This poem has been haunting my thoughts recently. Read it aloud - it deserves it.
THE SONG OF THE HAPPY SHEPHERD
by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? -- By the Rood,
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass--
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs--the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be,
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
--
~ It is better to suffer an injustice than to do injustice ~
www.problematicraining.blogspot.com
31 October 2012
29 October 2012
Mercurial Theatre on the Air
The shop I work at in the evening uses a wireless speaker network to broadcast music throughout the store. At night, I turn out the lights, turn off the music, lock myself in, and proceed to return clothes to their rightful area. The clothing racks and strollers loom out of the gloom like primordial terro- I mean, tripping hazards. Also, we have mannequins and a long, narrow hallway through which I must pass.
Only problem: The speakers transmit random bursts of static when they don't play music, I'm afraid of the dark, and there's a windstorm currently ravaging the area.
Have you ever heard of SlenderMan? I'm pretty sure he shops at my store.
Only problem: The speakers transmit random bursts of static when they don't play music, I'm afraid of the dark, and there's a windstorm currently ravaging the area.
Have you ever heard of SlenderMan? I'm pretty sure he shops at my store.
22 October 2012
Community ; or Why Whimsy's an Idiot; Incidentally, Words are Important but Deceptive
I should take the time to point out that I'm not writing this post for sympathy points or any other fishing-for-compliments reason. I feel like I owe a few of my closest friends an explanation, and that it would be helpful to give that explanation to everyone while I'm at it. Word economy, don't you know?
In this particular season of my life, I am frequently reminded of just why God said that it's not good for man to be alone. I'm going to take some literary license and assume He was also thinking that women have the same need for companionship. I hope you don't find that too much of a stretch.
Feeling alright? Good.
So the reason I say that I am reminded of the very first "Not Good" in the Bible is because, to speak frankly, I am feeling remarkably lonely.
Lonely?! Whimsy? How could Whimsy possibly be lonely?! She's working two incredible jobs for fifty hours a week, all hours of which she is directly interacting with any and all customers which appear in the store? Impossible!
But you see, my friends, that is exactly the point. Just as a thin person can be in love with cheesecake; just as someone can wake up on a rainy Monday morning with a grin on their face and a giggle hiding in the corner of their mouth; just as you can remember someone you've never met; so, too, can I be lonely while working with a crowd of people.
You sort of get the idea that I love being a walking contradiction, don't you? :D
Community. It all comes down to community. The messy, awkward, groovy, and oft-maligned group of humanity with which we all dwell. The people who know us too well, or not well enough. The ones who share gossip through prayer requests, but genuinely mean all their prayers. The people who aggravate, anticipate, and intimidate but who all, somehow, manage to form that close bond inside the community. This is not your town. It is not your school. It is not found at your job or hiding under your bed, waiting to grab your ankles as you take that running leap guaranteed to save you from the alligators.
Instead, it is found in the people who have the power to change your life and your outlook whether you like it or not. I miss my community of awesome friends and awkward friends. I miss the feeling if companionship in the midst of silence. One of my favorite memories from this summer was this one moment in August, walking home from an outing to the Asian mall with a couple of friends. This moment is cemented in my mind, because the warm gold light of a late summer afternoon was sluggishly casting shadows through the trees lining the road on which we walked in silence. Conversation had lapsed for a moment, and we three were left to the meander in our own thoughts. The warm air enveloped us in a sort if timeless state: Why worry about speaking when, for that brief, glowing moment, you could savor the simple feeling of belonging somewhere. Shoes scraped softly on the ground, and we ambled on.
Or that other time, arriving late at the Welcome Home party of a few travelers. I sat awkwardly in the dim glow of the once-giant bonfire, listening to the people who make up my community joking and gaming in the gloom. As the fire subsided into ashes and I realized I had nothing intelligent or amusing to add to the gathering, a feeling of contentment spread across me. Sometimes it's good not to be the largest personality in a group. This is a good realization to come to, what with the number of larger-than-life people I associate with.
Now let's get to why I'm a bloody idiot. Admit it - the reason you've put up with this ramble so far is because of a morbid fascination with my countless means of self-deprecation. Mhmm. I know you too well.
Here goes.
In my circle, there is a definite preoccupation with the art and science of falling in love. According to the Bible, this is the right and good order of things, so please realize that I am not dismissing it. However, this preoccupation makes life a little difficult for the resident Man-Intimidator. Oh, you guessed that was me? How clever of you. Now, I have mixed feelings about my reputation. When most of the male friends in your life make a constant effort to remind you of - that one time you punched me when I tried to hug you- or - Geez, I was so frightened of you for the first few years I knew you - or - I would never upset you, you'd kill me - it's hard not to feel a little ... defective.
Incidentally, in my defense, physical touch is how I express affection for people, and the punch in question happened when a young man I had known a total of three months suddenly rushed in for a bear hug when I least expected it. It was sort of like having your bearded Aunt Matilda lean in for a kiss when you're three: Extremely traumatic and will definitely provoking a knee-jerk reaction.
But back to the mixed feelings. It's not that I'm pining for a delicious love affair - although I wouldn't say no to a likely prospect - it's that once in a while, it would be nice to feel ... lovable. To clarify: getting into a relationship really isn't a priority, and isn't even in the play book - but I like to feel as if it were an actual possibility. Yes, I do have ego issues.
I get this feeling of of likeability most often when I have a really, really good conversation. You know the type I'm talking about. The ones you can't stop thinking about, or that contain a joke that keeps making you smile. The sort of conversation that can give you the warm fuzzies for days. It's safe to say that, when around members of my community, my ears are open for one of these gems. Once a conversation shows its potential, I try to extend it for as long as possible - again, not just because I like my brain to be stimulated, but because it makes me feel sophisticated and suave and polished and not like the supremely awkward 19-year-old I am.
Unfortunately, in pursuit of these good conversations, I've made it a habit of coming across the wrong way to members of the opposite sex. Which, in turn, tends to contribute to my reputation of being "The Scary Lady June." Whee. The downward spiral continues. See, in my enthusiasm for great conversation and thoughtful analysis, I usually forget that my peers operate under a different paradigm, one where social flirting is actually romantic flirting; one where friendly interest is never just friendly interest; one where words no longer mean what the user intends.
The thing about words is that they are intended to mean something specific. When we twist our language to the point where subtext is more important than context, bad things happen. Because the subtext that one person perceives is not necessarily the subtext presented by the author. Subtext is important, but doubly so is the context the actual text is presented in. The supertext, as it were.
::sigh::
And now it's time to bring this ramble full circle. Because of my particular brand of idiocy (egocentricity + different paradigm - brains [ does that make me a zombie?]), I am feeling a little scared of actually engaging with my community when I see them. QED: I don't live in community enough, and when I do, I'm still not living in community with them. And it's not good for us to live alone. The wheels on the bus go round and round...
In this particular season of my life, I am frequently reminded of just why God said that it's not good for man to be alone. I'm going to take some literary license and assume He was also thinking that women have the same need for companionship. I hope you don't find that too much of a stretch.
Feeling alright? Good.
So the reason I say that I am reminded of the very first "Not Good" in the Bible is because, to speak frankly, I am feeling remarkably lonely.
Lonely?! Whimsy? How could Whimsy possibly be lonely?! She's working two incredible jobs for fifty hours a week, all hours of which she is directly interacting with any and all customers which appear in the store? Impossible!
But you see, my friends, that is exactly the point. Just as a thin person can be in love with cheesecake; just as someone can wake up on a rainy Monday morning with a grin on their face and a giggle hiding in the corner of their mouth; just as you can remember someone you've never met; so, too, can I be lonely while working with a crowd of people.
