Blog 2.0

I used to post all the time, but then I took an arrow to the knee.

Ahem.

I am planning out a project to get the blog juices flowing again: It seems that because I have a relatively small social circle at the moment, or at least a small circle of socials who socialize me regularly, I haven't had as much food for thought.

Actually, that's something of a lie. I'm taking a pre-law class this quarter that has sparked some rather thrilling controversies in class. However, real life seems to be swallowing the internet in this area, because every time I've tried to sit and recount one of my favorite arguments, the energy just drains out of me, and I stare placidly and blankly at the screen trying to find some witty thing to say.

It's getting to the point that I may have to force myself to do some sort of challenge and punish myself for the inevitable failure. I don't know specifics yet, but it's seems like this could  be a thing.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the new music and background. I decided that in honor of a sort-of-spring returning to the Great Northwet, I would update everything. There are still some things I haven't figured out how to fix - for some reason, the "About Me" and "Contact" pages are producing doubles, but hey - New Background!

I'll talk to y'all later,
B

Sidelined by life

Well, I'm back, even if only momentarily. I've had so many great ideas for new posts, but life has been catching up with me in the past few months. I took calculus and a pre-med class last quarter, and this quarter a lovely pre-law class is glaring threateningly down my neck. Friends, illness, school, and extra-curiculars are all regulars on my handy-dandy list o' excuses, but I also had to complete the second step of applying to my dream school's honors program. This second step consists of ten questions that must be answered "thoroughly, as to provide a view of the prospective student, both as an individual, and academically." Some were easy: "List three reasons you would be a good fit with the Honors Institute" and "describe a time your core beliefs were recently challenged," took very little time to write.

The real kicker was "Excluding the Bible, what are your three favourite books? Explain why you chose these three." All told, I think I spent a good 2-3 hours trying to answer this question. And today's post is my answer to that question, sort of. Enjoy.

This question is very difficult for me to answer: I have spent at least an hour trying to decide my three favorite books. I have an advanced case of bibliophilia, and I don’t “enjoy” books. I live in them; swim through them; smell, taste, touch and savor them until they become an intrinsic part of my personhood. Even after removing the Bible from this consideration, I have a sheet with the names of 16 of my absolute favorite books sitting in my lap. To choose a miserly three would be to ignore the impact of so many other books on my life and my thinking. Who am I kidding? This current list is the result of staring at my reading list, pondering which three to choose: Do I choose philosophical books, written by the likes of Jean-Jacques Rosseau or Aristotle to impress the faculty reading my answers? Or should I choose the autobiographies and histories that have inspired me to fight dragons where ever I find them? Should I consider the works of fiction that, by reflecting God’s Eternal Story, have invaded my dreams and imaginings? How can I go about pruning the already-abbreviated list to my advantage?

In the end, I have decided to include the books which have already had, or are likely to create, a lasting impression in my life. Though these three are by no means exhaustive, I hope they can give you greater insight into the stories that stick with me.

My first influential book is “Orthodoxy” by G.K. Chesterton. This could give you an idea of how influential Chesterton has been in my worldview: Four of the final list of sixteen books were authored by Chesterton. Were I to open ‘Orthodoxy’ to my favorite passage, I would have to read the entire book. Whether Chesterton is describing Christianity as a carriage pulled by galloping horses or a rock held in balance by its extremes; or discussing insanity, fairy tales, and courage, ‘Orthodoxy’ has irrevocably changed the way I view my Savior and my God.  Before reading this book, I had always viewed Christianity as a dusty, dried-up, moderate religion that discouraged its practitioners from imaginings, from passions, and from extravagance. My mental image of the body of Christ was akin to one of the Pilgrims from William Bradford’s journals: sober, stale, and not very interesting. However, Chesterton opened my eyes to the extravagances of my faith. “This is the thrilling romance of Orthodoxy. People have fallen into a foolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum, and safe. There never was anything so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy. It was sanity: and to be sane is more dramatic than to be mad. … To have fallen into any of the fads from Gnosticism to Christian Science would indeed have been obvious and tame. But to have avoided them all has been one whirling adventure; and in my vision the heavenly chariot flies thundering through the ages, the dull heresies sprawling and prostrate, the wild truth reeling but erect.”

I am having a hard time choosing between Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables” and Jane Porter’s “The Scottish Chiefs” for the second influential book. Both sparked my imagination in entirely different ways. While they are, ultimately, the stories of a man making his way through life, their respective scopes are quite separate. “Les Miserables” is the story of one man’s journey to shape his and his adoptive daughter’s future, mostly unrelated to the historical conflicts occurring at the time; “The Scottish Chiefs” is about one man’s journey to shape his country’s future without regard for his own safety. “Les Miserables” concerns itself with the seemingly mundane: one anonymous man’s life and goals. “The Scottish Chiefs” is more grandiose: true, it tells the story of William Wallace, but its subject is an important historical figure.

However, both follow one man’s quest to change what may be considered “the inevitable.” And whether it’s the image of Wallace blowing his bugle and leaping on the rocky craigs of Scotland; or Valjean staggering his way through the Parisian sewers to rescue Marius; Wallace’s escape from prison; or Javert’s leap into the water; the two stories inspire me to fight for the good, the true, and the noble. These men’s struggles set my imagination on fire, and tell me to never settle for the mediocre.

