individual acknowledges an embedded “concept” that it seeks to “fulfill”, otherwise why else do it? To be mistaken about a state of affairs is to be erroneous, but to consciously pay no heed to fact for fear of subsequent consequences to the point where one cannot even bring himself to accept what he knows he must clearly understand is definitively weak. The strength to salute the truth in spite of one’s own wrongdoing requires an appreciation for the moral criterion that one is capable of meeting.

Accordingly, each lie builds upon itself as the denunciation of the original concept begins to ultimately make it hollow. By continually convincing yourself that these principles are really being met through deceit, both to others and to yourself, then you lose what it is that guides you; a lighthouse’s beacon can only be seen from so far away. A harbor provides a safe place to dock a ship regardless of the tumultuous climate, but if a captain refuses to use any other navigation as guidance to get back to shore as it sails away then the ship drifts limply and with little purpose.

It is easier to believe that we are fulfilling our “own concept” rather than actually doing so. Since Hegel dissertated on this idea of a “spirit”, translators have struggled to appropriately render the German word into a suitable English equivalent. While “spirit” is still generally understood, another viable paraphrase would be “inner determination”. Stimulated and encouraged to amount to its highest capacity, the “spirit” will do so if the body that it inhabits is willing to follow its lead. Otherwise, on the surface, the body only deceives itself with each impending lie while the “spirit” remorsefully knows a truth that it cannot act upon, leaving a “concept” unfulfilled.