You sort of get the idea that I love being a walking contradiction, don't you? :D
Community. It all comes down to community. The messy, awkward, groovy, and oft-maligned group of humanity with which we all dwell. The people who know us too well, or not well enough. The ones who share gossip through prayer requests, but genuinely mean all their prayers. The people who aggravate, anticipate, and intimidate but who all, somehow, manage to form that close bond inside the community. This is not your town. It is not your school. It is not found at your job or hiding under your bed, waiting to grab your ankles as you take that running leap guaranteed to save you from the alligators.
Instead, it is found in the people who have the power to change your life and your outlook whether you like it or not. I miss my community of awesome friends and awkward friends. I miss the feeling if companionship in the midst of silence. One of my favorite memories from this summer was this one moment in August, walking home from an outing to the Asian mall with a couple of friends. This moment is cemented in my mind, because the warm gold light of a late summer afternoon was sluggishly casting shadows through the trees lining the road on which we walked in silence. Conversation had lapsed for a moment, and we three were left to the meander in our own thoughts. The warm air enveloped us in a sort if timeless state: Why worry about speaking when, for that brief, glowing moment, you could savor the simple feeling of belonging somewhere. Shoes scraped softly on the ground, and we ambled on.
Or that other time, arriving late at the Welcome Home party of a few travelers. I sat awkwardly in the dim glow of the once-giant bonfire, listening to the people who make up my community joking and gaming in the gloom. As the fire subsided into ashes and I realized I had nothing intelligent or amusing to add to the gathering, a feeling of contentment spread across me. Sometimes it's good not to be the largest personality in a group. This is a good realization to come to, what with the number of larger-than-life people I associate with.
Now let's get to why I'm a bloody idiot. Admit it - the reason you've put up with this ramble so far is because of a morbid fascination with my countless means of self-deprecation. Mhmm. I know you too well.
Here goes.
In my circle, there is a definite preoccupation with the art and science of falling in love. According to the Bible, this is the right and good order of things, so please realize that I am not dismissing it. However, this preoccupation makes life a little difficult for the resident Man-Intimidator. Oh, you guessed that was me? How clever of you. Now, I have mixed feelings about my reputation. When most of the male friends in your life make a constant effort to remind you of - that one time you punched me when I tried to hug you- or - Geez, I was so frightened of you for the first few years I knew you - or - I would never upset you, you'd kill me - it's hard not to feel a little ... defective.
Incidentally, in my defense, physical touch is how I express affection for people, and the punch in question happened when a young man I had known a total of three months suddenly rushed in for a bear hug when I least expected it. It was sort of like having your bearded Aunt Matilda lean in for a kiss when you're three: Extremely traumatic and will definitely provoking a knee-jerk reaction.
But back to the mixed feelings. It's not that I'm pining for a delicious love affair - although I wouldn't say no to a likely prospect - it's that once in a while, it would be nice to feel ... lovable. To clarify: getting into a relationship really isn't a priority, and isn't even in the play book - but I like to feel as if it were an actual possibility. Yes, I do have ego issues.
I get this feeling of of likeability most often when I have a really, really good conversation. You know the type I'm talking about. The ones you can't stop thinking about, or that contain a joke that keeps making you smile. The sort of conversation that can give you the warm fuzzies for days. It's safe to say that, when around members of my community, my ears are open for one of these gems. Once a conversation shows its potential, I try to extend it for as long as possible - again, not just because I like my brain to be stimulated, but because it makes me feel sophisticated and suave and polished and not like the supremely awkward 19-year-old I am.
Unfortunately, in pursuit of these good conversations, I've made it a habit of coming across the wrong way to members of the opposite sex. Which, in turn, tends to contribute to my reputation of being "The Scary Lady June." Whee. The downward spiral continues. See, in my enthusiasm for great conversation and thoughtful analysis, I usually forget that my peers operate under a different paradigm, one where social flirting is actually romantic flirting; one where friendly interest is never just friendly interest; one where words no longer mean what the user intends.
The thing about words is that they are intended to mean something specific. When we twist our language to the point where subtext is more important than context, bad things happen. Because the subtext that one person perceives is not necessarily the subtext presented by the author. Subtext is important, but doubly so is the context the actual text is presented in. The supertext, as it were.
::sigh::
And now it's time to bring this ramble full circle. Because of my particular brand of idiocy (egocentricity + different paradigm - brains [ does that make me a zombie?]), I am feeling a little scared of actually engaging with my community when I see them. QED: I don't live in community enough, and when I do, I'm still not living in community with them. And it's not good for us to live alone. The wheels on the bus go round and round...
18 October 2012
A >>Mind-Blowing<< Thought
As you've probably gathered, I am a musician. While I cannot claim any place among the very good, I can at least claim to sing on key. Most of the time. (Scary fact: Most musicians never advance beyond intermediate mastery of their instrument.)
Often, people separate the emotional reaction to music from the emotional performance when creating it. This makes sense - a musician engaging in the act is active in their experience; the listener has a more passive role in receiving the creation. For this reason, many musicians I've talked to don't often feel the emotions they simulate while playing. When performing a piece, consistency is highly valued - being able to deliver a performance fairly similar to a previous performance indicates mastery of the piece.
But for whatever reason, my emotions are more involved when I play than when I simply listen. The marriage of the analytical - am I playing this note correctly? - and the emotional - should this section be more sorrowful? - serves to heighten the pleasure. Sort of like how sea salt is the perfect addition to caramel. The two taste good enough by themselves, but combine them, and WOW. Magic happens.
Regardless of if I'm creating or experiencing it, I can very quickly become swept into the emotion of a piece. Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony, for instance, never fails to send shivers up my spine at the prospect of a future I cannot influence (the 4th, after all, dealing almost entirety with fate and humanity's futile efforts to overcome destiny and shape their own paths). Now We Are Free, from the film Gladiator, is two parts joyous to one part melancholic, and I cry every time I hear it. Point proven: Music has a very heavy influence over my emotions. This effect is so extensive that I have created playlists themed around certain moods, designing them to gradually change my feelings to a different. I have melancholic to transition in and out of feeling sad; Choleric, to make myself excited; Sanguine, to brighten my mood to the euphoric; and Phlegmatic, to motivate myself.
Too often, I get swept away into the music without a second thought. But today, while listening to the radio's disgusting, treacly, overly auto-tuned songs at work, I overheard a customer talking about "how much [she] [was] moved by Blown Away" - a recent trending song from Carrie Underwood. Now, Blown Away is probably the only song that station plays that I would consider better than bad (yes, I'm a music snob. So sue me). But I would not say that it "touches me" to the extent this song was talking about. Likewise, the person in question probably would not be moved to tears by Leave It Alone by the ever amazing Manchester Orchestra.
And this realization got me thinking. A dange -- Yes, yes, we've heard that joke a million times. Stuff it. -- ow.
What is it about a series of notes and chords that can so strongly affect emotions? Of course, this started me on a long line of wiki-walking. Apparently, a group of researchers played famous pieces of Western music to an African tribe that had never heard music from our civilization. The people were able to correctly identify the emotions being expressed by Bach and Mozart and Beethoven -- and they had never been exposed to this style so different from their own style of music. Additionally, when the researchers altered the harmonies to be dissonant or the drum rhythms to come off-beat, the group correctly pointed out that the music sounded wrong.
Which means that music's effects are basically universal. Different societies may express those emotions differently, but the emotions can translate from culture to culture.
There are some theories about why music affects our feelings so strongly. One hypothesizes that our emotions react to that as a sort of evolutionary strength training - our emotions need to function correctly to ensure that ape-men continue to sit by the fire ( a pleasant emotion) and hunt in groups (because loneliness is unpleasant) so that the Great and Magnificent Human Gene Sequence may continue to perpetuate. Music allows our emotions to stretch and remain active even when the body is not going through an emotional event.
