Blurred Lines

I am an incompetent drawer (another one of those pesky words that totally has two meanings with one spelling; I question myself every time I write it). I love looking at lines and shapes, paintings and sculptures, but if it comes to recreating the slightest resemblance to what I'm looking at, then I fail utterly.

I once believed that I simply needed tutoring in the fine art of depth and lighting, shadows and color, but then I realized--to my shame--that I cannot even draw a straight line. I literally cannot do it. (I can trace a straight line, but so can everyone). My hand, while steady throughout other daily pursuits, has no desire to remain straight. What is frustrating is that a straight line is supposedly simple. It is a line of demarcation, a separation of two areas, a delineation of space. Why can't I draw a straight line?

Plato says that no one has ever seen a perfect circle or a perfectly straight line. He is using it to express his theories about form (everyone knows what a "perfect" circle looks like, even though they've never seen one), but that's not important here. His argument is that every circle/line/triangle is made up of a series of infinitely small dots or lines, and no artist can create each of those small dots or lines perfectly. This theory comforted me, not just in my artistry, but in my life.

I listened to someone try to draw a line for me the other day. (I could do this whole part as he/she, but I'll save us both some time: it was a he. My telling you his sex (problem of universals, anyone? It must be a Platonian day) is not meant to draw any abject generalizations on that sex; I have seen/heard multiple women try to convince me of the same position some with less and some with more logic--neither, however, with more success)

He started off simply. By the end, however, his line which was made by a rigid, fat marker on white paper, veered and dipped, and zigged and zagged. He then had the gall to conclude that this line--these beliefs--was/were the only logical answer to his original premise. I sat in horror (and a little awe,) and thought about Plato's belief. I thought about how many individual lines went into the drawing of this fat line. For this to be a perfect line, (like he promised) each one of his individual lines had to be perfect, and they weren't. His individual, minuscule lines lacked depth, wisdom, exceptions, and frankly, thought.

I silently begged him to sit down and visually draw this line of reasoning. Had he done so, he would have been shocked to see the childlike scrawl that it resembled. No one would consider that line as making any sense, or being aesthetically pleasing (It might even resemble modern art, a style which every good member of this man's group despises). I would then hand him an eraser and tell him to use it, to revise where revision is called for, to be willing to smudge the unnecessary areas, to think about each one of his individual lines, and then make each of those lines perfect.

Straight lines are never as simple as they appear.

Under the Wire--Again

I think I have a unique ability to post on the last day of the month. Since school, and my current life, do not usually require any other skills that I would be interested in developing (sleep, movies, music, quiet drives, and piles of interesting books) then I guess I should cultivate the skills that I already have--namely, getting posts in on the last day of the month. See, I succeeded in that. Yay.

Speaking of under the wire, I wish the summer hadn't finished when it did. I had 10 more episodes--one season--and summer decided to be done. How unfair is that?

I wrote a paper about justice and fairness. I was surprised by how it went and by how much I enjoyed it. I got a 99. I hate Turabian.

I just heard that ottobib.com is the single best way to have the computer generate your bibliography. It's friends with "Library Thing." I should have known it would be good. Apparently you type in the ISBN number of the book, and it formats it for you. You don't even type in information. Seriously, why didn't I hear of this before that paper?

I heard yesterday that Hathaway and Franco are hosting the Oscars. I don't know about you, but I think that's pretty cool. I like them both. Hathaway has indisputable charm, and I once listened to Franco read some of his poetry on NPR.

Last week, I listened to people birdwatch on NPR. It was so fascinating I couldn't turn it off.
"What are we coming up on Sue?"
"I don't know Greg, I think we've definitely got one at a little to your left, yes that's right."
"That looks like a beautiful bird. We need to get a bit closer before we can identify it though."
"Well Greg, I'm pretty sure . . . wait . . . it's definitely gray . . . with a white . . ."
"A white beak? You're right, Sue. That's a insert-quickly-forgettable-name-of-bird-here. Wow. I've never seen one in this part of Wisconsin before. I wonder if its migrating habits have been thrown off by the weather fluctuation"
"Greg, you know that this type of bird has a higher amount of . . . "
I had arrived at my destination and, subsequently, shut off the car. Do they sit in a studio and birdwatch? Or, are they out in the field observing wildlife with microphones next to their binoculars? It's questions like these that keep me fascinated.

Why would "pretentious" be the number one searched word on Merriam-Webster online dictionary? Don't you think that had you been called pretentious that you would probably actually already know what that word meant? I mean, I might be wrong, but acting in a pretentious manner is not something that is usually picked up overnight--it takes years of practice.

My brother, in the past week, had his years of practice in witticisms/irony/fun/etc. pay off. He wrote this fantastic stalker note--complete with letters cut out of magazines (Good Housekeeping was the main magazine used with National Geographic taking a close second)--to Heloise. This letter, lovingly glued on orange construction paper with the words carefully framing a picture of Heloise, is a masterpiece in all I could have ever hoped to teach him. The high moments are when he talks about his love for her sweaters, her love for her chubby hubby, and, of course, their combined efforts for world domination. I loved him even more. Seriously, I hope you all can see it someday.

Someday, and it's growing closer, I have to look for a job. I had a long conversation today about how impossible it is going to be to find a job; that conversation wasn't needed. I've had a hard time focusing tonight on the literal piles of homework due next Monday because resumes, portfolios, references, job applications, grad school applications, and apartment options keep swirling around. I know this isn't the time to worry about this, and I know I don't have to worry about this, but still round and round it goes and where it stops, nobody knows.

"Mr. James Joyce, now where would you put him?" "Would you mind repeating that question?" "I said where would you put James Joyce. In what category?" (Points to everyone who understood that last line in connection with the entire post.)  

