Of Easy Wind and Downy Flake

The past five or six years of my life i have lived much further south and east than i do now. Generally in or near a swamp. Even in the "winter" it rarely got below 45, and it was not unusual for it to be above 70. We would generally get about 1 inch of snow, and the entire area would shut down. Out-of-towners would mock the natives, claiming these Southerners to be cowards and to be biding their time in terror, waiting for the last vestiges of our tiny store of snow to disappear. They certainly disliked driving in it, but i know very few Northerners who relish driving on snow. In any case, i do not believe that fear was the only thing that kept them home. Say that you had a choice. A choice between driving in slush to drop your kids off in school where they will spend the entire day inside, and then continuing on to your little cubicle and spending your entire day inside under the fluorescent lights, and then driving in more slush and worse traffic to retrieve your progeny, thinking wistfully of summer and the thick, hot air, the feeling of sand in your underwear, the smell of the swamp, your red, peeling skin and the itch left by those tiny, lyme disease carrying vampires... A choice between this, and Snow. One snowflake was interesting, but not enough to get your hopes up. Two, well that's twice one, and we're making progress. Three? People start looking out the windows and forgetting their work. Once you get up to four or five, people are whispering excitedly to each other about the time eight years ago when the area received above four inches. As the snow increases, so does the frivolity. As soon as you get 20 - 30 flakes, people are pressing their faces against the window, and the most optimistic are outside trying to catch one on their tongue. Soon everyone (age four to 94) is outside, with plastic bags in their shoes, running and shouting. Snud (Snow + Mud) balls are flying everywhere, and tiny, one foot high snowmen are made... In the more rural areas, people tie sleds to the back of trucks and are driven around at about five mph - the height of excitement. Snow means an unexpected release, a journey back to simpler times... Of course, it also means a lot of muddy prints in the foyer, but the floor needed to be mopped anyways. So i very eagerly looked forward to the first snowfall i would experience up North, where everyone was an expert. It was in late October (very early, i am told). I woke up at 5:00AM to finish some work before i left for class. The ground was not there anymore. Instead were clouds, and soft, white clumps of cotton were falling from the sky. Who could resist? I dragged on my new boots (which i had bought with much anticipation - they were on sale, a beautiful glossy brown lined with fur) and wrapped myself up in my cloak (yes - it's a Gandalf cloak, but that's another story entirely). Everything was so still, so silent. There was nobody awake in the whole world but me. The whole earth was glowing and yet shrouded. I sang. ~*~*~*~*~ Dust Of Snow: The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued. by Robert Frost

Church - what is it good for?

coming soon! ish! in the meantime, the answer to life, the universe, and everything is 42. ummm... yeah. it is finished!! for real! here is part i (and the second half follows tomorrow)

Next Door

They are trying on each other's brassiere's. Loudly, with much giggling, and exclamations of "BOOBIES!!". Why?

Hamlet - the Musical

I'm not sure how this will work, but... here goes. Hamlet

Thursday

Today i rode the bus. Actually, it was yesterday, but i feel that to say so lacks the impressiveness of the above phrase. So. Today, i rode the bus. My prof (Med. Art Hist.) had a conference (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, saynomore, saynomore...) So after work i went to the bus stop. There was one other person there. We exchanged rank and serial number. She is a junior, biology major, and planning on going to law school. I think i creeped her out. Probably when i told her i was a Dutch minor. I rode the bus. I even got off at the right stop (aren't i incredible?). And i found my way into the museum. It's the New Art Museum, and everyone is very proud of it. I was ready to be disappointed, but actually i found it a rather impressive structure. It is modern, though not obtrusive (at least, i don't think so now, but in 20 years, who knows? like that absolutely horrid American Embassy in Den Hague). It is very stark and austere, almost ascetic. The floor is a pale (oak?) wood paneling, and the walls are tall and white. There are windows and skylights everywhere, and all of the doors and railings are made of glass. I think it must be Frank Lloyd Wrightish, as the doors are all placed very discreetly and there is a general feeling of both solidarity and solidity. It was very odd, being in a museum by myself. I haven't before, and i find that i very much prefer it for a first time through. However, now that i've seen it at my own pace, it would be nice to go back with someone (preferably someone knowledgable about the art, but not so much so that i feel inferior, as everything is, after all, centered on moi). The first floor had a local focus, and there were some paintings in the collection which i quite liked. I could not discover any particular theme on the first or second floor, although that's not to say there wasn't one. Throughout the museum there was a great variety of both style and medium, which made it very interesting. Some works i thought rather silly, and others plain, and others beautiful, and others intriguing. A large portion of the art came from the time during or right after the World Wars, which was an interesting context. And seeing all of the paintings together gave even the works i couldn't quite appreciate a contextual value. Some of the write-ups were very helpful as well - i have never ben able to enjoy a piece of art until i've read about it and its history (is that odd? otherwise i always feel like i'm missing something). The majority of the artist were American, but American art, like American quisine, consists mainly of improvisations from other schools - in this case, French, South American, Japanese, and Dutch. Afterwards i had some soup, and then a coffee in a small cafe. And it was very good. I tried to find the bus stop going the other way, which was rather difficult as i have no sense of direction. However, in my wonderings i happened upon a bookstore, which i considered to be Providence, so i went in and bought a book (The Warden by Anthony Trollope). I did eventually find the correct bus stop. I rode the bus again.