That feels wrong on so many levels. Not just because it doesn't make sense, but because that would rule out any possibility of non-functionality. There are pieces of art out there that are simply beautiful without causing emotions. For instance, this picture of a pepper. It's lovely, but there is no functionality. If this theory were true, it would imply only things that provide the function of exercising the emotions would be pretty.
Also, I reject this theory because I am egotistical and do not think that my only purpose on earth is to further my DNA.
Another theory says that music stirs our feelings because it is the auditory version of motion. I find this one a little more plausible - that most things that cause emotional reactions involve motion (or lack thereof) on our parts. The joy a woman might feel at seeing a SUPERAMAZINGLYCUTEADORABLEWIDDLE BABY!!! or sorrow felt seeing the body of my uncle in his coffin at the funeral home - those both elicit reactions, and both are connected to physical movement. In fact, this theory states, we can see the link. A Symphony is broken into Movements; a Partita is a series of short pieces inspired by dance; a Fugue has an inarguable sense of motion throughout.
This may hit on part of the truth. But it leaves out the main thing: if the Heavens declare the glory of the Lord, it must be because we have the capacity to hear them. Personally, I'm a little torn between whether our capacity to be moved to tears by a piece of music is because God decided to give humanity a little present - something special just because He loves us - or because it comes innately with the imago dei. After all, the first thing God does after creating is to call it "good." He appreciates His creation, and when He gave us Creativity - another divine attribute - He also gave us His ability to appreciate it.
Most likely it's a little bit of both. But regardless of the answer, I remain in awe of the whole bundle. God *could* have created us without an ounce of artistic endeavor, but He didn't. And if that isn't Grace, I don't know what is.
:DDDD
Often, people separate the emotional reaction to music from the emotional performance when creating it. This makes sense - a musician engaging in the act is active in their experience; the listener has a more passive role in receiving the creation. For this reason, many musicians I've talked to don't often feel the emotions they simulate while playing. When performing a piece, consistency is highly valued - being able to deliver a performance fairly similar to a previous performance indicates mastery of the piece.
But for whatever reason, my emotions are more involved when I play than when I simply listen. The marriage of the analytical - am I playing this note correctly? - and the emotional - should this section be more sorrowful? - serves to heighten the pleasure. Sort of like how sea salt is the perfect addition to caramel. The two taste good enough by themselves, but combine them, and WOW. Magic happens.
Regardless of if I'm creating or experiencing it, I can very quickly become swept into the emotion of a piece. Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony, for instance, never fails to send shivers up my spine at the prospect of a future I cannot influence (the 4th, after all, dealing almost entirety with fate and humanity's futile efforts to overcome destiny and shape their own paths). Now We Are Free, from the film Gladiator, is two parts joyous to one part melancholic, and I cry every time I hear it. Point proven: Music has a very heavy influence over my emotions. This effect is so extensive that I have created playlists themed around certain moods, designing them to gradually change my feelings to a different. I have melancholic to transition in and out of feeling sad; Choleric, to make myself excited; Sanguine, to brighten my mood to the euphoric; and Phlegmatic, to motivate myself.
Too often, I get swept away into the music without a second thought. But today, while listening to the radio's disgusting, treacly, overly auto-tuned songs at work, I overheard a customer talking about "how much [she] [was] moved by Blown Away" - a recent trending song from Carrie Underwood. Now, Blown Away is probably the only song that station plays that I would consider better than bad (yes, I'm a music snob. So sue me). But I would not say that it "touches me" to the extent this song was talking about. Likewise, the person in question probably would not be moved to tears by Leave It Alone by the ever amazing Manchester Orchestra.
And this realization got me thinking. A dange -- Yes, yes, we've heard that joke a million times. Stuff it. -- ow.
Isn't it amazing that music even has the capacity to affect out emotions?
What is it about a series of notes and chords that can so strongly affect emotions? Of course, this started me on a long line of wiki-walking. Apparently, a group of researchers played famous pieces of Western music to an African tribe that had never heard music from our civilization. The people were able to correctly identify the emotions being expressed by Bach and Mozart and Beethoven -- and they had never been exposed to this style so different from their own style of music. Additionally, when the researchers altered the harmonies to be dissonant or the drum rhythms to come off-beat, the group correctly pointed out that the music sounded wrong.
Which means that music's effects are basically universal. Different societies may express those emotions differently, but the emotions can translate from culture to culture.
There are some theories about why music affects our feelings so strongly. One hypothesizes that our emotions react to that as a sort of evolutionary strength training - our emotions need to function correctly to ensure that ape-men continue to sit by the fire ( a pleasant emotion) and hunt in groups (because loneliness is unpleasant) so that the Great and Magnificent Human Gene Sequence may continue to perpetuate. Music allows our emotions to stretch and remain active even when the body is not going through an emotional event.
That feels wrong on so many levels. Not just because it doesn't make sense, but because that would rule out any possibility of non-functionality. There are pieces of art out there that are simply beautiful without causing emotions. For instance, this picture of a pepper. It's lovely, but there is no functionality. If this theory were true, it would imply only things that provide the function of exercising the emotions would be pretty.
Also, I reject this theory because I am egotistical and do not think that my only purpose on earth is to further my DNA.
Another theory says that music stirs our feelings because it is the auditory version of motion. I find this one a little more plausible - that most things that cause emotional reactions involve motion (or lack thereof) on our parts. The joy a woman might feel at seeing a SUPERAMAZINGLYCUTEADORABLEWIDDLE BABY!!! or sorrow felt seeing the body of my uncle in his coffin at the funeral home - those both elicit reactions, and both are connected to physical movement. In fact, this theory states, we can see the link. A Symphony is broken into Movements; a Partita is a series of short pieces inspired by dance; a Fugue has an inarguable sense of motion throughout.
This may hit on part of the truth. But it leaves out the main thing: if the Heavens declare the glory of the Lord, it must be because we have the capacity to hear them. Personally, I'm a little torn between whether our capacity to be moved to tears by a piece of music is because God decided to give humanity a little present - something special just because He loves us - or because it comes innately with the imago dei. After all, the first thing God does after creating is to call it "good." He appreciates His creation, and when He gave us Creativity - another divine attribute - He also gave us His ability to appreciate it.
Most likely it's a little bit of both. But regardless of the answer, I remain in awe of the whole bundle. God *could* have created us without an ounce of artistic endeavor, but He didn't. And if that isn't Grace, I don't know what is.
:DDDD
GAH. THIS MUSIC IS MAKING ME HAPPY. HOW CAN THIS BE?????
16 October 2012
YES
Oh my goodness gracious yes!!
YES.
Ladies and gentlemen, another film has been added to my list of All - Time - Favorite movies. Already on the list are L'Herison, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, the Illusionist; the Batman Trilogy, and now : Memoirs of a Geisha.
Put aside that it's a Spielberg;
Put aside that John Williams *asked* to write the score ;
Put aside that Itzhak "I'm a bloody genius " Perelman and Yo - Yo " you've got to be kidding " Ma play duets;
IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL IMMA GO DIE IN MY HAPPY PLACE.
Yes, the plot may not captivate a shorter attention span; yes, it does depict some immorality in (very beautiful) detail ; yes, it deals with mature subjects.
But the beautiful details are just so exquisitely heartbreaking!! The texture! The cinematography! The close shots of entrancing, mysterious women! The layers of silk upon silk upon skin! The elegant curve of the slightly exposed nape of the neck and the subtly seductive turn of the wrist! And the colors - don't get me started.
Memoirs of a Geisha is filled with many aesthetic highs. I felt like I had used all my senses by the end. From the sweet young girl running joyfully through a long corridor of orange and black pillars to the hypnotic curl of smoke from Mother's pipe to that final, passionate kiss in the middle of a reflecting pond, this movie was simply exquisite.
If nothing else, watch it for your five senses. You will be surprised by the little motions, the tilt of the head and the curl of a Finger that stands out. It reminds me once again that it truly is the little moments that are the most profound. The most life changing. The most inspiring. And if that isn't worth reminding yourself, I don't know what is
YES.