Don't Look Now--There May be Excessive Love Coming Out of This Post

The past eight weeks of school have been hard.

I was in an awful online class. 

I was in a helpful, but huge time commitment for observation/working in my public high school.

I was teaching--complete with lesson plans and visual aids--at least once every week, and in most cases twice a week on top of all my other schoolwork.

And in the course of three days this last week, I finished all of it.

I was so relived. 

This weekend has been amazing and so desperately needed. I've spent the entire time unashamedly slacking off. I know that tomorrow I'll slip back into school-mode and be efficient with my time once again, but for these last few hours, enjoy with me some of the things I've enjoyed.

I, somehow, someway must attend TED. I know you have to apply to be able to attend, and they read your application and decide if you're smart enough or rich enough to be allowed to come, but I've got to do this. My chances for brains are not high, so I obviously need to come into some money. (If you're interested in donating to my cause, please remember that 2011 is already sold out--let's set our sights for the next year.)

I want to be near someone when their picture is taken by Sartorialist. Every time I look, I'm inspired. Then I return to my closet and am brought back to reality. If someone I know shows up on there, I would consider that an acceptable substitute. Friends, what are you waiting for?

I loved The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Seriously. I can't stand epic films, and I'm not that crazy about Westerns either, but this was a Spaghetti Western, and therefore, a great movie. I enjoyed all 2 hours and 40 minutes. I do not remember enjoying A Fistful of Dollars anywhere near this much. The dialogue was fun, the story line unnecessary, and the amount of deus ex machina's employed was at an all-time high (I could listen to an argument about how Gilbert and Sullivan plays might have this record, but then I would tell you to watch this movie.)

I shopped with the little man for clothes for his European excursion. We ate at Five Guys and discussed what self-love and self-promotion makes you look like to other people. (Seriously, have you ever been inside one of those places?) Also, Europeans and burgers. We shopped, and even though I tried for man capri's, we left with some well-woven pants and sweet shirts only (maybe next time.) 

And then, I burnt the midnight oil (which in my case, is the 10:00 oil) reading Edith Wharton. She's amazing. She is so blissfully amazing. I want to think like her.

It was a good weekend. I hope, if not this weekend then the next, that you will have a chance to enjoy yourself half as much as I did. You, however, will probably not be excited about my super-late reading of Wollstonecraft.

And no. I didn't tell you about that.

Some pleasures should remain private.

And it Was Good

I am simply reporting on that beautiful event which is the book sale.

We were third or fourth in line on Wednesday evening. I was pleased with our placement, but I was even more pleased when the man passed out to pins to those who were friends of the Watertown Public Library. I received a pin which I am sure I will treasure until my dying day. We were, however, first in the line for the bag sale. I was so excited.

The selection was quite decent this year. While I didn't feel they had as much volume, I thought some of the quality had gone up.

I came away with 103 books (this is including the bag sale), and two collections--I never count collections in my total count. One collection has 10 volumes and the other has 38 (supposed to have 50, but missing 12--I'm going to find them on eBay).

And I did it all for 37.50. How does that not make you smile?

The only thing I can possibly complain about is that I have no time to read any of my new delightful options. And I really want to read them.

Also, the room thing. I seriously have no room.

The Book Sale

So, you can understand what I'm feeling, I'm giving you an essay I wrote about the book sale a few years ago. Enjoy.


The Book Sale:

I look at the other people in line. All are holding bags, including me. We warily eye one another. If there’s a fight—I want them to know I’ll win.

There’s some sort of system in place, but it’s badly done. A man, obviously in some authoritative position, is walking around asking who was here first. Why is he asking? Doesn’t he know people lie? After they answer (to my relief—the lies are minimal), he hands them a piece of paper with a number. He checks their name on the list to make sure their dues are paid, and moves on. He reaches me. I speak honestly (even though it was hard). He hands me my number, 17, and checks my name off (my dues are always paid).

It’s almost time. I check my clock again. The old ladies are positioned carefully at their table. They pull out the cash drawer, and then look at the man. The man, almost finished with the line, doesn’t realize the ladies are waiting for his approval. But I realize it. Finally he turns and sees the ladies watching him. He asks, “Are you waiting for me?” “Idiot,” I think. The ladies smile and tell him to take his time. He redeems himself by saying, “No. Let them go in.” One lady moves from behind the table and opens the door. I think the first person gives her time to move out of the way before he rushes in. I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care.

I check the corners for boxes—that’s where they hide the series. Series are always my best buys. I don’t see any this year. I have no time for regret—I must move on.

I move to the fiction room. At first glance, all I see is books. No time for happiness, I store the image, and move on. My goal is to look at all the books in this room. I start systematically, looking at the books on the table and then moving to the ones under the table. I look this time for titles I recognize. There is no time for books I might like to read. I grab some hardcover Christie, Orwell, Fitzgerald, Wharton, Hemingway, and others—so far, so good.

After the fiction room, I head to the old book table. It’s shoved against the wall. I take more time with the old books. I look at the inscriptions, the publishing dates, enjoy the smell—and then move on. I take with me beautiful copies of Dante’s Inferno, Plato’s Republic, and Eliot’s Silas Marner.

The nonfiction, cooking, textbooks, religious, humor, biographies, computers, and travel tables all receive quick perusals. The books presented on these tables are overwhelming, but I follow the same system. I’m ready to move on. I’ve got C.S. Lewis, Mailer, and Betty Crocker.

Next, it’s the romance room. Mystery, western, science fiction, and the books on the strange middle table join Harlequin and Silhouette—it’s not a comfortable relationship.