My Professors

So, this semester I am taking a History of the English Language, a Medieval Art History, a Late Medieval History, a Shakespeare, and Dutch. H.E.L. is a tall, solid looking man, very erudite and fond of dictionaries. He has perfected the technique of maintaining a perpetual geniality towards his students at the same time as an appropriate reserve. He is unquestionably our superior, and unquestionably our friend. He's the sort of person who must make very interesting after-dinner conversation. M.A.H. strikes me as a rather young man, though I don't believe he is really. He is also tall, but lacks the imposing presence of H.E.L. He is rather unstructured and unspecific (i don't mean to be disparaging, since i happen to share those sterling qualities), and totally absorbing. It's a very interesting class. L.M.H. is a small Dutchman. His rather bizzare shirt/tie combinations (which are, I find, typical of the Dutch) may be rather distracting, but the depth and breadth of his knowledge are even more amazing. Besides which, he has (rather unexpectedly) revealed an appreciation for both Monty Python and Asterix & Obelix, after which it is impossible that anything should be said against him. Sh. has the most intriguing voice. He doesn't look it, but has this incredibly deep bass, and generally sounds as if he's about to yawn. He spends half the class staring at the something on the back wall, it seems, and has a continual smirk. However, though I would prefer to go more in depth with the material, it is a very rewarding experience (as are all my classes, of course). Dtch. is the most generous of men, and looks absolutely adorable in the grey stockingcap which he favours. He is generally at least five minutes late, and rather disorganized, but I don't know if that is normal or a product of his wife's illness. I have had him for almost two years now, and so have been able to participate more in the class. I just realized that all my prof's are male - bizarre, huh?

A Tale of Perspective

Once upon a time a family sat down to dinner. The Father paid for the Meal, the Mother prepared the Meal, and the Elder Sister, assisted by her Younger Brother, cleaned up the Meal. There was also a Youngest Brother, but he, by virtue of being the youngest and the cutest, was generally allowed to get away with simply eating the Meal.

Now, there were various chores associated with cleaning up after a Meal – for instance, clearing and washing the table, washing the dishes, and vacuuming the floor. It was the custom for the two siblings, out of concern for each other’s welfare, to give to one another the tasks they considered most challenging, and therefore the most character building. They did this by attempting to take care of all of the most mind-numbing chores themselves, and leaving the more intellectually burdening tasks for their sibling. They were also very prompt in advising one another, as to allow such a close relation to continue in error would be beneath contempt.

On one such occasion, when the children were nearly done (having, out of a zeal towards building character, spent several hours performing what would be approximately twenty minutes labour if Mother had succumbed to the temptation to “help”), all that remained was to shake the rugs outside and then replace them along with the chairs which had been removed for vacuuming purposes. Each child was convinced that they must sacrifice themselves by staying inside on that cold, blustery day thus forfeiting their chance to improve their own Moral Fiber in favour of their sibling.

Now, the Sister insisted that it would be quicker to place the chairs on the side of the table nearest the walls first. The Brother thought it would be better to place the chairs on the other side of the table first. Not wanting to let her Brother languish in his incorrect and uninformed opinions, the Sister kindly informed the Brother of her superior method. He resented this evidence of the Sister’s doubt in his Intelligence, and would not be dissuaded. This persistence in folly troubled the Sister, and she was compelled to use physical force against her Brother in order to place the next chair correctly.

At this point in the proceedings the Mother of the two children beat a prudent retreat up the stairs, and called out reinforcements in the form of “Daddy.” As any good husband would, Daddy made his way downstairs and found his two eldest in a physical discussion on the all-important matter of the Proper Procedure for kitchen chair placement. Reluctant to have any dialogue over such an inflammatory subject take place in an area where breakables were stored, the Father removed the discussion to a more appropriate setting – the back deck.