Ladies and gentlemen, another film has been added to my list of All - Time - Favorite movies. Already on the list are L'Herison, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, the Illusionist; the Batman Trilogy, and now : Memoirs of a Geisha.
Put aside that it's a Spielberg;
Put aside that John Williams *asked* to write the score ;
Put aside that Itzhak "I'm a bloody genius " Perelman and Yo - Yo " you've got to be kidding " Ma play duets;
IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL IMMA GO DIE IN MY HAPPY PLACE.
Yes, the plot may not captivate a shorter attention span; yes, it does depict some immorality in (very beautiful) detail ; yes, it deals with mature subjects.
But the beautiful details are just so exquisitely heartbreaking!! The texture! The cinematography! The close shots of entrancing, mysterious women! The layers of silk upon silk upon skin! The elegant curve of the slightly exposed nape of the neck and the subtly seductive turn of the wrist! And the colors - don't get me started.
Memoirs of a Geisha is filled with many aesthetic highs. I felt like I had used all my senses by the end. From the sweet young girl running joyfully through a long corridor of orange and black pillars to the hypnotic curl of smoke from Mother's pipe to that final, passionate kiss in the middle of a reflecting pond, this movie was simply exquisite.
If nothing else, watch it for your five senses. You will be surprised by the little motions, the tilt of the head and the curl of a Finger that stands out. It reminds me once again that it truly is the little moments that are the most profound. The most life changing. The most inspiring. And if that isn't worth reminding yourself, I don't know what is
15 October 2012
Moondance
Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
Beneath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush
Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?
A few weeks ago, my friend Argentum (Args? Arggy? ... sorry. :P) posted about his ongoing quest to find his lady, the lovely and ephemeral Autumn. I must admit, I was jealous that his personal Autumn came to visit him much sooner than mine did.
Summer dies so beautifully here in the Northwest that it is small wonder Fall remains my favorite season. The dove grey sky so startlingly split by warm, gold, sun beams. The smell of last night's rain so still and fresh on the pavement. The blowing rain and gusting leaves that hurl themselves to the ground with raw enthusiasm and the last of their vitality. The trees that flame from the outside in, leaves red and raw and green and young all at once. The warm jackets, the scratchy scarfs, the sweet taste of acorn squash on my tongue and the smell of apples outside my window. The rustle of wind through the trees and the scraping of twigs on windows.
I treasure this time of year. It reminds me of Peter Bradley Adams, of the Decemberists, of the Civil Wars, Manchester Orchestra, and Michael Buble all at once. I love the insidious cold that creeps along behind me, dogging my steps, ready to spring when once I stop moving. This runs the risk of sounding flippant, but it is truly ~~lovely ~~.
I spoke about this a few posts ago, about a missions trip I am saving up for. I sent my application in to a YWAM based in Perth, Australia. If I am accepted, I will be spending the fine Northwestern winter in Australia's foreign summer. And once I return, I will spend my freckled Summer preparing to move to California for four years of college.
It is driven home to me with every passing day that this is the last intoxicating, exhilarating Autumn I shall see in a long while. My life for the next few years will be one of Summer. And this sobering, melancholy realization reminds me of another song, by the simply sublime group Mouth Music. You can listen to this song here.
"And all the leaves are turning brown,
Yet I can find no reason
To tear myself from Puget Sound
And see her world again..."
This Autumn Romance must be conducted with the brilliance of a shooting star, not only because it deserves that much, but because it heralds the end to an era in my life.
I just want one more moondance with you, my dear...
And the wanting comes in waves.
14 October 2012
I'd Rather Feel Pain Pt. 1
than Nothing at All...
Earlier this summer, I finally got around to reading the Fault in our Stars, by John Green. I liked it, so I read it again, and then for a third time. It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, Great Literature; it is, however, a very decent book that resonates with a lot of teen-aged readers in a way entirely separate from Twilight. It is also a book I thoroughly enjoyed. Why? Because it made me think for a long time after reading it.
Anywhoo, the following is a series of reflections on a single quote from the book.
I don't mean that pain or suffering, when compared to joy, makes the happiness seem better, brighter or sweeter. I don't mean that pain is just karma expressing itself to let us know how lucky we are to have good times. No, I mean that pain, by itself, separated from all other corollary experiences, is necessary to be truly human.
And this is no ordinary, purely physical, I-just-impaled-my-foot-on-a-hook sort of pain, but ability to experience anguish, heart break, and despair. No animal experiences heart ache on the same level that humans do. True, we've all seen the Animal Planet documentaries where elephants stand over the bodies of their dead herd mates for days. These displays, when accompanied by the dispassionate voice of the omniscient narrators, seem to be the same as the pain a mother feels when her son dies, or the pain of an elderly man after his wife of sixty years passes on, or the pain of a teenager's first love moving on.
No animal can nurse heartbreak the way a human can. If you're burned by a friend once, the way you interact with all people thereafter will inevitably change. If your husband (or wife) of decades dies, you cannot simply go back to the way life was before you met the best friend you had for the majority of your life. To be human is to change, to morph, to adapt, to grow around foreign objects in our hearts, to form scar tissue, and to heal into a new person.
Now, a lot of my friends are obsessed with "truly living life" - a worthy goal, but perhaps a little one-sided in its practice. Yes, a full life should include adventuring with friends and perhaps a little kissing in the rain; climbing trees and storm drains; living victoriously at Mach 4. But I submit that life that was really lived also includes hard crashes; broken hearts; unrequited love; death of dreams; loss of companions.
If pain is a defining characteristic of humanity (and I firmly believe it is) then we should revel in the hurt as well as the victory. The people we allow to hurt us have been given a trust - their actions will shape who we become, not just who we are at a certain moment in time.
We should revel in heartache, because a broken heart is just a symptom of our ability to love.
Ahhh, humans. You're so fascinating!
If you got through that long ramble, I lift my hat to you. I'm not entirely sure I understand everything I'm trying to say.
Earlier this summer, I finally got around to reading the Fault in our Stars, by John Green. I liked it, so I read it again, and then for a third time. It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, Great Literature; it is, however, a very decent book that resonates with a lot of teen-aged readers in a way entirely separate from Twilight. It is also a book I thoroughly enjoyed. Why? Because it made me think for a long time after reading it.
Anywhoo, the following is a series of reflections on a single quote from the book.
"It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you."
Theory: Pain makes one human.I don't mean that pain or suffering, when compared to joy, makes the happiness seem better, brighter or sweeter. I don't mean that pain is just karma expressing itself to let us know how lucky we are to have good times. No, I mean that pain, by itself, separated from all other corollary experiences, is necessary to be truly human.
And this is no ordinary, purely physical, I-just-impaled-my-foot-on-a-hook sort of pain, but ability to experience anguish, heart break, and despair. No animal experiences heart ache on the same level that humans do. True, we've all seen the Animal Planet documentaries where elephants stand over the bodies of their dead herd mates for days. These displays, when accompanied by the dispassionate voice of the omniscient narrators, seem to be the same as the pain a mother feels when her son dies, or the pain of an elderly man after his wife of sixty years passes on, or the pain of a teenager's first love moving on.
No animal can nurse heartbreak the way a human can. If you're burned by a friend once, the way you interact with all people thereafter will inevitably change. If your husband (or wife) of decades dies, you cannot simply go back to the way life was before you met the best friend you had for the majority of your life. To be human is to change, to morph, to adapt, to grow around foreign objects in our hearts, to form scar tissue, and to heal into a new person.
Now, a lot of my friends are obsessed with "truly living life" - a worthy goal, but perhaps a little one-sided in its practice. Yes, a full life should include adventuring with friends and perhaps a little kissing in the rain; climbing trees and storm drains; living victoriously at Mach 4. But I submit that life that was really lived also includes hard crashes; broken hearts; unrequited love; death of dreams; loss of companions.