The mystery table is a strange conglomeration. Agatha Christie and John Grisham are lying next to each other. V.C. Andrews threatens to overpower the table, and is that Nora Roberts? I pick through these carefully. I look at every Agatha Christie and if I know I own it or it’s in worse condition than the copy I already own—then I leave it alone. The overpowering V.C. Andrews constituency and I have an understanding—they leave me alone and I return the favor. I leave with Christie, Chekhov, Du Maurier, and King.

I look quickly at science fiction. Last time, I found Alistair MacLean there, and the time before that, Oscar Wilde. I give the westerns a passing glance. I once found Tarzan comic books there. Today, I find Thornton Wilder.

Then, I move to the strange middle table. The table bridges the gap between romance and all the other tables. Because of its unique positioning, it includes romance, mystery, self-help, and for some reason multiple copies of James Herriot. I grab How to Marry the Rich, a book of Tennessee Williams’s plays, Are You a Conservative or a Liberal, and Graham Greene.

Next, I go to the children’s room. I look carefully in here. All the books look worn, but in the past, I have found treasures. I take my time. I leave with three hardcover Dr. Seuss’s and a hardcover Stuart Little.

Then, it’s the last round. I walk through everything again. I add more books. On my way to the old ladies with the cash register, I cast a look at the two remaining tables. These two tables sit outside the entrance, and their piles are too confusing for any name. Their unknown lineage, however, doesn’t stop them from being incredible. I grab The Book of Virtues, Ordinary People, All the King’s Men, Danny Dunn on a Desert Island, and Their Eyes Were Watching God.

The ladies can barely count and they forget what the stated prices are for the books—I helpfully remind them. They make an obligatory comment on the number of my books—I make an obligatory smile. They want to know if I have room for all of the books—I assure them I do.

I don’t.

The Second Reason I love Fall

First, football started last Thursday. It was amazing (38-24, anyone?) I felt as if I was alive once again.

And now, not even a week away, the next greatest thing about the earth happens.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the book sale.

So much happiness at one time is probably not good for the soul--good thing I have the rest of my educational life to counteract that happiness.

I'll let you know what treasures I bring home.

Here's to Football

It's seemed like a longer off-season than necessary, so I'm intensely glad football's back.

I'm going to enjoy the season--as varied and as interesting as it might be. And I'm going to start doing that enjoying in about five minutes.

Go New England Patriots.

But even greater then the Patriots, Go football--you have no idea how happy I am to see you again.

Joyce's Portrait

My summer is over--classes start today. It was a good summer even though I had to say goodbye to my sister, my friend moved away, and I worked in retail. Going to Argentina was a great experience, but that's all I have to say about that--let's talk about books.

I read this summer, and some of them were seriously amazing books. James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" was one of those seriously amazing reads.

Joyce's novel starts with him as a young boy listening to his father and friends of his father fight about politics.  Joyce is, of course, from Ireland; he begins to become disillusioned about the state of his country and his parents religion. He attends a Catholic boy's school. He begins to listen to the sermons. Almost 40 pages of the book was devoted to one sermon. Joyce is convicted of his unworthiness and sin, and he repents. He decides to become a Catholic priest until he is bothered by a comment one priest makes which convinces Joyce the priest is ungodly. He then breaks free from all bonds--in a rather intense scene--and sacrifices himself to art knowing that no calling is as worthy as that of an artist. That's not the bitter end, but you should read that for yourself.

I think I was expecting more of an essay than the well-crafted novel I received. The beginning felt so much like a story that I momentarily forgot that this was, in essence, a manifesto. I was surprised by the length and the in-depth nature of the sermon; Joyce clearly knew his religion.The book has five chapters only, but still is around 250 pages. Joyce relies on paragraph markings to change the subject more often than a chapter. Joyce is known for his well-written prose, so that was no surprise. Even though I knew that, I was still caught several times, by how enjoyable his prose was; his words flowed smoothly together and he used marvelous metaphors.

Joyce asks the questions that we are still struggling to answer: what is art, what is beauty, is beauty subjective, what is the difference between sublime and beautiful, what holds back art, what questions should artists be answering, should artists depict the world the way they see it or the way they wish to see it, is one more valid than another? I'm interested in the answers to these questions, or at least, what Joyce thought the answers were.

By the time Joyce finished writing this novel, he was an expatriate, an atheist, and a stranger to most of his family. He succeeded in casting off what he perceived was holding him back (country, religion, and family). According to himself, he succeeded in devoting himself solely to art and not allowing anyone or anything to distract him.

Interesting quotes:

Joyce answering a friend's question of subjective beauty:
"Though the same object may not seem beautiful to all people, all people who admire a beautiful object find in it certain relations which satisfy and coincide with the stages themselves of all esthetic apprehension.These relations of the sensible, visible to you through one form and to me through another, must be therefore the necessary qualities of beauty."

Joyce deciding to follow art:
"His heart trembled; his breath came faster and a wild spirit passed over his limbs as though he were soaring sunward. His heart trembled in an ecstasy of fear and his soul was in flight. His soul was soaring in an air beyond the world and the body he knew was purified in a breath and delivered of incertitude and made radiant and comingled with the element of the spirit. . . This was the call of life to his soul not the dull gross voice of the world of duties and despair, not the inhuman voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant of wild flight had delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft his brain."

Joyce explaining the birth of an artist's soul:
"The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight.You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets."
 
Joyce summing things up:
"We are right, and the others are wrong. To speak of these things and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly to express, to press out again, from the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the prison gates of our soul, an image of the beauty we have come to understand--that is art"

And you thought you were going to get a post

I'm taking my summer hiatus--starting now.

I'm leaving for Argentina on Tuesday, and have far too much to do before then.

