Well look at you, loyal reader! You still check in, even though I have been kidnapped from the land of the Internet and placed smack dab into the world of only TiVo! But I can pause my TV, so I win...
Anyway, I can't possibly tell you what I've been doing for the past month or so (except Lost is on hiatus so I can speak to other people on Wednesdays now), so I thought I'd tell you a wee lil' story to hold you over.
And to those of you who read this whom I didn't know read this, welcome.
So as I said a while back, Dave, Shelby and I were to go scout this new cave for camp. [Scout: to go into a space or experience an activity firsthand, to be able to make a decision as to whether it is viable to take fat, spoiled 10-year-olds through it without them most likely killing themselves.] Well we went, searched around the woods for 45 minutes til we found the "40-foot climbable pit" that the description had mentioned. And this pit had HUGE IRON BARS ACROSS IT, signaling that maybe they don't want us going in there. It was over 70 outside and the three of us were sweating like stuck pigs, anxious to get into the cave so we could cool down (they are a constant 53 degrees in VA). We seriously considered it anyway, but they are building a new school right through the woods and them construction men in their helmets were staring at us in our helmets and chances are they would win in a fight. So we gave up, but did some very serious detective work and found out the owner of the cave (the county itself) and, three weeks later, go permission to go into said cave! Go us!
So last Thursday we once again loaded ourselves and our gear into their little green wagon and headed back down to the cave. To quote Starship, "Nothin's gonna stop us now....!" We got into our regalia and walked the 1/2 mile to the cave entrance. Mind you, this time it was 33 out and we were anxious to get in, just to warm up. Funny how perspective changes. The balmy nature of 53 degrees. So we set up the rope and Shelby climbs under the bars to head into the pit (two entrances inside the pit itself) when we see an old man walking through the woods from the school site toward us. "This is private property here," he says in his Shenandoah drawl. We tell him we have permission, and who gave it to us. We feel smug. Score point for us. "Oh...well...it's prolly not such a good i-dea to go in that there cave today," he tells us while scratching his head. We ask why. "Well...um...we're blasting over there today, and fer the next two weeks er so, so it's not really a good i-dea."
I'm sorry, did you just say blasting?
As in dynamite?
As in we are about to go into a cave next to or even under the spaces in which you are planning on dropping some TNT and, to use the venacular, blowing some shit up?
Right ok, sounds good.
So that hampered that plan just a lil'.
We still went into the pit, but only went about 50-100 feet into a 1,000 foot cave, being that's closer to where they were "fixing to do some blasting."
So to the cave #2 foiled...again.
Back in January.
Hopefully that trip will be fun, but not DYNO-MITE!
Ok that was bad, forgive me i've been rusty.
Viva La Vie Bohme, etc etc.
Took my little sister to get her Christmas tree/Hanukkah bush last week. Yeah you want that story don't cha.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Time for Excuses!
Why Its Taken Me Over Four Months to Build My Bed:
(1) I decided to do my dresser first. Can sleep on floor, can't keep clothes there. But since I finished the dresser I do keep clothes there...on the floor. And I sleep there. I fear gravity. Minus 1.5 months.
(2) Big fight with parents. Refuse to go over to house, even to work on bed. Minus 1 month.
(3) Crabfest. Lots of prep, food, cleanup. No time for sleep, less time for bed. Minus 3 weeks.
(4) Death Cold for Sniffles. Fear mono. Maybe typhoid. Maybe halatosis. Sitting up becomes Olympic sport. Minus 2 weeks.
(5) Fall Sweeps. I had to watch Lost Gilmore Girls study Grey's Anatomy. No TiVo at DDH. (You judge me for this, but remember, this is why I haven't finished building my bed. You build a bed too, then come judge me. Sinner.) Minus 2 weeks.
(6) This part is unexcusable. I was lazy for this week. I was probably eating whatever was already made and moving as little as possible. I'll call it my "Act like an elephant seal" week.
So that's my excuse, Professor. I worked on it today and can now build the two sides, which is huge. My goal is to refurbish my dresser, build my bed, move two times and write a short novel in a year. So far the only things left are to finish the bed and the book. It could happen.
I no longer have internet at the DDH (it's coming again soon I promise) so I have to travel to write this so I apologize for the lapses in posts. I'm not lazy...well yes, yes in fact I am.
My nephew was born today. My sister and brother-in-law clearly hate the child, for they named him Lucious Orrin. I shall always call him Luke. Luke is cute; he's 8lbs, 6 oz. Mom and baby are fine. In fact, she called me 45 minutes later to find out what I was doing for Thanksgiving and didn't even dwell on the fact that she'd just been in labor for seven hours. Like ya do.
Off to Syracuse this weekend for a Taps Week Reunion--first official one in way too long. Dylan is trying to figure out a way that Armagheddon could happen this weekend. It's a long story.
Tomorrow I'm scouting a new cave with Dave and Shelby. I'm pumped.
That's it from over here. And I went to the National Zoo last week. I love that zoo.
(1) I decided to do my dresser first. Can sleep on floor, can't keep clothes there. But since I finished the dresser I do keep clothes there...on the floor. And I sleep there. I fear gravity. Minus 1.5 months.
(2) Big fight with parents. Refuse to go over to house, even to work on bed. Minus 1 month.
(3) Crabfest. Lots of prep, food, cleanup. No time for sleep, less time for bed. Minus 3 weeks.
(4) Death Cold for Sniffles. Fear mono. Maybe typhoid. Maybe halatosis. Sitting up becomes Olympic sport. Minus 2 weeks.
(5) Fall Sweeps. I had to watch Lost Gilmore Girls study Grey's Anatomy. No TiVo at DDH. (You judge me for this, but remember, this is why I haven't finished building my bed. You build a bed too, then come judge me. Sinner.) Minus 2 weeks.
(6) This part is unexcusable. I was lazy for this week. I was probably eating whatever was already made and moving as little as possible. I'll call it my "Act like an elephant seal" week.
So that's my excuse, Professor. I worked on it today and can now build the two sides, which is huge. My goal is to refurbish my dresser, build my bed, move two times and write a short novel in a year. So far the only things left are to finish the bed and the book. It could happen.
I no longer have internet at the DDH (it's coming again soon I promise) so I have to travel to write this so I apologize for the lapses in posts. I'm not lazy...well yes, yes in fact I am.
My nephew was born today. My sister and brother-in-law clearly hate the child, for they named him Lucious Orrin. I shall always call him Luke. Luke is cute; he's 8lbs, 6 oz. Mom and baby are fine. In fact, she called me 45 minutes later to find out what I was doing for Thanksgiving and didn't even dwell on the fact that she'd just been in labor for seven hours. Like ya do.
Off to Syracuse this weekend for a Taps Week Reunion--first official one in way too long. Dylan is trying to figure out a way that Armagheddon could happen this weekend. It's a long story.
Tomorrow I'm scouting a new cave with Dave and Shelby. I'm pumped.
That's it from over here. And I went to the National Zoo last week. I love that zoo.
Friday, November 4, 2005
Awkward Baby Years
LISTAS!
-Conclusion by consensus was a bust. All of you are fired.
- Dolly Parton's cover of "Stairway to Heaven" may be the best cover ever recorded, short of Johnny Cash's "Hurt". But still, it's great.
-Saw "Crash" this week and I agree with Em when she said it was one of the best movies she has ever seen. Watch this movie.
-Actually, I watched a lot of movies this week: "Crash", "Phantom of the Opera", "Batman Begins" (w/Hatch and HollaBack) and "Being Julia", and that's just because I have a crush on Annette Bening.
- November is National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo for those in the know). I started my novel. It's kinda boring so far. Hopefully I figure out how to not make it totally suck.
-I used to think that Angelina Jolie was the key to world peace, because I have yet to meet a person who wouldn't make out with her given the chance, and that common ground is a great place to start on the road to peace. Now I'm thinking the key to world peace may be Jenny Steele, because I have yet to meet a person who has met Jenny Steele who doesn't immediately form a crush on her. If you met her, you'd form a crush too.
-Stopped by my father's house yesterday and he had out boxes of old slides. I saw pictures from my childhood that I've never seen. Two things: (1) I had a huge, abnormally bald head as a baby and ears that stuck out and made me look like a wing-nut. But I was a damn cute toddler. So there, awkward baby years! (2) In those early photos, my dad looks like he loves my mom. That's the first I've ever seen a photo that would even suggest that. It calmed something in me, knowing that it really wasn't always bad.
-We got a box of skinny ties in at work and I thought, "Dear God, the 80s really are coming back..." and I got a bit frightened.
-Got rear-ended on Tuesday by the man who deserves the "Most Enjoyable Person to Rear-End You" award. Like I called him today with the estimate and he just cut me a check and that's that. No dealing with insurance, no premium raises, nuthin'.
-Leaving for Rockbridge Fall Weekend to polish my work crew skills in the kitchen and on ropes. yay!
-I didn't get to dress up for halloween this year. I am old. I even had a costume.
-Conclusion by consensus was a bust. All of you are fired.
- Dolly Parton's cover of "Stairway to Heaven" may be the best cover ever recorded, short of Johnny Cash's "Hurt". But still, it's great.
-Saw "Crash" this week and I agree with Em when she said it was one of the best movies she has ever seen. Watch this movie.
-Actually, I watched a lot of movies this week: "Crash", "Phantom of the Opera", "Batman Begins" (w/Hatch and HollaBack) and "Being Julia", and that's just because I have a crush on Annette Bening.
- November is National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo for those in the know). I started my novel. It's kinda boring so far. Hopefully I figure out how to not make it totally suck.
-I used to think that Angelina Jolie was the key to world peace, because I have yet to meet a person who wouldn't make out with her given the chance, and that common ground is a great place to start on the road to peace. Now I'm thinking the key to world peace may be Jenny Steele, because I have yet to meet a person who has met Jenny Steele who doesn't immediately form a crush on her. If you met her, you'd form a crush too.
-Stopped by my father's house yesterday and he had out boxes of old slides. I saw pictures from my childhood that I've never seen. Two things: (1) I had a huge, abnormally bald head as a baby and ears that stuck out and made me look like a wing-nut. But I was a damn cute toddler. So there, awkward baby years! (2) In those early photos, my dad looks like he loves my mom. That's the first I've ever seen a photo that would even suggest that. It calmed something in me, knowing that it really wasn't always bad.
-We got a box of skinny ties in at work and I thought, "Dear God, the 80s really are coming back..." and I got a bit frightened.
-Got rear-ended on Tuesday by the man who deserves the "Most Enjoyable Person to Rear-End You" award. Like I called him today with the estimate and he just cut me a check and that's that. No dealing with insurance, no premium raises, nuthin'.
-Leaving for Rockbridge Fall Weekend to polish my work crew skills in the kitchen and on ropes. yay!
-I didn't get to dress up for halloween this year. I am old. I even had a costume.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Conclusion by Consensus
So...I'm really sick so I spend most of my time in bed. I've read all the books within arms reach of me, and so I've turned to editing and/or rewriting old stories. Here is one I started about a year ago that I thought was a fun premise, but I'm kinda stuck as to where it should go next. And thus this is your task, should you choose to accept it: give me ideas on an ending. Or even whether to scrap it, or change it, or whatever. This is a writing democracy. Cast yo' vote.
The as-yet-untitled story we'll call "The Name Game"
Tiffani was born in the early 1980s, when such names were popular and parents gave little regard as to whether such a name would fall out of favor less than 20 years later. Tiffani does not like her name at all, and will make that point abundantly clear if the opportunity presents itself. Every day in class she hears the more classic names of those around her: the Jennifers, Megans, Katies, Amys, Julias, Samanthas--and gloomily plots the demise of Tiffani Ann McMantry and the phoneix of the new, as yet unnamed Ms. McMantry.
Tiffani has found that the best time to reinvent herself is during class, and thus her notebooks are filled with pages and pages of crossed-off lists and derivative spellings, and strangely void of actual notes.
The names immediately discarded include those other, trendy names of the late 20th century.
Gone is Brittany, Ashley, Amber, Erin, Cindy, Heather, Lindsey, Crystal, Brooke, Dawn, Nikki, Stephanie, Kristen and whatever derivations of spelling exist within their realms.
Gone are names that are too popular, like Jennifer, Jessica, Katherine, Sarah or Elizabeth.
Gone are names that are too famous, like Marylin, Jackie, Madonna, Reba, Lucille, Dolly, Wynonna, Aretha or even Anna Nicole.
Tiffani is against renaming herself after states, presidents or other geographic and/or political monuments, so gone is Madison, Montana, Dakota, Georgia, Virginia, Jackson, Dallas, Rushmore, Yellowstone or Indiana.Not that she knows anyone who has ever been named Yellowstone, but she feels it's better to set the precedent high.
Gone are names mentioned in famous songs, so Eileen, Caroline, Jolene, Mandy, Jesse, Jenny (or Jenny Rebecca), Amie, Jude, Michelle, Gloria, Lola, Cecilia, or Benny (and the Jets) are all out.
Gone are names that sound too old and/or motherly, like Linda, Carol, Agnes, Constance, Joan, Nancy, Martha, Beatrice, Priscilla, Janet, Phyllis, Pamela, Wanda, Gertrude, Gretchen, Dorothy, Francine or Bertha.
Tiffani is not keen on an ambiguous name, so she quickly nixed Jaime, Leslie, Sam, Chris, Charlie, Terri, Billy and yes, even Pat.
She started to run out of names, so she went online and printed out lists from baby websites. Her housemate found this list and hyperventilated, thinking Tiffani was pregnant. Tiffani gravely said yes. Her housemate almost passed out. She squealed out sentences like a muscle car. Ten minutes into the fun Tiffani recanted and said it is actually for a class project. Her housemate started breathing normal again and threw a pillow at her. She was red faced and speechless. Tiffani smiled.
"A rose is a rose by any other name," She read in her Brit lit class, so she crossed Rose off that list as well. And Juliet too, because who wants to feel destined to marry a Romeo? And come to think of it, all those "West Side Story" names were nixed too. She doesn't look like a Maria anyway.
And that's all I got.
The as-yet-untitled story we'll call "The Name Game"
Tiffani was born in the early 1980s, when such names were popular and parents gave little regard as to whether such a name would fall out of favor less than 20 years later. Tiffani does not like her name at all, and will make that point abundantly clear if the opportunity presents itself. Every day in class she hears the more classic names of those around her: the Jennifers, Megans, Katies, Amys, Julias, Samanthas--and gloomily plots the demise of Tiffani Ann McMantry and the phoneix of the new, as yet unnamed Ms. McMantry.
Tiffani has found that the best time to reinvent herself is during class, and thus her notebooks are filled with pages and pages of crossed-off lists and derivative spellings, and strangely void of actual notes.
The names immediately discarded include those other, trendy names of the late 20th century.
Gone is Brittany, Ashley, Amber, Erin, Cindy, Heather, Lindsey, Crystal, Brooke, Dawn, Nikki, Stephanie, Kristen and whatever derivations of spelling exist within their realms.
Gone are names that are too popular, like Jennifer, Jessica, Katherine, Sarah or Elizabeth.
Gone are names that are too famous, like Marylin, Jackie, Madonna, Reba, Lucille, Dolly, Wynonna, Aretha or even Anna Nicole.
Tiffani is against renaming herself after states, presidents or other geographic and/or political monuments, so gone is Madison, Montana, Dakota, Georgia, Virginia, Jackson, Dallas, Rushmore, Yellowstone or Indiana.Not that she knows anyone who has ever been named Yellowstone, but she feels it's better to set the precedent high.
Gone are names mentioned in famous songs, so Eileen, Caroline, Jolene, Mandy, Jesse, Jenny (or Jenny Rebecca), Amie, Jude, Michelle, Gloria, Lola, Cecilia, or Benny (and the Jets) are all out.
Gone are names that sound too old and/or motherly, like Linda, Carol, Agnes, Constance, Joan, Nancy, Martha, Beatrice, Priscilla, Janet, Phyllis, Pamela, Wanda, Gertrude, Gretchen, Dorothy, Francine or Bertha.
Tiffani is not keen on an ambiguous name, so she quickly nixed Jaime, Leslie, Sam, Chris, Charlie, Terri, Billy and yes, even Pat.
She started to run out of names, so she went online and printed out lists from baby websites. Her housemate found this list and hyperventilated, thinking Tiffani was pregnant. Tiffani gravely said yes. Her housemate almost passed out. She squealed out sentences like a muscle car. Ten minutes into the fun Tiffani recanted and said it is actually for a class project. Her housemate started breathing normal again and threw a pillow at her. She was red faced and speechless. Tiffani smiled.
"A rose is a rose by any other name," She read in her Brit lit class, so she crossed Rose off that list as well. And Juliet too, because who wants to feel destined to marry a Romeo? And come to think of it, all those "West Side Story" names were nixed too. She doesn't look like a Maria anyway.
And that's all I got.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Shorts
I've been in the mood to write lately, which usually means I've been rather low. Funny how creativity comes when I am weak. Last night I was in mindless tasks and between I jotted. I have nothing else to say. Here are my jots. There is no order. There is no point.