If pain is a defining characteristic of humanity (and I firmly believe it is) then we should revel in the hurt as well as the victory. The people we allow to hurt us have been given a trust - their actions will shape who we become, not just who we are at a certain moment in time.
We should revel in heartache, because a broken heart is just a symptom of our ability to love.
Ahhh, humans. You're so fascinating!
If you got through that long ramble, I lift my hat to you. I'm not entirely sure I understand everything I'm trying to say.
27 August 2012
No Words
I know I haven't been posting all that much this summer, and it's entirely inexcusable. Let me offer you a brief explanation before jumping on into today's story. I decided that this summer would be the best one ever, and it seemed to me that goal would be impossible if I spent much time online instead of pursuing adventures. This endeavour has met with only limited success, due partially to the following tale of adventure, romance, and awe-inspiring displays of awesomeness on the high seas. [No, really! {well, maybe not entirely} (or not)]
But let us put that aside for the time being.
Ladles and jellyspoons, toys and squirrels,
I stand here before you to hold your back
As I tell you a story I know nothing about.
The train I came on has not yet arrived,
So I took a bus and walked.
So draw up a chair and sit on the floor,
Admission is free:
Pay at the door.
Exactly a year ago last summer, I went to Gleanings for the Hungry in Dinuba, California. The week was absolutely awesome, for a number of personal reasons, not all of them I shall go into. I'll say this much: A week of manual labor for God's glory in 100+ degree weather does wonderful things for the state of your heart and soul.
At the end of my time at Gleanings, the eighty-some workers were given the chance to speak to the rest of the group about whatever happened to be on their hearts. A lot of people got in line, and there were many who said the same things we've all heard at the end of church camps: "I love y'all so much, God has done amazing things here in my heart, I'm going to miss y'all so much, you've changed my life," etc.
Now, I'm not saying that those feelings aren't genuine. It's just, I've been an egregious offender with speeches like that in the past, and had a firm resolve not to give in the Bible High and say something sappy. Not I, no sir'ee. I was determined not to join the swelling ranks of people going up to express those sentiments.
As I was sitting there, I kept feeling like I was REALLY SUPPOSED to go up and say something, but I didn't want to. I didn't know what I would say except the whole I-love-everyone-so-much, so I just wouldn't go up. But it kept coming back. You have to get in line to say something. No. No, really, get in line, say what I tell you to say. I WILL NOT EMBARRASS MYSELF. Whimsy, get in line. Now.
So it was with reluctance that I finally found myself in the line snaking up towards the microphone. In all likelihood, I would burst out in tears, tell everyone they'd changed my life, and take a seat. But when I got to the mic, I started speaking words I had never even thought about. I started testifying about a terrifying experience I had earlier that year at my last Regionals in speech and debate, how that had put it in my heart that Love is not just a feeling of goodwill towards others, but also an action demanded of us by a holy, righteous, justice-loving God. How God's love for the World was why He sent Jesus, and if Jesus truly lives in our hearts, He sends us to Love the world, too. And yes, there may have been some tears involved.
Well, I finally finished the entirely unplanned, impromptu speech, and one of the missionaries at Gleanings told me that what I had just said was a personal manifesto and mission from God, adding that he expected to hear what I had done when I came back "next year."
Over the coming weeks, it became clear to me that yes, a call into missions was present, and yes, I was supposed to do something about it. I started saving money. But when I started applying for jobs, nothing went smoothly.
The first job I thought I got was given to someone else. I have more "we regret to inform you we are not able to offer you employment at this time" emails than I even want to think about. Some companies never got back to me, some interviewed me and then never got back to me. Most companies looked at my non-existent job history and just raised an eyebrow before crumpling my resume into a ball and throwing it over their shoulders in the general direction of the trash.
I started wondering if I weren't delusional. Maybe that "call" I received so many months ago was nothing more than a Bible-High, after all. Maybe, it was simply my hyper-inflamed wanderlust putting on religious clothing to justify its existence. Maybe, putting off college for a year to work and do a mission trip were entirely outside of God's will. I started praying, desperately. If the mission trip really was my own selfish dream, I didn't want to give it up, but I knew I needed to. And if that were the case, I would need help to reconcile myself to that reality. Conversely, I had reached the point where I needed confirmation that I was still inside His will. After all, the steps I had taken to follow the path I thought was clear had all been rudely thwarted.
I've been praying about that since April - nothing. But that all changed last Sunday.
Last Sunday, I was praying the same thing I've been praying for months. Subjugate my will to Yours, confirm Your will in my life, etc. etc. Prayer time ended, and church broke for a snack before the hour-long sermon (you really need to fortify yourself to sit through them). Berg's family had brought a friend with them to church, and she introduced herself on my way to the kitchen. We got to chatting, and I briefly mentioned my plan for the mission trip this upcoming January. Berg's friend looked at me and smiled - she'd just gotten a job that paid her more than she had originally expected, and she wanted to use that unexpected money toward God's Kingdom. Here, take this.
That night, I spent the night with Lady Specs, as she was leaving for college (yesterday, actually) and I wanted to see her one last time before she left. You can probably guess where this is going: after I get to her house, she tells me that she wants to give my mission trip a tithe, since she doesn't regularly attend/belong to any church. She gives me another significant amount of money - the third event that helps my mission trip in the course of about three hours.
At this point, I'm getting on the verge of hysteria. No joke, I felt like I was going to break out into nervous giggles at any time. Sunday was a good day, and I thought that was that, so to speak. God had clearly given three different confirmations that yes, the mission trip was still supposed to be a thing. Good to know God, thank you so much! , and by the way, you're totally awesome. In the literal, dictionary definition sense of the word. I was not expecting anything more - totally satisfied and overwhelmed by what I had seen and experienced that day.
But anyways, REI calls. They want to hire me. Can I come in on the 6th to meet my new manager?
And then today, Sunday, the 26th, Berg's friend is at church once again. She has brought more money, specifically as a contribution towards my mission trip - the last was, apparently, just a free will offering to God in thanksgiving for her job.
...
...
...
..
..
At this point, I really have no words left. My >>MIND<< is officially >>BLOWN<<
But let us put that aside for the time being.
Ladles and jellyspoons, toys and squirrels,
I stand here before you to hold your back
As I tell you a story I know nothing about.
The train I came on has not yet arrived,
So I took a bus and walked.
So draw up a chair and sit on the floor,
Admission is free:
Pay at the door.
Exactly a year ago last summer, I went to Gleanings for the Hungry in Dinuba, California. The week was absolutely awesome, for a number of personal reasons, not all of them I shall go into. I'll say this much: A week of manual labor for God's glory in 100+ degree weather does wonderful things for the state of your heart and soul.
At the end of my time at Gleanings, the eighty-some workers were given the chance to speak to the rest of the group about whatever happened to be on their hearts. A lot of people got in line, and there were many who said the same things we've all heard at the end of church camps: "I love y'all so much, God has done amazing things here in my heart, I'm going to miss y'all so much, you've changed my life," etc.
Now, I'm not saying that those feelings aren't genuine. It's just, I've been an egregious offender with speeches like that in the past, and had a firm resolve not to give in the Bible High and say something sappy. Not I, no sir'ee. I was determined not to join the swelling ranks of people going up to express those sentiments.
As I was sitting there, I kept feeling like I was REALLY SUPPOSED to go up and say something, but I didn't want to. I didn't know what I would say except the whole I-love-everyone-so-much, so I just wouldn't go up. But it kept coming back. You have to get in line to say something. No. No, really, get in line, say what I tell you to say. I WILL NOT EMBARRASS MYSELF. Whimsy, get in line. Now.