My final influential book is a little more obscure than the others I’ve mentioned. When I was just learning to read, my Dad and I read this book on the sly: to this day, Mom has never truly appreciated “And God Created Squash” by Martha Hickman. It’s a colorfully illustrated re-telling of the Creation story, but rather than focusing on the actual events of that first week, “And God Created Squash” looks instead to God’s delight in His creation. The days are mentioned, but, as the title implies, it is mainly about Squash: how it’s delicious to say; how it’s both a plant and a sound and an action. This book taught me how to experience the world in a different way. It showed me in the most powerful terms possible for a five-year-old that the world was full of wonderful things; that God created all of it; and that God takes as much delight in His creation as we should. It taught me to marvel, to observe, and to be made giddy by the wonderful things we interact with every day. It is safe to say that I will still be reading “And God Created Squash” well into old age.

Dwarves

 This is mostly for my own entertainment. Mocking myself is one of my specialties. If you dislike self-centered commentary, I have to ask, why are you even reading my blog?

To say that Problematic has a hard time running would be an understatement. I have always sympathized with Gimli, but in this area especially. There are less than fond memories residing in the dark recesses of my mind of the time my youth soccer coaches tried to move me from the right forward position to a center midfielder. I generally lasted for three laps up and down the field before getting horrible cramps and pondering Seppuku on the ball.

Now, despite those ill-fated interactions with midfield defense, my inability to run has never really bothered me all that much. I was an antisocial little tweenling, and once I discovered speech and debate, it seemed to me like I would never have to run again.

Well, I'm pretty sure you all know how this turns out. You see, Ultimate Frisbee and Capture the Flag were, and are, rather closely-held rituals among the forensors of my region. Got twenty five minutes before the next round? Pull out the ol' discus and let's get cracking.

I tend to avoid such events. I mean, no use embarrassing myself by curling up in the middle of the pitch in the fetal position, gasping for breath like an asphyxiating fish, right? Then my speech club started planning Capture the Flag, Ultimate Frisbee, Freeze Tag, and Water Fight events in the middle of summer, and since I was starting to outgrow most of my antisocialness, I would attend. And get soaked. One particular summer, I can clearly recall this:


I'm jogging along in the park, watching the toddlers trip past me, feeling pretty good about this fight. I've got a styrofoam cup and a water bottle, all ready to defend myself against any would-be attackers. The Professor and Cassandra and Mrs. Incredible and Calvin and all the other heavy-hitters at these things are busy playing catch-me-if-you-can over on the other side of the wide grassy space. Maybe I'll escape this time with minimum wetness. The world is good. I've been jogging for over five minutes, and I think my stamina might really be improving. 


That's when I hear the rumbling of the distant water fight grow louder. I turn, and see the Professor barreling towards me with a two gallon jug (which used to contain ice tea) brandished aloft. I can see the now-depleted tea bags sloshing inside with the water. There is no mistaking the Prof's intent. I break into a sprint. I sustain it for a minute. And then, my legs give notice. They refuse to run any more. As I slow back into my snail-racing jog, I turn to meet my fate. Time seems to go into slow motion as the Professor slowly upturns the two gallons over my head. To add insult to injury, he's smiling maniacally the entire time. 


Granted, I got my revenge after the fight by pouring styrofoam cups full of water on top of his head and giggling as his hair gel dripped out, but that was small comfort in light of the streams of water falling from the hem of my shorts.

Before continuing this scintillating conversation about physical limits, I should probably explain precisely why I cannot run. There is a reason, and it's not because I'm too lazy to try. When I was younger (see 7-12) I attended a ballet studio. This was not your little community ballet school that's all about inspiring little girls and letting big girls get out their itch to dance. It was run by a former Principal Ballerina from the Kirov, and it's purpose was to prepare young dancers for a career in classical ballet. I loved it - at my peak, I was attending classes every night of the week, usually for four or more hours. By the end, I had gone en pointe, was performing in ballets and basically living my dream.

About six months after I first went en pointe, my teacher had me come to her office. She told my mother and I that the pain I was experiencing from this new style was not normal, and if I was to continue attending her studio, I would be required to visit a podiatrist to ensure that I didn't give myself permanent injury.

To make a long story short, I was out of the program within nine months of discovering that, in addition to the additional bones and bonespurs within my ankles and the balls of my feet, I had five different acute inflammations. Surgery was too expensive to correct my feet, and the podiatrist gave me a list of prohibited activities. I cannot tap dance, do jazz and modern, or any activity that involves repetitive pressure stress to feet. And in case you didn't catch it, running is repetitive stress to my feet.

I have found over the years that most of my friends subscribe to the "granola" theory of exercise: If you can't do it without machines, you shouldn't do it for exercise. Need to get that blood pumping? Go for an invigorating run in the early hours and be green.

Being myself, I have invariably felt pressured to go with on one of those nice, easy, "it's just two miles" cross-country jogs in the wee hours with my friends. Why lounge around their house for thirty minutes, feeling like a lazy slob when I could spend the next thirty minutes in exquisite agony, making up more and more ridiculous excuses for why I'm falling behind?

