I deleted the post I put up a few days ago. I was posting merely for the sake of posting, and that produces worthless posts.
Merry Christmas, world. I was having some trouble getting into the Christmas spirit, for various and sundry reasons. I see Christmas as a time of reflection, of self-evaluation. I guess I wasn't so happy with what I saw this year.
Last year, my freshman year in college, I was incredibly naive. I lost some of that naivete, and with it a good deal of vulnerability. I don't like being vulnerable, the very definition sets off alarms in my head. But looking at myself, I see that to avoid vulnerability and potential rejection, I have developed a shell of humour.
I will never make another joke!
Sarcasm is bad and wrong!
No, no, that's not it. I'm good at sarcasm. I like being funny. But when I feel like I can't be myself around someone because they expect nothing but funny from me, something is awry.
Christmas is as good a time as New Year's for resolutions, I think; maybe better-- maybe by making a Christmas resolution I can trick myself into keeping it. Anyway, over the next year, I resolve to regain some of the vulnerability I shut down. To remember how to be myself, without constantly thinking about how others see me.
Disclaimer: Don't worry, I won't be devolving into a super-introspective emotional sinkhole. But I want to be seen for who I am. Although as a teenager and a college student, "who I am" is something of a fluid concept at this point...
There has been no snow this Christmas, but the stars at midnight on Christmas Eve were unlike anything I'd ever seen before.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Belated
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy BIRTHday "No, Really,"
Happy Birthday to you!
I was late, but my blog is only a year old, so it won't remember and I can lie about this when it's old enough to ask questions.
Maybe as a gift I will post something nice and meaty.....
no, I probably won't.
Happy birthday to you
Happy BIRTHday "No, Really,"
Happy Birthday to you!
I was late, but my blog is only a year old, so it won't remember and I can lie about this when it's old enough to ask questions.
Maybe as a gift I will post something nice and meaty.....
no, I probably won't.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Vanity and Vexation of Spirit
A new post, as promised. Though different from what I intended to write.
I was recently asked to proof/edit a senior paper for a girl who lives in my dorm. I often edit papers for friends when asked, but this was only my third senior paper, and I confess to being rather excited about it. There is something about editing that I love-- the finding and polishing of a good paper beneath surfaces of misplaced modifiers and uncertain pronoun usage. It is something I can do, and I love it.
I eagerly awaited the chance to peruse this young lady's work. A senior paper-- to my naive mind-- represented the culmination of approximately four years of arduous effort and scholarly growth. A senior paper was what students worked towards. It was that into which they poured their greatest efforts. And so I loaded the paper onto my ever-so-obliging roommate's computer and opened the file.
Three pages in I called my friend and fellow writer, Kara, to help and commiserate. I took a water break to try to clear my head, and Kara sat at the computer and peered puzzled at the screen.
As I walked to the water fountain I heard her anguished moans begin. When I returned to the room she was collapsed on my bed. She waved feebly at the computer. "I tried to do a paragraph...I couldn't do any more than that."
I nodded my understanding and reseated myself.
Six pages in I was on the phone with my mother, Grammar Nazi (I beg pardon, Grammar Nag) Extraordinaire, thanking her for shoving knowledge of the nominative case down my throat. I thanked her for giving me a good foundation for the capitalization rules, and the comma rules, and the whole issue of subject/verb agreement. I started getting choked up when it came to my understanding of the subjunctive mood. She asked for an explanation for this conduct, and I
read her a sentence or two from the Paper:
...For Phillips the capitalist views social legislation as medaling with "evolutionary inevitability" as they rationalize that because of the law of evolution the strongest will survive and the government has no right to interfere with the natural process by putting regulations on the efforts of the strong to move to the top by means of the free market system.
That was one sentence.
Likewise, when the poor working family and the single mother is better off on welfare then with a job one needs to consider how to make work able to pay the person at the bottom better.
That was another.
It went on in a similar vein for thirty-five pages. Thirty-five excruciating pages.
I could have polished and gutted and redone and made that paper college-degree earning material. I could have changed the monotonous sentence structure and repaired every
awkward word choice. I could've done wonders with that paper.
I did not.
I chose to do the bare minimum. I split up run-ons and fused fragments. I spellchecked thoroughly and highlighted sentences that were absolute gibberish. I made that paper sophomore in high school material.
And I left it wondering along these lines: How does anyone come so far through the American educational system and not know a blasted thing? The author quite breezily informed me that she had no knowledge whatever of basic grammar-- "but that's what you're for," she assured me. "I want you to fix all that stuff." I asked her, as delicately as possible (for, though some are loath to believe it, I dread confrontation) exactly how she had made it through four years at an accredited university with "no knowledge of basic grammar."
"Oh, no problem," came the response, "I always have people read through my stuff beforehand." Which, being interpreted, is that she always had people rewrite her "stuff" beforehand.
This will sound silly, but I felt-- used. I felt that my talents, the diligence with which I learned and applied myself, were being taken for granted. Were being used to cover up someone else;s shoddy work and take what they had not earned. And so I held myself back. I did not make the paper worse. I made it immensely better than it had been. But I did not do all I could have done. I refused to rewrite the paper for her.
Rewriting is dangerous for me as an editor-- it can be very tempting to change things that are technically correct on a point of style. And, as much as in me lies, I refrain from changing too much in papers. This one, though, required no special restraint on my part. I did what I was supposed to do and gave the wretched thing back to its parent.
I proceeded to revel for several days in a feeling of academic superiority, not to mention self-righteousness, which, given the state of that paper, I still feel was not entirely unwarranted.
And then today (I am fairly certain) I flunked my Math and Society final.
"Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity." --Eccl. 1.2
I was recently asked to proof/edit a senior paper for a girl who lives in my dorm. I often edit papers for friends when asked, but this was only my third senior paper, and I confess to being rather excited about it. There is something about editing that I love-- the finding and polishing of a good paper beneath surfaces of misplaced modifiers and uncertain pronoun usage. It is something I can do, and I love it.
I eagerly awaited the chance to peruse this young lady's work. A senior paper-- to my naive mind-- represented the culmination of approximately four years of arduous effort and scholarly growth. A senior paper was what students worked towards. It was that into which they poured their greatest efforts. And so I loaded the paper onto my ever-so-obliging roommate's computer and opened the file.
Three pages in I called my friend and fellow writer, Kara, to help and commiserate. I took a water break to try to clear my head, and Kara sat at the computer and peered puzzled at the screen.
As I walked to the water fountain I heard her anguished moans begin. When I returned to the room she was collapsed on my bed. She waved feebly at the computer. "I tried to do a paragraph...I couldn't do any more than that."
I nodded my understanding and reseated myself.
Six pages in I was on the phone with my mother, Grammar Nazi (I beg pardon, Grammar Nag) Extraordinaire, thanking her for shoving knowledge of the nominative case down my throat. I thanked her for giving me a good foundation for the capitalization rules, and the comma rules, and the whole issue of subject/verb agreement. I started getting choked up when it came to my understanding of the subjunctive mood. She asked for an explanation for this conduct, and I
read her a sentence or two from the Paper:
...For Phillips the capitalist views social legislation as medaling with "evolutionary inevitability" as they rationalize that because of the law of evolution the strongest will survive and the government has no right to interfere with the natural process by putting regulations on the efforts of the strong to move to the top by means of the free market system.
That was one sentence.
Likewise, when the poor working family and the single mother is better off on welfare then with a job one needs to consider how to make work able to pay the person at the bottom better.
That was another.
It went on in a similar vein for thirty-five pages. Thirty-five excruciating pages.
I could have polished and gutted and redone and made that paper college-degree earning material. I could have changed the monotonous sentence structure and repaired every
awkward word choice. I could've done wonders with that paper.
I did not.
I chose to do the bare minimum. I split up run-ons and fused fragments. I spellchecked thoroughly and highlighted sentences that were absolute gibberish. I made that paper sophomore in high school material.
And I left it wondering along these lines: How does anyone come so far through the American educational system and not know a blasted thing? The author quite breezily informed me that she had no knowledge whatever of basic grammar-- "but that's what you're for," she assured me. "I want you to fix all that stuff." I asked her, as delicately as possible (for, though some are loath to believe it, I dread confrontation) exactly how she had made it through four years at an accredited university with "no knowledge of basic grammar."
"Oh, no problem," came the response, "I always have people read through my stuff beforehand." Which, being interpreted, is that she always had people rewrite her "stuff" beforehand.
This will sound silly, but I felt-- used. I felt that my talents, the diligence with which I learned and applied myself, were being taken for granted. Were being used to cover up someone else;s shoddy work and take what they had not earned. And so I held myself back. I did not make the paper worse. I made it immensely better than it had been. But I did not do all I could have done. I refused to rewrite the paper for her.
Rewriting is dangerous for me as an editor-- it can be very tempting to change things that are technically correct on a point of style. And, as much as in me lies, I refrain from changing too much in papers. This one, though, required no special restraint on my part. I did what I was supposed to do and gave the wretched thing back to its parent.
I proceeded to revel for several days in a feeling of academic superiority, not to mention self-righteousness, which, given the state of that paper, I still feel was not entirely unwarranted.
And then today (I am fairly certain) I flunked my Math and Society final.
"Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity." --Eccl. 1.2
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Hallway Smells
My family moved into my grandfather's house when he passed away a few years back. Grandpa's house used to mean someplace quiet, a museum of sorts, where memories and hard candy were plentiful. The furniture was never re-arranged in rooms that had not been disturbed since my aunts went to college. It was almost a sanctuary, a place of peace and neatness and quiet and Poppy's smile.
And then we moved in, and now it is my house, a place of loudness and companionship and brawls during baseball season and new memories. It is a different house now. But something of the past remains, and occasionally I am reminded of the way it was.
I wrote this last summer, when I was up (as usual) way past everyone else, walking down the hall to what is now my room.
I caught a whiff of him tonight
In nightly circuit down the hall;
Mingled with that which I am used
Was that which I can scarce recall.
Time was, back when I first arrived,
He's wait for me in every room
With imprint indestructible
Impervious to mop or broom.
But what these cannot, Time will do
Effacing old impressions til
New customs, ways of being form
And old familiars are still.
And so it is with ghosts, I find
Diminishing as Time goes on
Til naught but hallway smells remain
To bring back stories, and old songs.
It was just a whiff, an instant. Something indefinably, undeniably Grandpa. I think I disturbed the house in its sleep; it must have been dreaming of the old days.
And then we moved in, and now it is my house, a place of loudness and companionship and brawls during baseball season and new memories. It is a different house now. But something of the past remains, and occasionally I am reminded of the way it was.
I wrote this last summer, when I was up (as usual) way past everyone else, walking down the hall to what is now my room.
I caught a whiff of him tonight
In nightly circuit down the hall;
Mingled with that which I am used
Was that which I can scarce recall.
Time was, back when I first arrived,
He's wait for me in every room
With imprint indestructible
Impervious to mop or broom.
But what these cannot, Time will do
Effacing old impressions til
New customs, ways of being form
And old familiars are still.
And so it is with ghosts, I find
Diminishing as Time goes on
Til naught but hallway smells remain
To bring back stories, and old songs.
It was just a whiff, an instant. Something indefinably, undeniably Grandpa. I think I disturbed the house in its sleep; it must have been dreaming of the old days.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Air-Castles
When I was small I was ambitious. I was going to do...anything, everything. I would write! paint! sing! act! do! and give no thought to the possibility of prevention or failure.
Then I started to try to lay the brick-and-mortar versions of the castles in my head, and found that I am not much of a carpenter.
I used to think I wanted to be a poet, like Tennyson, or Keats, or Dickinson, or Yeats, but I can't. Some things, you either got it or you don't.
And I used to think I would be a famous singer, and have concerts, and make CD's, and win awards, and now I feel sure I won't. Some things, you don't want them as much as you thought you did.
Once I was going to be an artist, and live far away (from where, I never knew or tried to know), and paint things as I saw them, and then I saw that I couldn't paint. Some things were never yours to begin with.