I want to live in a world of onomatopoeias. Crash! Bang! Clang! I want force, each word to have weight, strength, substance. I want it to fill my ears like gills, to muffle and mutter. I want to be lost in the anonymity of ambiance. Something hard, kinetic, gritty, visceral. A fist to the kidney OOPH! a door to the frame SLAM! a hand to face SLAP! every action given an exclaimation.
I scold time like a puppy.
-Medicinehead-
I took the red pills and now my head hovers, as if my neck has sloughed off. I bobble and nod, a yes-man yes yes yes it bounces. Every movement has its own aftershock; the space when the thought of turning finally collides with the physical act of it. Words grapple and stumble off my tongue in droplets without the corners and edges language should inspire. Sound travels as if through water, I walk as I swim.
I want to live in a world of onomatopoeias. Crash! Bang! Clang! I want force, each word to have weight, strength, substance. I want it to fill my ears like gills, to muffle and mutter. I want to be lost in the anonymity of ambiance. Something hard, kinetic, gritty, visceral. A fist to the kidney OOPH! a door to the frame SLAM! a hand to face SLAP! every action given an exclaimation.
I scold time like a puppy.
-Medicinehead-
I took the red pills and now my head hovers, as if my neck has sloughed off. I bobble and nod, a yes-man yes yes yes it bounces. Every movement has its own aftershock; the space when the thought of turning finally collides with the physical act of it. Words grapple and stumble off my tongue in droplets without the corners and edges language should inspire. Sound travels as if through water, I walk as I swim.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Tidbits for a Monday
* For some reason I see myself as either a princess or a pariah--I am the top or I am the bottom; I am overly inflated or I am a discarded balloon. I can't seem to just balance it. Yesterday: princess. Today: pariah.
* So far next summer/fall I already have three weddings lined up in three different states. So far I'm in two of them. Looks like it will be another busy summer.
* Hung out with friends from frosh/soph year of college this past week. They are wonderful; I am so different than I was then. Growing apart question again.
* Went on my first business trip last week. If I live alone, remind me that there is absolutely no need for me to ever own a bed bigger than a double. I got lost in a king size.
* Bought Sarah Vowell's most recent (Assassination Vacation) and Dave Egger's most recent (How We Are Hungry) while floating around Kramerbooks in DuPont. I love nerdy writers.
* My little sister is starting to define herself by the stereotypes around her. I haven't gotten around to crying about this just yet, but I will.
* As I get older, I become a bigger nerd. Better dressed, but a bigger nerd.
* I still want to go help in the Gulf Coast. My hands have been too clean for too long.
* I don't know what changed in me to allow me to finally enjoy Led Zeppelin, but thank god it did.
* My brother and the NAP wife are talking about kids. But not in the normal way, cuz that would be, well, normal. Apparently insemination is more appealing then a $40 bottle of tequila.
* Lately I've been at arm's length from life. It's quiet here.
* "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead has been playing over and over and I'm not sure why.
* So far next summer/fall I already have three weddings lined up in three different states. So far I'm in two of them. Looks like it will be another busy summer.
* Hung out with friends from frosh/soph year of college this past week. They are wonderful; I am so different than I was then. Growing apart question again.
* Went on my first business trip last week. If I live alone, remind me that there is absolutely no need for me to ever own a bed bigger than a double. I got lost in a king size.
* Bought Sarah Vowell's most recent (Assassination Vacation) and Dave Egger's most recent (How We Are Hungry) while floating around Kramerbooks in DuPont. I love nerdy writers.
* My little sister is starting to define herself by the stereotypes around her. I haven't gotten around to crying about this just yet, but I will.
* As I get older, I become a bigger nerd. Better dressed, but a bigger nerd.
* I still want to go help in the Gulf Coast. My hands have been too clean for too long.
* I don't know what changed in me to allow me to finally enjoy Led Zeppelin, but thank god it did.
* My brother and the NAP wife are talking about kids. But not in the normal way, cuz that would be, well, normal. Apparently insemination is more appealing then a $40 bottle of tequila.
* Lately I've been at arm's length from life. It's quiet here.
* "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead has been playing over and over and I'm not sure why.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Family Tradition
I know I've slacked. Blah to accountability and consistency!
Recently my dad told me that his cousin Helen (whom I call my Aunt) has breast cancer.
My great-grandmother had breast cancer.
She had three daughters.
All had breast cancer (including Helen's mom, who died of it when she was in her 30s)
All of their daughters have had breast cancer.
Tonight as I was stepping out of the shower I thought about my own body, and how it may one day turn against me, as it did to all those relatives before me. I daily squabble with my body over the dos and don'ts of the day to day, the wake-ups, the keep-goings. But to think that under that squabble lies something far more sinister is something I hadn't considered. It's strange to think that something that I identify as me may not be at all; that it has its own insurgency that may lurk, waiting to wage a struggle literally to the death. Ok now I'm getting melodramatic, but it is something to think about: this part of me I invest in so heavily--in how it is groomed and preened, what it is adorned with, what it is fed, how it is used--all of this matters little.
It's again being faced with this growing fear of doctors and what is happening within me; with my back, with my genes, with my hands, my head. At first I wanted answers, I wanted solutions, resolutions, conclusions. They didn't come and what did come was stressful, fearful, hopeless and resigned. The unknown grew as the end results mutated. And, in the end, here's what gets me: we grow so accustomed to the unknown that anything definite is downright terror. Maybe is a safe, safe world.
Recently my dad told me that his cousin Helen (whom I call my Aunt) has breast cancer.
My great-grandmother had breast cancer.
She had three daughters.
All had breast cancer (including Helen's mom, who died of it when she was in her 30s)
All of their daughters have had breast cancer.
Tonight as I was stepping out of the shower I thought about my own body, and how it may one day turn against me, as it did to all those relatives before me. I daily squabble with my body over the dos and don'ts of the day to day, the wake-ups, the keep-goings. But to think that under that squabble lies something far more sinister is something I hadn't considered. It's strange to think that something that I identify as me may not be at all; that it has its own insurgency that may lurk, waiting to wage a struggle literally to the death. Ok now I'm getting melodramatic, but it is something to think about: this part of me I invest in so heavily--in how it is groomed and preened, what it is adorned with, what it is fed, how it is used--all of this matters little.
It's again being faced with this growing fear of doctors and what is happening within me; with my back, with my genes, with my hands, my head. At first I wanted answers, I wanted solutions, resolutions, conclusions. They didn't come and what did come was stressful, fearful, hopeless and resigned. The unknown grew as the end results mutated. And, in the end, here's what gets me: we grow so accustomed to the unknown that anything definite is downright terror. Maybe is a safe, safe world.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Tuna and Puppy
Well here it is, my 230th post.
I wasn't sure what I wanted to say, given that 230th seems rather large and some sort of benchmark in a way, but I said screw it and decided to write whatever came to mind.
Last week I got an offer to be a freelance writer for the Loudoun-Times Mirror (a situation that requires a lot of background and a whole lot of what could be chalked up to dumb luck). Today was a day off so I was working on my writing samples, which, for some reason, is the most stressful thing for me. Today I got a phone call from an editor at the Times-Mirror, asking if I'd be interested in interviewing for a position as an editorial assistant, a full time position. Oh and by the way, the interview is tomorrow. Have everything ready at 9am. Gulp. So tomorrow I interview for that, then head to my other job. The resume was easy to get together, but the writing samples--why is it so damn intimidating? I only have a few pieces I've written that I can look at and say, "Yes, that is actually what I wanted it to be." everything else is like a parent and a child: I only started it--what it became is a mystery. After much struggling I went with slight changes to a paper I wrote in college on (I kid you not) the religious dimentions of the railroad, and a story I wrote last year about a friend and a fire. I don't even know what they want, so we shall soon see how it all pans out.
Gosh, 230 posts. What the hell have I been saying?
That first post came before Thanksgiving senior year of college. Here I am, almost three years later, in my warm little townhouse with my three girlfriends and two cats, one that looks like a fish ("Tuna" as I like to call her, who is currently pushing at my left arm) and "Puppy" the kitten that seriously acts like a dog (and I hate cats. They aren't mine). I have a great car, a decent job, my family is close (but not stifling), my friends are nearby and numerous. I have community, I have adventures, I have options and plans. What I have been through in those 230 posts has been both hilarious and tragic. But I'm happy.
Tonight I had dinner with Natalie, my old mentor from high school. We had a long conversation about fear, and eventually I admitted that my hesitancy to go back to a doctor about my back pain stems directly out of fear. The last time I went brought too much in the way of possibilities and tragedies: I hardly think myself capable of handling such weights again. I never realized it until tonight: I hate that fear is dictating such a large part of my life. But what of it?
I wasn't sure what I wanted to say, given that 230th seems rather large and some sort of benchmark in a way, but I said screw it and decided to write whatever came to mind.
Last week I got an offer to be a freelance writer for the Loudoun-Times Mirror (a situation that requires a lot of background and a whole lot of what could be chalked up to dumb luck). Today was a day off so I was working on my writing samples, which, for some reason, is the most stressful thing for me. Today I got a phone call from an editor at the Times-Mirror, asking if I'd be interested in interviewing for a position as an editorial assistant, a full time position. Oh and by the way, the interview is tomorrow. Have everything ready at 9am. Gulp. So tomorrow I interview for that, then head to my other job. The resume was easy to get together, but the writing samples--why is it so damn intimidating? I only have a few pieces I've written that I can look at and say, "Yes, that is actually what I wanted it to be." everything else is like a parent and a child: I only started it--what it became is a mystery. After much struggling I went with slight changes to a paper I wrote in college on (I kid you not) the religious dimentions of the railroad, and a story I wrote last year about a friend and a fire. I don't even know what they want, so we shall soon see how it all pans out.
Gosh, 230 posts. What the hell have I been saying?
That first post came before Thanksgiving senior year of college. Here I am, almost three years later, in my warm little townhouse with my three girlfriends and two cats, one that looks like a fish ("Tuna" as I like to call her, who is currently pushing at my left arm) and "Puppy" the kitten that seriously acts like a dog (and I hate cats. They aren't mine). I have a great car, a decent job, my family is close (but not stifling), my friends are nearby and numerous. I have community, I have adventures, I have options and plans. What I have been through in those 230 posts has been both hilarious and tragic. But I'm happy.
Tonight I had dinner with Natalie, my old mentor from high school. We had a long conversation about fear, and eventually I admitted that my hesitancy to go back to a doctor about my back pain stems directly out of fear. The last time I went brought too much in the way of possibilities and tragedies: I hardly think myself capable of handling such weights again. I never realized it until tonight: I hate that fear is dictating such a large part of my life. But what of it?
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Mystery
Every year at this time I sing the same song; it is a consistency regardless of my location. So much so that I had to reread past blogs to make sure I'm not reposting. If I am outside and can feel this transitional air, I cannot help singing to myself:
"I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer's beginning to give up her fight
Every thought's a possibility
Voices are heard but nothing is seen
Why do you spend this time with me
Maybe an equal mystery.." *
I can remember being on a camping trip with my youth group in 1994, listening to that song on my walkman (yes, it was a tape) and looking up at the stars. It is still, over ten years later, a vivid and vibrant memory. In that memory there is a feeling--that mix of environment and experience, emotion and encounters--that arises when the season suggests its shift. I am basking in it.
And that question, "Why do you spend this time with me?" is something I think we all want to ask those that we love. In hopes of what? Identity? Affirmation? Is there a deeper meaning in that mystery of encounters? Why do we want so badly to be seen or be known anyway? Every person I have met has had a deep and basic desire to know and be known by someone or something; where and when we find what we seek: that is really the great mystery.
* From "Mystery" by the Indigo Girls. Off 1994's "Swamp Ophelia".
"I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer's beginning to give up her fight
Every thought's a possibility
Voices are heard but nothing is seen
Why do you spend this time with me
Maybe an equal mystery.." *
I can remember being on a camping trip with my youth group in 1994, listening to that song on my walkman (yes, it was a tape) and looking up at the stars. It is still, over ten years later, a vivid and vibrant memory. In that memory there is a feeling--that mix of environment and experience, emotion and encounters--that arises when the season suggests its shift. I am basking in it.
And that question, "Why do you spend this time with me?" is something I think we all want to ask those that we love. In hopes of what? Identity? Affirmation? Is there a deeper meaning in that mystery of encounters? Why do we want so badly to be seen or be known anyway? Every person I have met has had a deep and basic desire to know and be known by someone or something; where and when we find what we seek: that is really the great mystery.
* From "Mystery" by the Indigo Girls. Off 1994's "Swamp Ophelia".
Friday, September 23, 2005
Be a Better Yuppie
Guest post:
"...we are at a disadvantage because the Jesus that exists in our minds is hardly the real Jesus. The Jesus on CNN, the Jesus in our books and in our movies, the Jesus that is a collection of evangelical personalities, is often a Jesus of the suburbs, a Jesus who wants you to be a better yuppie, a Jesus who is extremely political and supports a specific party, a Jesus who has declared a kind of culture war in the name of our children, a Jesus who worked through the founding fathers to begin America, a Jesus who dresses very well, speaks perfect English, has three points that fulfill any number of promises and wants you and me to be, above all, comfortable. Is this the real Jesus?
Is Jesus sitting in the lifeboat with us, stroking our backs and telling us we are the ones who are right and one day these other infidels are going to to pay, that we are the ones who are going to survive and the others are going to be thrown over because we are Calvinists, Armenians, Baptists, Methodists, Catholics; because we are Republicans, Democrats, conservatives, or liberals; because we attend a big church, a small church, an ethnically diverse church, a house church, or is Jesus acting in our hearts to reach out to the person who isn't like us--the oppressed, the poor, the unchurched--and to humble ourselves, give of our money, build our communities in love, give oru time, our creativity, get on our knees before our enemies in humility, treating them as the Scripture says, as people who are more important that we are? The latter is the Jesus of Scripture; the former, which is infinately more popular in evangelical culture, is a myth sharing a genre with unicorns."
Donald Miller, Searching for God Knows What
So what to do about it though? How do I live what I know?
"...we are at a disadvantage because the Jesus that exists in our minds is hardly the real Jesus. The Jesus on CNN, the Jesus in our books and in our movies, the Jesus that is a collection of evangelical personalities, is often a Jesus of the suburbs, a Jesus who wants you to be a better yuppie, a Jesus who is extremely political and supports a specific party, a Jesus who has declared a kind of culture war in the name of our children, a Jesus who worked through the founding fathers to begin America, a Jesus who dresses very well, speaks perfect English, has three points that fulfill any number of promises and wants you and me to be, above all, comfortable. Is this the real Jesus?
Is Jesus sitting in the lifeboat with us, stroking our backs and telling us we are the ones who are right and one day these other infidels are going to to pay, that we are the ones who are going to survive and the others are going to be thrown over because we are Calvinists, Armenians, Baptists, Methodists, Catholics; because we are Republicans, Democrats, conservatives, or liberals; because we attend a big church, a small church, an ethnically diverse church, a house church, or is Jesus acting in our hearts to reach out to the person who isn't like us--the oppressed, the poor, the unchurched--and to humble ourselves, give of our money, build our communities in love, give oru time, our creativity, get on our knees before our enemies in humility, treating them as the Scripture says, as people who are more important that we are? The latter is the Jesus of Scripture; the former, which is infinately more popular in evangelical culture, is a myth sharing a genre with unicorns."
Donald Miller, Searching for God Knows What
So what to do about it though? How do I live what I know?
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
A Real Mousekateer
So I was up at camp this weekend, working a team development course (TDC) for the senior class of a private school. It's a whole lot more work than it sounds. Anyway, I have a confession:
I think I picked up a mouse and threw it in my sleep last night.
Let me back up.
The two summers I lived at camp, I lived in a 9x12 platform tent (think boyscout-esque) and as it is not a totally sealed space, I often shared it (and thus all my belongings) with a myriad of mice, spiders, snakes, moths, and hell on insect legs (spider crickets, the creature that gives me the jibblies just naming). In my tenure there I got very good at defending my space without fully waking up. I kept a pile of shoes by my bed and got good at throwing them in the vicinity of the noise without opening my eyes. The mice loved the space between my tent and the rainfly, and if I listened well, I could calculate when it was right above me and punch the tent hard, thus launching said mouse off into the woods. Hey if they ate holes in everything you own and tried to crawl on you while you were sleeping you'd launch them too. So Sunday night I was once again back in the old staff tents, sleeping on a standard cot in my down sleeping bag when I (this is all assumption) realized there was a mouse that was crawling on my sleeping bag, toward my head. I don't like mice coming toward my head. So I waited til it got close, grabbed it by the scruff of its neck, and threw it out the flap of the tent. This is when I woke up, sitting up right, staring at the tent flap.
I, for the life of me, have no idea if I did it or not. I don't sleep walk or do strange actions like that, so I am fairly certain that I did pick a brown field mouse up by its neck and throw it out of my tent, all while sound asleep. But I guess it's just a mystery. Wow that is weird.
Next week I'll catch a copperhead with my toes and throw it through a loop.
I think I picked up a mouse and threw it in my sleep last night.
Let me back up.