The next possible time you can hope to hear from me is August 20th.

So, good luck until then.

Yeah, that's really all I've got.

Home

I have a Van Gogh print that sits in my room. It's entitled The Bedroom. The painting is a scene from Van Gogh's personal bedroom in Arles. The colors are vivid and the picture pleasant, but it's not breathtaking. What caught my attention at the gallery, was Van Gogh's description of the painting in a letter to his brother. He mentioned how the colors were soothing because he wanted the painting to be restful to the brain since restful was what a bedroom should be. He wanted the mind to be able to breathe when it looked at this painting because you should be able to breathe in your bedroom.

I own that print because I agree with Van Gogh. Through those words and the feelings he evokes in that painting, he sums up my concept of home.

My home has become more precious to me in the past few years. I often view home as a preservation for my mind. This last semester was bad. My home was my refuge often. There were times when I would open the door to my bedroom, walk in, and simply breathe. My eyes would travel hungrily around the room taking in as much peace as I could. Here was a place where I could breathe.

I'm preparing to leave this home. I have lived in the same house for 20 years. I love this home. I know it all, and I know it well. And yet, I'm preparing to leave.

I still have one more year of classes and a semester of student teaching left, it's true. But the end of last semester made me realize, more than anything else has before, that I'm in my last days of living in this house.

I'm ready to move on. I'm ready to buy a studio, an apartment, a house, or a cardboard box of my own. I'm ready to fill out change-of-address forms. I'm ready to move to somewhere totally different, and start from scratch. I'm ready to pick out a church, make new friends, go to a different library (although all my loyalties will forever remain with this one), work a full-time job, and build up my 401k.

I know that I'm incredibly lucky. If all goes according to plan, I'll graduate without any debt and have some savings.  There's nothing holding me back from applying anywhere, being accepted somewhere (hopefully), and moving there. I'm organizing my stuff into boxes, totes, and piles. If required, I could leave this home--provided there were enough boxes for my books--with everything I own in 24 hours. I'm not expecting anything to be that fast, but I'm serious when I say I'm ready. Everything in the attic is ready to be moved into a moving van, and everything in my room, can be easily boxed up.

One of the important concepts of home is that it is not restricted to one place. A few of the others are the freedom to speak freely, the encouragement to grow, and the ability to be restful but not complacent.

I'm going to miss this particular home. I know I will, but I'm ready to create my own home from the lessons I've learned about homes in this home.

I'm not one for plaques about 'home is where the heart is', live/laugh/love picture frames, or quotes about families being displayed around the house. But somewhere in my house I want the Van Gogh print to hang because it reminds me that when you're in your home, you should be able to breathe.

His Girl Friday

This is an amazing movie.

It's been a favorite for years.

Time has not taken away any of its charm, and I'm sure it never will.

I'm watching this right now, and have no desire to do anything else.

Isn't that enough? The time I usually spend writing, I'm instead enjoying this incredible movie.

It's a wise use of time--trust me.

Empty Bottle

For the past few days, I've been on drugs. I'm not going to tell you it wasn't an enjoyable few days, but I am glad to be returning to a land where I actually care.

I had all four wisdom teeth pulled on Tuesday. I really don't remember the rest of the day. I remember napping on the couch and feeling like I was choking because there was so much blood in my mouth (I'm sorry, should I have warned you?), I remember my first experience of trying to chew with my two front teeth, and then swallowing straight-back immediately so as not to touch any other part of my mouth, and I remember my mother telling me to take pain pills--I wasn't sure why I needed them, I felt just fine.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday passed in a large blur. I remember talking to people, but I don't remember about what. I remember trying to read and being frustrated I was nodding off every two pages--literally. I remember thinking food would taste good, but the thought of moving my jaw scared me. I remember being confused about why I couldn't remember the last time I had taken my pain pills--I was taking them every four hours, how hard could it be? I participated in activities, but whatever I did I usually felt disinterested and listless. I felt as if people were moving around me, and there was nothing else on earth for me to do but to sit back and watch them--and I was just fine doing that.

I had to go off the meds on Friday. I had to go to work on Saturday for eight hours. Since the surgery, however, I hadn't been awake for eight straight hours, and the hours I had been awake I was certainly not in any shape to be working. I wasn't sure how I was going to feel.

I woke up Saturday sore. My mouth hurt. I had spent the night searching for a comforting way to put my head on the pillow so I could sleep. I thought about the blissful hours spent on my pills: I hadn't known there was an uncomfortable way to put my head, each and every place had seemed perfect. I cursed the clock that told me to report to work in a two hours.

That eight-hour shift was the longest I have ever spent at work. It was worse than all the the Black Friday's put together. My head ached from the moment I arrived until I finally left. Time has never passed as slowly as it did that day. I have never done so many stupid things as I did that day (I carried a box halfway across the store, looked down at it, realized I had no idea why it was in my hands or what I was doing with it, and carried it back the length of the store--I never do stuff like that).

By that night, however, after feeling horrible and wanting nothing more than the sweet relief of my pain pills (oh yes, I still have some), I felt like eating real food and participating in a conversation--I was returning.

I still have a few more days until I'm declared completely better and at no risk for dry sockets. I'm hoping I don't have them. I don't want to go through all of that.

There would, however, probably be more pills, right?

Today

1.

I woke up today and it was storming.

I went for the early morning shift at work. Ad set went smoothly. That might sound like nothing to you, but it's one of two times that I can remember that happening.

We have a lady retiring after 35 years (I cannot imagine 35 years of retail). The ad set morning crew threw her a special party on our break. There were doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, platters of cheese and crackers, strawberry shortcake, and assorted other foods. I ate lots while listening to her tell us about the dance classes she took 30 years ago and the different steps she could lead--it was genuinely fascinating.