Well, suffice it to say, I have recently come to grips with the fact that I will probably never be able to run. I'll just have to comfort myself with Gimli and maybe enjoy a nice cold ginger ale.

Blessings

I drove down to an NCFCA tournament on Saturday to see some of my old friends. It was so lovely! Besides catching up with many of my friends, the entire atmosphere was very uplifting.

It feels like Saturday was, in some ways, a little gift from God. It was such a blessing to hear people praying, not cursing with God' name. To talk with my guy friends and have them ask what I was up to, not what my name and number was. To discuss the theological implications of secular songs, not what I'm doing on Friday night.

It really, really blessed me. Words cannot describe the joy that is still filling my heart, even as I sit in the computer lab of my college. I'm afraid I took that environment for granted while I was in the thick of it. I took it for granted that young men would be gentlemen, that they'd open doors for me and respect my feminity as a sister in Christ. I took it for granted that I would be expected to act with grace and love.

And it felt so good to be back.

For all my friends in Southern Oregon and Idaho: it was wonderful seeing you again. I've missed your company, and I pray God would continue to manifest Himself in your lives. I love you all.

B

Mercies Anew

Hi guys. It's me, you know, Problematic? I used to post here a lot. I'm sorry for having abandoned this little corner of the interwebs for so long. There have been a lot of projects and assignments coming due recently, which has limited my recreational internet use to the extreme.  For those who have emailed me in the past three weeks (including but not limited to Calvin, Tragedy101, and Mirriam,) I plan on responding sometime next week or there abouts.

As for posts here, I actually have a couple of long posts that I've been desperately scrambling to finish and yet haven't quite succeeded. In the meantime, I'd like to share just a little piece of God's provision that just happened in my life.

My family is all fairly tech-savvy, with the exception of my mom. The direct implication of this is that while Thursday, dad, and I, all have mp3 players and headphones, Mom generally has to borrow someone's earbuds to listen to a movie or sermon on her laptop. There's no problem with that.

On Monday, Mom borrowed my ear buds to listen to a sermon while I was at symphony rehearsal. She didn't end up using them, but recalled having them for most of the time I was gone. However, when I got home and she went to return them, the ear buds were nowhere to be found.

Now, I commute two hours every day, and to drown out the more unsavory conversations I may overhear on the bus, I listen to my iPod while doing something else. In light of this fact, I probably should have been getting upset over the missing head phones the night before my long commute. I distinctly remember thinking at the time that I should be more upset, but I only felt a deep-set apathy. Dad found me a pair of junky ear buds, and I went to school the next day.

But this is where things get interesting. While Dad was at work, he met with a local representative of a national audio-equipment manufacturer. This rep gave my dad a very nice set of ear buds, the day after I had lost my own. When I saw Dad that night, he gave me a fancy little box with these new ear buds in them, and I was totally shocked.

I had been planning on spending a fair amount of money to replace my missing head phones, but instead, God provided in an area I never even expected!

So yeah, that's my uplifting anecdote. :) Happy Thursday!

B

[snow]

The clouds are slowly spreading across the night sky, blotting out the stars with white, edges outlined by the rising moon. She hides coyly behind them, teasing us mortals below with glimpses of her beautiful face. I gaze up, watching my breath escape to join its comrades before the moon. They tower up in the heavens, majestic and silent, but growing. The clouds are gathering their strength, pushing against the mountains on either side, unable to cross from their heavy burden.

Snow.

As the moon retreats behind another bank of storm clouds, the smell of snow comes into the air. Cold, crisp, and undefiled, like summer's rain preserved for winter. The wind sings to the moon, gusting the sound of sea gulls across her face. It dances to its own rhythm, wooing her with its eddies.

As we watch, the clouds begin to sink, bending down to drift between the trees. They float in and out among the pines while the moon watches from above. And then, she sighs contentedly.

One solitary flake drifts down, one piece of the moon's splendor, to touch the face of the earth. It alights, vanishes, only to be replaced by another. Faster and faster they come, the kisses multiplying until the object of their affection is no longer visible. And now there is a storm. The wind snatches at the flakes, jealous of their attention. It whirls them around in a dance, spinning and reeling in the cold January night.

I stand, feeling the kisses of heaven on my face, the jealousy of the wind, and relief of the clouds all on my face. There are no more stars, only snow.

Inflatable Monkey Wrenches

In an attempt to alleviate the super-mundane thoughts that have been cluttering my head since the fall, I've started a twitter account. If you want to know the weird little things happen to me during daily life, go to this finely crafted link to read all about my mundanities.

If you're not interested, you must be a reader of extremely discerning taste. My congratulations.

I hope that by creating this account, I'll be able to save the actually interesting things for It's Raining, and let my more intellectually rigorous followers choose how much of Problematic's spastic musings to expose themselves to.

That's all for now.

School started again today. I can't help but feel a little overwhelmed. Why? Because in addition to my normal 15 credit load and music requirements, I've got two college applications due in next week. I have to record my violin audition, apply for a job, write a speech, and somehow manage to have a social life, since some of my recently returned college friends are still in town for a few weeks.