Although he appeared to recognize their dispute as an important contribution to the world-wide debate on after-dinner cleaning, the children suspected the beginnings of an amused gleam in his eye. They felt insulted and betrayed. Left alone on the back deck, they glared at each other, until suddenly they realized they could detect the same amused glint in their sibling’s eye.

That did it. The children couldn’t help themselves. They fell to the ground, giggling madly.

When Mommy returned, the kitchen was clean and her two eldest seemed to be on remarkably better terms than when she left them.

Both children now recognize the triviality of their debate, and Kitchen Arguments have all but vanished from their household. Nevertheless, to this day the Brother maintains he was correct in the matter under dispute, while the Sister has wisely concluded that the cost of imparting wisdom to the willfully unlearned is sometimes simply too high.

When I Grow Up...

I want to be... It's the all-important question - you are asked it from the time you are four to the time you are fourty-four, and after that. What do you want to be when you grow up? What are you plans for your future? What are your goals? What are you working toward? What do you want out of life? You need to take control of your future. You need to prepare. You need to take your life into your own hands. I remember the first time I was asked what I wanted to be when I grow up. We lived in North Dakota at the time. I attended the local middle school which was about four miles down the narrow, gravel road. There were 25 other children attending the school. There are less, now. I was probably in first grade at the time. I remember the teacher, Miss Briss, was calling us up to her desk one at a time. She was filling in some sort of form, which would be turned into a project to make the parents smile and sigh. It must have been a sunny day, because her desk was in front of a window and I remember how bright the sun was shining in. I blinked. So she smiled at me and asked, "Now Dana, what would you like to be when you grow up?" I didn't know. After carefull consideration, I announced I would like to be a fairy. Maybe a tooth fairy, maybe not. I wasn't picky. She smiled and nodded, and bent her head to write it down. Then she looked up at me again. I still remember the look of incredulity on her face. I remember feeling a little taken aback - she had asked me what I wanted to be hadn't she? not what I thought I could actually be. I knew faeries weren't real. She asked if there was anything else I would like to be. "Well..." no, I thought. But I remember feeling vaguely sorry for her, because she had outgrown the possibility of magic. And the next best thing to magic, I realized, was money. So I told her I would like to be the person at the store you took your money. Then, I said, I would get very rich. She looked at me, still slightly exasperated, which I could not understand. She wrote down salesclerk. The next memory I have of that question I was in the 3rd or 4th grade. I was living in Sicily, and was being homeschooled. I had now experienced the world. I knew now that cashiers didn't keep the money they took, and that fairies were dorky. I said I would like to be an artist. I dreamed of Da Vinci, and Michelangelo. By the time I had reached middleschool, we had moved to Virginia Beach. I started attending school again, and I was something of a cynic. By that time I knew that growing up was something to be avoided at all cost. But I knew I would have to be something, and I was by turns a busdriver, a veterinarian, a photographer, and a librarian. It was not until highschool that the question really started to annoy me. I didn't know where I was going to be next year - how was I supposed to know what I was going to do in five years? or ten? I turned to Ecclesiastes, and told everyone I was leaving it in God's hands, as mine were full at the moment. My senior year of highschool was the first time I took the question under serious consideration. It was the first time I really prayed about it. By the grace of God I chose a school. I chose some classes. I got a job. I still haven't the faintest clue what I want to be when I grow up. I'm ashamed to say I don't really care. I am leaving it in God's hands, as mine are full at the moment.