I left work and rushed to put gas in the car. I have a rewards card and today was payoff day--I saved 30 cents off each gallon I put in. I was way too excited.

I changed for church, picked up family and friend, and left. Halfway there, we were caught in a summer storm. It was a good storm. Loud, vicious, pelting, warm, and humid all at once. There is nothing like a good rainstorm to make you feel cocooned and content.

At church there was more food. I ate and enjoyed.

We left quickly after church to get home. I changed and ate quickly because I had to get back to work. Usually the Sunday afternoon shifts make me feel tired, hungry and cranky, but not today.

At work, my wonderful friend was back from vacation. We started trying to catch each other up on everything that had happened--we didn't get anywhere close, but we had fun trying.

I changed again. Headed back to church. Went to choir practice. I loved the music we were singing--for all the wrong reasons, and enjoyed the people I spent time with.

We headed home. I drove fast. I talked with Dad and then ate pizza. All were good.

2.

It doesn't sound like I had much time for reflection, but I found the time.

6 years ago today, the problem was technically over--the kids just didn't know it yet. We wouldn't be informed until Monday, but for all intents and purposes, it was over.

I've written about this anniversary on previous June 27th's, but I've never felt like I do now. It's a strange mixture of amazement, pain and joy--but the pain is lesser then it ever has been before; this time amazement and joy are taking over.

I wish I could tell those 16, 14, 12 and 10 (It's funny, but I never felt young) year olds that it was going to be better. It wasn't going to be easy, it wasn't going to be fast, and it certainly wasn't going to be complete, but it was going to be so much better.

I still have a long way to go. I won't bore you with all that still needs to be accomplished in my life, but it's a lot. There are things I would change about my current life, but nothing major like I would have 6 years ago.

People don't understand, but I'm serious when I say,
This is my life, and in it, I am content.

It's Inevitable

I think this is my third year of doing the whole post-every-week-in-the-summer challenge.
Most of the time, it's not a challenge. Usually I have things I want to say and you provide a perfect outlet. There is, however, always one week where I don't feel like writing--apparently, it's this week.

It's not that I don't have plenty going on in my life that I could tell you about--getting my wisdom teeth pulled, sister and friend leaving, Argentina, summer, where my home is (I'm not joking--that's actually a post I'm working on right now), and numerous other possibilities. I'm just saying that none of those feel right for today.

So, I'm taking the coward's way out and giving you this annoying piece of drivel (admit it--you have always wanted to use that word in a sentence).

I do, however, have one piece of amazing news that you absolutely must hear: The words toward and towards mean the exact same thing. Toward is used by Americans and towards by the British.

No wonder I have always been confused about which one to use. It's judgement and grey all over again.

I guess now I should recant the drivel word because nothing as important as that last piece of information could ever be considered foolish.

But I can't take back drivel--I just can't.

Ace in the Hole

Humanity can be sick.

I watched this movie as a kick-off to my summer and was utterly blown away.

You know what's going to happen from the first few scenes, but that doesn't detract from the repulsion that you feel begin to grow inside you in the first scene and that continues on long after the movie has finished.

Billy Wilder directs. He made this right after making Sunset Boulevard (utterly perfect in it's own way). Hole is grittier and meaner then Blvd.

Kirk Douglas does an amazing job showing the extents people go to for entertainment.

If you're not sick by the end of this movie, then there is something utterly wrong with you.

I don't want to say go enjoy, because that just seems wrong.

So how's this?

Go be disturbed.

Death (an inauspicious title)

I thought death would be different then it was.

It's not that I don't have experience with death. I do--more than most people. When I traveled last fall, I was surprised by how few funerals my teammates had attended. For most it was 3 or 4, and for one girl it was 2 (you must understand, she didn't like to feel sad). My funeral attendance is much higher then 4, so I thought I had a better idea of what it would be like.

My Pappy died this last semester, and I miss him. I know he wasn't really aware of what was going on toward the end of his life. I know the months he lived with us were some of the most stressful on my parents and us kids. I know I didn't know him as well as others did. But, of course, none of those negate love. And I loved him.

I could tell you what I loved about him: his passion for any ice cream, big band music, golf and grandkids. I could tell how he taught me to play golf and croquet--and neither well. But this isn't about my memories of Pappy. I have them and I treasure them, but that's not what this post is about.

I was surprised by how different my conception of death was and what actually happened in two ways.

First, I thought death would be quicker. We were told he wasn't doing well, so my Mom drove down. When she arrived, she called my Dad and told him to get on the next flight. He left Wednesday morning. We were told Pappy wouldn't make it through the night. He did. We went to classes on Thursday, and were told he would be gone by early afternoon. He wasn't. We were excused from classes on Friday and left to drive down to PA. All five of us were jammed into my sister's car (which did not make for a comfortable trip), we were assured that he would be gone by that night. He wasn't.

The trip was incredibly slow, snow was everywhere (this was February), and the roads were bad. We ended up sitting on the highway for 2 1/2 hours. Just sitting. Not moving a single inch. It was horrible. We had made the decision to go as far as my brother and his wife's place Friday night, and continue on Saturday morning. We didn't arrive at his place until almost midnight. We had been on the road for over 11 hours. And we had only gone about 6 hours. We all spent the night camped out on my brother's living-room floor.

Saturday morning we woke up unsure of what to do. Pappy was still alive. It sounds awkward, but it doesn't sound nearly as awkward as it actually was. There was some question if we should go back home, be there for the weekend, and then leave again on Monday. We spent the day in limbo: doing some homework, sleeping, eating, but always still very unsure. It was weird. Saturday night came and we were playing a game. The call came. We hugged. We cried. The wait was over.