Ack. I can't wait until January is over.

Figgy Pudding

Why, hello there. You must be the replacement year I ordered six months ago. What took you so long? Oh, yeah, I get it. Back-orders are a nasty affair. Well, I'm so glad you're here. Let me show you around a little bit. There's some figgy pudding warming up on the stov- oh, yes, fire is totally expected.  Now, over here is photo album from the last year...

I started it with the best of intentions, I really did. But the time, it just started to slide out of my fingers in this maddeningly deliberate stream. I soon lost myself in myriads of schoolwork and tournaments.

Would you believe that I attended nine tournaments last year? NINE! To list those off in quick order, I was at the Concordia Challenge, the Clarion Qualifier, the Puget Sound Qualifier, the Inland Northwest Qualifier, the Emerald City Qualifier, the Tulip Cup, Region 2's Regional Invitational, the National Invitational Tournament of Champions, and the National Championship.

At the Puget Sound Qualifier, I ended up competing in a debate form entirely new to myself - namely, Team Policy. And the most surprising thing was, I actually placed/got speaker awards in the new form, too!

You could say I was pretty successful in speech and debate last year. And I would most likely agree. But I consider it far more important to our new partnership that I am now an alumni of homeschool. highschool speech and debate. That's right. I no longer compete.

Over last summer, I went on two road trips to California in the space of three months, with entirely different people. Both road trips were amazing, for different reasons. I spent over a month on the East Coast, all the way from Boston to Key West and back up to DC. I attended a conservative political leadership camp, and alternated between loathing it and loving it.

I taught at speech camp again, but otherwise had a very low-key summer. Three sets of friends finally started dating. I lost some friends  and gained some new ones. And then I started college last fall.  See? That's me on my first day of school. Pretty skittish looking, I know.


Classic Epic Times: Debating my duo partner Calvin, hanging with Rubbish and Gabs in Old Town San Diego (especially when we found the root beer shop), playing music in the cold with Gray, peach goo fights with Ophelia and Tenor and HatGuy, wandering around DC with an unlimited Metro pass and no parental supervision, the road trip to Southern Oregon with Cassandra and Shorty and Shrimpy, zip-lining in Hannah's backyard and falling off, watching Hot Rod with Jay-EE and Lil Clay, Shorty running into a handicapped parking sign with her face, singing the Water Buffalo song in a final round of impromptu and WINNING,

First: Serious sharing of testimony, pregnant friend, time on a subway, time in a cab, time throwing up in a museum, time being 18,  time hating a friend, time at a Sounders game,

Most nostalgic songs: Mood Rings, Butterflies and Hurricanes, I've Got Friends, Shankhill Butchers, the Water Buffalo song,  Na Na Na, Float, Scalliwag, Nine in the Afternoon, Famous Last Words, Ain't No Rest For the Wicked, Sara Smiles, Resistance, Apres Moi, Soul Meets Body, Fever

Favorite memories: Summer Waterfights, star gazing with Gray and Ophelia, singing the doxology with Ophelia and Tenor and Sethasaurus in the peach fields, hanging with Calvin and practicing duo, my amazing speech club, being kidnapped by Gray and Ophelia and HatMan and MusicMan, painting my face green at a Sounders game with Pipsqueak, being a penguin with Wrath, and then with Cassandra and the Professor and Ms. Incredible, singing nonsense with Ms. Incredible, debating with Mr.Affable and then against him in Finals.

Major Hits: Mrs. Jackson, chains in my hair, little black dresses and little black swimsuits, Pass-A-Grille Florida, classy high heels, team policy debate, peppermint hot chocolates,

Best Books:  Mr. Monster, I Don't Want To Kill You, the Book Thief, I Am the Messenger, Alan Wake, I Surf Therefore I Am, not a fan, The Once and Future King,

Best Music:  Paul Baloche, Muse, the Decemberists, Peter Bradley Adams, My Chemical Romance, Coldplay, Manchester Orchestra, Michael Buble, Three Days Grace, Three Doors Down, Panic! At the Disco, Matt Redman, Christ Tomlin

Keywords: big ball of negative emotions, fast, slow, euphoric, resolution, confession, hopeless romantic

Keywords [inside joke edition]:Rubbish -heap, sweetie-lambkin, trippy, cool beans, Gertrude and Alfonso

Favorite teacher:Mr. McDevitt

Best quotes: "Sprague. It's like Prague plus sprouts minus the tasty."


Well, I hope you can make yourself comfortable, 2012. There's a guest bedroom back there if you plan on sticking around for long.

B

Grey Falling

This time of year never ceases to strike me with a wicked sense of melancholy. The setting of the seasons brings another hue of grey to a constantly-darkening world, and the new year promises darker than the last.

When I was younger, life was easily explained in black and white. Good always won, evil always lost. I was content to let my parents talk softly in the kitchen, because they were adults and adults always become concerned over things that warrant no further contemplation. Bad things happened in the world, and I was content to let them remained unexplained.  People are always defined by what they say, they always act in absolutes, they're always logically consistent with themselves.