The two summers I lived at camp, I lived in a 9x12 platform tent (think boyscout-esque) and as it is not a totally sealed space, I often shared it (and thus all my belongings) with a myriad of mice, spiders, snakes, moths, and hell on insect legs (spider crickets, the creature that gives me the jibblies just naming). In my tenure there I got very good at defending my space without fully waking up. I kept a pile of shoes by my bed and got good at throwing them in the vicinity of the noise without opening my eyes. The mice loved the space between my tent and the rainfly, and if I listened well, I could calculate when it was right above me and punch the tent hard, thus launching said mouse off into the woods. Hey if they ate holes in everything you own and tried to crawl on you while you were sleeping you'd launch them too. So Sunday night I was once again back in the old staff tents, sleeping on a standard cot in my down sleeping bag when I (this is all assumption) realized there was a mouse that was crawling on my sleeping bag, toward my head. I don't like mice coming toward my head. So I waited til it got close, grabbed it by the scruff of its neck, and threw it out the flap of the tent. This is when I woke up, sitting up right, staring at the tent flap.
I, for the life of me, have no idea if I did it or not. I don't sleep walk or do strange actions like that, so I am fairly certain that I did pick a brown field mouse up by its neck and throw it out of my tent, all while sound asleep. But I guess it's just a mystery. Wow that is weird.
Next week I'll catch a copperhead with my toes and throw it through a loop.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Cheers and Jeers
Cheer:
Gilmore Girls season premiere was FINALLY HERE!
Jeer:
The WB website gave the whole thing away beforehand. No surprises. Bah.
Cheer:
Dar Williams' album came out today!
Jeer:
Went on CD buying binge that was not needed.
Cheer:
Dar Williams "My Better Self"
Led Zeppelin "The Early Years"
White Stripes "Get Behind Me Satan"
Elliott Smith "Basement On A Hill"
and some others but I'm getting embarassed at my spending spree. Note: some were used.
Cheer:
Watched Gilmore Girls season premiere with Chad Danner, while drinking a cosmo.
Challenge:
Making sure Chad didn't speak through the show.
Cheer:
Hanging out with Hatch, Chad and Maskey.
Jeer:
The game of Uno THAT WOULD NOT EVER END.
Cheer:
The camping excursion in my backyard with Caroline and Murphy and ODB OBS that is coming forthwith.
Cheer:
Did I mention the camping trip was awesome?
Jeer:
Liz telling me "I think you need to take care of your deepest desire first..." and making me try to figure that one out...
Jeer:
The shower fixture that daily changes where hot, cold and off lie on its spectrum of watery misadventures. It's extreme showering. A new sport if you will.
This morning I posted while sitting in my towel; now I'm in PJs and my roommate is trying to sleep next to me (as big Chad is in her bed). Peace out from the DDH.
Gilmore Girls season premiere was FINALLY HERE!
Jeer:
The WB website gave the whole thing away beforehand. No surprises. Bah.
Cheer:
Dar Williams' album came out today!
Jeer:
Went on CD buying binge that was not needed.
Cheer:
Dar Williams "My Better Self"
Led Zeppelin "The Early Years"
White Stripes "Get Behind Me Satan"
Elliott Smith "Basement On A Hill"
and some others but I'm getting embarassed at my spending spree. Note: some were used.
Cheer:
Watched Gilmore Girls season premiere with Chad Danner, while drinking a cosmo.
Challenge:
Making sure Chad didn't speak through the show.
Cheer:
Hanging out with Hatch, Chad and Maskey.
Jeer:
The game of Uno THAT WOULD NOT EVER END.
Cheer:
The camping excursion in my backyard with Caroline and Murphy and ODB OBS that is coming forthwith.
Cheer:
Did I mention the camping trip was awesome?
Jeer:
Liz telling me "I think you need to take care of your deepest desire first..." and making me try to figure that one out...
Jeer:
The shower fixture that daily changes where hot, cold and off lie on its spectrum of watery misadventures. It's extreme showering. A new sport if you will.
This morning I posted while sitting in my towel; now I'm in PJs and my roommate is trying to sleep next to me (as big Chad is in her bed). Peace out from the DDH.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Lovesong for the Gator
The camping trip was a smashing success. We had about 30 kids and leaders up at the camp that I've been with for five years and it was close to perfect. Camp is a rather large area, much of which is located on a rather steep incline. On an average camp day, I'll probably walk about six miles.
Thus begins my lovesong for the Gator.
This past summer, camp bought a 6x4 John Deere Gator, and it has changed my life. I think that if I owned a Gator, I would end up weighing 300 pounds because I'd cease all activity outside of driving the Gator. Like everything I did this weekend centered around "...so I can drive the gator." Its six-wheeled goodness and special steering wheel knob took me over steep inclines, tree stumps, and gave me enough spiderwebs to the face to make we wear my sunglasses at night to keep them out of my eyes. Sunday evening I got back in my car and I had forgotten how to drive anything other than a Gator, so deep was my affection. Here's to you, Gator. Most useful thing I didn't know I needed.
Other Shoutouts:
Gilmore Girls season premiere tonight!
Dar Williams' new album (w/duet of "Comfortably Numb" with Ani Difranco?)
Stephanie Chapman has songs on Bonnie Raitt's new album, and Trisha Yearwood's! Holla to you, Schlosser!
Thus begins my lovesong for the Gator.
This past summer, camp bought a 6x4 John Deere Gator, and it has changed my life. I think that if I owned a Gator, I would end up weighing 300 pounds because I'd cease all activity outside of driving the Gator. Like everything I did this weekend centered around "...so I can drive the gator." Its six-wheeled goodness and special steering wheel knob took me over steep inclines, tree stumps, and gave me enough spiderwebs to the face to make we wear my sunglasses at night to keep them out of my eyes. Sunday evening I got back in my car and I had forgotten how to drive anything other than a Gator, so deep was my affection. Here's to you, Gator. Most useful thing I didn't know I needed.
Other Shoutouts:
Gilmore Girls season premiere tonight!
Dar Williams' new album (w/duet of "Comfortably Numb" with Ani Difranco?)
Stephanie Chapman has songs on Bonnie Raitt's new album, and Trisha Yearwood's! Holla to you, Schlosser!
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Campy Happy People
Em and Liz (my two loyal readers) have both recently told me to lighten up and post more.
Bla. I have a chronic and serious condition that prohibits me from being funny on a Blog. Not good enough?
Fine, I'll go camping.
Talk to ya Monday.
Or something.
Think I'll start a Sports Illustrated-esque "This week's sign of the Apocolapse":
"Over and Over" by Nelly and Tim McGraw was a hit.
On VH1. And MTV. And CMT.
Explain this one to me.
Bla. I have a chronic and serious condition that prohibits me from being funny on a Blog. Not good enough?
Fine, I'll go camping.
Talk to ya Monday.
Or something.
Think I'll start a Sports Illustrated-esque "This week's sign of the Apocolapse":
"Over and Over" by Nelly and Tim McGraw was a hit.
On VH1. And MTV. And CMT.
Explain this one to me.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
...Must Love Dogs
I've been attending Reston Bible Church as of late, simply because I'm disenchanted with the church search and my roommate goes there. I'm ambivalent about it, though I usually like what Pastor Mike has to say, and I almost always learn something. Today Mike decided to get off the trip through the book of Mark and talk about Intelligent Design. Why Mike, why!?
By the end of the sermon I was fuming. Livid. Defensive. My usual reaction to this sort of stuff.
Thankfully my friend Amber, who is a high school biology teacher, was also there so afterward we grabbed lunch and fumed together.
I cannot stand it when complex arguments are simplified into something that is supposed to be palatable for the masses but just ends up splitting religious hairs. I am what Mike disdainfully called a "Theistic Evolutionist" which will go in the very first singles ad I ever submit, I assure you. "SWF Theistic Evolutionist seeks SM to share long walks on the beach and the same concept of creation. Must love dogs."
2 Peter 3:8 says,
"But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day."
Reading that, I cannot understand how any logical Christian could state that the Evolutionary concept is not biblical: God created the world in six days. Just not six literal days. God may have created it, but he made it like our body: it functions, grows, changes and adapts. So in a sense I am keen to say I believe in Intelligent Design; however I shutter when I realize with whom I am grouped.
Why teach it in schools though? I strongly believe in the separation of church and state: It is both dangerous and detrimental to education when God comes into the schools in the form of organized education, just as I think it's dangerous and detrimental to Christianity to have God introduced in such a venue. Let science, literature, art, mathematics, etc stay in the core. If a religious science class is to be offered, make it optional. See how few actually take it. I look at our history and what has been done "in the name of God" and I want to do whatever I can to stop that process. We're already invading other countries to spread our ideas of God and freedom (to which the response has been massive casualties and hatred, so I'd say that's a success...) and to know that the Christian God is being so blatantly abused like that internationally makes me wary to let these very same people try to place him into our schools. There is a time and a place to teach kids what is religiously the concept of God and I hardly think 9th grade Bio is the place to start.
By the end of the sermon I was fuming. Livid. Defensive. My usual reaction to this sort of stuff.
Thankfully my friend Amber, who is a high school biology teacher, was also there so afterward we grabbed lunch and fumed together.
I cannot stand it when complex arguments are simplified into something that is supposed to be palatable for the masses but just ends up splitting religious hairs. I am what Mike disdainfully called a "Theistic Evolutionist" which will go in the very first singles ad I ever submit, I assure you. "SWF Theistic Evolutionist seeks SM to share long walks on the beach and the same concept of creation. Must love dogs."
2 Peter 3:8 says,
"But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day."
Reading that, I cannot understand how any logical Christian could state that the Evolutionary concept is not biblical: God created the world in six days. Just not six literal days. God may have created it, but he made it like our body: it functions, grows, changes and adapts. So in a sense I am keen to say I believe in Intelligent Design; however I shutter when I realize with whom I am grouped.
Why teach it in schools though? I strongly believe in the separation of church and state: It is both dangerous and detrimental to education when God comes into the schools in the form of organized education, just as I think it's dangerous and detrimental to Christianity to have God introduced in such a venue. Let science, literature, art, mathematics, etc stay in the core. If a religious science class is to be offered, make it optional. See how few actually take it. I look at our history and what has been done "in the name of God" and I want to do whatever I can to stop that process. We're already invading other countries to spread our ideas of God and freedom (to which the response has been massive casualties and hatred, so I'd say that's a success...) and to know that the Christian God is being so blatantly abused like that internationally makes me wary to let these very same people try to place him into our schools. There is a time and a place to teach kids what is religiously the concept of God and I hardly think 9th grade Bio is the place to start.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Eternal Flame
Well strangely I'm writing this from a computer in a 9'x12' platform tent, located on the side of a mountain in the Blue Ridge foothills. This is the "staff lounge" and I am constantly tempted to say "Well back in my day we didn't have..." about all the perks and amementies that they have here today. I started working for this camp in 2001 and have been connected to it ever since. They called me two weeks ago and, in short staff desperation, asked me to come work a few days of day camp. And so here I sit, finishing up my coffee and prepping for my 11-14 year old kids to show up. Observation about this week: Sunday I taught a seminar about how to fit a man for a suit. Today I'm teaching friction fires and debris huts. Hilarious.
Most of the staff has left to go back to college and/or other adventures and those few of us remaining decided to have a campfire last night. The sky was cloudless and bright; the air suggested fall in its crispness. I sat at the fire by myself for a long time, unable to really take my eyes off of it. What is it about fire? In this culture of ADHD and attention spans smaller than our vehicles, why is it that fire is still so...well...stilling? In a culture that has browbeaten us into not being "human" this instinctive quality remains fresh. It is visceral in a rather carnal way, this ability to stare into fire and have honesty spew forth. I have rarely been around a fire and not had a serious and personal conversation.
And there is little in the world I love more than going to bed smelling like campfire. It makes the day feel complete.
Most of the staff has left to go back to college and/or other adventures and those few of us remaining decided to have a campfire last night. The sky was cloudless and bright; the air suggested fall in its crispness. I sat at the fire by myself for a long time, unable to really take my eyes off of it. What is it about fire? In this culture of ADHD and attention spans smaller than our vehicles, why is it that fire is still so...well...stilling? In a culture that has browbeaten us into not being "human" this instinctive quality remains fresh. It is visceral in a rather carnal way, this ability to stare into fire and have honesty spew forth. I have rarely been around a fire and not had a serious and personal conversation.
And there is little in the world I love more than going to bed smelling like campfire. It makes the day feel complete.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
50 Degrees of Losing It
I can't believe how long it's been since I actually posted. My internet at my townhouse is not really consistent, so I had to come back to my parent's house to post this. Well I actually came back to mow the lawn and this just happened to be here. Finished my dresser...I know you were wondering. It's purrrdy.
So thought:
Lately I've been struck by the depth of brokenness. Several conversations with a myriad of friends and family have revealed just how broken we can be, and I cannot stop dwelling on it. There is a frustration to being human, but there is a frailty as well that I don't think I've ever seriously contemplated. It is physical in its aging, growing cracks and crumbling the haughty strut of youth. It's emotional in its fear, its dark secrets, it's inability to trust. It's spiritual in its loneliness, its insatiability. And how do we deal? Addictions, denial, self-mutilation (internal and external), pride, lies, numbness. Anything. The human spinal chord is the consistency of a wet paper towel, yet through it our very existence flows and feels. How physiology and psychology are deceptively intertwined. I saw a quote recently that read, "There is only one degree of having faith, but there are 50 degrees of losing it." I guess that's what gets me: how paper thin and fickle our wholeness really is. It shouldn't be such a surprise then that all of us are broken, dysfunctional, self-doubters and liars to some extent. What should be a surprise is how in the world we aren't worse off.
(PS this is actually probably the happiest I've ever been in my life. I wake up every day overjoyed at where I am, who I'm there with and what opportunities are close at hand. There is a peace. Finally. )
So thought:
Lately I've been struck by the depth of brokenness. Several conversations with a myriad of friends and family have revealed just how broken we can be, and I cannot stop dwelling on it. There is a frustration to being human, but there is a frailty as well that I don't think I've ever seriously contemplated. It is physical in its aging, growing cracks and crumbling the haughty strut of youth. It's emotional in its fear, its dark secrets, it's inability to trust. It's spiritual in its loneliness, its insatiability. And how do we deal? Addictions, denial, self-mutilation (internal and external), pride, lies, numbness. Anything. The human spinal chord is the consistency of a wet paper towel, yet through it our very existence flows and feels. How physiology and psychology are deceptively intertwined. I saw a quote recently that read, "There is only one degree of having faith, but there are 50 degrees of losing it." I guess that's what gets me: how paper thin and fickle our wholeness really is. It shouldn't be such a surprise then that all of us are broken, dysfunctional, self-doubters and liars to some extent. What should be a surprise is how in the world we aren't worse off.
(PS this is actually probably the happiest I've ever been in my life. I wake up every day overjoyed at where I am, who I'm there with and what opportunities are close at hand. There is a peace. Finally. )
Monday, August 8, 2005
High Art and Sin Senses
Since this book I'm reading ("Shadow of the Almighty"...still. Reading slowly) draws heavily from Jim Elliot's journals and letters, and since he died in 1956, the world views and fears of the mid-20th century that are prevalent within the text take on a very present tense. In today's reading he references an editorial from Life magazine, arguing that America's failure to produce great works of art is due to its lack of a sense of sin. I read no farther; I don't want what he says next to taint the zygote of a thought that was birthed from such a phrase.
What, exactly, is a sense of sin?
And how does the high concept of art jigsaw around and into such a sense?
If art at its very core is birthed from a womb of "wrongness"--an imbalance, an incongruity--then a strong sense of "sin" is indeed necessary. But being that the concept of sin is by no means an absolute, how necessary is the understanding thereof?
Or am I way off in my interpretation of such a statement!
See I simmer for a little bit on the lighter points of life and suddenly this stuff bubbles up...
What, exactly, is a sense of sin?
And how does the high concept of art jigsaw around and into such a sense?
If art at its very core is birthed from a womb of "wrongness"--an imbalance, an incongruity--then a strong sense of "sin" is indeed necessary. But being that the concept of sin is by no means an absolute, how necessary is the understanding thereof?
Or am I way off in my interpretation of such a statement!
See I simmer for a little bit on the lighter points of life and suddenly this stuff bubbles up...
Friday, August 5, 2005
Red
Today is Paul "Yes I was an art major" Woodward's birthday.
Feel free to mock him.
He has red hair, that's a good starting point.
Or feel free to call and sing any 90's pop ballad.
He likes "I'm Your Lady" by Celine Dion, "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston and maybe even "Hero" by Mariah Carey.
Add a quart of Mississippi Mud and/or a night at the Royal Lee and he will be putty in your hands.
Or the VIP lounge of Balls Bluff Tavern. That's a swingin' hot spot as well.
"...OF IOWA!
...IN DOOM!"
"Paul, you've got that backward."
"Oh."
HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULIE!
Feel free to mock him.
He has red hair, that's a good starting point.
Or feel free to call and sing any 90's pop ballad.
He likes "I'm Your Lady" by Celine Dion, "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston and maybe even "Hero" by Mariah Carey.
Add a quart of Mississippi Mud and/or a night at the Royal Lee and he will be putty in your hands.
Or the VIP lounge of Balls Bluff Tavern. That's a swingin' hot spot as well.
"...OF IOWA!
...IN DOOM!"
"Paul, you've got that backward."
"Oh."
HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULIE!
Monday, August 1, 2005
Dressers, Martyrs and Fog
There are times when it's easy for me to process, to write, to express, to know. Right now isn't one of those times.