So it was with reluctance that I finally found myself in the line snaking up towards the microphone. In all likelihood, I would burst out in tears, tell everyone they'd changed my life, and take a seat. But when I got to the mic, I started speaking words I had never even thought about. I started testifying about a terrifying experience I had earlier that year at my last Regionals in speech and debate, how that had put it in my heart that Love is not just a feeling of goodwill towards others, but also an action demanded of us by a holy, righteous, justice-loving God. How God's love for the World was why He sent Jesus, and if Jesus truly lives in our hearts, He sends us to Love the world, too. And yes, there may have been some tears involved.
Well, I finally finished the entirely unplanned, impromptu speech, and one of the missionaries at Gleanings told me that what I had just said was a personal manifesto and mission from God, adding that he expected to hear what I had done when I came back "next year."
Over the coming weeks, it became clear to me that yes, a call into missions was present, and yes, I was supposed to do something about it. I started saving money. But when I started applying for jobs, nothing went smoothly.
The first job I thought I got was given to someone else. I have more "we regret to inform you we are not able to offer you employment at this time" emails than I even want to think about. Some companies never got back to me, some interviewed me and then never got back to me. Most companies looked at my non-existent job history and just raised an eyebrow before crumpling my resume into a ball and throwing it over their shoulders in the general direction of the trash.
I started wondering if I weren't delusional. Maybe that "call" I received so many months ago was nothing more than a Bible-High, after all. Maybe, it was simply my hyper-inflamed wanderlust putting on religious clothing to justify its existence. Maybe, putting off college for a year to work and do a mission trip were entirely outside of God's will. I started praying, desperately. If the mission trip really was my own selfish dream, I didn't want to give it up, but I knew I needed to. And if that were the case, I would need help to reconcile myself to that reality. Conversely, I had reached the point where I needed confirmation that I was still inside His will. After all, the steps I had taken to follow the path I thought was clear had all been rudely thwarted.
I've been praying about that since April - nothing. But that all changed last Sunday.
Last Sunday, I was praying the same thing I've been praying for months. Subjugate my will to Yours, confirm Your will in my life, etc. etc. Prayer time ended, and church broke for a snack before the hour-long sermon (you really need to fortify yourself to sit through them). Berg's family had brought a friend with them to church, and she introduced herself on my way to the kitchen. We got to chatting, and I briefly mentioned my plan for the mission trip this upcoming January. Berg's friend looked at me and smiled - she'd just gotten a job that paid her more than she had originally expected, and she wanted to use that unexpected money toward God's Kingdom. Here, take this.
That was less than five minutes after I'd prayed for confirmation.
But it gets crazier. My dad was preaching the sermon last Sunday, but I was a little unnerved by the experience. After the sermon, I hurriedly told Dad about what had happened with the visitor. We prayed together, thanking God for His goodness, and went upstairs to fetch Dad's keys to put away some things in the car. I randomly checked my cell-phone, and was surprised to see a text from a store I had applied at months ago, wanting to know if I could come in for an interview in half an hour.It takes exactly half-an-hour to get to the store from my church.
Dad and I jumped in the car, and I hurriedly changed my t-shirt for a nice blouse. I got there precisely on time, despite traffic and the short notice. Fifteen minutes after I returned to church, the shop texted me again, offering the job.We're still not done, though.
That night, I spent the night with Lady Specs, as she was leaving for college (yesterday, actually) and I wanted to see her one last time before she left. You can probably guess where this is going: after I get to her house, she tells me that she wants to give my mission trip a tithe, since she doesn't regularly attend/belong to any church. She gives me another significant amount of money - the third event that helps my mission trip in the course of about three hours.
At this point, I'm getting on the verge of hysteria. No joke, I felt like I was going to break out into nervous giggles at any time. Sunday was a good day, and I thought that was that, so to speak. God had clearly given three different confirmations that yes, the mission trip was still supposed to be a thing. Good to know God, thank you so much! , and by the way, you're totally awesome. In the literal, dictionary definition sense of the word. I was not expecting anything more - totally satisfied and overwhelmed by what I had seen and experienced that day.
God hasn't finished yet, though.
On Friday, I get a phone call. A phone call from REI, one of the companies I more recently applied to, but didn't feel entirely certain of my performance in the second interview. After all, the competition had been 150 people trying to get 20 part time, seasonal positions.But anyways, REI calls. They want to hire me. Can I come in on the 6th to meet my new manager?
And then today, Sunday, the 26th, Berg's friend is at church once again. She has brought more money, specifically as a contribution towards my mission trip - the last was, apparently, just a free will offering to God in thanksgiving for her job.
...
...
...
..
..
At this point, I really have no words left. My >>MIND<< is officially >>BLOWN<<
30 June 2012
A little light Newness
I've become increasingly bored with my current screen name, Problematic. Not because it's bad or I no longer identify as her, but because I've used it for so long it's become old. I am choosing between two names, but I'd like your input.
Drumroll, please.
The first option is:
And the second:
Please comment and tell me which you prefer, and why. If you've got another idea, tell me! :)
Sincerely,
B
Drumroll, please.
The first option is:
Lady (June) Whimsy
And the second:
April Shower
Please comment and tell me which you prefer, and why. If you've got another idea, tell me! :)
Sincerely,
B
24 June 2012
Amateur
Last Friday, I hit the town with some friends to celebrate someone's birthday. Least you get the wrong impression, by "hitting the town" I really mean "let's go iceskating tonight when the prices are reduced because no one in their right minds goes ice skating on Friday night."
We got there a little early to rent skates and lessons were ending. A bunch of small children, mostly girls, were skating around in miniature skate costumes practicing jumps and spins and extensions that I once did in ballet but would be entirely incapable of performing on an ice arena. A few older women were there, helping to coach the munchkins, and getting in a couple moves of their own.
There were two particular girls who stood out to me as I stood by the side of the rink. The first was a little girl who looked so innocent you just knew she was hiding something. She was, at most, two and a half feet tall - no more than maybe three years old. Bundled up with coats and a hat and a couple scarfs over her pretty skating dress, it looked like, should she fall, she would just bounce softly off the ice. She toddled and teetered around the arena, performing a routine - complete with spins, twinkle toes, and a little pose at the end - led by the other woman who had caught my attention.
This girl looked around my age, and had a very pleasant face. It was soft and amiable, but at the moment I saw her, had an expression of fixed concentration. You see, while she was not helping the toddler, she was practicing her own routine, which the toddler continued to imitate. The older girl was very elegant, moving across the rough ice serenely.
I am a very competitive person. I challenge myself to do things excellently, even if I do not win or gain in any way: It pleases me to be excellent. As I stood watching the munchkins, I started feelign that desire for excellence rising up in me, especially as I watched the toddler and her teacher. I want to be able to skate like that. I'd love to be that elegant and move with such serenity.
Well, the lesson ended, and my friends and I were allowed to step on the ice. It was roughed up by all the spins practiced on it just before, but it didn't matter much because our skates were so dull they could have slipped on anything. I took a turn around the rink, tottering and holding on to the wall. Soon, however, a thing or two about skating came back to me. I'd taken a few lessons when I was younger, and was pretty pleased I could remember it.
As I slid my way around the rink, gaining momentum and a sense of confidence, I had another Big Idea hit me. It crept up from behind and just kind of jumped me, with no prior warning.
It's okay to be an amateur.
I'd like to point out that there is a small rebel inside of me sitting in a corner and shooting nasty glares at me as I type.
I wanna be perfect! I wanna do it right! I'm going to be amazing at everything I do even if it kills me. SO THERE! Just see if I have a life! I'm going to be flawless!
I have one thing to say to myself: Shut up. Think about it for a second.
Ice-skating is most fun when it's accompanied with plenty of friends, a couple spills, and all the weak-ankled, wobbling that comes with not knowing how to do it. It's a romantic activity to be done with your significant other, it's a signature of winter, and if done correctly, it's good fun.