Of course, being younger, I couldn't express this coherently: I just knew. The world works in one way and in one way only. But that is no longer the case. This darkening sky grows deeper daily, weekly, yearly, and I, as an individual, am powerless to stop it.

People are no longer merely black and white. Sometimes evil men do things and get away with it. "Good" applies to no one, and sometimes evil men do good things, much to the dismay of my simpler self. Now I know what my parents softly discuss, and even worse, I know why. Bad things happen in the world, and there is no explanation. 

And every year, things get more complicated. With whom do I spend my time? Who are my confidants? How do I express myself? How will I spend the next 60 years of life? But even more importantly, how will I spend the next minute? The next hour of life?

Where will I go to college? What about dating? Do I support my spoken-for friends? Are their relationships more important than my friendship?

Am I willing to sacrifice for a cause greater than myself? How much is too much? Does that sacrifice even matter in the grand scheme of things? How much of a difference can one teenaged, angsty, sheltered, shy, reserved, and timid girl make in her lifetime?


"What if it was true, that all we thought was right, was wrong?"

I used to read many books with courageous, plucky heroines, hoping that their bravery and  fortitude would help me find mine. Increasingly, I find myself more like Peregrin Took, swept up in an adventure... quest... thing...

...With only my good intentions and bumbling nature to help me out. And try as I might, good intentions nearly always bring more trouble upon myself and others.

I realize this is not a terribly encouraging thought to end 2011 with. It suits, though. Overwhelmingly, 2011 has been the year of indecision.

We are gathered together today to mourn the passing of an new acquaintance, Fall Quarter 2011. When this post goes live, I will have completed my last final, and consequently, last class until 2012. This morning, loaded up with little sleep, plenty of feel-good substances- in the form of peppermint hot chocolate and a magnesium supplement (squee!) - and a whole lot of shambling-zombieness, I stumbled onto campus to meet an entirely different beast.

Public transit and college campuses at night are very different from the day time. Compared to night rides, a day trip on the bus feels positively communal. And my campus? Well, let's just say it's the perfect setting for a slasher movie in the dark.

Ahem. So another one bites the dust. I'm officially starting Christmas break. Which means college applications, reference requests, a health class, and catching up with friends. Am I ready? Two words: BRING IT.

But maybe after I get some sleep.

Living in Interesting Times

It may intrigue my readers to learn that, in fifteen minutes, I will be leaving for an appointment with an acupuncturist.

Carpets of Rust

You may recall my post from a few weeks ago, Excruciating Apathy, and the sort of day where this apathy strikes the most. Yesterday was one of those days. I was walking around the college campus literally expecting to see a unicorn poke its pointy head out from around a corner.

In terms of scenery, yesterday was perfect. A thick fog heavily draped itself around everything outside, and once the sun had risen, shafts of liquid yellow hung suspended in it, waiting where the sun had left them lying between the trees. There were carpets of rust everywhere I looked, and bare branches defiantly challenged clear sky escaping from the fog. Here and there, a few hopeful trees clung on to their leaves, lifting arms filled with color high into the air. As the sun hit them, the leaves turned to flames, lighting the trees from within. The evergreens stood stolidly by, gaunt and stark but ever so graceful. When the fog burned off, it left a ghost of itself to waft through the crisp, cold, clear autumn air.

I love the Northwest.

IT IS FINISHED

for now, at least. After 29 days of writing day and night (actually it was mostly day except for the time I wrote 10,000 words long hand on an airplane), I am now the proud owner of a 59,998 word monstrosity.

National Novel Editor's Month, here I come. Though, maybe after my finals.

Nightwatchmen

The moon shone down on the clearing in front of me, illuminating the guards on border duty. They paced up and down the boundary, bodies relaxed but eyes watching for the next enemy attack. My feet crushed the long, wet grass at the border's corner, releasing a sweet smell into the chill night air. I shivered as I surveyed my responsibility, wondering where my enemy would come from. As I crouched, leaning in towards the border, I hoped that she wouldn't come near me. The raid had been entirely unexpected, and I'd had no time to prepare for my duties.

An indistinct shape detached itself from the gloom across the clearing and slowly moved my way. I could hear it -- no, her -- breathing quietly as it crept ever closer to my border. Her furtive movements were betrayed by a rustle of clothes. I tensed, sinews tightening below my skin in an altogether pleasant manner, ready to spring into movement at the slightest provocation. Above all, I could not allow her to endanger our center of operations, the priceless item we had been charged to protect. 

The moon cast indistinct shadows across the wet ground, obscuring the terrain so that when my enemy finally darted towards the border,  I paused momentarily to ensure I wasn't running after a mere shadow. Our feet pounded moistly as I pursued her across the clearing, and my heart began beating a fanciful cadence at the sudden motion. Yard by yard, we grew closer to her objective, and I could hear the cries of my comrades as they fought their own enemies. I had no back-up, no support should she capture our prize.