This morning I was going to get up early and be productive, but I slept instead. Some things, you never really wanted anyway.
Perhaps I am just as ambitious now as I ever was--no, I know I am--but the ambition is different. It is ambitious to get up every morning and try to draw breath. It is ambitious to put one foot in front of the other, and assume that your feet will propel you. It is ambitious to open your eyes and expect to see. In that sense I am frightfully ambitious. But ambition for what you cannot do, and are not built to do, and were never meant to do, translates as stupidity in the form of stubborness.
This is not to say I have no dreams or faith in my abilities. I do not mean to say that there is probably nothing for me in the future, or that I cannot do anything worthwhile. Far from it. I have plans, too, not the grandiose ones of childhood, but to me as alluring as ever a dream of fame was. I do not belittle my former air-castles, but I have moved out of them. Large as they were, they cramped me.
Friday, November 17, 2006
What- ifs, and why they do not matter, and why I am happy about that.
Every Thanksgiving when I boggle my brain for a bulletpointed list of things for which to be thankful, I find that I end up with the same basic structure:
- God's Love, Grace, Mercy, Justice, Compassion
- My family (this normally leads to many more bulletpoints because of the size of my family, but I will not give each one of you a point here. Know that I do in my heart, though.)
- My friends (see above parenthetical element)
- Music
- Books (this one varies year to year; this season I am particularly grateful for one P.G. Wodehouse.)
- Trees
- History
- The Sky
- Christmas lights
- the New York Yanks (also the Indianapolis Colts)
And so on and so forth. There are always more things, but these have permanent residence.
As a history major, I know why Thanksgiving is in November; but as an English major I wonder sometimes why it is not in June. It is so easy to be thankful in June, when the world is green and the weather is mild. When every day is a blessing we do not have to be reminded to enjoy it. And so as an English major I think it is good that Thanksgiving is when it is. Somehow I appreciate Thanksgiving more when it comes in November, that month when the year realizes it is aging, and grumbles about it. We need to be reminded to be thankful in November, when the wind cuts through you and the rain has forgotten how to be gentle.
We need Thanksgivings more often than national holidays provide, though, and I am having a Thanksgiving of my own tonight.
I almost died tonight, and as a result the Thanksgiving list above has a richer meaning right now than it ever has before. I never liked melodrama in writing-- in storytelling it can be used for humour, so I allow it there, but I generally try to avoid it in my scribblings. So I am sorry if my statement sounds hyperbolic to you, but it is the literal truth. I almost died tonight. Three of my dearest friends in the world nearly went with me.
Without rehashing the whole story (which I already got to do in the police report-- DEE-lightful), I had to drag my friends out of the path of an out-of-control vehicle that came within two feet of mowing us down, potentially ending a life or four. I had to look through the partially open window to see if there was any blood on the slumped body in the driver's seat, and I had to stay calm and coherent to answer the (seemingly endless) questions of the police dispatcher. I had to do things I have only ever seen before on TV, things which I never actually thought I would have to do.
The oddest part was the deafness. I don't remember hearing anything after the crash of the car as it rammed a parked van before careening towards us. I heard the crash, and then-- I don't remember hearing anything until the car slammed into a railing and the scritch-scratch of the windshield wipers echoed in my ears. The second thing I remember hearing was the voices of my friends, all calling on God's name.
There was no time to throw up a prayer, no time for anything but instictive, animal reaction. Victoria dragged Ashlea and I dragged Vic and Kara just ran. I wasn't thinking, I was just responding. The paramedics, et al., arrived promptly, and after filling out the above-mentioned report, we spent a few hours at Vic's house with comforting grown-ups and chocolate-covered blueberries.
Ok, so I practically did rehash the whole thing...I could've made it much longer, though, so I consider that I acted with restraint.
I just found one of those blueberries in my coat pocket. I ate it.Anyway, the revised Thanksgiving list, per my experience with the Hurtling Car of Doom:
- Everything listed before
- Reflexes
- Friendly police officers
- The intact lives of Kara, Ashlea, and Victoria
- Chocolate-covered blueberries
But we did. We did.
And so the what-ifs do not matter. They do not matter because they did not happen. I am thankful that they no longer matter. During those eternal ten seconds they mattered very much. But time passes (this is a seldom-observed habit of Time's) and now those what-ifs are dead--that is, they have only the power to haunt. And that only as long as I let them. I am thankful for all of the unseen, little, unobtrusive what-ifs that do not occur every day. I am thankful for the hand of God.
And I say it again, I am thankful for each and every one of you who read this. I don't actually know who reads this so I can't make it more personal. But if you comment and tell me I will at least THINK of all the reasons I am thankful for you, in particular. Promise.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Gobble gobble gobble
It is cold and windy, and I am excited. The wailing wind outside my window is bringing winter, and the trees are waving a welcome. There is a bite and a kick to the air that was absent yesterday-- if we are lucky, the temperatures will continue to spiral and the Christmas trees all over campus will be less incongruous.
In keeping with my hopes for the weather, today I listened to a recording of a Christmas party of my family's from eleven years ago. No one knew the words to about three of the songs, so there are a few tracks of humming and laughter. And there was one of my parents singing "O Holy Night." They still got it.
There is something about hearing about fifty-odd Irish-Swedes of varying ages and musical ablilties singing Christmas carols (and Irish [drinking?] songs) together. The quality of the recording is sub-par, considering it was eleven years ago on a videocamera, but the spirit is there. Maybe it is only because I know and love all of those people, but the comfort and joy are almost palpable. Some of the singers are gone now, singing elsewhere, but their voices recorded remain. When we didn't know the words, we laughed until we found a line everyone remembered, and the voice of my (then) five year old brother brought back eerily clear, long-forgotten memories.
I am looking forward to when, in the future, I will come across something that will stop me in my tracks, remembering now. And I hope that I will still be able to call you and say, "Hey, guess what I saw today; remember when...?"
Thanksgiving gets overlooked sometimes in excitement for Christmas, so this one goes out the Pilgrims:
A turkey sat on a backyard fence and he sang this sad, sad tune:
"Thanksgiving Day is coming! Gobble gobble gobble gobble,
I will have to leave here soon!
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble
I will have to run away
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble
I don't like Thanksgiving Day!"
This was my favorite (only) Thanksgiving song. I learned it in first grade and have sung it every year since. If you ask me and I am within singing distance, I will sing it for you.
In case I don't post again before Dia de la Accion de Gracias, I thank God for each and every one of you.
In keeping with my hopes for the weather, today I listened to a recording of a Christmas party of my family's from eleven years ago. No one knew the words to about three of the songs, so there are a few tracks of humming and laughter. And there was one of my parents singing "O Holy Night." They still got it.
There is something about hearing about fifty-odd Irish-Swedes of varying ages and musical ablilties singing Christmas carols (and Irish [drinking?] songs) together. The quality of the recording is sub-par, considering it was eleven years ago on a videocamera, but the spirit is there. Maybe it is only because I know and love all of those people, but the comfort and joy are almost palpable. Some of the singers are gone now, singing elsewhere, but their voices recorded remain. When we didn't know the words, we laughed until we found a line everyone remembered, and the voice of my (then) five year old brother brought back eerily clear, long-forgotten memories.
I am looking forward to when, in the future, I will come across something that will stop me in my tracks, remembering now. And I hope that I will still be able to call you and say, "Hey, guess what I saw today; remember when...?"
Thanksgiving gets overlooked sometimes in excitement for Christmas, so this one goes out the Pilgrims:
A turkey sat on a backyard fence and he sang this sad, sad tune:
"Thanksgiving Day is coming! Gobble gobble gobble gobble,
I will have to leave here soon!
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble
I will have to run away
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble
I don't like Thanksgiving Day!"
This was my favorite (only) Thanksgiving song. I learned it in first grade and have sung it every year since. If you ask me and I am within singing distance, I will sing it for you.
In case I don't post again before Dia de la Accion de Gracias, I thank God for each and every one of you.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Unhappy People
I worked in the church nursery today. For the first time in several months, I got to be around little kids. Human nature as represented by four year olds has not changed any in those months.
But I do not write this about the four year olds-- they were merely a clever diversion to draw you in to this entry and make you read further. If you are feeling a bit faint at this exposition of my mental dexterity, I understand. Sip some water and read on.
There was in the midst of the room of twenty-odd screaming four-year-olds a boy whom I will call Bertie. If his name really were Bertie then I could make allowances for his behaviour. But that is not his name at all; I made it up to protect his privacy, because I know all about those privacy laws. (A second example of my sagacity! Truly, I spoil you.)
Bertie sat with his back to the teachers the entire lesson; Bertie pushed the smaller children; Bertie's response to any direct address was immediate, decisive, and unswervingly negative. Bertie was vocal; Bertie was stubborn; Bertie was going on six years old and his mother refused to move him out of the four-year-old room.
The Mother of Bertie descended upon the nursery as the sanctuary emptied and fastened a piercing, harried, convicting gaze upon me as I stood with the check-out list in all my collegiate novice glory.
"Bertie says that the lady in the black shirt said he can't come back to this room anymore," she snapped out.
(Note: I was clad in an innocent dark-gray sweater; but the only other lady in the room was arrayed in wine-red.)
"Bertie said-- black shirt--" I smiled a smile of confusion and tried to remember what I had said to one out of twenty-one children over the course of two very loud hours. M.o.B. pursed her lips and glared. I remembered Tim, the Experienced One who has worked the church nursery for six years.
Accordingly, Tim was summoned and M.o.B was summarily dealt with. There had been a mix-up with one of the children's ministry leaders (the Black-Shirted). But to Bertie's maternal parent the church was against her, but she wasn't surprised, and the children's ministry was biased, and she was persecuted, and so was her son. To finish, M.o.B spat a few choice words in Tim's direction and I ducked behind the Lego box.
As I cleared the floor of Lincoln Logs and pink feather boas I thought about Bertie's mum. I tried to picture her smiling or laughing or stepping out of doors on a beautiful day and appreciating it, and I couldn't. I have been accused of possessing an overactive imagination, but I could not see her happy.
I do realize that my interaction with this woman took up less than five minutes of my nineteen years of existence and her-- more than that-- years on earth. And yet her mien suggested something I have seen before.
Have you ever met Unhappy People? I do not mean people who are sad, or depressed, I mean people who do not take pleasure in anything but misery. I have known several such individuals, and whenever I come across them I pay attention, because they puzzle me. I say, "What a nice day," and in reply the U.P. manages to convey that "nice" is not an adjective to be applied to anything, much less that day. I comment on how busy my classes have been keeping me, and the incorrigible soul lets me know in no uncertain terms that I do not know what busy is.
Symptoms shared by Unhappy People include but are not limited to:
Bad moods I can understand. I am afflicted with them, often. My life is imperfect and there are many things about myself and my world that are frankly distressing. But that is life; that same thing, to varying degrees, could be said for every son of Adam that walks the earth. What selfishness to believe, and to promote the belief, that your particular set of troubles so far outweighs the problems of all others. The Mother of Bertie struck me as the kind of person incapable of stopping to smell the roses (or fallen leaves, depending on the season) and just appreciate life, with all its troubles and flaws and injustices.
Perhaps I have completely misrepresented this woman; for as noted before, our intersection was brief. I could be very very wrong about her personality. Regardless, though, she gave me some material for mental deglutition.
Oh, the joy of seldom-used words...
But I do not write this about the four year olds-- they were merely a clever diversion to draw you in to this entry and make you read further. If you are feeling a bit faint at this exposition of my mental dexterity, I understand. Sip some water and read on.
There was in the midst of the room of twenty-odd screaming four-year-olds a boy whom I will call Bertie. If his name really were Bertie then I could make allowances for his behaviour. But that is not his name at all; I made it up to protect his privacy, because I know all about those privacy laws. (A second example of my sagacity! Truly, I spoil you.)