Do you think an Olympic figure skater ever goes wibbling and wobbling around a public rink with some friends, racing and trying to skate backwards, before retiring to the side for hot chocolate and Hot Pockets? One word: NOTACHANCE. (That's one word. There are no spaces).
Do you think a concert pianist ever sits down with some friends, fumbles around on the keys, plays something that unexpectedly sounds good (with no application of years of music theory and experience), and then have everyone chime in on their instruments and have a good, old fashioned, not-always-sounding-good, jam session? Unlikely.
Do you think a clothing designer ever goes into a thrift store, picks all the ugliest clothes off the rack, and then has fun laughing with friends at the ridiculous combonations. Probably not.
My point is, while it is admirable, even best to strive for excellence and mastery in areas you're interested in, there is nothing wrong with not perfecting everything. Goals; yes. Obssession for perfection: no.
We got there a little early to rent skates and lessons were ending. A bunch of small children, mostly girls, were skating around in miniature skate costumes practicing jumps and spins and extensions that I once did in ballet but would be entirely incapable of performing on an ice arena. A few older women were there, helping to coach the munchkins, and getting in a couple moves of their own.
There were two particular girls who stood out to me as I stood by the side of the rink. The first was a little girl who looked so innocent you just knew she was hiding something. She was, at most, two and a half feet tall - no more than maybe three years old. Bundled up with coats and a hat and a couple scarfs over her pretty skating dress, it looked like, should she fall, she would just bounce softly off the ice. She toddled and teetered around the arena, performing a routine - complete with spins, twinkle toes, and a little pose at the end - led by the other woman who had caught my attention.
This girl looked around my age, and had a very pleasant face. It was soft and amiable, but at the moment I saw her, had an expression of fixed concentration. You see, while she was not helping the toddler, she was practicing her own routine, which the toddler continued to imitate. The older girl was very elegant, moving across the rough ice serenely.
I am a very competitive person. I challenge myself to do things excellently, even if I do not win or gain in any way: It pleases me to be excellent. As I stood watching the munchkins, I started feelign that desire for excellence rising up in me, especially as I watched the toddler and her teacher. I want to be able to skate like that. I'd love to be that elegant and move with such serenity.
Well, the lesson ended, and my friends and I were allowed to step on the ice. It was roughed up by all the spins practiced on it just before, but it didn't matter much because our skates were so dull they could have slipped on anything. I took a turn around the rink, tottering and holding on to the wall. Soon, however, a thing or two about skating came back to me. I'd taken a few lessons when I was younger, and was pretty pleased I could remember it.
As I slid my way around the rink, gaining momentum and a sense of confidence, I had another Big Idea hit me. It crept up from behind and just kind of jumped me, with no prior warning.
It's okay to be an amateur.
I'd like to point out that there is a small rebel inside of me sitting in a corner and shooting nasty glares at me as I type.
I wanna be perfect! I wanna do it right! I'm going to be amazing at everything I do even if it kills me. SO THERE! Just see if I have a life! I'm going to be flawless!
I have one thing to say to myself: Shut up. Think about it for a second.
Ice-skating is most fun when it's accompanied with plenty of friends, a couple spills, and all the weak-ankled, wobbling that comes with not knowing how to do it. It's a romantic activity to be done with your significant other, it's a signature of winter, and if done correctly, it's good fun.
Do you think an Olympic figure skater ever goes wibbling and wobbling around a public rink with some friends, racing and trying to skate backwards, before retiring to the side for hot chocolate and Hot Pockets? One word: NOTACHANCE. (That's one word. There are no spaces).
Do you think a concert pianist ever sits down with some friends, fumbles around on the keys, plays something that unexpectedly sounds good (with no application of years of music theory and experience), and then have everyone chime in on their instruments and have a good, old fashioned, not-always-sounding-good, jam session? Unlikely.
Do you think a clothing designer ever goes into a thrift store, picks all the ugliest clothes off the rack, and then has fun laughing with friends at the ridiculous combonations. Probably not.
My point is, while it is admirable, even best to strive for excellence and mastery in areas you're interested in, there is nothing wrong with not perfecting everything. Goals; yes. Obssession for perfection: no.
23 June 2012
Imminentizing the Eschaton
A few weeks ago, I was talking with my friend Hannah at school. Not this Hannah, (though she's pretty awesome and you should go read her blog) but a different Hannah. They're pretty similar, in a couple ways, but let's move on from this hang up.
Hannah and I were working late at school in the MIDI lab on a project. The MIDI lab closed at 7:00 pm, so we packed up and left to the bus stop. However, the buses stop running every ten minutes at 7:00pm, so we had a wait of about 30 minutes before our respective buses came.
Naturally, we fell to talking in the interim. Subjects included everything from classes to weekend plans, and then finally, to personalities. Hannah is a self-described "quirky person," a fact to which I can easily attest. On the day in question, she was wearing, in addition to a skirt, heels, and flowing top, an American flag scarf. She has worn similarly unusual clothing articles to class previously. But it was not her clothing that made me include her in this post.
While talking about unusual interests, my classmate said something to the effect of :
Just think about that for a second. If you like, rephrase it a bit.
What, you may ask, is "imminentizing the eschaton?" Well, imminent means "near" or "close:, so imminentizing would be to make something draw near. Eschaton is simply heaven or utopia. To imminentize the eschaton, then, would be to attempt to draw heaven, or utopia, close to earth.
The problem with imminentizing the eschaton is that it doesn't tend to work. Whether it's European interpretations of communism or mid-20th century eugenics, man's interpretations of the Eschaton and their abilities to bring it down to earth remain deeply flawed.
Hence, when little Tommy imminentizes the eschaton, it appears on his report card alongside running with scissors and licking paste.
The thing is, I've been thinking a lot about how this is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, historical attempts to bring heaven to earth have failed not so much because heaven is not meant to be on earth, but rather, their version of heaven is not meant to be. When approached theoretically, communism is a pretty brilliant idea. Don't get me wrong - every time we've ever tried to apply it, it's failed miserably - but if you take the pesky realm of reality out of the picture, communism is great! The idea of sharing everything in common is the same as what inspired early Christians in Jerusalem.
The very idea of heaven or utopia is peaceful. Not the drug induced peace of the hippy, but the pure and lasting peace that can only come through God's grace. There is something inherently wrong about co-opting earthly authority to administer one person's innately flawed vision of utopia. This is not even considering that utopia, by definition, exists nowhere. But anyways. If it is really heaven, it will have no need of strict rules, harsh retributions, or policing. Communism will always fail because it is foreign to human nature, and moreover, the force required to perpetuate it goes against the very idea of Heaven on Earth.
I digress. To sum the very wordy point I've made, the reason attempts to immimentize the eschaton have failed so spectacularly in the past is because humans try to use earthly authority to enforce utopia.
"Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like its heaven on earth." [The internet attributes this one to Mark Twain, but we all know how trustworthy the internet is on these things].
I would submit to you, dear readers, that the real sign of a Christian is how they imminentize the eschaton wherever they go. We are imago dei, the living representation of the Church, and we are to spread our joy wherever we go. Sounds suspiciously like bringing heaven to earth. If we are really the Body of Christ, then "Wherever we go, that's where the party's at {Newsboys}." Ahem. To approach it more seriously, the duty of the church is, in part, to bring a foretaste of heaven to all still living on Earth. Like an appetizer, our behavior should be a preview of things to come - as far as it is up to us, live in peace with all men.
There's one question that's been running through my head these past few weeks. Do I imminentize the eschaton? Do I live as though heaven were on earth? Can I truly love half-heartedly and claim to be a good representation of God's love for the world?
So to conclude this very long post, I would ask you: Do you long to bring heaven to earth?
Hannah and I were working late at school in the MIDI lab on a project. The MIDI lab closed at 7:00 pm, so we packed up and left to the bus stop. However, the buses stop running every ten minutes at 7:00pm, so we had a wait of about 30 minutes before our respective buses came.