My feet began slipping on the dewy leaves - there was not much time before I would lose control of my momentum. She was getting dangerously close to my responsibility, and I quickened my step, hoping to outrun the inevitable. There were ten yards, five yards, and I felt my feet sliding from under me. With one last burst of energy and speed, I threw myself into the air. The wind rushed past my face, whipping bits of my hair at my eyes with a vengeance. I could no longer see her, but just as I thought I had missed her in the dark, my hands made contact with her back. My entire body careened at hers, and we both crashed to the ground, sliding several more feet to stop at the foot of the flag.

It's the simple things in life that matter;
like tackling Gray during a night game of capture the flag.

Whirling Dervish

This weekend was so jammed with awesome that I can barely think coherently as I try to type this post out. On Friday, I went to the Christian Musician's Summit, and had a Big Idea about hypocrisy and joy. On Saturday, I judged a noviceling debate tournament, and flew to California to chill with Milan and SirSarcasm. During the flight, I had a big idea about perspective and about weighting values. Then, on Sunday and through Monday, I found the words to express a Third Big Idea that has been in the works for a couple months now.

Normally, when I have a Big Idea, I will write a blog post about it. But as it is, I have far too much swirling through my head. Caffeine, sleeping aid (because I didn't actually go to bed until sometime this morning), three Big Ideas, and some worries about class. So I think I"ll just shamble off with my coffee and try not to fall asleep in class. However, expect some more Ideas to be up soon.

"Just Friends" part 2

A quick caveat: this post contains some content slightly more mature than my usual fare. I know that I have younger followers, and I don't want to catch you unaware. You have been warned.

Last year, during my final year as a competitive speaker (and debater), I went out on a limb and asked Calvin to do a duo interpretation with me. If done well, duos are the most amazing thing ever. Two people act out a piece of literature without the aid of costumes, eye contact, or physical contact between the two.

Calvin is a pretty incredible person. He is funny, creative, musical, and I guess people would say that he's good looking. I don't really remember registering that because I don't buy into normal ideals concerning beauty/attractiveness. You could say he fits into the iconic "tall, dark, and handsome" category. Least you get too positive impression, he does have his faults: Coca-Cola may well be his Achilles' heel. I don't think I've ever seen him turn a bottle of it down, and have memories of him carrying a two-liter around with him at tournaments.

Overall, he's a pretty neat guy. As duo partners, we ended up spending quite a bit of time around each other - both at coop and sometimes on the weekends. I remember joking once that "you know your social life is messed up when you invite your duo partner over more than your close friends." Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed hanging with Calvin, and did indeed consider him a good friend, but the fact remains. I saw him more than pretty much any of my friends.

I never directly experienced this next detail of my introduction, but Wrath, Calvin's younger brother (also a friend of mine) would recount to me how multiple people had asked him (Wrath) if he(Calvin) and I were dating. Why? Because every week at school we'd cloister ourselves in a staircase to work on the speech. No more, no less. It is at this point that I should mention the gratuitous endearments in our piece: "Sweetie-lambkin," "Darling," "Angel" and "Precious" all make frequent appearances in the piece.

I found these reports, and the funny looks from girls (who felt who-knows-what about these disappearances) rather funny. While Calvin wasn't in a relationship at the time, the mere idea that two such people as ourselves would ever be "compatible" was laughable to the extreme.

But let me add on final element to this introduction, and it shall be complete. There is a long-standing tradition (or at the very, least, a firmly established predilection) that duo partners of the opposite sex and entirely unrelated to each other tend to: a. be seeing each other and/or b. will eventually get married.

And homeschooling mothers doing what they do best (A wedding?! When? Who? You don't say! How exciting!), both Calvin and I inevitably had to face certain ... pointed inqueries from parents in the league. To this day, I am left wondering what they thought of a match between a tall-dark-and-handsome guy and a short-blond-and-not girl...

My usual response was something along the lines of this: "Calvin? Oh no, we're just friends. I mean, come on, we'd kill each other within a week."

I hated having to say "we're just friends." But let me put any skewed interpretations to rest. I wasn't pining away in a corner, hoping that one day he'd look my way or whatever mindless drivel you think I meant by that statement.


We're just friends.

As if there is something dishonorable, diminishing about that fact. As if, the worth of relationship would suddenly increase if you add a little snogging to the mix. 

"Just Friends" implies a certain contempt for purely platonic, unadulterated (in the most literal way possible) friendship between chaps and chapesses. I mean, we already get a great level of brainwashing in regards to any young woman'sworth.

If you pay attention to the pressure of mainstream society, women (ie, teenagers and twenty-somethings because they're they only women that matter and count anyways) are only good if the fulfill these criteria: 

They're well-endowed (perhaps artificially), promiscuous creatures who go through boyfriends faster than I can tear a hole in my nylons. Their worth is found in seducing brutish men with animal like instincts (seriously,  men, you can take *a little* time on your personal appearance and not come off like a sissy). They finally conquer "the system" by living with a boyfriend who acts more like a boy than a grown man. They're not afraid to show off their bodies to the best possible advantage, by which I mean altering the appearance of their faces with heavy cosmetics, squeezing themselves into uncomfortably tight clothing and practically starving themselves all for the sake of a few passionate nights before they hit the mundanity of middle age.

If a girl like myself chooses she doesn't want to date around and enjoy this amazing utopia of youth, and instead wishes to enjoy honest friendships with quality young men, she is regulated to the dust bin of the "just friends." How demeaning is that?