I've been bogged with work (think 50hrs this week).
My bed is on hold while I finish my dresser. Working with my hands has grounded me, and I've needed it. Lots of sanding. And more sanding. And drilling. And sanding.
I'm reading "Shadow of the Almighty" a biography of Jim Elliot by his wife, Elisabeth. It's not well written so I've read it slowly but nonetheless it's been effective. It makes me feel like I haven't done much with my faith but has been inspirational as well. (Brief history of Jim Elliot: from OR, went to Wheaton in Chicago, was a missionary in Equador, he and four others were murdered by a tribe there in 1956. He was 28. Kinda become lionized.)
Late last night I was driving home and hit a low patch that had filled in with fog. Driving in fog is backward in a way: in order to see any distance, you must turn your lights down. When the path is clear, lights up and out to see as far as possible; when it's foggy, lights dimmer and down to focus on the next few feet. I don't know if it particularly applies to my present tense, but I've known those foggy times when to plan up and out is too much; the next two steps are more than enough.
My brother got married on Saturday. If you know the whole background, then that statement is friggin' hilarious. If you don't, ask and I'll tell ya.
I've been bogged with work (think 50hrs this week).
My bed is on hold while I finish my dresser. Working with my hands has grounded me, and I've needed it. Lots of sanding. And more sanding. And drilling. And sanding.
I'm reading "Shadow of the Almighty" a biography of Jim Elliot by his wife, Elisabeth. It's not well written so I've read it slowly but nonetheless it's been effective. It makes me feel like I haven't done much with my faith but has been inspirational as well. (Brief history of Jim Elliot: from OR, went to Wheaton in Chicago, was a missionary in Equador, he and four others were murdered by a tribe there in 1956. He was 28. Kinda become lionized.)
Late last night I was driving home and hit a low patch that had filled in with fog. Driving in fog is backward in a way: in order to see any distance, you must turn your lights down. When the path is clear, lights up and out to see as far as possible; when it's foggy, lights dimmer and down to focus on the next few feet. I don't know if it particularly applies to my present tense, but I've known those foggy times when to plan up and out is too much; the next two steps are more than enough.
My brother got married on Saturday. If you know the whole background, then that statement is friggin' hilarious. If you don't, ask and I'll tell ya.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Too Much Energy
I have a lot to say but haven't formulated the words and/or modes to say it. Stuff with Biblical feminism, woodworking, etc.
Nugget today:
Energy bill is in the Senate, to be voted on today.
Ugh.
Do you really want more nuclear power plants built? How about major tax breaks for the oil and coal industries? Little or no relief from the prices at the pump? There are better solutions.
Call your Senators.
Call the White House (202/456.1414)
Nugget today:
Energy bill is in the Senate, to be voted on today.
Ugh.
Do you really want more nuclear power plants built? How about major tax breaks for the oil and coal industries? Little or no relief from the prices at the pump? There are better solutions.
Call your Senators.
Call the White House (202/456.1414)
Monday, July 25, 2005
A Series of Irresponsible Events
Friday my friend from camp called to say that Doodle was flying in that night and would I like to go to the airport to pick her up? Doodle and I are two of the five "originals" of camp; we were part of the staff of five years ago that has grown into what camp is today. If camp were the US, we'd be the Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison and Franklin of the bunch. So somehow (through no fault of our own) we've developed a sort of legend status. I know, laugh it up. Doodle was to arrive at 9pm, and thus at 8 I stopped the work I was doing on my dresser (another story entirely) and got ready to go to Dulles. My friend called: flight delayed til 9:30. Called again, 10:30. Ok, 11. A tad frustrating but understandable. So my friend (who, if you haven't noticed, has remained nameless) decided in the interim to head to Winchester to go out for drinks with some friends. Before going to the airport in the opposite direction. I questioned it as well. So when she finally called me she had left the restaurant late and had two young guys in tow. I pointed out that with Doodle this would be five people in her car, but she didn't seem to notice. So my friend and these two guys show up at my house at 11 and I open the car door to find these two guys (who, incidentally, are barely 18) with open beers in the car. They had brought a six pack for the 40 minute ride to my house were down to one full can. I will not, in any circumstance, ride around with underage people with open containers. Like that adds a whole new dimension to idiocy. So I told them to pour 'em out. They balked. I affirmed. They muttered, grunted and poured. My legend status shrank considerably. I had to take their five empty cans into my house so that they wouldn't be rolling around the back of my friends car. I was dumbfounded. Here we were, in the county with the most cops per capita in the state, in a state with some of the strictest drunk driving and open container laws in the country and these guys told me I just needed to relax and chill. I was too much of a "goody-goody". It is rather strange to go from the most liberal of one group of friends to the most conservative of another.
They didn't speak to me the rest of the ride to the airport. We got Doodle, she wondered why my friend had the two drunk, underage guys with her as well and validated my stance. When I had to crawl into the back seat to ride between the two fun boys, I had to move the leather pouch of pot and a bowl so I could buckle my seat belt.
At first I wondered if I was just getting too old for that sort of thing, but then I realized that I don't think I was ever ok with any of that. My sense of good ideas and bad ideas has usually governed me away from situations like that. Then I looked at my friend and wondered how she was ok with any of it when I was so uncomfortable.
Doodle and I caught up on jobs, families, pets, rent/morgages and car payments. I realized that the other three could not contribute to the conversation and I got self-conscious, right around the time Doodle and I were discussing our Medical and Dental plans. I could tell the guys were scrutinizing these two legends who work basic 9-5 jobs when Doodle piped up and said, "I wonder which is better: working a steady job that pays for time off to do the activities we love, or doing the activities we love for a living and then being too burned out to do them in the spare time? I think it's a draw." We don't live in the tent village anymore, we don't live by the seat of our pants, we have roots and relationships and investments and payments and insurance. I'm not saying we are better, we are just older and I think it was a sort of wake up call for both sides. The Lost Boys grow up at some point.
They didn't speak to me the rest of the ride to the airport. We got Doodle, she wondered why my friend had the two drunk, underage guys with her as well and validated my stance. When I had to crawl into the back seat to ride between the two fun boys, I had to move the leather pouch of pot and a bowl so I could buckle my seat belt.
At first I wondered if I was just getting too old for that sort of thing, but then I realized that I don't think I was ever ok with any of that. My sense of good ideas and bad ideas has usually governed me away from situations like that. Then I looked at my friend and wondered how she was ok with any of it when I was so uncomfortable.
Doodle and I caught up on jobs, families, pets, rent/morgages and car payments. I realized that the other three could not contribute to the conversation and I got self-conscious, right around the time Doodle and I were discussing our Medical and Dental plans. I could tell the guys were scrutinizing these two legends who work basic 9-5 jobs when Doodle piped up and said, "I wonder which is better: working a steady job that pays for time off to do the activities we love, or doing the activities we love for a living and then being too burned out to do them in the spare time? I think it's a draw." We don't live in the tent village anymore, we don't live by the seat of our pants, we have roots and relationships and investments and payments and insurance. I'm not saying we are better, we are just older and I think it was a sort of wake up call for both sides. The Lost Boys grow up at some point.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Morning Poo
I got this email from my friend Sean, who is teaching English in Japan. Sean is a tall kid with shaggy hair and a deep baritone voice and is not typically prone to bouts of goofiness like this, which makes the following story all the better:
"I arrive at one of my two elementary schools and I'm told that there will be an assembly on "healthy living". I thought oh real fun. Although my attention span for listening to Japanese has increased over the year, listening to two hours of it kills me. So I get to the assembly, sit next to some of my students and begin to zone out. Half an hour passes, I catch the occasional phrase, drink milk, go to bed early and eat your vegetables...So you can have your morning poo....My ears pick up....What did the school nurse just say? Now my attention has returned. Did I hear wrong? Did she just say that you need to have a healthy morning poo? oh yes. She did.
Now my Japanese is not great, but I know enough to know she said morning poo. In fact, literally translated, it was good morning poo. I wait and sure enough, comes the talk on the ohayoo unchi (good morning poo). Three children bring out a big flipbook, illustrating the life and path of jiro, the morning poo. It is jiro`s job to explain how poos are formed, what to eat to have a good, healthy poo, what color your poo should be (brown it turns out). I am not joking when I say that someone had drawn pictures of a boy taking a poop. The story was narrated by some 4th, 5th and 6th grade students, Jiro being voiced by a 6th grade boy who delivered his lines without cracking a smile. In fact, no one laughed at the fact that there were illustrated bowel movements on stage. I was sitting next to third graders who looked at me like I was a child when I was laughing. Strange. My favorite quote from the story was,
boy: jiro, why is it good to take a good morning poop?
Jiro: because, wouldn't it be embarrassing to have to say to your teacher in the middle of class, "sensei, I have to take a poop. may I go to the toilet?"
now you may or may not believe me, but it gets better (or worse from your perspective). So they took the lovely illustrations away, jiro taught all the children why it is good to eat vegetables (they help you take a morning poop) why it is good to get up early (so you have time to take a morning poop) and why it is important to take a morning poop (you wont be a social outcast for having to take a poop in class). I didn't think it was possible to top that, until the finale...three 6th grade boys walk on stage with some strange headbands on. In Japan, there is a very distinctive way of drawing poop, every kid draws it the same way, it looks like brown whip cream basically. You know how when you put whip cream on, pumpkin pie, or a ice cream sundae, that kind of swirly motion (I'm sure there is a better way to describe it, but the longer I live here, the worse my English gets). Either way, there is no confusing it. Its poop. Now, what's funny is that these boys wore headbands with this poop drawing on their forehead. I'm not joking. It gives new credence to the term shit head haha. These three boys, without acting embarrassed or laughing walked on stage in front of the school, with pictures of poop on their forehead. At this point, I'm almost crying from laughter and having third graders ask me to be quiet. They come out and introduce themselves as the "poop brothers" and then proceed to give a quiz on poop (a lot of which I regretfully didn't understand). I shit you not. Get it. I made a funny."
And thus ended one of the more random emails in recent memory. I hope it made you laugh as hard as I laughed.
"I arrive at one of my two elementary schools and I'm told that there will be an assembly on "healthy living". I thought oh real fun. Although my attention span for listening to Japanese has increased over the year, listening to two hours of it kills me. So I get to the assembly, sit next to some of my students and begin to zone out. Half an hour passes, I catch the occasional phrase, drink milk, go to bed early and eat your vegetables...So you can have your morning poo....My ears pick up....What did the school nurse just say? Now my attention has returned. Did I hear wrong? Did she just say that you need to have a healthy morning poo? oh yes. She did.
Now my Japanese is not great, but I know enough to know she said morning poo. In fact, literally translated, it was good morning poo. I wait and sure enough, comes the talk on the ohayoo unchi (good morning poo). Three children bring out a big flipbook, illustrating the life and path of jiro, the morning poo. It is jiro`s job to explain how poos are formed, what to eat to have a good, healthy poo, what color your poo should be (brown it turns out). I am not joking when I say that someone had drawn pictures of a boy taking a poop. The story was narrated by some 4th, 5th and 6th grade students, Jiro being voiced by a 6th grade boy who delivered his lines without cracking a smile. In fact, no one laughed at the fact that there were illustrated bowel movements on stage. I was sitting next to third graders who looked at me like I was a child when I was laughing. Strange. My favorite quote from the story was,
boy: jiro, why is it good to take a good morning poop?
Jiro: because, wouldn't it be embarrassing to have to say to your teacher in the middle of class, "sensei, I have to take a poop. may I go to the toilet?"
now you may or may not believe me, but it gets better (or worse from your perspective). So they took the lovely illustrations away, jiro taught all the children why it is good to eat vegetables (they help you take a morning poop) why it is good to get up early (so you have time to take a morning poop) and why it is important to take a morning poop (you wont be a social outcast for having to take a poop in class). I didn't think it was possible to top that, until the finale...three 6th grade boys walk on stage with some strange headbands on. In Japan, there is a very distinctive way of drawing poop, every kid draws it the same way, it looks like brown whip cream basically. You know how when you put whip cream on, pumpkin pie, or a ice cream sundae, that kind of swirly motion (I'm sure there is a better way to describe it, but the longer I live here, the worse my English gets). Either way, there is no confusing it. Its poop. Now, what's funny is that these boys wore headbands with this poop drawing on their forehead. I'm not joking. It gives new credence to the term shit head haha. These three boys, without acting embarrassed or laughing walked on stage in front of the school, with pictures of poop on their forehead. At this point, I'm almost crying from laughter and having third graders ask me to be quiet. They come out and introduce themselves as the "poop brothers" and then proceed to give a quiz on poop (a lot of which I regretfully didn't understand). I shit you not. Get it. I made a funny."
And thus ended one of the more random emails in recent memory. I hope it made you laugh as hard as I laughed.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Pioneer Spirit
Rick is my father's best friend, and is, at the very least, far more expressive than my father. He may be one of the most passionate and insightful people I have encountered, and I think he helps my father express his emotions. I was at my dad's house last night and he pulled out a box of papers and asked if I had ever seen the poem Rick wrote about me. I hadn't. He handed me a small piece of yellow legal paper dated 12/29/95.
Sarah
Phil beams
Excited relays...
Sarah's running
Sarah's doing
She's being so
So much
A participant in life
Engaged and engaging
A special sense of right
And humor
And delight
Pioneer spirit
Clear as northern sky
My first thought was one of embarrassment and flattery. It is truly thrilling to be thought of that highly, but I was 14; how much of it really was me? Have I lost some of the better parts of me? I can't say I've ever had someone write anything for me; my exes have usually been short on words and long on action. The part that hit me hardest was the "Doing and being so much" portion; since graduation I have done little but lag under the weight of endless possibilities, and so that was a sort of sting. An "Oh yeah, I remember when I had a clear idea of just wanted I wanted and how I wanted it..." I guess it reminds me of when I was simpler. I dunno. I didn't post it to glorify myself; maybe just to remember.
Sarah
Phil beams
Excited relays...
Sarah's running
Sarah's doing
She's being so
So much
A participant in life
Engaged and engaging
A special sense of right
And humor
And delight
Pioneer spirit
Clear as northern sky
My first thought was one of embarrassment and flattery. It is truly thrilling to be thought of that highly, but I was 14; how much of it really was me? Have I lost some of the better parts of me? I can't say I've ever had someone write anything for me; my exes have usually been short on words and long on action. The part that hit me hardest was the "Doing and being so much" portion; since graduation I have done little but lag under the weight of endless possibilities, and so that was a sort of sting. An "Oh yeah, I remember when I had a clear idea of just wanted I wanted and how I wanted it..." I guess it reminds me of when I was simpler. I dunno. I didn't post it to glorify myself; maybe just to remember.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Despots and 2x4s
My room in the townhouse is fairly small with cathedral ceilings, so I, in a fit of hysterical ambitiousness, decided I needed a full-sized loft for a bed.
And that I am the one to build it.
Just call me Bob Vila.
I'm not building this off the top of my head; I have the plans for one. It's 22 pages long.
Today I went to Home Depot (or "Home Despot" as I like to call it) in Hank, my 1987 Ford F-150 pickup truck to get the necessary lumber for said loft.
8 2x6x8
4 2x4x12
6 2x4x10
1 2x4x8
2 2x3x8
1 4'x8' 3/4" particle board (which, I learned, is approximately 90lbs)
120 #8 2 1/2" Phillips wood screws
50 #8 1 1/2" Phillips wood screws
35 5/16 x4" lag bolts and washers
Pushing my big orange cart around the Despot this morning you'd of thought that I was the first woman to dare to play at Augusta, or enter the Citadel, or accuse Bill Reilly. I mean the conversations stopped and they just stared. Like I would have been more conspicuous dressed as the mascot for the Orioles. I felt as if I was walking around with three boobs, like I should have been selling carnival tickets, or had brought my own pole to dance with. I believe some serious cases of whiplash may have later been reported. They wouldn't help me, would walk right past me but continue to stare unless I stared back, then they'd duck and walk briskly away. There actually was some snickering overheard. The only time anyone helped or spoke to me was when it was the all-out war between the particle board and myself. I had one end up on the cart and every time I went to push it farther onto the cart, the cart rolled farther down the aisle. The kind gentleman in the orange apron was nice enough to put his foot in front of the cart's wheels, thereby saving me from chasing it all the way to the far wall.
$105 later I was out in the parking lot in the 95+ weather and humidity, trying to figure out how to get all the lumber in to the bed of ol' Hank. I counted 18 men who walked right past me without so much as a grunt of encouragement or an offering of help (and it was obvious that I needed it). Finally, after about 10 minutes, a woman offered to hold my cart so I could get the bastard particle board into the bed of my truck. That's it.
I don't expect doors held for me, or a man to stand up whenever I leave the table, or him to give me his coat when it's cold (though all of these are always appreciated and major bonus points). I do, however, expect a neighborly offering of help when it is evident that it is needed. Only women spoke to me while I was struggling to wrangle my lumber into bungees and tie-downs, and it was to offer some sort of encouragement.
I got the a few of my boards measured and cut tonight; I have a lot more building, cutting, sanding, staining, drilling, screwing and filing in my future. It was just a day of realizing that I my being a girl can be a shock or even an insult in the wrong situation (Was that too dramatic? Sorry I got a phone call toward the end of this post and coming back I had lost all my steam).