Naturally, we fell to talking in the interim. Subjects included everything from classes to weekend plans, and then finally, to personalities. Hannah is a self-described "quirky person," a fact to which I can easily attest. On the day in question, she was wearing, in addition to a skirt, heels, and flowing top, an American flag scarf. She has worn similarly unusual clothing articles to class previously. But it was not her clothing that made me include her in this post.
While talking about unusual interests, my classmate said something to the effect of :
"A life without an obsession isn't life."
Just think about that for a second. If you like, rephrase it a bit.
"A life without passion isn't life."
For something entirely different, let me tell you a little story. When I was still in high school, I took a Rhetoric class taught by a pretty awesome seminary graduate, musician, and person. It was one of the ongoing jokes in class that "Little Tommy runs with scissors, doesn't play with others, and imminentizes the eschaton."What, you may ask, is "imminentizing the eschaton?" Well, imminent means "near" or "close:, so imminentizing would be to make something draw near. Eschaton is simply heaven or utopia. To imminentize the eschaton, then, would be to attempt to draw heaven, or utopia, close to earth.
The problem with imminentizing the eschaton is that it doesn't tend to work. Whether it's European interpretations of communism or mid-20th century eugenics, man's interpretations of the Eschaton and their abilities to bring it down to earth remain deeply flawed.
Hence, when little Tommy imminentizes the eschaton, it appears on his report card alongside running with scissors and licking paste.
The thing is, I've been thinking a lot about how this is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, historical attempts to bring heaven to earth have failed not so much because heaven is not meant to be on earth, but rather, their version of heaven is not meant to be. When approached theoretically, communism is a pretty brilliant idea. Don't get me wrong - every time we've ever tried to apply it, it's failed miserably - but if you take the pesky realm of reality out of the picture, communism is great! The idea of sharing everything in common is the same as what inspired early Christians in Jerusalem.
The very idea of heaven or utopia is peaceful. Not the drug induced peace of the hippy, but the pure and lasting peace that can only come through God's grace. There is something inherently wrong about co-opting earthly authority to administer one person's innately flawed vision of utopia. This is not even considering that utopia, by definition, exists nowhere. But anyways. If it is really heaven, it will have no need of strict rules, harsh retributions, or policing. Communism will always fail because it is foreign to human nature, and moreover, the force required to perpetuate it goes against the very idea of Heaven on Earth.
I digress. To sum the very wordy point I've made, the reason attempts to immimentize the eschaton have failed so spectacularly in the past is because humans try to use earthly authority to enforce utopia.
"Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like its heaven on earth." [The internet attributes this one to Mark Twain, but we all know how trustworthy the internet is on these things].
I would submit to you, dear readers, that the real sign of a Christian is how they imminentize the eschaton wherever they go. We are imago dei, the living representation of the Church, and we are to spread our joy wherever we go. Sounds suspiciously like bringing heaven to earth. If we are really the Body of Christ, then "Wherever we go, that's where the party's at {Newsboys}." Ahem. To approach it more seriously, the duty of the church is, in part, to bring a foretaste of heaven to all still living on Earth. Like an appetizer, our behavior should be a preview of things to come - as far as it is up to us, live in peace with all men.
There's one question that's been running through my head these past few weeks. Do I imminentize the eschaton? Do I live as though heaven were on earth? Can I truly love half-heartedly and claim to be a good representation of God's love for the world?
So to conclude this very long post, I would ask you: Do you long to bring heaven to earth?
19 June 2012
The Musician's Dilemma
Here's a thought for you. Of all the arts, music is unique in that the music heard by the audience is not the music the musician hears. No, I'm not talking about those Beethovenesque composers who hear the music inside their head and then write it down. I mean the physical performance of music.
As I practice violin, my mom or I will occasionally comment that "Oh, Ignatius [my violin] is really singing today." Mom's comment never fails to make me feel good about my playing, but I have absolutely no idea what she hears.
What mom means and what I mean when we talk about my violin singing are two entirely different things. I can only assume that mom's reference means that Iggy sounds very rich and full, and comparatively well played. I don't hear that sound though. When Iggy "sings" for me, it feels as though he's breathing. The gritty sounds the bow makes as I draw it across the strings; the feeling of the string vibrating underneath my fingertips, the booming, hollow sound as the chamber amplifies the sound of the strings - these all add up to the experience of a violinist. I hear surface noise and notes: mom hears music.
All of the factors that I experience as a violinist add up to the sound that mom hears and calls "singing," but some aspects are amplified and some die away. From six inches away, you can hear the surface noise, but remove yourself by three feet , and all you hear is a sweet, sweet melody.
To approach it another way, when someone first hears a recording of their voice, they almost always feel shocked. I sound like **that**? NO WAY. As speakers, we feel the air forcing sound out of our throats, hear the sound reverberating through our nasal cavities and mouth, hear the small noises made as the words are formed, and feel the entire process from start of breath to formation of sentences. Our experience is unique: while everyone else hears pretty much the same voice, only the speaker (or singer) hears the parts before they're combined as a whole.
When a musician plays guitar, they hear the sound of the pick slipping and grabbing the strings, feel the frets, hard and unforgiving under their fingers, and feel the body of the guitar resonating in time to their picks and strokes.
If this is true, and I strongly believe it is, it raises an interesting question.
Musicians frequently speak of "being in love with their music," but they don't really hear the music they make. So does this mean that they're in love with the idea of making music, or are they in love with the performance? More specifically, are we enamored with an idea (that other people will enjoy what we make), or are we addicted to the creative process? Are we focused on the enjoyment of an audience, or the sheer power of skill used well?
As I practice violin, my mom or I will occasionally comment that "Oh, Ignatius [my violin] is really singing today." Mom's comment never fails to make me feel good about my playing, but I have absolutely no idea what she hears.
What mom means and what I mean when we talk about my violin singing are two entirely different things. I can only assume that mom's reference means that Iggy sounds very rich and full, and comparatively well played. I don't hear that sound though. When Iggy "sings" for me, it feels as though he's breathing. The gritty sounds the bow makes as I draw it across the strings; the feeling of the string vibrating underneath my fingertips, the booming, hollow sound as the chamber amplifies the sound of the strings - these all add up to the experience of a violinist. I hear surface noise and notes: mom hears music.
All of the factors that I experience as a violinist add up to the sound that mom hears and calls "singing," but some aspects are amplified and some die away. From six inches away, you can hear the surface noise, but remove yourself by three feet , and all you hear is a sweet, sweet melody.
To approach it another way, when someone first hears a recording of their voice, they almost always feel shocked. I sound like **that**? NO WAY. As speakers, we feel the air forcing sound out of our throats, hear the sound reverberating through our nasal cavities and mouth, hear the small noises made as the words are formed, and feel the entire process from start of breath to formation of sentences. Our experience is unique: while everyone else hears pretty much the same voice, only the speaker (or singer) hears the parts before they're combined as a whole.
When a musician plays guitar, they hear the sound of the pick slipping and grabbing the strings, feel the frets, hard and unforgiving under their fingers, and feel the body of the guitar resonating in time to their picks and strokes.
If this is true, and I strongly believe it is, it raises an interesting question.
Musicians frequently speak of "being in love with their music," but they don't really hear the music they make. So does this mean that they're in love with the idea of making music, or are they in love with the performance? More specifically, are we enamored with an idea (that other people will enjoy what we make), or are we addicted to the creative process? Are we focused on the enjoyment of an audience, or the sheer power of skill used well?
28 April 2012
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
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
02 April 2012
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.
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.
28 February 2012
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.
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.
13 February 2012
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
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
09 February 2012
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
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
17 January 2012
[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.
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.
05 January 2012
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.
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.
03 January 2012
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.
Ack. I can't wait until January is over.
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