Monday to Saturday were some of the longest days of my life. In this instance, death was not quick.

Second, I thought people would use the word death. Since the first call, until weeks after I arrived home, I didn't hear the word death once. I thought it was strange. That was, after all, what we were dealing with--wasn't it? I used it. My immediate family used it. What was so hard about saying it? When I was trying to move a paper date because I was going to be gone, the teacher asked me "Are the angels welcoming their own home yet?" For a second, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Another asked, "Has he passed into eternal glory?" I was amazed at how carefully people were avoiding the word. I wondered if they thought that if the four letter word escaped their lips, I would break down weeping.

After sometime, I thought about the avoidance of the word. Does it sound too crass for such a time? I tried to think about how I felt when I knew someone around me was hurting, did I try to avoid the word also?

Death is sad. We all know John Donne's quote about how you should see and feel your feeble humanity in anyone and everyone's death, but we don't do that. We're surrounded by death. No matter how much you know that every bell tolling is for you, you are not prepared for the depth of feelings you experience when a loved one dies.

I stood in that awful room while pathetic music played over the speakers, looked at my pappy and cried. Yes, I cried for someone I loved, but I cried with others that I loved. They made all the difference.

Every man's death diminishes me, it's true. But certain deaths take more of myself with them when they are washed away into the sea.

I don't think Donne would disagree.

Oh, Ebert

Read this.

You have to click on the title of the post to get to the article.

I loved it.

I'll be back.

I don't want to figure it out--yet

Knowing what's going to happen in a book, movie, or tv show is a fine, acquired art. I've been able to perfect that art over the years, and now reading or watching anything is a constant race with myself to know what's going to happen before I'm supposed to find out (thank you, years of Agatha Christie books).

Some of my favorite books and movies are the ones that I didn't figure out until everyone else did. Sure, like you figured out the whole Maximilian/Rebecca plot twist. And that seriously amazing scene in that movie where suddenly every single piece of everything makes sense (and if you think I just referenced Memento, I'm feeling unspeakable pain for you--I really hate that movie.)

Recently, the figuring stuff out has become a little boring. When you read classics, you already know the ending simply because you've had to have basic knowledge of the book previously. Movies clearly have been unable to come up with anything slightly convincing in the past few years. And you can barely get on any entertainment website without finding out what happened in your favorite TV show before you get a chance to watch it.

I finished Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go about two weeks ago. I had wanted to read it,especially before the movie came out--I can't abide movie book covers. The book was voted as best novel of 2005 by National Book Critic Circles Award and named as one of the top 10 books of the decade by TIME magazine.

I made it a point not to research anything about the book--I didn't want any hints about what was going to happen. I had three sentences to go on: 1. Children at a boarding school, and all is not what it seems. 2. By the guy who wrote The Remains of the Day. 3. It is slightly creepy and powerful with a twist ending.

Now, after reading the first sentence, you'd better have a pretty good idea about what is going on, or I've lost all my faith in your premonitions.

I settled down with the book and enjoyed it. My pre-book-reading premonitions were not exactly correct, but I quickly corrected them (we're talking 3rd chapter here), and had the twist safely figured out a few chapters later. Admittedly, my entire theory could have failed because I was building it off one sentence, but I had such comfort in the knowledge Ishiguro had of this world that I knew I could trust him to make that sentence be as important as it should be. He proved me right.

It was not my favorite book, by any means. I'm not even sure I'll read it again, but I did enjoy the chase. I enjoyed feeling like this book had fooled plenty of people before me, but it wasn't going to fool me. I felt as if I was a little kid again, reading a mystery novel while tucked under the covers, grasping to every word, eager to discover the motive, the weapon, and the killer, and the wonderful feeling when you discover you're right.

Besides all that--it was a pretty good book.

Note: if you are interested in reading the book, I do recommend the not-researching any part of it before you read. After I read it, I checked google, wikipedia, and amazon. Any self-respecting reader could piece the whole story together by just those tidbits that everyone else let creep out. But wouldn't you like to see if you could figure out what happened using only the author's words which are, I promise you, far more enjoyable then some book review on amazon. At least he has style--and prose.

I'm Leaving in a mini-van, don't know when I'll be back again

I'm leaving in about 20 minutes for my brother's wedding in Minnesota.

I feel slightly bad about this being my post for the week, but not bad enough to make myself stay up last night.

I will return in a few days, and I promise to make it worth your while although I've always found that a rather pathetic phrase. How much is actually worth your while? Is it worth your while if you're one of those people who does nothing constructive with their time? Or, is it worth your while only when you are being efficient?

There--now you have something to ponder and figure out for when I get back.

I apologize for the title, the slight grammarian that resides within would not allow me to say "on a mini-van."

America, Why?

I'm in US History class right now. Everyone knows there's nothing like a good, honest look at American history to make you not entirely proud of your country. I'm sure that's true in any country, but I'm American, and so I'm currently looking at my country's achievements and failings.

Throughout the class, I've been disturbed by much of what America has done. I am bothered by people, ideals, beliefs, actions, and billions of other things. I thought, then that I would tell you what I currently perceive as America's greatest failing. Prepare yourself.