Something From Nothing

The four earnest looking faces glanced distractedly towards my guest. “Hey guys. This is my cousin, Alex. I told him about our club, and he was interested so I invited him along for today.” Francis sent a glare at me through her glasses. She’s an engineer, and doesn’t believe in such a palpable disregard for the rules of etiquette. However, “Alright. Hurry up and be seated. You’re late.” Perhaps I should explain our club before I proceed. There are five of us – Francis, Paul, Jacob, Robert, and me. We all met one day over an otherwise regrettable incident involving a tall caramel macchiato and two straws at a small coffee shop strategically placed on a street corner within walking distance of all three colleges. During the ensuing discussion we discovered a mutual dislike of that infamous philosopher, Mr. Kierkegaard. This united us against the forces of justice and we decided to meet there every Thursday at 5:46 precisely to discuss all things philosophical. We synchronized our watches and went on our merry way. The Guachamocha (where we meet) has since christened us the “Do ye weirds,” an unfortunate pun which nevertheless produced an interview in the local newspaper. The resultant gawkers cause us some discomfort, but they do give us free coffee. So we don’t complain. “So, to get back to our discussion…” Paul never was one for introductions. I took the opportunity to inquire as to today’s topic – Something. “I don’t believe you ought to so completely disregard Galileo in this matter. Although not technically a philosopher, science and philosophy are so intertwined as to make them, in essence, the same thing. As Galileo says, ‘I have never met a man so ignorant that I couldn't learn Something from him.’” “Do you believe there is no theological basis for Something, then?” asked Jacob. He’s a great one to be a pastor. I suspect his attendance of the seminary down the street may have something to do with it, although he would never admit it. He continued, “I mean, if Something can be learned from every man, it must inhere in the very essence of man. And the essence of man is his soul.” “I think you gentlemen are in danger straying too far from Something,” I inserted quickly. This could get ugly. “We are here to discuss the philosophy of Something.” “Yes. What do you think, Alex? I think we should focus more on the metaphysical properties of Something.” “Umm… I mean, yeah. Whatever,” stated Alex definitively, and with great presticogitation. Francis and Robert glared at me and made no effort to disguise their disgust. “No! Not ‘Whatever.’ We already settled Whatever two weeks ago. We’re trying to discuss Something here.” “Edwina can get you the notes on Whatever, if you like,” added Francis in a more kindly tone. In spite of her rigidity she is rather softhearted. Besides, she was determined to show me that no matter the barbarity of my behavior, she would endeavor to remain civilized. I took the cue and told Alex I could e-mail them to him – I’m the group’s recorder. “Oh. Umm… Thanks.” “But even Aristotle states that Something is in Everything – ‘In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.’” This is Robert’s province. I think he was brought up on Zeus and Hera – no Winnie the Pooh for him. Seriously, if you asked him who he wanted to meet most in the world, he would say Aphrodite. I swear. “So, can we take it for granted that God created Something in the beginning? Or did it come after the Fall?” “You’re getting lazy, Jacob. We can’t use ‘It is, and God made it so’ as the answer for everything. The point of this club is to restrict ourselves to Natural Reason in the discussion of Something. We can, in the vein of the Scottish Realists, accept some common sense aspects about Something, but stick to Reason and leave Revelation at seminary.” “Even so, we really can’t completely disregard the theology of something. Even Edison recognized that you can’t put Something in a box.” “Ah, yes – the famous ‘Hell, there are no rules here-- we're trying to accomplish Something.’ quote.” Perhaps you may not have heard of that quote. It is the rallying cry of the most famous eccentric in the three colleges, Professor Mordeson. He is Paul’s hero, and is referenced at least once in every conversation. “We mustn’t forget Nietzsche’s philosophy, either: ‘A thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions--as attempts to find out Something. Success and failure are for him answers above all.’” “Aren’t you completely ignoring what Hagel has to say? Everybody knows that to get Something you must first combine Everything and Anything – evidence of the dialectical process which is part of any real truth.” “We must find out where the seat of identity of Something lies. Is it part of the essence of humanity, or is Something added on? An extra, so to speak.” “Wise men talk because they have Something to say; fools, because they have to say Something. – Plato” Ah, good. Alex is getting the hang of it. Robert looks pleased. “That just shows Plato’s support for the theory that Something is a necessary part of human beings. It must be built in if even fools have it, not a result of society or civilization.” “What about Gandhi? A great moralizer if there over was one. He seems to imply that Something is a choice.” “Elaborate.” “ ‘Indolence is a delightful but distressing state; we must be doing something to be happy.’ In fact, Something is an action, not something inherent in ourselves.” “And FDR, too. ‘It is common sense to take a method and try it. If it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try Something.’ ” “You know, if we’re going to discuss Something seriously, Nothing is really important.” “Nothing is irrelevant. ‘Above all, try Something.’ No Nothing, there, is there?” “As it relates to Something, we need to take Nothing into consideration.” “Hey. umm...guys? This is a coffee shop, after all. Mind if I get something to drink?” Dead silence. Knew I should’ve left him with Grandma. “That was the worst pun ever inflicted on my ear. If this is what our society has come to, I’m leaving.” She stalked off. We all turned to Alex. He appears completely befuddled, poor thing. “Well, whatever,” he mumbles to her retreating back. “I just wanted a cup of coffee.” I’m sure Alex has plans for something else next Thursday at 5:46.