Bertie sat with his back to the teachers the entire lesson; Bertie pushed the smaller children; Bertie's response to any direct address was immediate, decisive, and unswervingly negative. Bertie was vocal; Bertie was stubborn; Bertie was going on six years old and his mother refused to move him out of the four-year-old room.
The Mother of Bertie descended upon the nursery as the sanctuary emptied and fastened a piercing, harried, convicting gaze upon me as I stood with the check-out list in all my collegiate novice glory.
"Bertie says that the lady in the black shirt said he can't come back to this room anymore," she snapped out.
(Note: I was clad in an innocent dark-gray sweater; but the only other lady in the room was arrayed in wine-red.)
"Bertie said-- black shirt--" I smiled a smile of confusion and tried to remember what I had said to one out of twenty-one children over the course of two very loud hours. M.o.B. pursed her lips and glared. I remembered Tim, the Experienced One who has worked the church nursery for six years.
Accordingly, Tim was summoned and M.o.B was summarily dealt with. There had been a mix-up with one of the children's ministry leaders (the Black-Shirted). But to Bertie's maternal parent the church was against her, but she wasn't surprised, and the children's ministry was biased, and she was persecuted, and so was her son. To finish, M.o.B spat a few choice words in Tim's direction and I ducked behind the Lego box.
As I cleared the floor of Lincoln Logs and pink feather boas I thought about Bertie's mum. I tried to picture her smiling or laughing or stepping out of doors on a beautiful day and appreciating it, and I couldn't. I have been accused of possessing an overactive imagination, but I could not see her happy.
I do realize that my interaction with this woman took up less than five minutes of my nineteen years of existence and her-- more than that-- years on earth. And yet her mien suggested something I have seen before.
Have you ever met Unhappy People? I do not mean people who are sad, or depressed, I mean people who do not take pleasure in anything but misery. I have known several such individuals, and whenever I come across them I pay attention, because they puzzle me. I say, "What a nice day," and in reply the U.P. manages to convey that "nice" is not an adjective to be applied to anything, much less that day. I comment on how busy my classes have been keeping me, and the incorrigible soul lets me know in no uncertain terms that I do not know what busy is.
Symptoms shared by Unhappy People include but are not limited to:
- inability to retain a roommate (this phenomenon applies specifically to college students and young professionals). Either the poor roommate moves out or the U.P moves from room to room, ostensibly seeking solace and finding none. Theory: actually seeking more material to wield against humanity?
- victim mentality. It is never their fault. Ever, ever. And all stories are related in such a way as to magnify their distresses.
- universal suspicion. You are lying until you tell them what they aready supposed.
- joy-killing mentality. They are most happy when others are not.
Bad moods I can understand. I am afflicted with them, often. My life is imperfect and there are many things about myself and my world that are frankly distressing. But that is life; that same thing, to varying degrees, could be said for every son of Adam that walks the earth. What selfishness to believe, and to promote the belief, that your particular set of troubles so far outweighs the problems of all others. The Mother of Bertie struck me as the kind of person incapable of stopping to smell the roses (or fallen leaves, depending on the season) and just appreciate life, with all its troubles and flaws and injustices.
Perhaps I have completely misrepresented this woman; for as noted before, our intersection was brief. I could be very very wrong about her personality. Regardless, though, she gave me some material for mental deglutition.
Oh, the joy of seldom-used words...
Thursday, October 26, 2006
I spent Fall Break in New Orleans, gutting houses and churches that had not been touched since Hurricane Katrina. Largely these places looked decent from the outside, besides weedy lawns and a broken window or two, but inside they were masses of mold and rot. You could see the waterline where the mildew splayed over the drywall. Pictures and possessions were strewn over floors tiled and carpeted. Appliances sat rusted and filled with insect colonies. It looked, felt, and smelled disgusting. In rooms with carpet, we had to shovel off the year-old mud on the surface and remove the carpet before we could dig out the ankle-deep sediment that lay beneath. Everything had to go; everything had been contaminated. Furniture, clothes, appliances, bathtubs, toilets, drywall, paneling, insulation, tiles, linoleum, baseboards, nails-- all of it mingling in a putrid heap by the curb, often sprawling across the entire front lawn.
In the last house I worked on I came across a wallet-sized picture of a couple who, I assume, were the homeowners. The snapshot must have been on the second floor, since it was undamaged and the water had submerged the first story. In the picture they were carefully dressed and smiling.
I was impressed with a sense of the fragility of life. As I shoveled muck I thought about my home, and what it would look like in the same situation. It was hard to realize, but the houses used to be nice, used to smell good, used to be inhabited by more than nuclear albino roaches. It can all go away with one storm.
We met people who even through disaster had such joy. It was apparent that the destruction of the foundations of their homes had not affected the foundations of their faith. maybe they used to be defined by their possessions; maybe the storm shook them more than I could see. I don't know. But a year after Katrina, living in miniscule FEMA trailers, they were cheerful and warm and generous.
I learned a lot from them, and from the Service International staff we worked with. They were all volunteers, people who sacrificed their home lives to come and direct a bunch of hyper college kids with sledgehammers. They stayed when we left. Our Fall Break is over, but their work continues.
I am tired. Fall Break was hard work, but the week since I've been back has been more stressful than any physical labor. God is good, though, and for some reason He still loves me.
Human beings are the crowning glory of the Creation of Omnipotent God, and yet by and large we are a thick, pigheaded lot who can't see what's good for us when it's smacking us upside the head.
In the last house I worked on I came across a wallet-sized picture of a couple who, I assume, were the homeowners. The snapshot must have been on the second floor, since it was undamaged and the water had submerged the first story. In the picture they were carefully dressed and smiling.
I was impressed with a sense of the fragility of life. As I shoveled muck I thought about my home, and what it would look like in the same situation. It was hard to realize, but the houses used to be nice, used to smell good, used to be inhabited by more than nuclear albino roaches. It can all go away with one storm.
We met people who even through disaster had such joy. It was apparent that the destruction of the foundations of their homes had not affected the foundations of their faith. maybe they used to be defined by their possessions; maybe the storm shook them more than I could see. I don't know. But a year after Katrina, living in miniscule FEMA trailers, they were cheerful and warm and generous.
I learned a lot from them, and from the Service International staff we worked with. They were all volunteers, people who sacrificed their home lives to come and direct a bunch of hyper college kids with sledgehammers. They stayed when we left. Our Fall Break is over, but their work continues.
I am tired. Fall Break was hard work, but the week since I've been back has been more stressful than any physical labor. God is good, though, and for some reason He still loves me.
Human beings are the crowning glory of the Creation of Omnipotent God, and yet by and large we are a thick, pigheaded lot who can't see what's good for us when it's smacking us upside the head.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Pedestal Appraisal
You may be shocked by this, and I hate to disturb your tranquil beliefs, but the truth must be told. Recently, I grew tired of my pedestal.
I was standing one day when the realization struck that I was not dancing anymore. My feet had quite lost their spring. I had begun to gaze upon the huddled hand-holding masses below, wishing, with wistful sigh, that one might come and extend a gallant hand to assist my descent from my perch. The breeze was no longer refreshing; it was cold. I ceased to take pleasure in conversing with my fellow pedestal dwellers. The expansive view afforded me from my height was bleak and stark. In short, I had listened to far more Michael Buble than is considered healthy for a young unattached person of my disposition.
I had come so far in thought as to nearly wish myself off and away from my pedestal, and, had this ennui remained unchecked, I cannot say where it would have stopped. Perhaps never-- perhaps my mad career would have ended in a general smash-up somewhere along the line-- save for an Unpleasant Experience, which, though grossly offensive and quite perturbing, had the effect of removing the scales from my eyes.
I cannot enumerate, I cannot be explicit, as to the precise details of this Unpleasant Encounter. I can only make vague allusions to tire swings, boxer shorts, and cow patties. Suffice to say that it was enough to send me springing to my feet again on my pedestal, rejoicing in my state.
All of my female readers will acknowledge the existence of Creepy Fellows. The kind that cause a clenching in your throat and a leaden heaviness in your gut; the sort that cannot take a hint and do not understand sarcasm; the ones who are past masters in the Art of Lurkery. It was such a one that was the source, the wellspring, of my Unpleasant Experience. It was weird and awkward and provoking--and yet there has come some good out of it.
Rejoice with me, one and all, for I have discovered the use of the Creepy Fellow. They are of some good, after all. It was the Creeper that led me to appraise my pedestal. I took a good, long, hard look at where I stood and where I wanted to stand. My discoveries were of interest.
Though my pedestal has fallen into some disrepair of late, it is nothing that cannot be handily mended. As for the location, where better? I have a commanding view of humanity in general, excellent company, and a brisk and bracing breeze to spur on my dance.
Presently there is nearly nothing that could tempt me from my pedestal. I had something of a scare, in that instead of a gentlemanly, gracious, great-heart to persuade me from my post, I was beckoned to by a sinister and macabre spectre. This is all new for me, and my reaction is to cling leechlike to my state of single blessedness.
In sum, my pedestal is good enough for me, and will be for a long while yet. I may owe a debt of thanks to the Creeper, but I think that for the frightful discourtesy with which he destroyed a cherished illusion or two of mine, we can all it even.
I was standing one day when the realization struck that I was not dancing anymore. My feet had quite lost their spring. I had begun to gaze upon the huddled hand-holding masses below, wishing, with wistful sigh, that one might come and extend a gallant hand to assist my descent from my perch. The breeze was no longer refreshing; it was cold. I ceased to take pleasure in conversing with my fellow pedestal dwellers. The expansive view afforded me from my height was bleak and stark. In short, I had listened to far more Michael Buble than is considered healthy for a young unattached person of my disposition.
I had come so far in thought as to nearly wish myself off and away from my pedestal, and, had this ennui remained unchecked, I cannot say where it would have stopped. Perhaps never-- perhaps my mad career would have ended in a general smash-up somewhere along the line-- save for an Unpleasant Experience, which, though grossly offensive and quite perturbing, had the effect of removing the scales from my eyes.
I cannot enumerate, I cannot be explicit, as to the precise details of this Unpleasant Encounter. I can only make vague allusions to tire swings, boxer shorts, and cow patties. Suffice to say that it was enough to send me springing to my feet again on my pedestal, rejoicing in my state.
All of my female readers will acknowledge the existence of Creepy Fellows. The kind that cause a clenching in your throat and a leaden heaviness in your gut; the sort that cannot take a hint and do not understand sarcasm; the ones who are past masters in the Art of Lurkery. It was such a one that was the source, the wellspring, of my Unpleasant Experience. It was weird and awkward and provoking--and yet there has come some good out of it.
Rejoice with me, one and all, for I have discovered the use of the Creepy Fellow. They are of some good, after all. It was the Creeper that led me to appraise my pedestal. I took a good, long, hard look at where I stood and where I wanted to stand. My discoveries were of interest.
Though my pedestal has fallen into some disrepair of late, it is nothing that cannot be handily mended. As for the location, where better? I have a commanding view of humanity in general, excellent company, and a brisk and bracing breeze to spur on my dance.
Presently there is nearly nothing that could tempt me from my pedestal. I had something of a scare, in that instead of a gentlemanly, gracious, great-heart to persuade me from my post, I was beckoned to by a sinister and macabre spectre. This is all new for me, and my reaction is to cling leechlike to my state of single blessedness.
In sum, my pedestal is good enough for me, and will be for a long while yet. I may owe a debt of thanks to the Creeper, but I think that for the frightful discourtesy with which he destroyed a cherished illusion or two of mine, we can all it even.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
This is me sharing my poetry.
Even though I hate doing it.
Anyway. I went to write a poem to God one night at home before I came back to school. I had written no more than the first line when a certain perversity took over and I found myself writing, not as a worshipper to the Omnipotent Deity, but as a sharp young lady to a rejected swain. The title comes from that oh-so-wonderful analogy of Kara's and mine. Ask me if explanation is necessary.