And that I am the one to build it.
Just call me Bob Vila.
I'm not building this off the top of my head; I have the plans for one. It's 22 pages long.
Today I went to Home Depot (or "Home Despot" as I like to call it) in Hank, my 1987 Ford F-150 pickup truck to get the necessary lumber for said loft.
8 2x6x8
4 2x4x12
6 2x4x10
1 2x4x8
2 2x3x8
1 4'x8' 3/4" particle board (which, I learned, is approximately 90lbs)
120 #8 2 1/2" Phillips wood screws
50 #8 1 1/2" Phillips wood screws
35 5/16 x4" lag bolts and washers
Pushing my big orange cart around the Despot this morning you'd of thought that I was the first woman to dare to play at Augusta, or enter the Citadel, or accuse Bill Reilly. I mean the conversations stopped and they just stared. Like I would have been more conspicuous dressed as the mascot for the Orioles. I felt as if I was walking around with three boobs, like I should have been selling carnival tickets, or had brought my own pole to dance with. I believe some serious cases of whiplash may have later been reported. They wouldn't help me, would walk right past me but continue to stare unless I stared back, then they'd duck and walk briskly away. There actually was some snickering overheard. The only time anyone helped or spoke to me was when it was the all-out war between the particle board and myself. I had one end up on the cart and every time I went to push it farther onto the cart, the cart rolled farther down the aisle. The kind gentleman in the orange apron was nice enough to put his foot in front of the cart's wheels, thereby saving me from chasing it all the way to the far wall.
$105 later I was out in the parking lot in the 95+ weather and humidity, trying to figure out how to get all the lumber in to the bed of ol' Hank. I counted 18 men who walked right past me without so much as a grunt of encouragement or an offering of help (and it was obvious that I needed it). Finally, after about 10 minutes, a woman offered to hold my cart so I could get the bastard particle board into the bed of my truck. That's it.
I don't expect doors held for me, or a man to stand up whenever I leave the table, or him to give me his coat when it's cold (though all of these are always appreciated and major bonus points). I do, however, expect a neighborly offering of help when it is evident that it is needed. Only women spoke to me while I was struggling to wrangle my lumber into bungees and tie-downs, and it was to offer some sort of encouragement.
I got the a few of my boards measured and cut tonight; I have a lot more building, cutting, sanding, staining, drilling, screwing and filing in my future. It was just a day of realizing that I my being a girl can be a shock or even an insult in the wrong situation (Was that too dramatic? Sorry I got a phone call toward the end of this post and coming back I had lost all my steam).
Wednesday, July 6, 2005
Ghosts
Caroline posted a rather insightful and well-written comment to a previous post (The Crying of Frogs, a post that started as an ode to my deck and turned into a rhetorical belch about friendships) that of course got me onto the fast track of mental pacing.
A few weeks ago my youth group had a reunion. Some of those in attendance I had known since I was 4; the rest was my closest group of friends through much of high school. It was with some trepidation that I accepted the invitation and with good reason: some of them I hadn't seen in over 6 years. But I went (thanks to Carey and Liz for tagging along) and was one of only two people in the group who did not have children. Seriously. And there were 15 of us there (not including the spouses and babies). It was a relief when my sister showed up; I could steal a niece or nephew just to fit in. It only took about five minutes before I realized that I really didn't have much to talk to them about and that it was ok. It was then that I remembered something an old friend said about one of her former best friends. She said, "It's not that I love her less...I just love her differently." We stood around with love in our hearts and not a word on our tongues. It wasn't anything that was done or not done; it wasn't bitterness or distrust or disdain; it was unfamiliarity where familiarity had once been. Time shifts the mountains and the earth, why would it not shift relationships? I'm still trying to figure out if I believe in the idea of "growing apart"--I can't decide if I think it's inevitable or a sort of cop-out. I want to believe that true friendships have a way of riding the crest of life, rather than catching the wave. They are constant though peaks and valleys, through those times of inseparable connections and the subsequent lapses in conversation. But history and heartache tell me otherwise.
I ran into an old friend the other day, and after catching up on all the people we both knew and getting some gossip, we were at a loss for words.
A few days later I finally talked to a dear friend with whom I had had no contact in over 4 months, and we spoke for almost three hours as if no time had passed at all.
Both of those people I have called my best friend at some point in my life; why is one still so solid while the other has floundered? Back to my damn is to was question of my previous post.
So I guess the new question is: Where is the spot where we stop living memories and start reliving them?
Caroline's question was, "What makes a best friend? Is it proximity in distance or proximity of morals, ideas, goals, choices, an idea of a fun night? Is it neither?"
Glad those questions are rhetorical, cuz they are more than I know. I know what I feel though. I firmly believe that a best friend is someone who knows you in ways that you don't know. There is more than comfortable camaraderie, more than shared memories, more than similarities. I've heard it said that you like someone because; you love someone although. There is a stark reality to deep and true fellowship. Best friends are as fun as they are gritty; as substantive as they are silly; as full as they are flirty. We are at an age where friends are splitting apart to coagulate into subgroups of the newly-married, the parents, the singles, the couples, the fast-trackers, the students, the wanderers; the taxonomic code for the 20-somethings. To have any sort of fellowship that can withstand that is a wonder.
I talked to a friend today who is in a rather vicious fight with a friend. They are no longer speaking and probably won't for a long time, if ever. But my friend was brutally honest when he said that if his friend was ever in need, he wouldn't hesitate to be there for him, no questions or favors asked. I asked why. He said, "Because he is my friend."
I have drawers, boxes and frames full of photos of blooming, wilting, and withered friendships. They stare back at me, visceral and visual bastions of memories, reminders of what comes and, all too often, goes. They become like ghosts. I have had the creme-de-la-creme of best friends; there are nights when I'd like to exercise their memories, others when I would love to see them and smile once more--not like old times, but in an ever-refreshing, ever growing manner.
"There are ghosts from my past that own more of my soul
Than I thought I had given away
They linger in closets and under my bed
And in pictures less proudly displayed..." [J.Knapp]
A few weeks ago my youth group had a reunion. Some of those in attendance I had known since I was 4; the rest was my closest group of friends through much of high school. It was with some trepidation that I accepted the invitation and with good reason: some of them I hadn't seen in over 6 years. But I went (thanks to Carey and Liz for tagging along) and was one of only two people in the group who did not have children. Seriously. And there were 15 of us there (not including the spouses and babies). It was a relief when my sister showed up; I could steal a niece or nephew just to fit in. It only took about five minutes before I realized that I really didn't have much to talk to them about and that it was ok. It was then that I remembered something an old friend said about one of her former best friends. She said, "It's not that I love her less...I just love her differently." We stood around with love in our hearts and not a word on our tongues. It wasn't anything that was done or not done; it wasn't bitterness or distrust or disdain; it was unfamiliarity where familiarity had once been. Time shifts the mountains and the earth, why would it not shift relationships? I'm still trying to figure out if I believe in the idea of "growing apart"--I can't decide if I think it's inevitable or a sort of cop-out. I want to believe that true friendships have a way of riding the crest of life, rather than catching the wave. They are constant though peaks and valleys, through those times of inseparable connections and the subsequent lapses in conversation. But history and heartache tell me otherwise.
I ran into an old friend the other day, and after catching up on all the people we both knew and getting some gossip, we were at a loss for words.
A few days later I finally talked to a dear friend with whom I had had no contact in over 4 months, and we spoke for almost three hours as if no time had passed at all.
Both of those people I have called my best friend at some point in my life; why is one still so solid while the other has floundered? Back to my damn is to was question of my previous post.
So I guess the new question is: Where is the spot where we stop living memories and start reliving them?
Caroline's question was, "What makes a best friend? Is it proximity in distance or proximity of morals, ideas, goals, choices, an idea of a fun night? Is it neither?"
Glad those questions are rhetorical, cuz they are more than I know. I know what I feel though. I firmly believe that a best friend is someone who knows you in ways that you don't know. There is more than comfortable camaraderie, more than shared memories, more than similarities. I've heard it said that you like someone because; you love someone although. There is a stark reality to deep and true fellowship. Best friends are as fun as they are gritty; as substantive as they are silly; as full as they are flirty. We are at an age where friends are splitting apart to coagulate into subgroups of the newly-married, the parents, the singles, the couples, the fast-trackers, the students, the wanderers; the taxonomic code for the 20-somethings. To have any sort of fellowship that can withstand that is a wonder.
I talked to a friend today who is in a rather vicious fight with a friend. They are no longer speaking and probably won't for a long time, if ever. But my friend was brutally honest when he said that if his friend was ever in need, he wouldn't hesitate to be there for him, no questions or favors asked. I asked why. He said, "Because he is my friend."
I have drawers, boxes and frames full of photos of blooming, wilting, and withered friendships. They stare back at me, visceral and visual bastions of memories, reminders of what comes and, all too often, goes. They become like ghosts. I have had the creme-de-la-creme of best friends; there are nights when I'd like to exercise their memories, others when I would love to see them and smile once more--not like old times, but in an ever-refreshing, ever growing manner.
"There are ghosts from my past that own more of my soul
Than I thought I had given away
They linger in closets and under my bed
And in pictures less proudly displayed..." [J.Knapp]
Monday, July 4, 2005
Listing Slightly
As of late my thoughts have become rather structured, thus I have given in to obsessive list making. It's more than things to do, buy, sell or organize; it's more abstract. Like I spent over an hour the other day thinking about what would be on my celebrity iTunes playlist, if I were indeed a celebrity commissioned to make just such a list. It is a good list, but it's 30 songs long.
The countdown to the invasion of Iraq was the spring of my senior year of college, and for some reason my friend Dylan and I took it as a sign that the "civilized" world as we know it was perilously close to blowing up and we became obsessed with what we would do in such a situation. Like we would be in a bar, talking about sources of vitamin C in the winter months.
Since then this topic has become a favorite of mine, especially in the list making department. There are lots of lists to be made about the end of the world. For example: what to pack and why. Who do I bring and why. Where do I go? What should I learn between then and now? What should I purchase for my end of the world survival pack?
Between books I've been reading and the current situation of the world I've come to see that we are past due for a major disaster, and I don't say that in a fatalist, wear-a-sandwich-board-and-yell sort of way, I say that in a very logical, scientific way. We as a planet go through major periods of geographic and meteorological upheaval, and to have had such a stretch of relative calm for so long is not only abnormal it's scary.
And I've lost my steam.
Sorry that's it, I'm falling asleep.
So yeah, I made these two lists (the packing for disaster and/or iTunes) . I'll post 'em if I have the chance.
The countdown to the invasion of Iraq was the spring of my senior year of college, and for some reason my friend Dylan and I took it as a sign that the "civilized" world as we know it was perilously close to blowing up and we became obsessed with what we would do in such a situation. Like we would be in a bar, talking about sources of vitamin C in the winter months.
Since then this topic has become a favorite of mine, especially in the list making department. There are lots of lists to be made about the end of the world. For example: what to pack and why. Who do I bring and why. Where do I go? What should I learn between then and now? What should I purchase for my end of the world survival pack?
Between books I've been reading and the current situation of the world I've come to see that we are past due for a major disaster, and I don't say that in a fatalist, wear-a-sandwich-board-and-yell sort of way, I say that in a very logical, scientific way. We as a planet go through major periods of geographic and meteorological upheaval, and to have had such a stretch of relative calm for so long is not only abnormal it's scary.
And I've lost my steam.
Sorry that's it, I'm falling asleep.
So yeah, I made these two lists (the packing for disaster and/or iTunes) . I'll post 'em if I have the chance.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
When Work is Fun
On Tuesday we finally got new registers at work. The old ones were horrendous and were referred to as "the abacai" (as in an abacus in multiples). The Tech guy casually said he was told to throw them away. My fellow Assistant Manger looked at me and said, "Do you have a baseball bat in your car?" I said, "No, but we do have a rubber mallet." And thus became the highlight of this job so far: hitting the crap out of the old registers. Be jealous.
The weapons, the victim, the place in to which the remains shall disappear forever. The "right" way to get rid of old registers at work...
The weapons, the victim, the place in to which the remains shall disappear forever. The "right" way to get rid of old registers at work...
Monday, June 27, 2005
Life in Two Parts
Act I:
This morning I woke up with a strange and clear image in my head. For some reason I was thinking about straight lines, and how, if enough of them are drawn in a very linear, very organized way, a circle forms. I was thinking about that parallel in life--how straight lines and circles are essentially opposites, and yet one can be formed from a collection of the other. How sometimes we set out so intent on one task and/or path that we look up and we've become/created the very antithesis of what we wanted. We've worked so hard to get somewhere we've just circumvented what we were fleeing. I am not thinking in specifics at all, it was just an observation.
Act II:
I went to Friday Night Live in Herndon a few weeks ago and was people watching like I tend to do. The kids struck me, because of how simple they make introductions and friendship. They see another child and a game forms. There is no awkward, "Hi my name is bla, what do you do for a living?" and obligatory personal space, introduction decorum to follow. It was refreshing. I do wish I could run up, tag someone and yell "you're it!" and just spontaneously have a game form. I think I'd take life, friendships, and time a little less seriously.
This morning I woke up with a strange and clear image in my head. For some reason I was thinking about straight lines, and how, if enough of them are drawn in a very linear, very organized way, a circle forms. I was thinking about that parallel in life--how straight lines and circles are essentially opposites, and yet one can be formed from a collection of the other. How sometimes we set out so intent on one task and/or path that we look up and we've become/created the very antithesis of what we wanted. We've worked so hard to get somewhere we've just circumvented what we were fleeing. I am not thinking in specifics at all, it was just an observation.
Act II:
I went to Friday Night Live in Herndon a few weeks ago and was people watching like I tend to do. The kids struck me, because of how simple they make introductions and friendship. They see another child and a game forms. There is no awkward, "Hi my name is bla, what do you do for a living?" and obligatory personal space, introduction decorum to follow. It was refreshing. I do wish I could run up, tag someone and yell "you're it!" and just spontaneously have a game form. I think I'd take life, friendships, and time a little less seriously.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Limits of Language
Look at the title, that's what I'm thinking about.
While I was mowing the lawn on Sunday I began to think about this (Mowing the lawn is my philosophical equivalent to some people's showers: it's my thinking spot) . There are words and phrases that only hold their meaning within the context of a language and are lost in translation if ever they attempt the linguistic leap. That is tragic; to be lost in translation. To be floating around as the flotsam and jetsam of dialects, languages, times and verses, trapped in the adverbs and conjugations that come from translation. I feel so limited in my language. I was thinking about songs, and how so much of what is said in lyrics is said in rhyme, and how in another language the words that would rhyme are totally different, so that what can be expressed is going to be completely new to a foreign ear. "Me" is not going to always rhyme with "be" "see" or even "tree". I am not used to the words "Dog" and "closet" rhyming, but in another language it's possible that they could, and could be put together. It just blows my concepts of creation wide open. I feel ignorant and small.
I struggle so relentlessly within the confines of my own tongue; how can I begin to fathom the intricacies of another language? I remember reading that the well educated American knows and uses only a fraction of the English language: something like 10,000 words out of 500,000. Words are wonders to me; I guess I should be introduced to the words in my neighborhood before I leave to meet those of another tongue entirely.
While I was mowing the lawn on Sunday I began to think about this (Mowing the lawn is my philosophical equivalent to some people's showers: it's my thinking spot) . There are words and phrases that only hold their meaning within the context of a language and are lost in translation if ever they attempt the linguistic leap. That is tragic; to be lost in translation. To be floating around as the flotsam and jetsam of dialects, languages, times and verses, trapped in the adverbs and conjugations that come from translation. I feel so limited in my language. I was thinking about songs, and how so much of what is said in lyrics is said in rhyme, and how in another language the words that would rhyme are totally different, so that what can be expressed is going to be completely new to a foreign ear. "Me" is not going to always rhyme with "be" "see" or even "tree". I am not used to the words "Dog" and "closet" rhyming, but in another language it's possible that they could, and could be put together. It just blows my concepts of creation wide open. I feel ignorant and small.
I struggle so relentlessly within the confines of my own tongue; how can I begin to fathom the intricacies of another language? I remember reading that the well educated American knows and uses only a fraction of the English language: something like 10,000 words out of 500,000. Words are wonders to me; I guess I should be introduced to the words in my neighborhood before I leave to meet those of another tongue entirely.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Tom Cruise Makes Me Nervous, Part II
The Style section of the Washington Post yesterday had an article about the Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise engagement announcement and waxed nostalgic about our (as a culture) inability to just embrace romance. The Post called it "..a Harlequin romance in the era of chick lit...To post-feminist, post-ironic women, it's a great big "ick," right up there with the marriage proposal on the Jumbotron at a baseball game." Though it is a May-December relationship (he was getting his "Old records off the shelf" in "Risky Business" while she was making some risky business in her drawls) it has the makings of a classic 1940s Hollywood love story (with the eventual, present-day crash and burn coming forthwith) and we can't be anything but cynical and snide about it. Like Sarah Jessica Parker's "Sex and the City" character, Carrie Bradshaw, have we lost all faith in romance? In season 6, the Russian (Mikhail Baryshnikov) read her poems and other literary expressions of love, and she called it "the ick hear 'round the world." Are we women becoming romance-phobic?