Abatement
Achievement
Acknowledgement
Advancement
Advertisement
Agreement
Amazement
Amusement
Announcement
Appeasement
Arrangement
Atonement
Battlement
Bereavement
Commencement
Confinement
Disablement
Disagreement
Disbursement
Discouragement
Disenfranchisement
Disengagement
Disfigurement
Disgruntlement
Dismantlement
Disparagement
Displacement
Divorcement
Elopement
Embezzlement
Encouragement
Endorsement
Enforcement
Engagement
Engorgement
Enhancement
Enlargement
Entanglement
Enticement
Escapement
Estrangement
Excitement
Improvement
Incitement
Inducement
Infringement
Involvement
Management
Measurement
Mismanagement
Movement
Pavement
Placement
Procurement
Pronouncement
Puzzlement
Rearrangement
Refinement
Reimbursement
Reinforcement
Reinstatement
Replacement
Requirement
Resettlement
Retirement
Settlement
Statement
Underachievement
Understatement

So, fellow Americans, please excuse my regular error in the spelling of judgment as "judgement". I have never understood why American's chose to spell it without an e. I have just supplied a list in which all the words end in e and simply have -ment tacked on. There is no logical reason for American's to drop the e in judgement. None whatsoever.

At least Britain knows how to spell it.

Garage Sales

I don't really do garage sales.

This weekend, however, was our town's official "garage sale weekend." (one of my town's special eccentricities).

Philip, I, and a family friend loaded up around 9:30. We had the newspaper insert and cash. The insert supplied the addresses of specific garage sales with a few lines of what each was offering, and then the back of the insert had our town map, sectioned off for easy finding.

We spent about 3 hours going around. Philip was the helpful navigator; he steered us to the most profitable garages. I was the helpful parker. I parked in some beautiful ways several times.

I had a delightful time. I came away with 11 books, 1 game, an air pump, and 1 movie.

And I bought it all for just under 5 dollars.

My Liver a.k.a. My Semester

Prometheus is a cool dude. He saw a need: man had no way to remain warm. He rectified the need: he stole fire from the rest of the gods and gave it to the humans.
Zeus and the other gods were angry. Prometheus had just given a godlike-power to humans--who certainly didn't deserve it in the first place. So, Zeus retaliated by taking Prometheus, chaining him to a huge rock, and ordering an eagle to come eat Prometheus' liver--a pretty sick way to die. Problem was Prometheus didn't die. Since he was a god, his liver regrew every night, and the eagle would then start fresh each day. The eagle ate all of Prometheus' liver each and every day for a long time.

I felt like Prometheus this semester. Not the god part and not the bearing of special knowledge part, but the liver part.

This has been the single worst semester of my life. I took far too many credits, worked far too many hours, did far too many extra things, and did not see my family and friends anywhere near what I should have. When I arrived home after my last day, I have never been so exhausted. My brain was incapable of accepting the fact that I was done, incapable of believing that finally everything had been turned in, incapable of admitting to myself that I had no more responsibilities for this semester--ever. I think I am just now beginning to believe it.

I believe in education. You know that. I have ideals about what education is, how it should take place, what it should encompass, what it should accomplish, and what it should bring about. I felt as if many of my ideals about education this semester, while not dashed or destroyed, were severely dented.

I took three lit. classes this semester, which should immediately tell you how much reading I was doing. I'm also one of those annoying people who reads every single assignment. I also had a lit. class every day, so there was never any day in-between the pain. These were my main problems this semester. And because of those three lit. classes, I spent my days and nights alternating between living and dying.

It was in class when I died. People would say things--things you would not believe had you not been there. I would look helplessly around, at my classmates and at the teacher, and realize that no one saw any problem with what had just been said. People would share their views on what made this literature acceptable or not, and they would misstate, mistake, and misquote the author, the text, and anything else they could find to willfully misunderstand. I would want to raise my hand and say, "Stop. Everything you're saying is something I am fundamentally opposed to and here's why." But you can't do that to every person that shares a view--even if it's true. The eagle was merciless. Every single class period--do you know what that feels like?--every single class period I wanted to disagree (even for my contrary self, that's a lot) with someone, and every single class period, I instead learned to be silent.

It was when I read, that my liver regrew. It was when I was with those few people who thought the way I did about literature that I felt alive. It was when I wrote about literature that I breathed. It was when I sat down, opened the book, read, evaluated, and thought that I convinced myself to go the next day. It was when I found something I loved that I thought no one could possibly object to the beauty being conveyed.

But always, always, always the next day came and the slow, painful death would begin all over again.

It ended. It never felt like it would, but it did. In some legends, Hercules comes, shoots the eagle, and sets Prometheus free--I just took finals.

I don't every want to relive anything like what I went through again. Ever.
The worst part was, even when I convinced myself there was an end, that I was almost done, and that I would never think about this again, some horrible part of me would wonder if this was what life was going to be like. If these people were the people I was expected to talk about literature with for the rest of my life, and if I was always going to feel constantly held back.

If you know, don't tell me. I'm begging you--don't tell me.

Summer = Relief

I have missed you. Tons.

I am so glad to be back with you again.

And I, in an abject state of apology for my delinquent-writing behavior this semester, and because of those two other statements, promise to write in you once a week over the course of the summer.

This summer, we're going to have a slight problem--but nothing we can't overcome together. (Wasn't that beautiful?) I'm going to Argentina for about three weeks, which means I'll be out of the country, and will probably not have internet access. I'm going to try the post-when-set-on-a-timer-thing to take out that problem. But, if it doesn't work, prepare to go longer then a week without hearing from me (you can pull on all of last semester's training for help in that area).

So, ladies and gentleman, I have just one more thing to say:

It's great to be back, back, back on blogging, um, writing, and . . .

That was so much more amusing in my head, and I actually had words that fit the song--the words, however are escaping me at the moment.

Good thing it's summer, and I'll have time to think about it.

Another reason to love Ebert--like you needed one

Just two quick quotes that made me smile:

"The Last Song" is based on the novel by Nicholas Sparks, who also wrote the screenplay. Sparks recently went on record as saying he is a greater novelist than Cormac McCarthy. This is true in the same sense that I am a better novelist than William Shakespeare. Sparks also said his novels are like Greek Tragedies. This may actually be true. I can't check it out because, tragically, no really bad Greek tragedies have survived."