Pedestal Dancing
And when Eternity is done, what then?
You will grow sick of me, my too-sharp tongue--
But pause: for were I here to list my faults
'Twould be a list so long to fill
Those ages that you talked of.
Do you recall the foolish things--the sweet, but trite, out-bandied words you said?
'Twas moonlight had you stricken, I'll be bound,
For little else could so have marred your sense.
Good sense, on cloudy nights, you have, I grant
But yestereve you quite had lost your head.
Look not on me thus with such doleful eyes--
You did not mean it-- I will not be swayed.
Protest is useless; I shall not forget
The words you spoke (besotted syllables
That betrayed madness rather than sound mind
As was your wont). You frown most darkly-- good!
For such a scowl at least is solid, and
Can be depended on. Now, if a man would come
At noon, or not at least past three,
And, simply, state his case, he'd better chance--
For that would leave those aeons to be filled
With all the love you crammed into an hour
And naught to show for it but muddy knees.
I liked the rhythm. Thoughts, anyone?
I will be posting more of my scribbles, I think.
Anyway. I went to write a poem to God one night at home before I came back to school. I had written no more than the first line when a certain perversity took over and I found myself writing, not as a worshipper to the Omnipotent Deity, but as a sharp young lady to a rejected swain. The title comes from that oh-so-wonderful analogy of Kara's and mine. Ask me if explanation is necessary.
Pedestal Dancing
And when Eternity is done, what then?
You will grow sick of me, my too-sharp tongue--
But pause: for were I here to list my faults
'Twould be a list so long to fill
Those ages that you talked of.
Do you recall the foolish things--the sweet, but trite, out-bandied words you said?
'Twas moonlight had you stricken, I'll be bound,
For little else could so have marred your sense.
Good sense, on cloudy nights, you have, I grant
But yestereve you quite had lost your head.
Look not on me thus with such doleful eyes--
You did not mean it-- I will not be swayed.
Protest is useless; I shall not forget
The words you spoke (besotted syllables
That betrayed madness rather than sound mind
As was your wont). You frown most darkly-- good!
For such a scowl at least is solid, and
Can be depended on. Now, if a man would come
At noon, or not at least past three,
And, simply, state his case, he'd better chance--
For that would leave those aeons to be filled
With all the love you crammed into an hour
And naught to show for it but muddy knees.
I liked the rhythm. Thoughts, anyone?
I will be posting more of my scribbles, I think.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Remembering
It was one of those days when the air is warm in the morning and has a bit of a kick to it in the late afternoon. The sky was pale blue and there was a light breeze, just enough to lift the hair around my face as I stared unseeing at the horizon.
I was in Spanish class when we turned on the television to watch. We never did finish those verb drills. I remember people crying; I remember muttered prayers and expressions of anger and shock and fear. I remember thinking that maybe it was the end of the world, and maybe we should all hide somewhere.
It took me until about noon to realize that part of me thought we were watching a movie. I kept waiting for Arnold Schwarznegger, or someone, to walk in front of the television cameras, to walk in between me and those awful thickening ashes of people, and say a few dramatic lines. I kept waiting for a soundtrack to play and the screaming extras to leave the set. That never happened, though. It was there and it wasn't changing or clearing or cutting to the next scene. There was nothing to stop the flames and smoke that profaned the blueness of the sky.
I remember herding the little ones outside to play. They screamed and ran and I flinched, because in their innocent ignorance they seemed to mimic the wounded on the screen inside. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real, this is a Tom Clancy novel come to life.
My sister was in school then on Staten Island. She called and told us of how she and her coworkers watched the Towers fall from their windows. I saw them fall, too, and that was, I think, a bigger shock for me than their getting hit in the first place. They fell. Nothing that big is supposed to be able to fall. But they fell, and I saw it. So did my sister. So did a lot of people.
There was a helplessness that came in the following days-- I wanted to do something, but there was nothing to do save for going to school, as usual. But nothing was usual. I thought for a few days that there would be a war, that this was like Pearl Harbor, that maybe my brothers would be drafted and I would go be a Red Cross nurse somewhere. My head was full of romantic nonsense bred by inactivity and frustration and fear.
And everyone became very tender suddenly-- I remember strangers hugging each other in grocery stores, holding one another and weeping, and comforting, or just sharing tight-lipped watery smiles. It was okay to stop and talk to people you didn't know at all, because we all were afraid, and we all were feverishly preparing for-- we knew not what.
A lot of people kept saying things about God. How this was bringing them back to Him, or how they couldn't find Him in this, or how they had nowhere else to turn. They seemed to be afraid, like kids scurrying back to their kitchens when someone hits a ball that breaks a window. Men and women would smile widely and speak loudly on news shows and talk about what God meant by allowing this, and I wanted them all to shut up and talk to Him instead of talking about Him. Maybe He'd tell you a thing or two if you'd listen, instead of filling silence with your suppositions, I wanted to say.
It's been five years and all the kids are back out in the street again, swinging at the ball. People still talk about God on the news, but now they don't really even bother pretending that they talk to Him often. Those hellish billowing pictures get played on the television screen, and people who see them slow down a little and talk more quietly. Their voices deepen, too. A little spark of anger and disbelief still burns, the sorrow still runs deep, but soon they nod wisely and move along, back to business as usual. Maybe they don't believe it could happen again. Maybe they've moved on.
Maybe they've all forgotten.
In one sense I can understand the desire to forget. We all went through that gauntlet of emotion. Fear and rage mingled with relief as reports from loved ones flowed in. Despair and incredulity combined to create a sort of narcotic effect, a numbness that would be exhausting to try to revisit. But you do not see any strangers hugging in the canned goods aisles now, either.
If we forget, we will become careless. If we forget, we will dishonor the memories of the many gallant dead. If we forget, those who perpetrated this will take note and respond accordingly. But so many people look back on five years ago and see something to be exploited, and if that is what they are after then I say, better to forget it, if that is all it is to you.
I didn't know any of the people who were caught in the flaming waves and twisted rubble that day. But part of me died with them, and I cannot forget who they might have been.
I cannot pretend to understand the how or why or what of that day. Here is what I know.
God is, always. God is good, always.
Those are the answers and someday I may understand them.
I was in Spanish class when we turned on the television to watch. We never did finish those verb drills. I remember people crying; I remember muttered prayers and expressions of anger and shock and fear. I remember thinking that maybe it was the end of the world, and maybe we should all hide somewhere.
It took me until about noon to realize that part of me thought we were watching a movie. I kept waiting for Arnold Schwarznegger, or someone, to walk in front of the television cameras, to walk in between me and those awful thickening ashes of people, and say a few dramatic lines. I kept waiting for a soundtrack to play and the screaming extras to leave the set. That never happened, though. It was there and it wasn't changing or clearing or cutting to the next scene. There was nothing to stop the flames and smoke that profaned the blueness of the sky.
I remember herding the little ones outside to play. They screamed and ran and I flinched, because in their innocent ignorance they seemed to mimic the wounded on the screen inside. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real, this is a Tom Clancy novel come to life.
My sister was in school then on Staten Island. She called and told us of how she and her coworkers watched the Towers fall from their windows. I saw them fall, too, and that was, I think, a bigger shock for me than their getting hit in the first place. They fell. Nothing that big is supposed to be able to fall. But they fell, and I saw it. So did my sister. So did a lot of people.
There was a helplessness that came in the following days-- I wanted to do something, but there was nothing to do save for going to school, as usual. But nothing was usual. I thought for a few days that there would be a war, that this was like Pearl Harbor, that maybe my brothers would be drafted and I would go be a Red Cross nurse somewhere. My head was full of romantic nonsense bred by inactivity and frustration and fear.
And everyone became very tender suddenly-- I remember strangers hugging each other in grocery stores, holding one another and weeping, and comforting, or just sharing tight-lipped watery smiles. It was okay to stop and talk to people you didn't know at all, because we all were afraid, and we all were feverishly preparing for-- we knew not what.
A lot of people kept saying things about God. How this was bringing them back to Him, or how they couldn't find Him in this, or how they had nowhere else to turn. They seemed to be afraid, like kids scurrying back to their kitchens when someone hits a ball that breaks a window. Men and women would smile widely and speak loudly on news shows and talk about what God meant by allowing this, and I wanted them all to shut up and talk to Him instead of talking about Him. Maybe He'd tell you a thing or two if you'd listen, instead of filling silence with your suppositions, I wanted to say.
It's been five years and all the kids are back out in the street again, swinging at the ball. People still talk about God on the news, but now they don't really even bother pretending that they talk to Him often. Those hellish billowing pictures get played on the television screen, and people who see them slow down a little and talk more quietly. Their voices deepen, too. A little spark of anger and disbelief still burns, the sorrow still runs deep, but soon they nod wisely and move along, back to business as usual. Maybe they don't believe it could happen again. Maybe they've moved on.
Maybe they've all forgotten.
In one sense I can understand the desire to forget. We all went through that gauntlet of emotion. Fear and rage mingled with relief as reports from loved ones flowed in. Despair and incredulity combined to create a sort of narcotic effect, a numbness that would be exhausting to try to revisit. But you do not see any strangers hugging in the canned goods aisles now, either.
If we forget, we will become careless. If we forget, we will dishonor the memories of the many gallant dead. If we forget, those who perpetrated this will take note and respond accordingly. But so many people look back on five years ago and see something to be exploited, and if that is what they are after then I say, better to forget it, if that is all it is to you.
I didn't know any of the people who were caught in the flaming waves and twisted rubble that day. But part of me died with them, and I cannot forget who they might have been.
I cannot pretend to understand the how or why or what of that day. Here is what I know.
God is, always. God is good, always.
Those are the answers and someday I may understand them.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Just because my mouth is shut...
When I am not talking people assume something is wrong. This is a bad sign, I think.
This is what I write like after reading Lewis Carrol for a few hours:
How curious the cricket's song
that mingles with the stars
which hum amusedly along
and pass the word to Mars!
This is what I write like after reading Lewis Carrol for a few hours:
How curious the cricket's song
that mingles with the stars
which hum amusedly along
and pass the word to Mars!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
And it looks like the sky is caving in again...
Hmmm, Switchfoot.
So I have returned unto Tulsa. I miss the trees of home but I love the sky here.
This is a post to seeeeeeeeee
if I want to post some of the things I wrote this summer on here. I am a big fat wuss when it comes to my writing. I have considered posting them on here. So this post could be titled, "Considering." But it's not.
I get to wake up at 6 in the morning and play ultimate frisbee with many people. They say it will train me to lead people, somehow. But really just my right upper arm is sore.
I may end up deserting xanga entirely.
So I have returned unto Tulsa. I miss the trees of home but I love the sky here.
This is a post to seeeeeeeeee
if I want to post some of the things I wrote this summer on here. I am a big fat wuss when it comes to my writing. I have considered posting them on here. So this post could be titled, "Considering." But it's not.
I get to wake up at 6 in the morning and play ultimate frisbee with many people. They say it will train me to lead people, somehow. But really just my right upper arm is sore.
I may end up deserting xanga entirely.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Birthday blog
Happy Birthday, me.
Why thank you, I.
Thoughts on being nineteen.
I always thought that nineteen was sort of a pointless year: at eighteen you can vote and smoke, at twenty you have begun a new decade. Nineteen just seemed stuck in the middle; just a year you had to get through to reach your twenties. But having reached nineteen, I find myself very gratefull for the cushion it provides. I am way too young to be in my twenties. Contemplating it gives me feelings akin to vertigo. Not the cool U2 kind, the Hans Christian Andersen creepy evil Vertigo kind.
That sentence will make no sense for those of you who never read fairy tales as a kid.
But anyway...thank you, nineteen. You have given me a break I didn't know I needed.
Why thank you, I.
Thoughts on being nineteen.