I think about myself, and how distrusting I can be to those outward expressions of affections, and I am frustrated by my cynicism; my "oh he must be up to something" knee-jerk reaction. Is that a byproduct of the "independent woman" rhetoric that I've been fed, or something else? Pop culture? Experience? Genetics? Tom Cruise?
*The title is taken from "Tom Cruise Makes Me Nervous" by Sarah Vowell, off NPR's This American Life.
I think about myself, and how distrusting I can be to those outward expressions of affections, and I am frustrated by my cynicism; my "oh he must be up to something" knee-jerk reaction. Is that a byproduct of the "independent woman" rhetoric that I've been fed, or something else? Pop culture? Experience? Genetics? Tom Cruise?
*The title is taken from "Tom Cruise Makes Me Nervous" by Sarah Vowell, off NPR's This American Life.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Munn Dane
There's an old Tracy Chapman song with the lyrics,
"There is fiction in the space between/
the lines on your face and memory/
you will do and say anything/
to make your everyday life seem less mundane..."
Lately I've been wondering about that space between memory and story; where does it lie, and why does it, all too often, lie? In that crevice between memory and story is the element of storytelling: the difference between memory and story is that story is shared. My memories die with me; my stories may grow and evolve into anecdotal wisdom or insights into my personality. Stories are how other people understand and share us; memories are how we do the same for ourselves. How then, is it so easy to lie about it? I don't mean oversights, like there were four chairs instead of three, but the larger, more fundamental pieces of the story, like there wasn't emotion where it was inserted, or something was said that was later omitted? Is it subconscious or intentional? My sister and I have many shared memories, but how we express and interpret these makes them into very different experiences. Time blurs the sharp edges of memory.
Last year I started to write a short story about a man named Munn Dane, whose whole life was a long stretch of uneventful spaces, and how that slowly drove him to obsessively seek potential events, if only to have a story to tell. We as a people are desperate to have something to share, to connect through, to point to and say, "this is who I am in a story," to make life less lonely. We want to say, "I tell these stories because they are mine."
A little disjointed because I'm still thinking about it.
More to come I'm sure.
"There is fiction in the space between/
the lines on your face and memory/
you will do and say anything/
to make your everyday life seem less mundane..."
Lately I've been wondering about that space between memory and story; where does it lie, and why does it, all too often, lie? In that crevice between memory and story is the element of storytelling: the difference between memory and story is that story is shared. My memories die with me; my stories may grow and evolve into anecdotal wisdom or insights into my personality. Stories are how other people understand and share us; memories are how we do the same for ourselves. How then, is it so easy to lie about it? I don't mean oversights, like there were four chairs instead of three, but the larger, more fundamental pieces of the story, like there wasn't emotion where it was inserted, or something was said that was later omitted? Is it subconscious or intentional? My sister and I have many shared memories, but how we express and interpret these makes them into very different experiences. Time blurs the sharp edges of memory.
Last year I started to write a short story about a man named Munn Dane, whose whole life was a long stretch of uneventful spaces, and how that slowly drove him to obsessively seek potential events, if only to have a story to tell. We as a people are desperate to have something to share, to connect through, to point to and say, "this is who I am in a story," to make life less lonely. We want to say, "I tell these stories because they are mine."
A little disjointed because I'm still thinking about it.
More to come I'm sure.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Guest Post
"Heaven, such as it is, is right here on earth. Behold: my revelation: I stand at the door in the morning, and lo, there is a newspaper, in sight like unto an emerald. And holy, holy, holy is the coffee, which was, and is, and is to come. And hark, I hear the voice of an angel round about the radio, saying, "Since my baby left me I found a new place to dwell." And lo, after this I beheld a great multitude, which no man could number, of shoes. And after these things I will hasten unto a taxicab and to a theater, where a ticken will be given unto me, and lo, it will be a matinee, and a film that doeth great wonders. And when it is finished, the heavens will open, and out will cometh a rain fragrant as myrrh, and yea, I will have an umbrella." -Sarah Vowell, from Take the Cannoli
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Idle Worship
I went to my 14th Indigo Girls concert last night. It might have been my 15th, but I'm fairly sure it is 14. I'm beginning to lose count, which is a sign of familiarity to the event, a familiarity I welcome gladly. This is the third year that my boss Anna and I have gone as a birthday present to me. I met Anna in the middle of P-vegas and we drove in my little Roo out to Tysons for some delicious Thai food at Bandaras. Their curried peanut sauce is like the second tier of heaven.
About a quarter of the way through the set the Indigo Girls went from "Kid Fears" into "The Wood Song" and I could feel the joy and release and fearlessness that comes from their shows and I had an urge to close my eyes, sing with my whole self and raise my hands. I was struck how close this is to how some people worship.
When I am in church, I cannot get into the worship. I can sing along, but I am so caught up in the things around me, in the people around me, in the bulletin, in the whatever that I cannot stay focused enough to pour myself into the music. This is a source of great frustration. At the show I was thinking about the difference between my inability to worship in church and my ease at immersion in this music and where the distinction lies. This was my basic list:
(1) familiarity. I know all the words to all the Indigo Girls songs, and it's not a concern to know the rhyme or melody or lyric, because it is so ingrained. I'm not constantly looking for the next line; I am the next line.
(2) memory. Their songs are the soundtrack to much of my life. There are moments, emotions and promises that are frozen in the lines of their songs, and those are released with each performance.
(3) identity. I can relate to their songs. Maybe not every one, but I understand them, can feel with them, can apply them in my life. They speak to me and through me.
And the Indigo Girls are indicative of countless other songs and/or bands for which these basic differences hold true. Most worship songs hold none of these for me. I want them to, but the lines and lyrics are foreign, or sung so differently, or are so disconnected from my life that they are just words and music, not a lifeblood like music should be. What do I do about this? I do not want to worship idols, but I do not want to worship idly. I want to sing with a purpose, but I want the words and the music to have a life of their own, not some stagnant, B-grade, cliche turn of phrase like so many worship songs as of late.
How can familiarity, memory and identity combine to create the worship experience as it was meant to be? It is called the joy of proclamation for a purpose; where is the joy?
"Tune my heart to sing thy grace..."
About a quarter of the way through the set the Indigo Girls went from "Kid Fears" into "The Wood Song" and I could feel the joy and release and fearlessness that comes from their shows and I had an urge to close my eyes, sing with my whole self and raise my hands. I was struck how close this is to how some people worship.
When I am in church, I cannot get into the worship. I can sing along, but I am so caught up in the things around me, in the people around me, in the bulletin, in the whatever that I cannot stay focused enough to pour myself into the music. This is a source of great frustration. At the show I was thinking about the difference between my inability to worship in church and my ease at immersion in this music and where the distinction lies. This was my basic list:
(1) familiarity. I know all the words to all the Indigo Girls songs, and it's not a concern to know the rhyme or melody or lyric, because it is so ingrained. I'm not constantly looking for the next line; I am the next line.
(2) memory. Their songs are the soundtrack to much of my life. There are moments, emotions and promises that are frozen in the lines of their songs, and those are released with each performance.
(3) identity. I can relate to their songs. Maybe not every one, but I understand them, can feel with them, can apply them in my life. They speak to me and through me.
And the Indigo Girls are indicative of countless other songs and/or bands for which these basic differences hold true. Most worship songs hold none of these for me. I want them to, but the lines and lyrics are foreign, or sung so differently, or are so disconnected from my life that they are just words and music, not a lifeblood like music should be. What do I do about this? I do not want to worship idols, but I do not want to worship idly. I want to sing with a purpose, but I want the words and the music to have a life of their own, not some stagnant, B-grade, cliche turn of phrase like so many worship songs as of late.
How can familiarity, memory and identity combine to create the worship experience as it was meant to be? It is called the joy of proclamation for a purpose; where is the joy?
"Tune my heart to sing thy grace..."
Tuesday, June 7, 2005
Crying of the Frogs
My back deck saves the best of me. I look at that small wooden structure--nothing architecturally inspiring to be sure--and some of the best moments of my life come back to me. Conversations deep in heart and mind, laughter that was easy and fluid, honesty that was refreshing and loving; I see it in the old 2x4s, in the wax spilled on the boards, the worn teak rocker and the heavy Adirondack chairs. I remember the night Caroline and I stayed up til dawn talking, the time I taught Francie to fly fish off it's side, the nights with Seth in deep convos and cigars, the night Carey coined a rather inappropriate name for it, more July 4ths than I can remember. I sit out there and watch the sunset in all four seasons, tracking the sun across the Blue Ridge skyline, north to south as the axis spins. Spring peepers to fireworks to geese to snowflakes and bonfires. The deck makes the passage of time less painful and more fluid; breaks it into seasons and moments, rather than this rather large and looming bouncer before me. It got me thinking about time, change, and the simplicity of it. Every little thing is simply steps I guess. I wonder when that moment is when someone goes from friend to best friend and, if it happens, best friend back to friend. Was there a specific day when I said, "X is my best friend" and the next day I said, "X was my best friend"? Does a day change is to was? If not, what does? Relationships are not switches or knobs, to be turned at the whim of the controller. They affect and are affected, they change, they bloom, they whither. They are beautiful, mournful, priceless in their time, bittersweet in memory, comforting in familiarity.
"I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?" -E.St.V.M*
The back deck answers the questions that I cannot begin to ask myself.
*Portion of "Assault" by Edna St. Vincent Millay. From Second April. 1921.
"I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?" -E.St.V.M*
The back deck answers the questions that I cannot begin to ask myself.
*Portion of "Assault" by Edna St. Vincent Millay. From Second April. 1921.
Today
The AC in my house decided this was the perfect time to break, so the inside temperature at 6pm yesterday was 88 degrees.
Basically, it's too hot to write.
Ugh.
Yesterday was June 6th. These past few years it's been a tough day: June 6, 2001 Anna's father killed himself. June 6, 2002 Jeff died. June 6, 2004 I had my cancer scare. I woke up yesterday morning waiting for the sky to fall. Are there dates that are just unlucky? The April 19ths (Waco, Lexington and Concord, Oklahoma City Bombing; Columbine was the next day), September 11ths, December 7ths of the world; a date with a stigma about it? I do not like the idea of greeting a day with jitters, but I found myself doing it yesterday, seeking out some peace in the present tense.
Today I do a walk-through of Maskey's townhouse, where I hope to be moving in a month.
I am moving on.
Basically, it's too hot to write.
Ugh.
Yesterday was June 6th. These past few years it's been a tough day: June 6, 2001 Anna's father killed himself. June 6, 2002 Jeff died. June 6, 2004 I had my cancer scare. I woke up yesterday morning waiting for the sky to fall. Are there dates that are just unlucky? The April 19ths (Waco, Lexington and Concord, Oklahoma City Bombing; Columbine was the next day), September 11ths, December 7ths of the world; a date with a stigma about it? I do not like the idea of greeting a day with jitters, but I found myself doing it yesterday, seeking out some peace in the present tense.
Today I do a walk-through of Maskey's townhouse, where I hope to be moving in a month.
I am moving on.
Thursday, June 2, 2005
Four of a Kind is a Full House
The four sisters! Sunday night we had a sort of spontaneous sister campout (with three kids under the age of 4 and two dogs); this was Monday morning. Katie is 11, then from L to R: Me (24), Amanda (26), and Carolyn (32). It was the first time we'd been together since Christmas of 1999.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Jordan to Gordon
Last year my friend Jenny told me that 23 was my Jordan year (as in Michael, THE #23 of basketball) and that it would prove to be great. This year Jenny, Grafton and I sat outside with cigars and beer, looking at the stars, smiling and laughing how time changes us.
23 had a great start to it, but proved to be probably the toughest year of my life so far.
23 was a very real cancer scare. 23 was quitting jobs and Summer staff. 23 was buying my first car. 23 was moving, lots of rejection, and heartache that I cannot begin to fully understand. 23 was the loss of dear friendships and the birth of relationships that are diamonds in the rough. 23 was another year of watching parental ambitions decay. 23 was just hard all around--it wasn't the monumental, it was the day to day hits. I have never felt so alone.
I wish I could say I have major goals and/or expectations for 24, but I really don't. Everything that I had planned to be at 24 has faded, faltered, or fallen away, and I'm gradually learning to be ok with having my perfect ideas not be the be all end all. I'm learning to place my ambitions and ideas above the not-so-even keel that is life. I do believe that there is a plan for my life; I'm just tired of trying to write my own roadmap to happiness.
So here's to you, 24! My Jeff Gordon year (whenever you say this, Grafton throws up a little bit in his mouth...I suggest you try it). will be grand, will foster growth, maturity, hilarity, tears, love, heartbreak, frustration, mistakes, embarrassment, anecdotes and nostalgia that I can only imagine right now. I'm cautiously optimistic.
Day synopsis:
It started out well--early this morning I was roused by the doorbell, and there was Hatcher with a feather boa and a crown that said "I RULE", waking me up, forcing me to get dressed and go out for coffee and breakfast with Natalie. It was wonderful, albeit a bit stressful for me pre-coffee. Not gonna lie, almost cried.
Got tons of voice mails, IMs, cards and thoughts from friends far and wide, and could feel the love, which was the best gift so far.
Went out for ice cream with youngest sister and oldest sister (age gap: 21 years), 2-year-old niece, mother and step-father. Niece is amazing. Love the niece.
Went to Graftons. Had cigars. Got goodie bag of glowing things from Jenny. Spent 20 minutes with the lights off, trying to play catch with a flashing red bouncy ball and matching strobe rings. Giggled incessantly. Knew then that the year of maturity would be at bay for just a little while longer.
And that, I think, is the most optimistic part of the whole process. At least I'm still giggling.
23 had a great start to it, but proved to be probably the toughest year of my life so far.
23 was a very real cancer scare. 23 was quitting jobs and Summer staff. 23 was buying my first car. 23 was moving, lots of rejection, and heartache that I cannot begin to fully understand. 23 was the loss of dear friendships and the birth of relationships that are diamonds in the rough. 23 was another year of watching parental ambitions decay. 23 was just hard all around--it wasn't the monumental, it was the day to day hits. I have never felt so alone.
I wish I could say I have major goals and/or expectations for 24, but I really don't. Everything that I had planned to be at 24 has faded, faltered, or fallen away, and I'm gradually learning to be ok with having my perfect ideas not be the be all end all. I'm learning to place my ambitions and ideas above the not-so-even keel that is life. I do believe that there is a plan for my life; I'm just tired of trying to write my own roadmap to happiness.
So here's to you, 24! My Jeff Gordon year (whenever you say this, Grafton throws up a little bit in his mouth...I suggest you try it). will be grand, will foster growth, maturity, hilarity, tears, love, heartbreak, frustration, mistakes, embarrassment, anecdotes and nostalgia that I can only imagine right now. I'm cautiously optimistic.
Day synopsis:
It started out well--early this morning I was roused by the doorbell, and there was Hatcher with a feather boa and a crown that said "I RULE", waking me up, forcing me to get dressed and go out for coffee and breakfast with Natalie. It was wonderful, albeit a bit stressful for me pre-coffee. Not gonna lie, almost cried.
Got tons of voice mails, IMs, cards and thoughts from friends far and wide, and could feel the love, which was the best gift so far.
Went out for ice cream with youngest sister and oldest sister (age gap: 21 years), 2-year-old niece, mother and step-father. Niece is amazing. Love the niece.
Went to Graftons. Had cigars. Got goodie bag of glowing things from Jenny. Spent 20 minutes with the lights off, trying to play catch with a flashing red bouncy ball and matching strobe rings. Giggled incessantly. Knew then that the year of maturity would be at bay for just a little while longer.
And that, I think, is the most optimistic part of the whole process. At least I'm still giggling.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Some Pig
Yesterday evening I was sitting at the stoplight in the middle of Purcellville when this Khabota cart went speeding by, with this guy in a pig outfit riding in the back and waiving. For no clear reason. I burst out laughing. Thankfully they swung by the gas station while I was there, allowing me to stop and snap this shot. Oh small towns, you deserve your own therapy session.
Monday, May 16, 2005
For the Birds
Had the day off, mowed the lawn.
I may enjoy mowing the lawn more than I should; I do it because it relaxes me.
I was in the company of avian wonders; flight and fancy flittered about.
The bold color of the male American goldfinches invoked the yellow shadings another, more domesticated cousin. Their flight pattern is so familiar to me, with their wavelike path through the sky; little peaks and valleys of starts and stops; sprinters in the air. The bawdy red of the cardinals in the lilac, their crowns erect and their dark masks hiding the darting eyes. The audacity of the mockingbird never ceases to make me laugh; the calls and cries of noises around them replayed out their beaks, their bravado in protecting both territory and offspring.
For a few minutes I literally stopped what I was doing to look up in wonder at a red shouldered hawk soaring circles above me; close enough that the plumage was in detail. The blue jays, the finches, the LBJs (technical term for Little Brown Jobbies...mostly sparrows) , the mourning doves, the ruby throated hummingbirds that make traversing the yard dangerous at times, the swallows feeding at dusk--these matter to me. Exactly why I am not sure, but there is a strange and overwhelming peace that comes from the day to day of these creatures.