"To be sure, I resent the sacrilege Nicholas Sparks commits by mentioning himself in the same sentence as Cormac McCarthy. I would not even allow him to say "Hello, bookstore? This is Nicholas Sparks. Could you send over the new Cormac McCarthy novel?" He should show respect by ordering anonymously."

I really have homework to do, but I needed a little Ebert first.

Deal With It

"It" is of course referring to another month passing by and me not posting anything. Again.

I'm getting this month's post in under the wire, but that has been my entire semester so why change now?

In the absence of me, enjoy this article. I enjoyed it deeply. If what it's telling you is new, you should re-examine your life.

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/03/17/talk-deeply-be-happy/?src=me&ref=homepage

And I promise that I'll post in you for real sometime soon.

Although why you're still listening to my promises I'll never know.

Mea Culpa

It's bad that I've apologized to you so many times I now have to apologize in another language so my blog titles aren't the same...

1. I don't think there's been any doubt that I've been lax.

That's all I have to say about that.

2. I have missed you.

That's basically all I have to say here also.

3. For the record, I didn't post last month.

It was the first month I hadn't posted since I started the blog, and I feel horrible. I seriously didn't even realize January was gone (it's been that kind of 2 months).

The post that is dated January 7th was actually posted, oh, about 20 seconds ago. Apparently January 7th was when it was saved to my drafts folder, and when I posted it, it helpfully looked like I had fulfilled my commitment to you all along.

I'm totally fine with that.

4. I'm posting this month.

That's what this is for.

5. I hope to see more of you soon.

Though the actuality of that plan is pretty slim.

Comforted?

The Grief Contest

I was at work this week. I was working with a girl, not my favorite co-worker, but certainly not the worst. We were sitting in the break room/back room/employee lounge area eating our food.

That day, so far, had been uneventful. I had asked Tina, when we began working, how her New Years celebrations had gone and after hearing about the party-of-the-ages for twenty minutes, she casually mentioned her boyfriend's grandfather had died on new years day.

I expressed my condolences and asked if it was unexpected. She replied everyone had been hoping he would die soon since he was in so much pain. Her boyfriend was looking into now acquiring his grandfather's home and some money. He, she confided, had been sad to see his grandpa go, but happy he was in no more pain, and excited about possibly getting the house. They were going to the funeral later that week.

She then moved on in the conversation to once again the party-of-the-ages her boyfriend had taken her to new year's day night (after the announcement). And I, continued on in the conversation with her.

What happened in that break room 3 hours later was strange.

We were sitting, eating and discussing something when another co-worker, Annie, came in to clock-in for the day. I had not seen this coworker since before New Years and after wishing her a good morning asked her how her New Years had been.

She replied immediately with "It was the worst New Years of our lives." She explained. She and her husband were sick with colds all New Years Eve and New Years Day. They were supposed to go play cards with some friends but had to decline. They both laid on the couches both days and were miserable.

No sooner had she finished with the list, and I had opened my mouth to say I was sorry--that sounded horrible, when Tina popped in. "No you didn't have the worst New Years ever. You know who did? Drake (boyfriend). His Grandpa died on New Years day. It was the worst day for him--ever. He was a mess all day long and I was with him the whole time."

Annie replied, "Well that's too bad. It was annoying being sick. I mean, I had those days off and my husband and I couldn't do anything."

Tina said, "You know what else was horrible. Drake's cousin's birthday was New Years Eve. She had her Grandpa practically die on her birthday, and now the funeral is this week and all these people are heartbroken. That girl is going to think about that every New Years. It was the worst New Years."

Annie replied quickly and bitterly, "My 36 year-old son died on his birthday. And that was a horrible thing. Every time his birthday comes around I have to deal with both his birthday and his death."

Tina was not to be put off, "And now Drake's family has to deal with this horrible death right around the holidays. It's the worst time for someone to die--especially when it's unexpected."

Annie muttered her son had died close to Thanksgiving, and something more about pain around the holidays being the worst type of pain and left the room.

I turned to Tina, "I thought you said his death wasn't unexpected." She looked quickly away, "Well, they knew he was going to die soon, but they didn't think it would be New Years Day--they were thinking a few days after."

Later on I talked to Annie "So, after you were both feeling better were you able to celebrate New Years?"

"Oh yes. We headed to my daughter's house on the 2nd, and spent time with the grandchildren. It worked out well. They had all been at their other grandparents home for New Years Eve and New Years Day. We had a great time with them, and then we left and had a make-up date for our card game. Two other couples had not been able to make it at the original date so they canceled the New Year's Eve game, but we all made it for the make-up time--we had fun."



I've been told grief is the most encompassing human emotion. I've heard more people feel grief than feel love. I remember when I heard that comment I found it strange. When we grieve, is it not because we loved?

But that's not important. What is important is why these women felt the need to "top" one another's grief stories. They both felt grief, I'm sure. But what about the hearing of another person's grief brought out the need to inflate their grief?

We've created a culture in which to feel whole we must feel disenfranchised. We all somewhere, in our brains, know no one has a perfect past, everyone has pain, everyone has trials and fears. But we are still constantly trying to prove to ourselves (and sometimes others) our incredible ability to overcome whatever our past circumstances were and survive.

That belief is selfish, close-minded and hurtful for others. We need to get over ourselves.

Let each human feel grief, let each one feel love, let each overcome whatever they've encountered and help make them into who they are today, but don't constantly insert yourself into the picture to prove your ability to also overcome.

You're just showing your lack of humans who have overcome--the ability to think on others and not themselves.