I always thought that nineteen was sort of a pointless year: at eighteen you can vote and smoke, at twenty you have begun a new decade. Nineteen just seemed stuck in the middle; just a year you had to get through to reach your twenties. But having reached nineteen, I find myself very gratefull for the cushion it provides. I am way too young to be in my twenties. Contemplating it gives me feelings akin to vertigo. Not the cool U2 kind, the Hans Christian Andersen creepy evil Vertigo kind.
That sentence will make no sense for those of you who never read fairy tales as a kid.
But anyway...thank you, nineteen. You have given me a break I didn't know I needed.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Never ever research any historical figure of whom you are particularly fond if you wish to remain that way. Nor should you ever read the introductions to volumes of poetry. Scholars have a way of destroying illusions.
Is it okay to wish upon a star on a cloudy night?
I think I might exhibit some tendencies of schitzophrenia.
Is it okay to wish upon a star on a cloudy night?
I think I might exhibit some tendencies of schitzophrenia.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Things to do
At school I was always busy; rather, I should have always been busy. There was always plenty to busy myself with.
Here, I could easily, too easily, do absolutely nothing. Starting in a week, approximately, that will change. I hope.
I wonder if I'm perky enough to be a good waitress. I shall imitate Kara. Actually, I should imitate Evan, if I were to imitate anyone. Ah well.
I begin writing again tomorrow. And I have been working on my summer reading list. This is by no means all of it. Feel free to suggest others.
Here, I could easily, too easily, do absolutely nothing. Starting in a week, approximately, that will change. I hope.
I wonder if I'm perky enough to be a good waitress. I shall imitate Kara. Actually, I should imitate Evan, if I were to imitate anyone. Ah well.
I begin writing again tomorrow. And I have been working on my summer reading list. This is by no means all of it. Feel free to suggest others.
- The Count of Monte Cristo
- A Tale of Two Cities
- Blue Like Jazz
- The Great Divorce ( and all things Lewis)
- The Man Who Was Thursday (and all things Chesterton)
- Gone With the Wind (this is only because I love Kara)
- Uncle Tom's Cabin (because I lied to someone once about reading it...I forget whom...)
- The Princess Bride (because I love the movie)
- and I want to finish Winston Churchill's histories of WWII. I am in the midst of Triumph and Tragedy now.
So I am looking forward to the remainder of summer. I have also other things lined up to keep myself out of mischief. Wish me well with that.
My little brother, the Space Cadet, to my mother, on Mom's proposing summer-camp-style classes for him and Littlest Sister :
"But, Mom, when you daydream all day you aren't bored!"
Sunday, May 07, 2006
I looked out of the plane window this afternoon and laughed for memory of the treeless plain that is Oklahoma. Pah.
I swear I will not lose it.
The danger of summer break is that I slip back into old habits as easily as I slip into the top bunk in my old bedroom.
But I have gained too much ground this year to simply retreat. Summer is not going to be a retreat. Nor will it be a stagnation. Indeed, let it be known here and now that I will not let go. It would be so easy to just crawl back into the old mold. But I don't fit there anymore; I don't want to fit there anymore. All it requires is a bit of exertion on my part.
Goodbye, Colleen.
I just realized the beauty of coming back to New England in May. I get two springtimes. In Tulsa springtime was waning: here it is just coming into fullness. The azaleas are out and the lilac tree is heavy-scented. The dogwood smiles pinkly, and the lilies of the valley wait to be sought out. The wild plum is through blooming, but the Japanese maple is still dark and burgundy.
I took a walk when I got home. This is the most beautiful place in the world. The road winds over hills and trees crowd the sides and push back the sky.
I am going to go read Calvin and Hobbes. Then I shall sleep the sleep of the blessed and the weary.
The danger of summer break is that I slip back into old habits as easily as I slip into the top bunk in my old bedroom.
But I have gained too much ground this year to simply retreat. Summer is not going to be a retreat. Nor will it be a stagnation. Indeed, let it be known here and now that I will not let go. It would be so easy to just crawl back into the old mold. But I don't fit there anymore; I don't want to fit there anymore. All it requires is a bit of exertion on my part.
Goodbye, Colleen.
I just realized the beauty of coming back to New England in May. I get two springtimes. In Tulsa springtime was waning: here it is just coming into fullness. The azaleas are out and the lilac tree is heavy-scented. The dogwood smiles pinkly, and the lilies of the valley wait to be sought out. The wild plum is through blooming, but the Japanese maple is still dark and burgundy.
I took a walk when I got home. This is the most beautiful place in the world. The road winds over hills and trees crowd the sides and push back the sky.
I am going to go read Calvin and Hobbes. Then I shall sleep the sleep of the blessed and the weary.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
What? Oh, dear-- that's horrid. Take it away. Take it all away.
I read through my site today, and was disheartened. My posting here has gone from mediocre to occasionally decent to awful. I blame School, Humidity, and Ralph Nader. In that order.
Today in my 7.50 Spanish class, I openly mocked my professor's cartographical deficiency. He took it rather well. I was right; it was a terrible map. I have seen cows that could draw better ones. But then I have known some very skilled cows.
I have reached the nadir. I no longer do work. I pretend to enough that I am able to coast sufficiently in all of my classes. But finals are coming up quickly-- I envision a large, gnarled, hunchbacked, snarling man with a snaggletooth and a knotty wooden club, running at me barefoot, and sort of mumbling to himself-- and I think my carefully constructed academic playhouse is going to fall down.
And I was worried about Dr. Barbeau asking us to produce "sophisticated rhetoric." Pah.
I am getting a sort of tan, I think. I hesitate to declare it for I do not want the dermatology gods to wax capricious and torment me with a peeling burn or never-ending blinding whiteness. Oh, to be like Kara, with her built-in tan. A pox on my Northwestern European genetics.
Today in my 7.50 Spanish class, I openly mocked my professor's cartographical deficiency. He took it rather well. I was right; it was a terrible map. I have seen cows that could draw better ones. But then I have known some very skilled cows.
I have reached the nadir. I no longer do work. I pretend to enough that I am able to coast sufficiently in all of my classes. But finals are coming up quickly-- I envision a large, gnarled, hunchbacked, snarling man with a snaggletooth and a knotty wooden club, running at me barefoot, and sort of mumbling to himself-- and I think my carefully constructed academic playhouse is going to fall down.
And I was worried about Dr. Barbeau asking us to produce "sophisticated rhetoric." Pah.
I am getting a sort of tan, I think. I hesitate to declare it for I do not want the dermatology gods to wax capricious and torment me with a peeling burn or never-ending blinding whiteness. Oh, to be like Kara, with her built-in tan. A pox on my Northwestern European genetics.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
I found myself saying "eh" to God today.
I am nearly sure I need to be slapped.
Familiarity breeds contempt. I need to be constantly reminded of God's Godhood. I need to be trained to see His work. My eyes are bad.
Easter Sunday at Believer's the message was titled "Tombs." Everyone is within some sort of tomb, constructed by themselves, sealed by others. And I found myself crying. Not because I am in a tomb; but because, ever so recently, I was in one...and I can still hardly realize that I'm not anymore.
God, keep me thus in ecstatic incredulity at Your feet.
I am nearly sure I need to be slapped.
Familiarity breeds contempt. I need to be constantly reminded of God's Godhood. I need to be trained to see His work. My eyes are bad.
Easter Sunday at Believer's the message was titled "Tombs." Everyone is within some sort of tomb, constructed by themselves, sealed by others. And I found myself crying. Not because I am in a tomb; but because, ever so recently, I was in one...and I can still hardly realize that I'm not anymore.
God, keep me thus in ecstatic incredulity at Your feet.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Emperor's New Clothes
With indecisive certainty
I put pen to page,
A measure of vulnerabilty in each stroke.
I know nothing
But you don't see it.
You will read here what you will.
What would happen
If I did not and the paper
Were blank? I fancy
From what I know of you
You would smile as you are smiling now and say
as you are saying now,
"I like that;
it's good."
I put pen to page,
A measure of vulnerabilty in each stroke.
I know nothing
But you don't see it.
You will read here what you will.
What would happen
If I did not and the paper
Were blank? I fancy
From what I know of you
You would smile as you are smiling now and say
as you are saying now,
"I like that;
it's good."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Revelation in a parking lot
Rain pelted pavement, lightning kicked a yeilding sky, thunder growled at the quiet earth. I hurried through the drops, cringing at the wetness.
Then I heard His voice. And in one gust of wind my eyes and ears were opened.
Rain wet thirsty soil; lightning danced on clouds to the rumbling baritone melody of the thunder. Raindrops played on windshields, mud glorped happily at my heels, wind spread the smell of clean through a tired and grimy city. The heavens declared glory, the storm told of wondrous works to the weary, distracted children of men.
Then I heard His voice. And in one gust of wind my eyes and ears were opened.
Rain wet thirsty soil; lightning danced on clouds to the rumbling baritone melody of the thunder. Raindrops played on windshields, mud glorped happily at my heels, wind spread the smell of clean through a tired and grimy city. The heavens declared glory, the storm told of wondrous works to the weary, distracted children of men.
Monday, March 27, 2006
:)
EDIT: I think some of the comments aren't showing up...post again, if ye be so inclined. :EDIT
Cheating again. No, not really, I'm just posting this on Xanga, too, because I want more than five people to read it. Also I felt a twinge of guilt, for my blogspot of late has been the site of sub-par postage. And if you are among the privileged few who read both my blog and my xanga, comment here, if you have anything to say.
I smile a secret smile.
Nobody in the blog world knows the immensely wonderful, substantial things that God has been doing in my innards. And nobody CAN know.
I have been trying to post this in my head for almost a week now, and I realize--I can't. I cannot describe or explain the deep-down peace that is sitting in my gut. I cannot tell you how much I love Him, and how and what and why. It is frustrating, on one level, for I do want so badly to be able to share this contented insatiable hunger. I wish I could articulate it. I want to have the ability to write a song about it. Or a poem. Heck, even a decent essay. But I am not capable of penning such a verse. I am too feeble. I can't even talk about it. No sooner do I begin than does a goofy smile conquer my face and my mind goes deliciously blank and only garbled gibberish comes out: "So...yeah...Jesus is so amazing...He, like, loves me, and...stuff...yeah...it's pretty sweet..." Frustrating.
But on another level, I am happy. Part of me is glad to be able to just keep this inside, keep it to take out every day and ponder, and explore, and think about, and rejoice in. Because there is so much. The vastness of His work in me contributes to my inability to communicate on the topic. It's too big for me to grasp in casual conversation. It's too precious to try to grasp in casual conversation. I don't really want to demean it to casual conversation. So what's with the dearth of meaningful conversation around here, people?
Anyway. I love being able to hold on to Him. I love dwelling in His peace.
I love the absence of fear. I love that He isn't just working on me anymore, He's working through me.
I
Love
Him.
And so I smile.
Cheating again. No, not really, I'm just posting this on Xanga, too, because I want more than five people to read it. Also I felt a twinge of guilt, for my blogspot of late has been the site of sub-par postage. And if you are among the privileged few who read both my blog and my xanga, comment here, if you have anything to say.
I smile a secret smile.
Nobody in the blog world knows the immensely wonderful, substantial things that God has been doing in my innards. And nobody CAN know.
I have been trying to post this in my head for almost a week now, and I realize--I can't. I cannot describe or explain the deep-down peace that is sitting in my gut. I cannot tell you how much I love Him, and how and what and why. It is frustrating, on one level, for I do want so badly to be able to share this contented insatiable hunger. I wish I could articulate it. I want to have the ability to write a song about it. Or a poem. Heck, even a decent essay. But I am not capable of penning such a verse. I am too feeble. I can't even talk about it. No sooner do I begin than does a goofy smile conquer my face and my mind goes deliciously blank and only garbled gibberish comes out: "So...yeah...Jesus is so amazing...He, like, loves me, and...stuff...yeah...it's pretty sweet..." Frustrating.