To Knit...

I have a confession to make. You scare me. Actually, it’s not so much you who scare me as the prospect of having to converse with you – or worse, be called upon to speak up in class. It wasn’t until high school that I had a conversation with a teacher. I’m not sure what, precisely, we spoke about, but afterwards it was if a sun had risen in the darkness, for what dawned on me in that instant was the truth that teachers are simply people. Until that time, teachers were AUTHORITIES – representatives of a divine power that was waiting to catch me in a moment of weakness and publish abroad my humiliation. To be sure, teachers were still authorities. The realization that adults were neither demi-gods nor demi-gorgon, however, but merely human beings with all the pluses and minuses that entails was a liberating concept. This revelation was indeed timely, for my brothers were both in after-school band. That may seem safe enough, but my father was deployed and my mother worked, so it meant that twice each week I had to stay at school an interminable two hours after the last bell. The shear, inescapable boredom of it at length drove me to take my life into my own hands. The PE teacher, Mrs. Rook, was in her office. I loathe PE. Indeed, it was difficult for me to believe that anyone who enjoyed it enough to teach it could be wholly human. Even so, she seemed harmless enough. But what if this was diabolical duplicity intended to lull us into insensibility before she struck? I walked into the room with bated breath… and walked out of it rejoicing in the prospect of learning to knit in just a few more days. I envisioned all the beautiful blankets and soft scarves I would soon be making. There was nothing I couldn’t do and no one I wouldn’t talk to – except, perhaps, the principal. Well, and maybe the janitor. And the guy’s PE teacher …. My first scarf was made with a size seven needle (unbelievably small, as I later discovered). The yarn had a cream base, but had a sort of autumnal mottle effect going on. I was shocked at the simplicity of the thing once I got started – a series of loops, nothing more. In fact, after a while, I didn’t even have to watch what I was doing. I could simply feel the pattern. I began to take my knitting with me everywhere. I would knit during movies, during lunch break, during class, in the car – everywhere. It was something practical, useful, and aesthetically pleasing. I was absurdly proud of the scarf, showing it off to the most unsuspecting persons. Oddly enough, I found that it caught on. People admired my ability to do this simple thing and even wanted to emulate me. Complete strangers would come up and talk to me about it. People who could already knit came out of the closet; the click of needles was everywhere. My Latin Class talked our teacher into taking a day off so we could all learn knitting. I taught them. A little startled and definitely more than a little scared, yet I did it. In fact, the entire wrestling team started to knit. The trend lasted the rest of the year, though the wrestling coach asked his team to stop bringing their knitting to meets. I was forced to put this newly won confidence to the test when I moved the next year. The gorgons and gods reappeared in new form, like ghosts that reclaimed their material form. This time, however, I had a new weapon. I knit at them. And they knew they were beaten. It allowed me to strike up a conversation without having to say anything. I merely pulled out the needles and then others would talk to me and I could respond in kind – or not. The interesting thing about it was that people simply assumed I was listening when I knit. I became a confidante, a counselor to the very beasts that had so frightened me, and all I had to do was knit while they spoke. There were other knitters here, too, I found – a community of woolly sages into which I was readily accepted. The art teacher caught me at it after I had finished a required project and, in addition to offering me some pointers, asked me to join her with a group of other students in teaching some of the un-knitting faculty. The idea of me aspiring to instruct the instructors, was still terrifying. To merely converse with them seemed easy in comparison. The flattery of the invitation, however, overcame my fear. To paraphrase Caesar, “Veni, trexi, vici” – I came, I knit, I conquered. You still scare me. Pretty much everybody does. Sometimes life itself frightens me. But that’s okay – I can knit.

The Cutest Dog in the Whole Wide World

Silly Sally!!!!

Nihil Novum Est Sub Sole

I expect I ought to explain the title, and everything... It is a quote from the Vulgate, the book of Ecclesiastes. It translates as "There is nothing new under the sun" - a thought I have always found to be extremely comforting. The URL - ecce universa vanitas - basically means that everything is vanity. Deflating, perhaps, but nonetheless comforting. It takes the pressure off, so to speak.

Catechism

Question 1: What is thy only comfort in life and death? Answer: That I am not my own, but belong - body and soul, both in life and death - unto my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ; who, with his precious blood, has fully satisfied for all my sins, and delivered me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me that without the will of my heavenly Father, not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must be subservient to my salvation, and therefore, by his Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me sincerely willing and ready, henceforth, to live unto him.