Oh, you're not good enough for that guy? You're only friends with him. Must have left the push-up bra at home when you met him. Just not girlfriend material, I'm afraid. Too bad. We'll have to do better with the next one. Learn from our mistakes - always be prepared in case of an emergency.



How can friendship be despised like this? Why is a relationship, not based on sex, so -- well, threatening, in a way - that  people must belittle those who don't bring seduction into their equation?

Since when is a coarse twice-over a good substitute for a genuine smile?

Why is a random, five minute flirtation with a mildly good-looking stranger more valuable than a good hour spent with an ugly friend?

Why should a relationship be measured by the depth of a french-kiss than the depth of the conversation?

And since when do I, as a young woman, need to demean myself and my body to a group of lascivious, lecherous, lewd, and carnal punks in order to gain any sort of self-fulfillment?

The people in my generation must be incredibly prosaic if they feel they have no other basis for a relationship other than the biological fact that one is a boy and the other, a girl. Can we really find no other common ground, no starting spot for friendship, than biology?

Friendship is more than a mere placeholder until a more salacious relationship. I have major issues with the phrase "we're just friends," because, as an idealist, I strongly and firmly believe that a friendship is innately beautiful, in and of itself; that the worth of a relationship is measured in how much I can encourage and support my friends; and that the worth of a friend is found in their being, not their body.

Ex Machina

Have I mentioned that I'm super excited about my NaNovel? Well, I'm pretty sure I've posted this excerpt on my blog before. However, I repurposed it for my book, and since I'm currently stuck on a point in my writing, I figured I'd take a break and re-post part of the prologue from my book. A brief caveat: if you have a problem with gore/disgusting stuff, stop reading now.


Prologue:

It was a room of broken glass. Two partially decayed cadavers in now grey lab coats were slumped by the door. One was twisted, hands grasping for purchase on the smooth wall. Decaying skin and tendons fell away from moldering bones. In some areas, the clothing was falling apart, and a light coat of dust had settled on it.
The cadaver’s companion was in no better condition. It sat slumped in a chair nest to a desk, a little way away from the door. A small hole in its skull was visible on the left temple, and the right ear and side of the face were obliterated. A spray of gore lay dried on the table and floor. A hand gun, dropped from the hand of the scientist, now rested on the ground. In the blood left from his suicide, a bullet mingled, half obscured by a fragment of bone. Beyond the dead scientists, pedestals three feet in diameter were arranged in a grid. Shards of glass were scattered across the floor, lying where they had fallen when they had broken. On some pedestals, remnants of glass tubes still stood, wires and drips dangling over puddles of crystallized fluid.
A few corpses or parts of corpses were held aloft by more firmly attached life support systems. They dangled like broken marionettes over a thick carpet of decaying bodies. Here or there an arm, still attached to the wires, rose from this putrid sea.

She saw it all, and wondered. A faint pulsing came to her attention. She moved over the glass, liquid, and contorted bodies toward the vibration. It came from a far side of the room.
In a corner, blue-green fluorescent lighting replaced the sterile white of the room. On last pedestal stood alone, away from the ordered chaos of the grid. Liquid still filled part of the unbroken tube, but did not reach the top. Another rotting corpse in a grey lab coat rested thigh deep in fluid, held upright by wires and medical tubes. The throbbing came from inside the pedestal, apparently powering the useless life support system.
She drifted closer. As she moved, the knowledge of her surroundings changed. She felt something. Experienced something in the way she hadn’t for a long time. She was startled. She hadn’t felt anything since she became what she was.
It was startled too. No, not an ‘it’. He. He was startled as well.

Justice

I am writing this post on the bus in one of my many surplus journals. You might wonder why I have so many: I certain do. I usually blame it on a group of friends who give me them faster than I can use them up. This post will be transferred to the web sometime this evening, and if I'm feeling terribly obnoxious, I'll upload this prelude as well just to mess with you.

~*~

For the past few weeks, I have been conducting an informal survey of my friends and acquaintances concerning the recent death of Libya's Colonel Moammar Gaddafi. More specifically, I have been straw polling them on their opinions about the transitionary government's handling of Gaddafi's old government and supporters. For information, follow these links to the BBC.

The reason behind this line of questioning was two-fold. First, I needed to remind myself with whom it was safe to discuss politics (or entertaining, as an alternative), and to prepare for this post. If I didn't ask you and you feel terribly left out, just jump down to the comments and raise your voice - don't forget to leave your opinion. Do you see what I just did there? If you did, comment.

Here are the facts, as I understand them. Many officials within the late Colonel Gaddafi's government, including his son Mutassim and defense secretary Abu Bakr Younes died under murky circumstances, often connected with capture by the rebels. Gaddafi himself was seen, living, in a viral video taken just after his capture, but was reported deceased later that day. Since August, sites filled with the remains of mass murders against Gaddafi supporters have been found throughout the country. The provisional government currently has one of his ministers and his personal driver in custody, awaiting trial.