But on another level, I am happy. Part of me is glad to be able to just keep this inside, keep it to take out every day and ponder, and explore, and think about, and rejoice in. Because there is so much. The vastness of His work in me contributes to my inability to communicate on the topic. It's too big for me to grasp in casual conversation. It's too precious to try to grasp in casual conversation. I don't really want to demean it to casual conversation. So what's with the dearth of meaningful conversation around here, people?
Anyway. I love being able to hold on to Him. I love dwelling in His peace.
I love the absence of fear. I love that He isn't just working on me anymore, He's working through me.
I
Love
Him.
And so I smile.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Trolley Wood
I am going to cheat. I am going to post this same thing on my xanga.
Try and stop me. Suckers.
You should listen to this song.
Out one day
walking one day
out one day with you hallelujah
--Eisley, "Trolley Wood"
Okay, here's the deal. God did a big thing for me on Wednesday, and I was thinking about it, and somehow those three lines encapsulated the entire thing perfectly. Unfortunately I and God are the only two who will understand why and how those lines encompass all I felt on Wednesday, but I'm really okay with that.
So in summary this was not a useless, devoid-of-inspiration post. This was, in fact, a post so brimming with inspiration that nobody noticed.
Try and stop me. Suckers.
You should listen to this song.
Out one day
walking one day
out one day with you hallelujah
--Eisley, "Trolley Wood"
Okay, here's the deal. God did a big thing for me on Wednesday, and I was thinking about it, and somehow those three lines encapsulated the entire thing perfectly. Unfortunately I and God are the only two who will understand why and how those lines encompass all I felt on Wednesday, but I'm really okay with that.
So in summary this was not a useless, devoid-of-inspiration post. This was, in fact, a post so brimming with inspiration that nobody noticed.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Is it hypocrisy to be able to function normally around people, walking to and from class, tossing quick "how-was-your-break-yeah-mine-was-great-too's" at passersby; and then go to your room, shut the door, and be dry as dust?
I am happy about this cool, moist, good-smelling weather. I am happy with the haze of green tipping the grass all over campus. I am happy with the lavender flowers on the stunted trees. I am happy to see everyone again.
But these happinesses are not reaching a certain part of me. A part that is feeling skeletal and rheumatic. Soul arthritis is independent of age, and I'm feeling it.
Feelings, feelings, feelings. Ugh. I'm sick of it.
Sorry, dear readers. All (optimistically) five of you. Soon I shall break out of this funk. Yes.
I am happy about this cool, moist, good-smelling weather. I am happy with the haze of green tipping the grass all over campus. I am happy with the lavender flowers on the stunted trees. I am happy to see everyone again.
But these happinesses are not reaching a certain part of me. A part that is feeling skeletal and rheumatic. Soul arthritis is independent of age, and I'm feeling it.
Feelings, feelings, feelings. Ugh. I'm sick of it.
Sorry, dear readers. All (optimistically) five of you. Soon I shall break out of this funk. Yes.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Mirror
I am tired, confused, frustrated, sleep-deprived, annoyed, angry with myself, hopeless, desperate, whiny, intolerant, intolerable, abrasive, obnoxious, weak, pedantic, indecisive, cowardly, prideful, insufferable, spineless, and cold.
I kind of want to shoot myself in the face right now. Metaphorically speaking.
I want to hide in my room under my covers and not come out to grin and tease and pretend. I want to disappear. I want to stop everything.
Nothing's wrong. Nothing is right.
So, pain...
I kind of want to shoot myself in the face right now. Metaphorically speaking.
I want to hide in my room under my covers and not come out to grin and tease and pretend. I want to disappear. I want to stop everything.
Nothing's wrong. Nothing is right.
So, pain...
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Discovery
Do yourself a favor:
Listen to or find the lyrics to Relient K's "Pressing On."
And then sing it as a show tune.
Oughta make you chuckle.
I thought it was friggin hilarious.
Listen to or find the lyrics to Relient K's "Pressing On."
And then sing it as a show tune.
Oughta make you chuckle.
I thought it was friggin hilarious.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Book sale
The high-ceilinged room smelled of morning and coffee and cigarettes; over and through all seeped the musty reek of old paper. Old men planted by philosophy. Housewives sighing by fiction. Students rifling through pockets for extra coins. Smiling volunteers in maroon aprons everywhere and nowhere, directing traffic, organizing, answering questions. And the books.
The books were piled in corners and under tables, arranged in rows. Wobbly signs rose above the crowds, directing seekers to treasure. Shiny paperbacks rubbed shoulders with leather-bound volumes, gilded lettering glowing and beckoning. Faded titles all but illegible. Slim treatises in an oft-rearranged heap, eager aficionados ever fingering the crunchy pages.
Centuries of accumulated wit and wisdom and lore, priced at a quarter. Stories of dead men and women, unknown, untold, here brought to life: sold for seventy five cents. The knowledge of great men written out, expensive at three dollars.
They lie still, sending alluring promises of quenched curiosity and sated desire. Poetic phrases mingle with intellectual declamation to form mesmerizing narcotic smog. Part with worthless metal to possess them. Take them home; inhale fragrance. Drink deeply.
The books were piled in corners and under tables, arranged in rows. Wobbly signs rose above the crowds, directing seekers to treasure. Shiny paperbacks rubbed shoulders with leather-bound volumes, gilded lettering glowing and beckoning. Faded titles all but illegible. Slim treatises in an oft-rearranged heap, eager aficionados ever fingering the crunchy pages.
Centuries of accumulated wit and wisdom and lore, priced at a quarter. Stories of dead men and women, unknown, untold, here brought to life: sold for seventy five cents. The knowledge of great men written out, expensive at three dollars.
They lie still, sending alluring promises of quenched curiosity and sated desire. Poetic phrases mingle with intellectual declamation to form mesmerizing narcotic smog. Part with worthless metal to possess them. Take them home; inhale fragrance. Drink deeply.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
These things are all related in my mind. I swear it.
Katie in biology burned me her Jamie Cullum CD. So that's what I'm listening to. British accent and jazz piano. Good combo.
I feel helpless when people come to me with problems. And a couple have been of late. So all I can do is say, "yeah, that stinks, pray about it."
It is when people ask me for advice that I realize how very callow and clueless I am.
I am going to apply to work at Camp Sonshine for the summer. I think I've lost my mind. I am going to volunteer to be around little kids for two months. And I'm applying to be an APA for next year. I who can't even TA for Honors Seminar, perhaps the most ridiculously easy task ever. How ambitious we are becoming...my, my.
I with Kara dance upon a pedestal. But I confess it can get a little cold up here. And yet...when I contemplate what dismounting from my perch would entail, I begin to appreciate the brisk weather at this altitude. And my feet reacquire their spring, and my happy, solitary dance begins anew.
I feel helpless when people come to me with problems. And a couple have been of late. So all I can do is say, "yeah, that stinks, pray about it."
It is when people ask me for advice that I realize how very callow and clueless I am.
I am going to apply to work at Camp Sonshine for the summer. I think I've lost my mind. I am going to volunteer to be around little kids for two months. And I'm applying to be an APA for next year. I who can't even TA for Honors Seminar, perhaps the most ridiculously easy task ever. How ambitious we are becoming...my, my.
I with Kara dance upon a pedestal. But I confess it can get a little cold up here. And yet...when I contemplate what dismounting from my perch would entail, I begin to appreciate the brisk weather at this altitude. And my feet reacquire their spring, and my happy, solitary dance begins anew.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
I think Paul said something about this too...
Today was warm. I studied outside between Towers and would have actually been hot had it not been for the incessant, and today very welcome, Tulsa breeze.
I want to talk about some things that have been hitting sort of close to home lately, considering the season. I put a little of it on my xanga, but I feel a bit freer to go off here.
Valentine's Day was yesterday. It was my first Valentine's Day ever. Back home we never celebrated it. Most of the single girls on the floor got together and went out to eat, and then a couple of us went to Ashlea's and worshipped for a while. Alexie and Micah shared; it was great. Jesus was my valentine.
I have been hearing so many people refer to Valentine's Day as "Singles Awareness Day." And while I, being single, understand where it comes from, I am also getting sick to death of everybody disrespecting the gift of singleness. The mere fact that people have to have a significant other to feel that they're worth something proves their unreadiness to be in a relationship. I know because I struggle with it. And until self-worth is derived from God and not other people, romantic relationships are pretty much doomed-- or else they're much harder to maintain.
I don't want to step on people's toes here, because I sat alone on the night of the thirteenth, studying in the fishbowl, complaining to God about how alone I was, about how I wanted a boyfriend. I know those desires are right and good and God intended for us to have them and all that, but it wasn't about that. It pretty much boiled down to selfishness. I wanted a boyfriend to love me and make me feel good about myself. And when I tell the flesh and the devil to shut up and I listen to my Papa, I know very well that a boyfriend would make me more miserable than anything else right now. Sometimes, though, I don't listen very well, and I start talking to God about how alone I am.
Are you catching the irony of that statement? Telling my Creator, who is in my heart and all around me, that I am alone, when the mere fact that I can tell Him that negates my lament. I am ridiculous.
And so are a lot of people around here. For a lot of us, I suspect that selfiushness is the root of our depression this time of year.
None of us who walk with God are ever alone. Every day is Valentine's Day with Him. We don't need to wait for one set date before we get a romantic geture from our Maker. He sent me a couple today, unsolicited.
And it's way better than a rose or a heart-shaped balloon or box of chocolates.
By the way, if God has called us to be single (horrified gasp) forever...keep in mind, people, that this earth is not forever. This is transient. Temporal. Easy for me to say, I know, but "He giveth more grace." I'm in love with Him, with or without my someone.
Happy Valentine's Day. You are never alone. Sheesh.
I want to talk about some things that have been hitting sort of close to home lately, considering the season. I put a little of it on my xanga, but I feel a bit freer to go off here.
Valentine's Day was yesterday. It was my first Valentine's Day ever. Back home we never celebrated it. Most of the single girls on the floor got together and went out to eat, and then a couple of us went to Ashlea's and worshipped for a while. Alexie and Micah shared; it was great. Jesus was my valentine.
I have been hearing so many people refer to Valentine's Day as "Singles Awareness Day." And while I, being single, understand where it comes from, I am also getting sick to death of everybody disrespecting the gift of singleness. The mere fact that people have to have a significant other to feel that they're worth something proves their unreadiness to be in a relationship. I know because I struggle with it. And until self-worth is derived from God and not other people, romantic relationships are pretty much doomed-- or else they're much harder to maintain.
I don't want to step on people's toes here, because I sat alone on the night of the thirteenth, studying in the fishbowl, complaining to God about how alone I was, about how I wanted a boyfriend. I know those desires are right and good and God intended for us to have them and all that, but it wasn't about that. It pretty much boiled down to selfishness. I wanted a boyfriend to love me and make me feel good about myself. And when I tell the flesh and the devil to shut up and I listen to my Papa, I know very well that a boyfriend would make me more miserable than anything else right now. Sometimes, though, I don't listen very well, and I start talking to God about how alone I am.
Are you catching the irony of that statement? Telling my Creator, who is in my heart and all around me, that I am alone, when the mere fact that I can tell Him that negates my lament. I am ridiculous.
And so are a lot of people around here. For a lot of us, I suspect that selfiushness is the root of our depression this time of year.
None of us who walk with God are ever alone. Every day is Valentine's Day with Him. We don't need to wait for one set date before we get a romantic geture from our Maker. He sent me a couple today, unsolicited.
And it's way better than a rose or a heart-shaped balloon or box of chocolates.
By the way, if God has called us to be single (horrified gasp) forever...keep in mind, people, that this earth is not forever. This is transient. Temporal. Easy for me to say, I know, but "He giveth more grace." I'm in love with Him, with or without my someone.
Happy Valentine's Day. You are never alone. Sheesh.
Friday, February 03, 2006
"I'll cast the shimmy out of her"
Note the title of this post, friends, and know: Kara dances suggestively in elevators.