And the mysterious Siamese cat that hid in the tall grass and watched my every move, even as my riding mower got closer than most pets would allow. She did nothing but stare at me, and crouch when I got too close. I don't liked to be watched like that; sometimes it feels they know something.
Then my cousin and his dog came over and the dog spent half the time happily licking my foot. Sometimes I just love the stupid simplicity of dogs.
I may enjoy mowing the lawn more than I should; I do it because it relaxes me.
I was in the company of avian wonders; flight and fancy flittered about.
The bold color of the male American goldfinches invoked the yellow shadings another, more domesticated cousin. Their flight pattern is so familiar to me, with their wavelike path through the sky; little peaks and valleys of starts and stops; sprinters in the air. The bawdy red of the cardinals in the lilac, their crowns erect and their dark masks hiding the darting eyes. The audacity of the mockingbird never ceases to make me laugh; the calls and cries of noises around them replayed out their beaks, their bravado in protecting both territory and offspring.
For a few minutes I literally stopped what I was doing to look up in wonder at a red shouldered hawk soaring circles above me; close enough that the plumage was in detail. The blue jays, the finches, the LBJs (technical term for Little Brown Jobbies...mostly sparrows) , the mourning doves, the ruby throated hummingbirds that make traversing the yard dangerous at times, the swallows feeding at dusk--these matter to me. Exactly why I am not sure, but there is a strange and overwhelming peace that comes from the day to day of these creatures.
And the mysterious Siamese cat that hid in the tall grass and watched my every move, even as my riding mower got closer than most pets would allow. She did nothing but stare at me, and crouch when I got too close. I don't liked to be watched like that; sometimes it feels they know something.
Then my cousin and his dog came over and the dog spent half the time happily licking my foot. Sometimes I just love the stupid simplicity of dogs.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Current
Current Reads:
"The Time Traveler's Wife" Audrey Niffenegger
"Searching for God Knows What" Donald Miller
"Brief History of Nearly Everything" Bill Bryson (I've been reading this for 4 months, its not a quick book. Pick up, put down, process. lather, rinse, repeat.)
"Reading Lolita in Tehran" Azar Nafisi
"Take the Cannoli" Sarah Vowell (this one is on deck)
Current Listens:
"Back to Me" Kathleen Edwards
"Woman King" Iron and Wine
"Shining Like a National Guitar" Paul Simon
"The Mysterious Production of Eggs" Andrew Bird
"Wayward Angel" Kasey Chambers
Current Events:
Bobo returns home w/my niece--May 17th
Birthday--May 27th
DaSpoons in LoCo--June 3rd
Big B-Day BBQ Bash--June 4th
Third Annual Anna/Spooner IG show--June 8th
Old Dominion Brewfest--June 24-26th
Current Thoughts:
(1) In the context of spirituality, what does "perfect will" mean exactly?
(2) When is enough enough?
(3) Can I fit all my stuff in an 8' x10' room?
(4) Lately I've really been feeling super annoying. I am annoyed with me, and I am me.
(5) Is there any hope for us Blue State Christians? I don't want to be a pioneer.
(6) How does one suggest movement would not be discouraged without doing the moving themselves?
(7) Pilades or Yoga?
"The Time Traveler's Wife" Audrey Niffenegger
"Searching for God Knows What" Donald Miller
"Brief History of Nearly Everything" Bill Bryson (I've been reading this for 4 months, its not a quick book. Pick up, put down, process. lather, rinse, repeat.)
"Reading Lolita in Tehran" Azar Nafisi
"Take the Cannoli" Sarah Vowell (this one is on deck)
Current Listens:
"Back to Me" Kathleen Edwards
"Woman King" Iron and Wine
"Shining Like a National Guitar" Paul Simon
"The Mysterious Production of Eggs" Andrew Bird
"Wayward Angel" Kasey Chambers
Current Events:
Bobo returns home w/my niece--May 17th
Birthday--May 27th
DaSpoons in LoCo--June 3rd
Big B-Day BBQ Bash--June 4th
Third Annual Anna/Spooner IG show--June 8th
Old Dominion Brewfest--June 24-26th
Current Thoughts:
(1) In the context of spirituality, what does "perfect will" mean exactly?
(2) When is enough enough?
(3) Can I fit all my stuff in an 8' x10' room?
(4) Lately I've really been feeling super annoying. I am annoyed with me, and I am me.
(5) Is there any hope for us Blue State Christians? I don't want to be a pioneer.
(6) How does one suggest movement would not be discouraged without doing the moving themselves?
(7) Pilades or Yoga?
Friday, May 13, 2005
No Fries With That Baggage
Yesterday I got what some would call a one-two punch of emotion, and poor Liz got the brunt of my reaction to it...Well her and Mr. Sam Adams. It's amazing how much emotional and physical can coincide--how emotional illness can manifest itself in the literal pains. My head was spinning--the wind got knocked out of my heart and head--amazing.
I was in the midst of feeling sorry for myself when I called my dear friend Elena today and found her life to be much, much more entangled than mine (it's ok though, because as Hatcher says, "She has great hair.") and suddenly my problems took a backseat. Elena is one of those friends that I would do almost anything for--like I have no problem traveling great distances or doing impossible tasks just to be with her, to make her life easier. It's automatic, and I say that much more as a tribute to my instincts as to my heart. What makes this better is both my father and my stepmom agree, so the whole household would do pretty much anything to keep her warm and safe. She has the biggest fan base of any of my friends. I'm the president of her fan club; dues are $10/year if you want to join.
So without much thought I bought two bottles of red and met Elena, Chad and Chuck at my house for some reprieve and company. (And comfort cheese!) There is no greater privilege I can think of than to be there for my friends, and I say that as sincerely as possible. Again, I had an unexpected kick to the gut yesterday that I don't particularly want to discuss, a kick I wish never existed.
I feel the culmination of an uncertainity is brewing; one I have little power over. I so know what answer I want, and I have had to literally ask my girlfriends be pessimists for me in this regard, in deference to the onslaught of girly emotion that occurs when the word "future" is closely implied with the idea of "commitment". I think I now have indigestion.
These past few days have brought too many thoughts and too much work, I'll get to you when I can. I haven't forgotten I'm just wicked busy.
I was in the midst of feeling sorry for myself when I called my dear friend Elena today and found her life to be much, much more entangled than mine (it's ok though, because as Hatcher says, "She has great hair.") and suddenly my problems took a backseat. Elena is one of those friends that I would do almost anything for--like I have no problem traveling great distances or doing impossible tasks just to be with her, to make her life easier. It's automatic, and I say that much more as a tribute to my instincts as to my heart. What makes this better is both my father and my stepmom agree, so the whole household would do pretty much anything to keep her warm and safe. She has the biggest fan base of any of my friends. I'm the president of her fan club; dues are $10/year if you want to join.
So without much thought I bought two bottles of red and met Elena, Chad and Chuck at my house for some reprieve and company. (And comfort cheese!) There is no greater privilege I can think of than to be there for my friends, and I say that as sincerely as possible. Again, I had an unexpected kick to the gut yesterday that I don't particularly want to discuss, a kick I wish never existed.
I feel the culmination of an uncertainity is brewing; one I have little power over. I so know what answer I want, and I have had to literally ask my girlfriends be pessimists for me in this regard, in deference to the onslaught of girly emotion that occurs when the word "future" is closely implied with the idea of "commitment". I think I now have indigestion.
These past few days have brought too many thoughts and too much work, I'll get to you when I can. I haven't forgotten I'm just wicked busy.
Monday, May 9, 2005
Community and Compton
(Anna and Elena run the sweep boat at the bottom of Compton rapid on the mighty Shenandoah. The cliffs behind them are over 100ft high)
I shall start this post about happiness with a disclaimer that I am very sunburned and sore and currently have bruises in places that I did not know previously could even bruise, so if I pause my elation to whine, suck it up.
Around 7:30 on Friday night I pulled into my driveway in VA; by 7:30am I was pulling out. My car was only half-unpacked, but I had to be up at camp for a two day canoe program with the 9th grade of a private school from Norfolk on the Shenandoah River north of Luray (pronounced "Loo-Ray" for you Northern folks). I have worked the program in previous years and have loved it. This year Elena, who is one of my best friends and the director of the camp, decided that she and I should be assigned to the lower section of the river for the duration of the program--essentially its the most fun part of the whole trip, and we'd get to run it three times. It's good to have friends in the right places, no?
The whole weekend floored me, because I forgot what it felt like to love what I do. I couldn't stop smiling--it was drizzly and cold on Saturday afternoon and there I was in the stern of this canoe bruised, drenched and grinning.
My co-workers at camp have consistently had a way of leaving me speechless in my descriptions of them and their attitudes. It is refreshing to be surrounded by people who do more than just talk--who are dedicated and who actually live the life they want to live. Working at camp was the best educational experience because each person there had something to teach and was free with their knowledge, and everyone else was receptive to being taught. This weekend I watched while Roc taught Chad capoeira moves, Kate taught yoga to Amy, Elena prepared the most delicious vegetarian meals, Phil played soccer with the kids. When I think of community, I think of these people, because it's never about money or competition or recognition or rank--it's about something far more vast yet much more personal. I don't know exactly what it is, but it inspires me.
I am happy. I am and can recognize it and savor it and bathe myself in it, soaking in the joy that comes when being and doing collide into a refreshing burst of spray.
Tuesday, May 3, 2005
Desk Job
So I haven't owned a desk since I got up here, thus a cardboard box has had to serve this purpose. I just emptied it out. Holy mother. An abbreviated inventory:
1 Huge bottle white elmers glue (unused)
1 Bottle rubber cement (actually used)
3 Boxes of markers (one box is sparkly!)
8 Sarah Spooner pencils (last given as a gift from Aunt Molly in 1998)
1 30-60-90 Triangle
1 45-45-90 Triangle
6 Wine corks
1 Tin of shoe polish
1 TI-82 calculator (last used: 1999)
2 Spare Lisa's Liquor Barn club cards
9 Sharpies (different colors I swear)
1 "Big Ralph Wears Buttons" button
1 GE mini recorder, circa 1987
28 Floppy disks (contents only partially known)
2 Zip Disks (are these still in use?)
5 Highlighters
4 Books of matches from Mosbys (closed in early 2004, shut up, Scott)
1 Screwdriver, made in 8th grade shop class (and the tool used to sear and scar Will Lukens's leg)
1 Compass (the kind that draws the circles)
1 Compass (the kind that draws you north)
1 Lightstick, unused
4 Movie ticket stubs (Last seen: "Melinda and Melinda")
11 AA Batteries of questionable capacity
1 Roll of masking tape of such age that it doesn't come off the roll anymore
2 USB cables, unsused
1 Phone charger, ability to charge in question
2 Photo cropping pencils ('grease pencils')
1 Decorated crab hammer (thank you Mike Koch)
3 Bic lighters
1 Glowing Harry Potter pen
And there is a whole lot more, including about two dozen spare buttons, an architects scale, an industrial strength hole punch and at least 10 pads of post-its, but I've got to go finish packing.
1 Huge bottle white elmers glue (unused)
1 Bottle rubber cement (actually used)
3 Boxes of markers (one box is sparkly!)
8 Sarah Spooner pencils (last given as a gift from Aunt Molly in 1998)
1 30-60-90 Triangle
1 45-45-90 Triangle
6 Wine corks
1 Tin of shoe polish
1 TI-82 calculator (last used: 1999)
2 Spare Lisa's Liquor Barn club cards
9 Sharpies (different colors I swear)
1 "Big Ralph Wears Buttons" button
1 GE mini recorder, circa 1987
28 Floppy disks (contents only partially known)
2 Zip Disks (are these still in use?)
5 Highlighters
4 Books of matches from Mosbys (closed in early 2004, shut up, Scott)
1 Screwdriver, made in 8th grade shop class (and the tool used to sear and scar Will Lukens's leg)
1 Compass (the kind that draws the circles)
1 Compass (the kind that draws you north)
1 Lightstick, unused
4 Movie ticket stubs (Last seen: "Melinda and Melinda")
11 AA Batteries of questionable capacity
1 Roll of masking tape of such age that it doesn't come off the roll anymore
2 USB cables, unsused
1 Phone charger, ability to charge in question
2 Photo cropping pencils ('grease pencils')
1 Decorated crab hammer (thank you Mike Koch)
3 Bic lighters
1 Glowing Harry Potter pen
And there is a whole lot more, including about two dozen spare buttons, an architects scale, an industrial strength hole punch and at least 10 pads of post-its, but I've got to go finish packing.
Monday, May 2, 2005
A Re(a)d Letter Day
As I am in the process of packing, this morning I was going through a box full of papers I had in the hopes of at least making it look sort of organized. Most of it was notes and letters and as I was flipping through them I ran that wide gammut of emotion that is attached to so many memories. I mean I have notes from my best friend and roommate from sophomore year of college (read: 2000-2001), a Valentines Day card from an ex, letters from my little sister to me while I was in college, a note from my very first customers when I was a rafting guide. It was a strange trip down memory lane; a literary guided tour. I can't throw out letters, ever. I just can't do it. I have folders and folders of old notes and letters and I have no desire to ever rid myself of them. They mean something to me. Like I have this homemade Valentine's Day card from an old friend that has written on the inside, "Question #1 and #2" and on the facing page, in large letters "THANKS FOR BUYING ME TAMPONS!" and that's it. That card has never ceased to make me laugh, and I hope to have it long after I forget what Question #1 and #2 were (I haven't forgotten, and I'm not telling you, b/c it's dirty). This morning I guess I let it sink in that I am loved. There are people who know me and love me, and show that to me. How very rarely do I ever consider myself loved; it was nice to be reminded of that today.
Sunday, May 1, 2005
Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?
Normally I don't tell play by play stories in this venue, but I feel this needs to be parlayed into some semblance of a documented account.
I had to work late and was driving home around 9:30 when my normally reserved and homebody roommate Suz called to see if I wanted to go out dancing with her, along with dear friends Ellen and Liz. I was exhausted but it is my last weekend in Roch and felt I needed to seize the moment, a-la carpe diem. I said yes, even though the last thing I wanted was to do was anything that would increase the amount of time between that moment and my bed.
We went out around 11:30, somewhat indecisive about where to go, but ended up at Coyote Joe's on East Ave. After that initial awkwardness that comes when standing around a bar we made our way to the dance floor. I hate dancing about 99% of the time, and this was no exception. But I was in good company and was actually enjoying myself. Around 1am Suz says, "Hey, there are our neighbors," and I turned around to meet Nate and Jeff, the two guys who've lived in the apartment across from us since February but whom I had yet to actually meet. We chatted as much as you can on a crowded dance floor while Lil' Kim's "How Many Licks" is blaring, and Jeff announced his cousin works as a bartender nearby and if we went now it'd be free drinks for the night. Tired of the heat of sweaty bodies and the meatmarket it was becoming, we left. We all had great conversations with each other on the walk over and while there, and marveled that we had lived within 5 feet of each other and hadn't hung out earlier. After the stopover for free drinks the boys got a cab and we had our DD Suz drive us back to what was announced to be my going away party at the boy's apt. (En route to Suz's car, we met a rather sweet drunk boy who was refusing to get into his friend's car, and did our good Samatarian deed for the night) On the way upstairs we got Dan, the downstairs neighbor, to join us. With three of the four apartments in the same room, the inevitable bitching about Fanny and Joel (the boys tells us his name is actually Joe, but come on, Fanny and Joel sounds way better for that scary, spying duo) began, and then the cops showed up to tell us to be quiet. Mind you, at this point there are a total of 8 people in the apartment, with a light background music, and they called the cops. The officers were very nice, and thoroughly surprised to find out that 75% of the apartment building was currently in that one flat. So the music went off and we continued to hang out, laugh and have a great time. At some point we were in all three apartments, comparing carpets and wall colors and other grown-up sounding things. Liz and I ended up on the futon in my apt, having the customary heart-to-heart that seems to occur after every one of our evenings out and watching through the blinds as the sun rose.
It was one of those nights that's never expected but thoroughly enjoyed, and I realized I'm going to miss this place a whole lot more than I ever could have imagined.
I had to work late and was driving home around 9:30 when my normally reserved and homebody roommate Suz called to see if I wanted to go out dancing with her, along with dear friends Ellen and Liz. I was exhausted but it is my last weekend in Roch and felt I needed to seize the moment, a-la carpe diem. I said yes, even though the last thing I wanted was to do was anything that would increase the amount of time between that moment and my bed.