When conversing with these friends, I got a wide display of reactions. There were a few "They totally got what they paid for! It's freaking awesome that they're dead;" quite a lot of "that's really for the Libyans to decide;" a few "It wasn't ideal but they deserved it;" and one "should I know that name?"

Far and away the most interesting answer was from a new friend from school. This friend, who, in my notes was given the blog name River because it amused me at the time and he was important enough to this post to deserve a name, said something along the lines of this.

"It wasn't ideal, but then again, I"m not sure what else they could have done. It doesn't really set a good foundation for their government, especially if they want to claim to be a democracy."

I found this sentiment interesting for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that he put into words something that I'd been unable to vocalize for a while.

I am going to totally ignore the fact that the Libyan militia is not disbanding for fear that politicians will disappoint yet again. While tangentially related to this topic, I'm not here to talk about keeping politicians honest. As an American, I am hardly one to talk.

The way the provisional Libyan government handled the transfer of power had bothered me ever since I learned of Gaddafi's demise. I'm going to make a logical leap here that you might not follow at first.

At the end of World War Two (observe how very carefully I avoid the reductio ad Hitlerum fallacy) , the Allies ended up capturing a bunch of senior Nazi officials who needed to be held responsible for the atrocities that some of them helped commit. I say "some of them" because not all of them were responsible for the Final Solution and it's rather detrimental effects.

The Allies selected the US attorney General, and later Supreme Court Justice Robert Jackson to draw a code governing the trial that would ensure all accused men really received justice, not revenge. How this man managed to draw a code that avoided both the trap of post facto law and stopped the Nazis from merely hiding behind "I followed orders and nothing more" is a really heroic story, but one for another time. My point in bringing this up is to point to an historical example where people were out for blood but still managed to do the right thing -- namely, extend justice to oppressors.

Do you see the link?

Now, especially considering my debate case from last year (self-determination ring a bell, anyone?), I will firmly uphold the Libyan provisional government's right to deal with law breakers under and through the law. However, what bothered me was a lack of trial for Gaddafi and his leaders. Yes, they may have deserved to die, but they also deserved to have charges formally brought against them and the opportunity to defend themselves from those charges.

Is it really such a good foundation for a democracy to rest upon the murdered (note: not executed) bones of the previous government? I would say that no, no it is not. I think my friend really got it, but I don't know what else they could have done. In this instance, I merely point an accusatory finger and offer no solution.

There was another aspect of these past few weeks that disturbed me greatly. It was the opinions of my peers regarding this particular subject. To quote one of the first people I asked and who shall go unnamed because I agree with Thumper: "Good riddance. He and they were all evil men and the earth is better off without them. They knew what they were doing, so I applaud the fighters for doing away with them. Sic Semper Tyrannus."

Friends, this statement should make you cringe inside. America has long held a light of sorts regarding the importance of criminal trials and the idea of "innocent until proven guilty." While in practice, we have been known to fall short, the fact remains that these are our ideals, and unlike Groucho Marx, we have no others. We should be sticking to the values we hold dear.

I was deeply, deeply disturbed to hear so many of my friends express themselves in support of a regime that does not even bother with a kangaroo court and simply skips to the bit about executions.

What does it say of Americans if we are so willing to abandon the ideals of justice and support mere, base revenge? And please don't give me the real politik answer and tell me that it's in America's best long term interests to prostitute her ideals for a little support in Northern Africa. We did nothing to stop this from happening.

While there is a valid argument to be made that United States forces and weaponry should not have been deployed in Libya in the first place, the fact remains that NATO was there. NATO was originally founded to protect Western Europe and its values, and last time I checked, these values included the right to a fair trial.

Why do we love stories about Robin Hood? He was a thief who stole from people. He was no mere thief, though, because he did the right thing. While he stole from wealthy people, he returned the money to the people who originally possessed it.

The people of Libya, especially Eastern Libya, rebelled because their government was not upholding justice. Gaddafi executed his political opponents en masse, and other basic freedoms were denied to the people. Be this as it may, the way the rebels dealt with the government, once overthrown, was no better than the previous administration. A democracy built upon that foundation cannot stand for long, nor will one whose citizens so openly approve of state-sponsored revenge.

~*~
There you have it: my rant for the week. I'd love to hear any and all feedback on this. 

NaNo Update

I've decided to do something a little different with NaNo this year. Because Tuesdays and Thursdays are obscenely busy days for me - I have a spare hour in the middle of the day, which isn't enough for me to plink out 1,667 words in - I've decided to take an alternate track to writing SubRosa. By the way, I've decided to change the novel name. Why? Because SubRosa doesn't adequately foreshadow the problem. From now on, my NaNovel will be called Ex Machina, which, if you are one of the nonexistent lucky people to read it, will make considerably more sense.

Ahem. As I was saying, I'm taking an alternate track to writing Ex Machina. I plan on writing 2,381 words on every day but Tuesdays and Thursdays. And based on that solution, I am actually ahead of schedule. I have written (notice the number on the handy sidebar) 5593 words in two days of writing, while I only needed to have written 4,762. You can imagine the great sense of accomplishment I feel.

My chapters are turning out to be shorter than expected, with more telling and not enough showing, but I plan on coming back and elaborating on that once I have the story outlined in a draft.