I'm trying to decide whether or not I'll post something I wrote on here. It's kinda heavy, and I don't know if I particularly want to share it...hm
MY ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED in the Oracle. It's the first time I've ever been published. An odd sensation. Giddy excitement mingled with faint, sneering boredom and a small measure of dread. Of course the article was tweaked. Peter added in the stuff about PRob's meeting. He also inserted the word sacrosanct. Which is an awesome word.
This is a pointless entry-- I really just wanted to inform you all of Kara's scandalousity.
I'm trying to decide whether or not I'll post something I wrote on here. It's kinda heavy, and I don't know if I particularly want to share it...hm
MY ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED in the Oracle. It's the first time I've ever been published. An odd sensation. Giddy excitement mingled with faint, sneering boredom and a small measure of dread. Of course the article was tweaked. Peter added in the stuff about PRob's meeting. He also inserted the word sacrosanct. Which is an awesome word.
This is a pointless entry-- I really just wanted to inform you all of Kara's scandalousity.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Soooo...
I have a lot of ideas. I hope I can get some of them into this post in a semi-coherent fashion.
Random Point One: I've been thinking a lot about Grace lately. I heard it defined on Sunday as "unmerited favor." Which is good, but I don't like how short that definition is. It's too cut-and-dry to encompass something as enormous as Grace. Specifically God's Grace, which is the kind I've been thinking about.
Grace is like finding out that my Phil O'Sci paper isn't due on Tuesday (tomorrow) as I thought it was. Grace is like finding the ability to keep jogging for a lap rather than switching to a walk like your muscles are screaming at you to do. I imagine Grace as a blanket. A fleece throw blanket that your mom puts on you when you get a cold from going outside when she told you not to.
I've had a lot of colds lately.
Random point two: This relates to grace in a way, but because I'm too lazy to construct good transition paragraphs, I wussed out and am reverting to the "Random point" system. God doesn't wait for me to be perfect before He uses me. He isn't tapping His foot, waiting for me to get to the next level of spiritual maturity before He can work through my life. He hasn't called me to make myself perfect. In fact, I've tried it. I told God to wait while I cleaned the blood off my hands before I could do CPR on my soul. And He did. He waited for me to realize that I couldn't get the blood off. That my soul was past my power to resuscitate.
That's not an easy thing to realize. And I don't know for sure, but it can't be easy for Him to wait for me, but He does. That's Grace.
God works with people where they are. That includes me. Sometimes that's the hardest part of grace to swallow. That it includes me. I can feel it for other people. I can long to show someone that God can use them, forgive them, love them, but it's hard for me to accept for myself. This is called Pride. It's a more dangerous form of Pride because I feel so humble. So deliciously low. So abased. As if that's what God wants-- for us to recognize our awfulness and perpetually wallow in it.
Um, yeah...that's not what He wants.
I have a lot more to say, but it is occurring to me that I should save the rest for other posts. Then I will have lots of material simmering and my blog shall not be an hungered.
I have a lot of ideas. I hope I can get some of them into this post in a semi-coherent fashion.
Random Point One: I've been thinking a lot about Grace lately. I heard it defined on Sunday as "unmerited favor." Which is good, but I don't like how short that definition is. It's too cut-and-dry to encompass something as enormous as Grace. Specifically God's Grace, which is the kind I've been thinking about.
Grace is like finding out that my Phil O'Sci paper isn't due on Tuesday (tomorrow) as I thought it was. Grace is like finding the ability to keep jogging for a lap rather than switching to a walk like your muscles are screaming at you to do. I imagine Grace as a blanket. A fleece throw blanket that your mom puts on you when you get a cold from going outside when she told you not to.
I've had a lot of colds lately.
Random point two: This relates to grace in a way, but because I'm too lazy to construct good transition paragraphs, I wussed out and am reverting to the "Random point" system. God doesn't wait for me to be perfect before He uses me. He isn't tapping His foot, waiting for me to get to the next level of spiritual maturity before He can work through my life. He hasn't called me to make myself perfect. In fact, I've tried it. I told God to wait while I cleaned the blood off my hands before I could do CPR on my soul. And He did. He waited for me to realize that I couldn't get the blood off. That my soul was past my power to resuscitate.
That's not an easy thing to realize. And I don't know for sure, but it can't be easy for Him to wait for me, but He does. That's Grace.
God works with people where they are. That includes me. Sometimes that's the hardest part of grace to swallow. That it includes me. I can feel it for other people. I can long to show someone that God can use them, forgive them, love them, but it's hard for me to accept for myself. This is called Pride. It's a more dangerous form of Pride because I feel so humble. So deliciously low. So abased. As if that's what God wants-- for us to recognize our awfulness and perpetually wallow in it.
Um, yeah...that's not what He wants.
I have a lot more to say, but it is occurring to me that I should save the rest for other posts. Then I will have lots of material simmering and my blog shall not be an hungered.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Gaelic Swear Words
Several things.
I had a wonderful evening, the delights of which I will enumerate for your pleasure and interest.
I went bowling with my esteemed cousin wings, namely, Consuming Fire and Bliss. I pretty much spanked everyone, especially in the second game *cough*167*cough* and my hair was not staticky. We went to Coldstone. Then because it was only twenty after eleven and curfew wasn't til one, Jeremy, Jason and I went to Aimee's house, where a bunch of people were watching Spy Games. Lisa remembered curfew in time to get me and Chelsie back to the dorms-- we walked into Towers at 12.59, to the cheers of the collective hall directors.
Points about the above narrative:
While I understand and appreciate ORU's system of brother/sister wings, I feel it is imperative to occasionally disregard those bonds and just hang out with people. Tonight was great because that's what everyone did. We bowled, we shared semi-witty banter, we smuggled burritoes into the bowling alley. It was grand.
The same cameraderie existed, though in a lesser degree, at Aimee's. I, the freshman who really has no bond with these people other than the Honors Program, was welcomed, as I always have been by them. Besides, it made me really want to be a spy and run covert ops and break the rules and pretend that secret documents were innocent Bahamian retirement plans. And Robert Redford is a good-looking old man, but he cannot compare to Gene Kelly.
I got the biggest adrenaline rush I'd had in a while when we ran through the door at curfew. For some reason I felt as if I had accomplished something.
When I came upstairs I walked into Kara's room and found them watching Braveheart.
I wish I could swear in Gaelic. I do.
On an entirely different topic: I feel like I'm missing something. Maybe if I start seeking it it'll show up.
I had a wonderful evening, the delights of which I will enumerate for your pleasure and interest.
I went bowling with my esteemed cousin wings, namely, Consuming Fire and Bliss. I pretty much spanked everyone, especially in the second game *cough*167*cough* and my hair was not staticky. We went to Coldstone. Then because it was only twenty after eleven and curfew wasn't til one, Jeremy, Jason and I went to Aimee's house, where a bunch of people were watching Spy Games. Lisa remembered curfew in time to get me and Chelsie back to the dorms-- we walked into Towers at 12.59, to the cheers of the collective hall directors.
Points about the above narrative:
While I understand and appreciate ORU's system of brother/sister wings, I feel it is imperative to occasionally disregard those bonds and just hang out with people. Tonight was great because that's what everyone did. We bowled, we shared semi-witty banter, we smuggled burritoes into the bowling alley. It was grand.
The same cameraderie existed, though in a lesser degree, at Aimee's. I, the freshman who really has no bond with these people other than the Honors Program, was welcomed, as I always have been by them. Besides, it made me really want to be a spy and run covert ops and break the rules and pretend that secret documents were innocent Bahamian retirement plans. And Robert Redford is a good-looking old man, but he cannot compare to Gene Kelly.
I got the biggest adrenaline rush I'd had in a while when we ran through the door at curfew. For some reason I felt as if I had accomplished something.
When I came upstairs I walked into Kara's room and found them watching Braveheart.
I wish I could swear in Gaelic. I do.
On an entirely different topic: I feel like I'm missing something. Maybe if I start seeking it it'll show up.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
And here's how some of my classes are going
Today we had our first real HPE lecture of the semester. Fritz was in rare form. I had never seen him so energetic. At times his antics were enough to pull my head up from my Spanish homework and just stare, jaw flopping feebly. He pantomimed isotropic and isometric and isotonicky and isolational and isotropicanic excercises. At one point he demonstrated how, in his gymnastics days, he had been trained to do a maneuver called the "Iron Cross" on the rings. He looked like a fish struggling to breathe-- provided the fish was balding, shiny-scalped, and wearing cowboy boots. It was very surreal. I do not think that man is stable.
Monday was a wonderful day because during my American History in Film class as we were watching "All Quiet on the Western Front," Dr. Vickery sat next to me. Also he gave me a Werther's Original. My grandfather used to give me those. I had a moment.
Laughter is echoing down the halls and I feel compelled to go join in. But I am chained to my computer. I have a paper that must needs be written. Perhaps I should read the book.
Monday was a wonderful day because during my American History in Film class as we were watching "All Quiet on the Western Front," Dr. Vickery sat next to me. Also he gave me a Werther's Original. My grandfather used to give me those. I had a moment.
Laughter is echoing down the halls and I feel compelled to go join in. But I am chained to my computer. I have a paper that must needs be written. Perhaps I should read the book.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
This is what happens when you haven't written any random fiction in a while and you don't feel like writing reflection papers
I was sitting in the fishbowl this afternoon when I wrote this. I haven't done anything like this in a while. It was fun. Also I inspired Kara to desert homework for pointless fiction. I wish I could keep going with this without having to do research for it...
Dark night closed in. Wind high above the trees scrubbed the sky clear, and faraway stars peered down, unable to shine through impenetrable branches. A fire was lit in a clearing. A lone figure crouched, stretching out frigid hands to the heat.
Outside the shifting circle of firelight a twig snapped. The figure was instantly on his feet, every sense alert.
He waited a full minute, counting silently. The sound was not repeated. He took his place again, slowly, cautiously. His head began to nod, and, after a few silent minutes, he slumped down on the bare ground.
The wind whistled down into the clearing. The fire popped. The man sprang to his feet with a growled curse. He looked around the clearing, consulted the watch at his wrist, and swore again. He sat down, then stood back up. He paced around the clearing, stretching, watching, waiting.
The fire was beginning to die when a noise made the man stand bolt upright in the shadows of the clearing. He listened, barely breathing. The noise was repeated. He waited a minute. It came again. He produced from a pouch at his belt a small whistle and blew softly on it. The sibilant hum rose above the wind and lingered. The answer was borne back to the waiting man on the breeze.
As he stepped back into the fading firelight another figure emerged from the shadows. They approached each other hesitantly. The firstcomer lifted a stick from a pile in the dirt and stirred the embers to life.
The revived flames threw the new arrival’s face into the light—thin, deeply tanned. His eyes were guarded and speculative, their color indeterminable in the firelight. He waited. The first man stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“You’re late.”
The words, guttural and hushed as they were, broke the spell that silence had woven over the clearing. The newcomer merely looked at him.
“You’re late,” he repeated, undeterred. “I don’t like late. It makes me nervous. I don’t like to be nervous.”
A blank stare was the only reply.
He shook his head, frustrated. “Well, you’re here now. Let’s hurry this up.” He turned to a worn pack by the fire and dug through its contents, one eye on the silent man in front of him.
The second man watched him for a moment, then turned slightly and loosened the pack he was wearing. He separated the straps almost reluctantly, and reached slowly inside, producing a small brown paper package. He held it for a moment in his hands, paying no attention to the man in front of him, who had drawn forth a similar parcel. He stared at it with an unreadable expression on his face, then with a flick of the wrist tossed it at the feet of his companion.
The first man smiled a smile of one who has accomplished a long-anticipated goal. He held out his own bundle in his left hand and kept the right buried in his bag.
“We’re even,” he said quietly.
And with that his right hand, holding a gun, came up out of his bag.
For a split second the man hesitated—the moment between his words and the raising of his gun, or perhaps the pause between the cocking of the weapon and the pulling of the trigger. That moment was his undoing.