We went out around 11:30, somewhat indecisive about where to go, but ended up at Coyote Joe's on East Ave. After that initial awkwardness that comes when standing around a bar we made our way to the dance floor. I hate dancing about 99% of the time, and this was no exception. But I was in good company and was actually enjoying myself. Around 1am Suz says, "Hey, there are our neighbors," and I turned around to meet Nate and Jeff, the two guys who've lived in the apartment across from us since February but whom I had yet to actually meet. We chatted as much as you can on a crowded dance floor while Lil' Kim's "How Many Licks" is blaring, and Jeff announced his cousin works as a bartender nearby and if we went now it'd be free drinks for the night. Tired of the heat of sweaty bodies and the meatmarket it was becoming, we left. We all had great conversations with each other on the walk over and while there, and marveled that we had lived within 5 feet of each other and hadn't hung out earlier. After the stopover for free drinks the boys got a cab and we had our DD Suz drive us back to what was announced to be my going away party at the boy's apt. (En route to Suz's car, we met a rather sweet drunk boy who was refusing to get into his friend's car, and did our good Samatarian deed for the night) On the way upstairs we got Dan, the downstairs neighbor, to join us. With three of the four apartments in the same room, the inevitable bitching about Fanny and Joel (the boys tells us his name is actually Joe, but come on, Fanny and Joel sounds way better for that scary, spying duo) began, and then the cops showed up to tell us to be quiet. Mind you, at this point there are a total of 8 people in the apartment, with a light background music, and they called the cops. The officers were very nice, and thoroughly surprised to find out that 75% of the apartment building was currently in that one flat. So the music went off and we continued to hang out, laugh and have a great time. At some point we were in all three apartments, comparing carpets and wall colors and other grown-up sounding things. Liz and I ended up on the futon in my apt, having the customary heart-to-heart that seems to occur after every one of our evenings out and watching through the blinds as the sun rose.
It was one of those nights that's never expected but thoroughly enjoyed, and I realized I'm going to miss this place a whole lot more than I ever could have imagined.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Nuclear 101 (through 238)
So: Nuclear Power. If you can pronounce it, we can talk about it (that means W, stop here).
An editorial in the Washington Post this morning discussed the reemergence of nuclear power plants throughout the world, and how this is a positive step for cleaner, more reliable energy, and how "...this thinking is eclipsing old-school anti-nuclear environmentalism."
Uh-oh.
My first reaction was, "WHAT!?" Do they know WHY environmentalism was anti-nuclear in the first place? It isn't just because melt-downs can and have caused worldwide radioactive contamination that have killed thousands over a long, slow agonizing period, or that in this age of homeland security nuclear power plants are essentially huge HIT IT HERE marks.
First and foremost, by switching more completely to nuclear power, we aren't solving anything. We are replacing one finite resource (and hazardous bi-product) with another. Historically this has occurred, with the same basic results: we run out and switch to something else. We (as a species) relied on wood for energy and heat; we began to run out of trees. So we went to blubber; we ran low on whales. Then on to coal; mined up the most available of it. Switch to petroleum; now we go to war and dig up things we've historically called 'Wildlife Refuges' to find even a tiny bit more. Nuclear power is no different--we will mine pitchblende and refine it until we run low, then this situation will arise again. At least we are consistent, no?
The biggest problem with nuclear power is that its waste isn't CO2 (as it is with wood, coal and petroleum) but rather, radioactive spent fuel rods, that have a half-life of between 6,500 and 24,000 but can be up to 4.47 billion years (yeah that's billion years. The half-life depends on the amount of P-240 and U-238 isotopes left in the rod--the more U-238, the greater the half-life). Basically that means that the fuel rods are, and will be, highly radioactive for at least that amount of time. So radioactive in fact that they cannot be handled, breathed or around organisms or water; they must be held in an lead and concrete lined, secure area. Hence the whole Yucca Mountain debate, where the US government is trying to assure us that they can build a secure facility that can hold these spent radioactive fuel rods for the next 24,000 years or so without them leaking, being dug up and used for weapons, or killing us all.
Nuclear Power Basics:
Nuclear power plants are run similarly to a coal or petroleum power plant--they create enough steam to drive massive turbines, which generate immense amounts of power. This energy is from nuclear fission, which is sorta complicated and I won't get into it, dealing with nuclei being split with neutron. Ooh big chem words. The basic "fuel" is uranium, which has three basic isotopes found naturally: U-235, U-238, and U-238 (difference: number of neutrons, but you knew that). The isotope U-235 is important because under certain conditions it can be easily split, producing immense amounts of energy, so that's the magic potion for the power plants.
Lots of science makes the U-235 eventually break down into P-240 (plutonium isotope), and when the level of U-235 in the rods is too low, the spent fuel rods are removed (an average power plant produces about 25 tonnes a year, each containing about 640lbs of plutonium). Now there is a process to recycle these rods to get the 'usable' isotopes out of those spent fuel rods, but guess which is the only country in the world that won't do it? Yup. That's US. So yeah, that's some really, really nasty shit that we get to keep as little rods that we must hang onto for 20,000 years or so.
And here's my favorite part: the SO WHAT? factor...
While nuclear power is much more efficient than any of the current generators, it is still finite, extremely hazardous and produces long-term byproducts that we are not equipped to deal with.
The solution that needs to be addressed is not just our source of power, but the ridiculous amount we use. Basically we just need to use less, which requires a greater paradigm shift than a shift in power supply allows.
Curtain.
An editorial in the Washington Post this morning discussed the reemergence of nuclear power plants throughout the world, and how this is a positive step for cleaner, more reliable energy, and how "...this thinking is eclipsing old-school anti-nuclear environmentalism."
Uh-oh.
My first reaction was, "WHAT!?" Do they know WHY environmentalism was anti-nuclear in the first place? It isn't just because melt-downs can and have caused worldwide radioactive contamination that have killed thousands over a long, slow agonizing period, or that in this age of homeland security nuclear power plants are essentially huge HIT IT HERE marks.
First and foremost, by switching more completely to nuclear power, we aren't solving anything. We are replacing one finite resource (and hazardous bi-product) with another. Historically this has occurred, with the same basic results: we run out and switch to something else. We (as a species) relied on wood for energy and heat; we began to run out of trees. So we went to blubber; we ran low on whales. Then on to coal; mined up the most available of it. Switch to petroleum; now we go to war and dig up things we've historically called 'Wildlife Refuges' to find even a tiny bit more. Nuclear power is no different--we will mine pitchblende and refine it until we run low, then this situation will arise again. At least we are consistent, no?
The biggest problem with nuclear power is that its waste isn't CO2 (as it is with wood, coal and petroleum) but rather, radioactive spent fuel rods, that have a half-life of between 6,500 and 24,000 but can be up to 4.47 billion years (yeah that's billion years. The half-life depends on the amount of P-240 and U-238 isotopes left in the rod--the more U-238, the greater the half-life). Basically that means that the fuel rods are, and will be, highly radioactive for at least that amount of time. So radioactive in fact that they cannot be handled, breathed or around organisms or water; they must be held in an lead and concrete lined, secure area. Hence the whole Yucca Mountain debate, where the US government is trying to assure us that they can build a secure facility that can hold these spent radioactive fuel rods for the next 24,000 years or so without them leaking, being dug up and used for weapons, or killing us all.
Nuclear Power Basics:
Nuclear power plants are run similarly to a coal or petroleum power plant--they create enough steam to drive massive turbines, which generate immense amounts of power. This energy is from nuclear fission, which is sorta complicated and I won't get into it, dealing with nuclei being split with neutron. Ooh big chem words. The basic "fuel" is uranium, which has three basic isotopes found naturally: U-235, U-238, and U-238 (difference: number of neutrons, but you knew that). The isotope U-235 is important because under certain conditions it can be easily split, producing immense amounts of energy, so that's the magic potion for the power plants.
Lots of science makes the U-235 eventually break down into P-240 (plutonium isotope), and when the level of U-235 in the rods is too low, the spent fuel rods are removed (an average power plant produces about 25 tonnes a year, each containing about 640lbs of plutonium). Now there is a process to recycle these rods to get the 'usable' isotopes out of those spent fuel rods, but guess which is the only country in the world that won't do it? Yup. That's US. So yeah, that's some really, really nasty shit that we get to keep as little rods that we must hang onto for 20,000 years or so.
And here's my favorite part: the SO WHAT? factor...
While nuclear power is much more efficient than any of the current generators, it is still finite, extremely hazardous and produces long-term byproducts that we are not equipped to deal with.
The solution that needs to be addressed is not just our source of power, but the ridiculous amount we use. Basically we just need to use less, which requires a greater paradigm shift than a shift in power supply allows.
Curtain.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
By Grace My Sight Grows Stronger
This morning I had my mp3s on shuffle and "Philosophy of Loss" by the Indigo Girls came on. It was the secret song on their 1999 album and every time I listen to it the words slay me. In the song, Emily Sailers writes,
"Modern scribes write
In Jesus Christ everyone is free
And the doors open wide to all straight men and women
But they are not open to me..."
The first time I heard that I think I cried. I want to scream. I am a Christian, but it seems the only thing I agree with other Christians about is Christ. I am strongly convicted by certain social issues, issues that I believe are greater than the right/wrong polarity the "religious right" make them out to be. Thing is, I have to believe that Christ is greater than the gay-marriage debate, the abortion debate, the Iraq war, the red state/blue state battle. If I don't believe that---well, I don't know what would happen. My convictions or my beliefs? I don't want to simply accept that the doors should be closed for anyone, I cannot gloss over the idea that certain "sins" can be seen as ok, while others are grounds for ostracizing everyone else. I am a sinner! Kick me out! The Apostle Paul spent his life killing Christians before his conversion, yet wrote most of the New Testament. In 1 Corinthians 15:10 he says, "But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect." Why then, have we lost this ability to see everyone around us as works in progress, as beautifully imperfect? By the grace of God I am what I am--who are you to say that that grace is not without effect? Let grace be effective and the world will change.
I should say that I do not believe, to any degree, that homosexuality is a sin. At all. I am vehement in this. I considered volunteering in ministry but wavered when I read what they wanted me to sign, stating that homosexuality was a sin. I cannot--I will not--put my name on that which I am fighting against. But I look at those I love who are gay--family included--and my heart breaks at the religious rejection they face. It is a struggle to put my name into the group that can look my brother in the eye and say he is not welcome into the house of God, simply because he is himself. Why is it that what I have done is forgivable, but who he is can be unacceptable? He is my brother, and I know, with my whole heart, that he is loved by Christ.
And how dare you to tell him otherwise.
"Modern scribes write
In Jesus Christ everyone is free
And the doors open wide to all straight men and women
But they are not open to me..."
The first time I heard that I think I cried. I want to scream. I am a Christian, but it seems the only thing I agree with other Christians about is Christ. I am strongly convicted by certain social issues, issues that I believe are greater than the right/wrong polarity the "religious right" make them out to be. Thing is, I have to believe that Christ is greater than the gay-marriage debate, the abortion debate, the Iraq war, the red state/blue state battle. If I don't believe that---well, I don't know what would happen. My convictions or my beliefs? I don't want to simply accept that the doors should be closed for anyone, I cannot gloss over the idea that certain "sins" can be seen as ok, while others are grounds for ostracizing everyone else. I am a sinner! Kick me out! The Apostle Paul spent his life killing Christians before his conversion, yet wrote most of the New Testament. In 1 Corinthians 15:10 he says, "But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect." Why then, have we lost this ability to see everyone around us as works in progress, as beautifully imperfect? By the grace of God I am what I am--who are you to say that that grace is not without effect? Let grace be effective and the world will change.
I should say that I do not believe, to any degree, that homosexuality is a sin. At all. I am vehement in this. I considered volunteering in ministry but wavered when I read what they wanted me to sign, stating that homosexuality was a sin. I cannot--I will not--put my name on that which I am fighting against. But I look at those I love who are gay--family included--and my heart breaks at the religious rejection they face. It is a struggle to put my name into the group that can look my brother in the eye and say he is not welcome into the house of God, simply because he is himself. Why is it that what I have done is forgivable, but who he is can be unacceptable? He is my brother, and I know, with my whole heart, that he is loved by Christ.
And how dare you to tell him otherwise.
The Cut
As per request, here is the haircut. This photo makes my forehead look big. This is me getting the necessary shot after said cut.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Life/Hair
First and foremost: Yes I changed the name of my blog. Not that you noticed, but now that I said it go ahead and look. Fresh start and all, and the old one was just too long. This is probably the 4th or 5th name change said blog has had in the two and a half years of its existence. It morphs, get over it.
Blame it on the fact that I never had a goldfish as a kid.
So yesterday I chopped my hair off.
It was 8 or 9 inches of hair just gone, lobbed off in the name of thousands of thoughts and reasons, and a rather serious hatred of the pony tail.
Why do we women make hair changes out to be life changing moments?
I definitely do--I can remember what happened before or after I had big hair changes, how they sort of narrate the seasons, relationships, hopes, fears, trips, trials. I've been wanting to cut my hair since before graduation, and somehow haven't been able to muster the courage to do so. I had this strange conviction that when I did it would be symbolic--of what I haven't been able to fully note, and therein lies its mystery. Strange how something as seemingly minor as a hair cut could signify an actual shift in something greater.
Afterward, my friend and I went straight to the bar next door for a double shot. The bartender looked at us and said, "What are you two ladies doing in here at 3pm on a Wednesday?" and I told her that I'd just had 8 inches of hair chopped off and she smiled and understood.
It's the closest I may ever come to starting clean slated.
Blame it on the fact that I never had a goldfish as a kid.
So yesterday I chopped my hair off.
It was 8 or 9 inches of hair just gone, lobbed off in the name of thousands of thoughts and reasons, and a rather serious hatred of the pony tail.
Why do we women make hair changes out to be life changing moments?
I definitely do--I can remember what happened before or after I had big hair changes, how they sort of narrate the seasons, relationships, hopes, fears, trips, trials. I've been wanting to cut my hair since before graduation, and somehow haven't been able to muster the courage to do so. I had this strange conviction that when I did it would be symbolic--of what I haven't been able to fully note, and therein lies its mystery. Strange how something as seemingly minor as a hair cut could signify an actual shift in something greater.
Afterward, my friend and I went straight to the bar next door for a double shot. The bartender looked at us and said, "What are you two ladies doing in here at 3pm on a Wednesday?" and I told her that I'd just had 8 inches of hair chopped off and she smiled and understood.
It's the closest I may ever come to starting clean slated.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Just Call Me Angela Basset
Lately I've been really obsessed with questions about reality and generations and future and politics and emotional turmoil and thankfully today I was freed a bit from my thinking. The sun's glorious warmth and busting out my cropped pants for the first time all year added to the ease of the mind. It's amazing how a little bit of a wardrobe change can solidify the shift. Today was supposed to get to 80 and did not disappoint, though yes there still is a snowpile out side the work windows. This is a weird, weird place, this state.
My friend called to see what time I got off work, and I met Liz and Paul at my apartment, changed quickly and took the forested trail to Linear Park (which, for some reason, I can't stop calling Learner, b/c I can't seem to 'learn' the correct name--get it?? bah.). I got way too excited about the creek that wound beside the path, as I am a recovering kayaker who is unable to stop the planning of vicarious paddling routes of any and all bodies of moving water. This creek would have been KILLER if I was half my size. I would probably paddle it now just to make myself feel better about my skills, but as I haven't paddling in a long time it would probably work me anyway. Dammit. Anyway, so we find a nice grassy area and Paul proceeds to set up a rather wide croquet golf course, and the games commence. Down the hill, under the picnic table, deflect off the trash can, move those dang sticks, etc. It was a rousing game and a beautiful time to do it.
Back to the apt in time for the new Gilmore Girls (Lorelai Gilmore is my TV BFF. don't judge me) while Paul cooked for us (WOOHOO!). And if you add in the Yancy's Fancy cheese with triscuits and green apples it's like heaven!
Basically, everything about this afternoon/evening clicked. It flowed and it was, it simply was and what a refreshing thing simply being can be, when being is so relentlessly complicated. I can exhale into the spring, and feel myself gain life again. I waited to exhale, and I finally can.
(Hence the Angela Basset comment..."Waiting to Exhale"? Oh nevermind.)
My friend called to see what time I got off work, and I met Liz and Paul at my apartment, changed quickly and took the forested trail to Linear Park (which, for some reason, I can't stop calling Learner, b/c I can't seem to 'learn' the correct name--get it?? bah.). I got way too excited about the creek that wound beside the path, as I am a recovering kayaker who is unable to stop the planning of vicarious paddling routes of any and all bodies of moving water. This creek would have been KILLER if I was half my size. I would probably paddle it now just to make myself feel better about my skills, but as I haven't paddling in a long time it would probably work me anyway. Dammit. Anyway, so we find a nice grassy area and Paul proceeds to set up a rather wide croquet golf course, and the games commence. Down the hill, under the picnic table, deflect off the trash can, move those dang sticks, etc. It was a rousing game and a beautiful time to do it.
Back to the apt in time for the new Gilmore Girls (Lorelai Gilmore is my TV BFF. don't judge me) while Paul cooked for us (WOOHOO!). And if you add in the Yancy's Fancy cheese with triscuits and green apples it's like heaven!
Basically, everything about this afternoon/evening clicked. It flowed and it was, it simply was and what a refreshing thing simply being can be, when being is so relentlessly complicated. I can exhale into the spring, and feel myself gain life again. I waited to exhale, and I finally can.
(Hence the Angela Basset comment..."Waiting to Exhale"? Oh nevermind.)
Memo to: Spooner:
The Rhetorical Question Society called. They said you went way over your limit in that last post. This is a warning. You should up your rhetorical question limit if you plan to use that many again in a post, b/c those overages are a bitch.
Also, readers hate rhetorical questions, you sniveling intellectual wannabe.
With love,
-Your wiser half
The Rhetorical Question Society called. They said you went way over your limit in that last post. This is a warning. You should up your rhetorical question limit if you plan to use that many again in a post, b/c those overages are a bitch.
Also, readers hate rhetorical questions, you sniveling intellectual wannabe.
With love,
-Your wiser half
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