The second man turned and kicked the gun out of his hand. As it went whirling through the air the expression on the face of the shooter turned from sneering confidence to craven terror. He reached for the gun: panic took over and he turned to the forest, desperate to escape. He turned back; he grasped for the bundle at his feet—
He was dead.
The entire exchange had not taken more than five seconds. Five seconds in which an eternity of fear had been lived by the dead man. The victor stood still, arm outstretched, gun smoking in his grip. He stood motionless.
The constellations wheeled and swung, oblivious to the nightmare transpiring beneath the shielding branches. They danced on, shifting and sliding through the night sky.
It was daybreak before the second man emerged from the clearing. The fire had been smothered, all evidences of ash and ember covered. The bundle that the first man had held was buried with him, in a shallow grave at the edge of the clearing, where scavengers would be sure to find and destroy it. The second man carried out of the forest the package he had brought with him. It weighed on him like a dead man.
Dark night closed in. Wind high above the trees scrubbed the sky clear, and faraway stars peered down, unable to shine through impenetrable branches. A fire was lit in a clearing. A lone figure crouched, stretching out frigid hands to the heat.
Outside the shifting circle of firelight a twig snapped. The figure was instantly on his feet, every sense alert.
He waited a full minute, counting silently. The sound was not repeated. He took his place again, slowly, cautiously. His head began to nod, and, after a few silent minutes, he slumped down on the bare ground.
The wind whistled down into the clearing. The fire popped. The man sprang to his feet with a growled curse. He looked around the clearing, consulted the watch at his wrist, and swore again. He sat down, then stood back up. He paced around the clearing, stretching, watching, waiting.
The fire was beginning to die when a noise made the man stand bolt upright in the shadows of the clearing. He listened, barely breathing. The noise was repeated. He waited a minute. It came again. He produced from a pouch at his belt a small whistle and blew softly on it. The sibilant hum rose above the wind and lingered. The answer was borne back to the waiting man on the breeze.
As he stepped back into the fading firelight another figure emerged from the shadows. They approached each other hesitantly. The firstcomer lifted a stick from a pile in the dirt and stirred the embers to life.
The revived flames threw the new arrival’s face into the light—thin, deeply tanned. His eyes were guarded and speculative, their color indeterminable in the firelight. He waited. The first man stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“You’re late.”
The words, guttural and hushed as they were, broke the spell that silence had woven over the clearing. The newcomer merely looked at him.
“You’re late,” he repeated, undeterred. “I don’t like late. It makes me nervous. I don’t like to be nervous.”
A blank stare was the only reply.
He shook his head, frustrated. “Well, you’re here now. Let’s hurry this up.” He turned to a worn pack by the fire and dug through its contents, one eye on the silent man in front of him.
The second man watched him for a moment, then turned slightly and loosened the pack he was wearing. He separated the straps almost reluctantly, and reached slowly inside, producing a small brown paper package. He held it for a moment in his hands, paying no attention to the man in front of him, who had drawn forth a similar parcel. He stared at it with an unreadable expression on his face, then with a flick of the wrist tossed it at the feet of his companion.
The first man smiled a smile of one who has accomplished a long-anticipated goal. He held out his own bundle in his left hand and kept the right buried in his bag.
“We’re even,” he said quietly.
And with that his right hand, holding a gun, came up out of his bag.
For a split second the man hesitated—the moment between his words and the raising of his gun, or perhaps the pause between the cocking of the weapon and the pulling of the trigger. That moment was his undoing.
The second man turned and kicked the gun out of his hand. As it went whirling through the air the expression on the face of the shooter turned from sneering confidence to craven terror. He reached for the gun: panic took over and he turned to the forest, desperate to escape. He turned back; he grasped for the bundle at his feet—
He was dead.
The entire exchange had not taken more than five seconds. Five seconds in which an eternity of fear had been lived by the dead man. The victor stood still, arm outstretched, gun smoking in his grip. He stood motionless.
The constellations wheeled and swung, oblivious to the nightmare transpiring beneath the shielding branches. They danced on, shifting and sliding through the night sky.
It was daybreak before the second man emerged from the clearing. The fire had been smothered, all evidences of ash and ember covered. The bundle that the first man had held was buried with him, in a shallow grave at the edge of the clearing, where scavengers would be sure to find and destroy it. The second man carried out of the forest the package he had brought with him. It weighed on him like a dead man.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Mental Ex-lax
My mind is cloudy and clogged.
Everything I thought I knew is knotting up. What's worse, everything I knew I knew is tangled. I wish I were the kind of writer who could just turn it on. I wish that as soon as my fingertips hit the keyboard the torrents of words inside would come pouring out in perfectly constructed sentences and coherent paragraphs. I am not that kind of writer. I write what I feel at the moment. Normally it's the only way to untangle things. No matter how poor the writing, it somehow releases the strain on my mind. Except for times like now, when I feel the urge and sit down and tap my fingers and just...wait. And fill up the waiting with meaningless drivel about how much it sucks to wait.
Some Chris Rice comes to mind in my present mood:
"I would wave my magic wand, I would say the magic words
Cooking up a miracle, putting on a show
Changing what I thought to be unchangeable reality
If I had a magic wand of my own."
There are days when I can feel miracles. Not in the ORU-seed-faith-charismatic-life-miracle way, but in the tingling of my pinkies when I see moonshine. Or in the involuntary skip in my feet when I walk in wind. When "unchangeable reality" doesn't seem all that bad. There are days when it seems that the world, Nature itself, is putting on a show, just for me. That God leaned over and announced, "Behold the sunset-- to Colleen!" Sometimes the air blazes a trail down through my lungs to every corner of me, thrilling with aliveness. Sometimes I walk by myself and smile. Because I can. Because smiling is a miracle.
But sometimes a magic wand could come in handy. Like when I am alone and lonely. Or surrounded and lonely. Or when my reality is so unchangeable I weep at its interminability. Yeah. There are todays when I wish I had a magic wand that could just make all of this better.
Of course here I am talking like He hasn't provided me with one.
"For whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world: and this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith." I John 5.4
*Flush*
Everything I thought I knew is knotting up. What's worse, everything I knew I knew is tangled. I wish I were the kind of writer who could just turn it on. I wish that as soon as my fingertips hit the keyboard the torrents of words inside would come pouring out in perfectly constructed sentences and coherent paragraphs. I am not that kind of writer. I write what I feel at the moment. Normally it's the only way to untangle things. No matter how poor the writing, it somehow releases the strain on my mind. Except for times like now, when I feel the urge and sit down and tap my fingers and just...wait. And fill up the waiting with meaningless drivel about how much it sucks to wait.
Some Chris Rice comes to mind in my present mood:
"I would wave my magic wand, I would say the magic words
Cooking up a miracle, putting on a show
Changing what I thought to be unchangeable reality
If I had a magic wand of my own."
There are days when I can feel miracles. Not in the ORU-seed-faith-charismatic-life-miracle way, but in the tingling of my pinkies when I see moonshine. Or in the involuntary skip in my feet when I walk in wind. When "unchangeable reality" doesn't seem all that bad. There are days when it seems that the world, Nature itself, is putting on a show, just for me. That God leaned over and announced, "Behold the sunset-- to Colleen!" Sometimes the air blazes a trail down through my lungs to every corner of me, thrilling with aliveness. Sometimes I walk by myself and smile. Because I can. Because smiling is a miracle.
But sometimes a magic wand could come in handy. Like when I am alone and lonely. Or surrounded and lonely. Or when my reality is so unchangeable I weep at its interminability. Yeah. There are todays when I wish I had a magic wand that could just make all of this better.
Of course here I am talking like He hasn't provided me with one.
"For whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world: and this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith." I John 5.4
*Flush*
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Uhhhh..
Somebody needs to strike me with inspiration for a long, witty, insightful post.
I'm waiting.
Smite me, O mighty smiter...with a good post...
This is reminding me of constipation
I'm waiting.
Smite me, O mighty smiter...with a good post...
This is reminding me of constipation
Monday, January 02, 2006
Chuckles
I am sitting downstairs in my dad's office laughing. It is a good thing that everyone else in my home has gone to bed, else they might be perturbed by the maniacal cackles echoing from this room. I really am a dummy, guys. Really. I'm a dolt.
Allow me to explain. The devil has been beleaguering me with reminders of my unworthiness and weakness all week. Solid, tangible reminders. Abrasive, corrosive reminders. I spent that time thinking about how far I had come and how far I had fallen. He was rubbing it in my face. Somewhere in the midst of it I thought, "Why doesn't this ever seem to happen to anyone else?" or words to that effect.
Forgive my idiocy, readers. All four of you. I do not really wish to chronicle this, but I think it's good for me.
God, being who He is, was very kind. Very honest, blunt even, when I got around to taking this to Him, but gentle nonetheless. And today He reminded me of my complaint. "Why does this only happen to me? Why do I seem to perpetually fail? Why am I so weak?" Here is His response (and I quote):
"I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me.
"For I delight in the law of God after the inward man:
"But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.
"O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?
"I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.
"There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit."
Romans 7:21-25, 8:1
He started with me in 7:5 and went til 8:17. But if I typed all of that on here I'd have carpal tunnel syndrome and no one would ever read this again. Paul dealt with it. Everyone deals with it. And to think otherwise is weak and, frankly, vain.
Why do I chuckle? I chuckle at my own blindness and gullibility-- it's not like I never read this before. I laugh with delight at the knowledge and security of the love of God. And I full-out guffaw at the damnable tricks that satan uses to make me believe I'm in bondage to him. I laugh at him. But I'm angry, too, that I wasted any time at all on him. Arg. but I don't dwell on it.
The way I felt today was kind of like a hug. One of those hugs that coaches give their players when they've tried hard and messed up. He laughed at me. A comfortable laugh that said, "Yeah, kid, I know."
I hate this post. I am being exceedingly random and what I wanted to say is irretrievably buried somewhere in this rubble. Hope you can salvage something from this. Maybe I'll just delete it. Or just post the entire book of Romans on here...it would make a heck of a lot more sense than this.
I will force myself to stop this madness now.
Allow me to explain. The devil has been beleaguering me with reminders of my unworthiness and weakness all week. Solid, tangible reminders. Abrasive, corrosive reminders. I spent that time thinking about how far I had come and how far I had fallen. He was rubbing it in my face. Somewhere in the midst of it I thought, "Why doesn't this ever seem to happen to anyone else?" or words to that effect.
Forgive my idiocy, readers. All four of you. I do not really wish to chronicle this, but I think it's good for me.
God, being who He is, was very kind. Very honest, blunt even, when I got around to taking this to Him, but gentle nonetheless. And today He reminded me of my complaint. "Why does this only happen to me? Why do I seem to perpetually fail? Why am I so weak?" Here is His response (and I quote):
"I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me.
"For I delight in the law of God after the inward man:
"But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.
"O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?
"I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.
"There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit."
Romans 7:21-25, 8:1
He started with me in 7:5 and went til 8:17. But if I typed all of that on here I'd have carpal tunnel syndrome and no one would ever read this again. Paul dealt with it. Everyone deals with it. And to think otherwise is weak and, frankly, vain.
Why do I chuckle? I chuckle at my own blindness and gullibility-- it's not like I never read this before. I laugh with delight at the knowledge and security of the love of God. And I full-out guffaw at the damnable tricks that satan uses to make me believe I'm in bondage to him. I laugh at him. But I'm angry, too, that I wasted any time at all on him. Arg. but I don't dwell on it.
The way I felt today was kind of like a hug. One of those hugs that coaches give their players when they've tried hard and messed up. He laughed at me. A comfortable laugh that said, "Yeah, kid, I know."
I hate this post. I am being exceedingly random and what I wanted to say is irretrievably buried somewhere in this rubble. Hope you can salvage something from this. Maybe I'll just delete it. Or just post the entire book of Romans on here...it would make a heck of a lot more sense than this.
I will force myself to stop this madness now.
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