Collections I

When my mom was growing up, her mom gave away or threw out or sold some of her things when she wasn't there and without asking. Nothing major - i think it was paper dolls or barbies or something. This experience so traumatized her that, in spite of our many moves and pack rat instincts, she generally refused to throw anything away for us. She would plead and bribe, of course, but we would have to throw things away ourselves. This has led to some rather absurd but sometimes really cool collections over the years which we blame on our Dutch heritage. I mention just a couple here, to leave room for further posts. The first collection i remember having myself was of candy wrappers. Any candy wrappers, although i was sensible enough to see the folly in saving any that still had sweet residue left on them. I had visions of making a beautiful doll dress with these wrappers, and then talking mom (who can hem, and that's about it) into making the dress on a larger scale for me. In the end all i got was a couple of drawers full of brightly coloured candy wrappers, which were eventually emptied into the dumpster with much heartburn. I must confess that i am still susceptible to Winnie the Pooh candy wrappers - i once got a large chocolate Pooh, and i still have the wrapper pinned to my bulletin board. It's cute. Really! My eldest brother collects bits of string and very short pencils. That's very Boy Scout-ish of him, don't you think? He hates to wear any thing that doesn't have at least four very large pockets, which he keeps the choicest bits of string and the longest short pencils (as well as a couple of pens, a book to read, a notebook, a couple of knives, and i don't know what else). As far as i know these have never actually come in handy, though he swears they do. I think my youngest brother is the most practical. I'm not sure exactly what you call it, but he collects these miniature war toy thingies, that you use to play some silly game, and plans on selling them later for more money. He did that with the Star Wars miniatures, too (the one's they've stopped making because stupid people think they are edible). Dad collects war games. He used to belong to a group of guys that would get together and play them, and i think the idea was that us kids would grow up and play them as well. Unfortunately, only the youngest has the head for that sort of think (i tried, but for some reason, moving the troops to the squares where they look the prettiest doesn't seem to be a winning strategy). So he just collects them and right now they are all sitting in our old entertainment center, looking rather pathetic and alone. Mom collects plastic tubs, to store all of our junk in. Oh, and straitjackets.

One of these days...

I'm going to give that jogging coach person an honest answer when he asks me, "So, how'd it go today?" So far i've contented myself with simply lifting my hands in exasperation and focusing on the positive, such as "I'm still breathing." Envisualizing this situation is the one of the ways i try to stay focused. My favourite responses so far... "I can imagine few forms of exercise as agonizing, as humiliating, and as pointless as jogging." "Why do you ask that question? How can any activity known by such an unpleasant name as 'jogging' ever have gone well?" "Look at me. I'm limping. I'm gasping for breath. My face is flushed. I believe my expression must reflect at least a portion of my nausea and my absolute loathing of this activity. There are few circumstances where i would consider this state of being to be positive, although it is probable that your ideas of good are considerably different than mine." "I have no pretense or desire towards athleticism. I have always disliked running. In fact, for the last five years i have been unable to run. However, i now no longer dislike running. I loathe and despise and detest and am revolted at the thought of running." "I suspect that your motivation in asking that question is similar to the motivation of those who pull the legs off spiders. Please, i beg of you, allow me to wallow in my disgrace on my own - truly, i require no assistance." "&^$~%+#!!!!"

Nacirema

(This is for my sociology class, based on this article by Horace Miner.) This study is merely a natural continuation of Mr. Miner’s excellent and groundbreaking piece on the Nacirema culture. I myself have observed the Nacirema, and I have found that his work is accurate in every respect. In addition to their unnatural obsession and dissatisfaction with the human body, they are also infatuated with all things new. In most societies and throughout history, the word “traditional” is used in a positive sense. It denotes trust and dependability, safety and stability. However, the Nacirema have almost completely rejected this meaning of the word. They react to the label “traditional” in the same way a skittish horse reacts to laundry hung on a line – it is suspicious and probably dangerous. Those Nacirema who sell and market food know this, and take advantage of it to an absurd extent. It is not even necessary that the food actually be different, although that is definitely a common selling point; merely, the food must look new (shape, size, and/or colouring). It is not at all exceptional to see a package labeled “New Look, Same Great Taste!” These “New Looks” are purported to be more economical, environmental, or fun. For instance, a favourite sauce of the Nacirema – supposedly derived from tomatoes – is generally red. One of the primary purveyors of this sauce marketed it in the colours of green and purple, and it sold well. Margarine companies also will occasionally release “new” exciting colours such as pink or blue. Of course, food vendors are not the only Nacirema to recognize this – most other marketable businesses also make use of this fact. Those who retail technology (yet another Nacirema fascination – that plethora of paradoxical devices which allow the Nacirema to remain isolated from any intimate contact with another human, yet anonymously connected to millions) are always releasing something new. “Bigger, Better, Faster!” seems to be their mantra. Also those who sell the charms placed in the household shrine, and those who sell furniture, and soaps, and laundry baskets, and apparel – in fact, to the Nacirema mind, it is possible and desirable for anything and everything to be “New and Improved!” This is also seen in the way they dress. While it is usual in other cultures to wear the same clothes three days in a row, the Nacirema find the idea of wearing anything other than a coat more than one day in a row to be completely repellant. A person coming into work wearing the same clothes worn the day before, or even two days before, is mocked. For the Nacirema celebrities, it is a tragedy to be seen at an event in the same clothes as another person and even worse to be seen in the same outfit twice. This is especially true of Nacirema women – it is considered uncouth to always wear one’s hair in the same style, and to have less than six pairs of shoes. Even in their temples – the latipsos – tradition is most decidedly not a virtue. The Nacirema are always on the lookout for the newest procedures and up-to-date techniques and most modern facilities. They will often switch temples if they find one to be newer than another. If their treatment is so new that it is all but untested and incredibly risky, the Nacirema are that much happier, for they have almost complete trust in their latipso and believe that the newer must be better. This is, in fact, true of all their religious systems. The churches of the Nacirema are continually writing new creeds, redecorating their buildings, and searching for younger worship leaders. One of the most popular holy books – the Bible – has been translated innumerable times and there are uncountable versions of it, with more coming out every year, each claiming something new has been uncovered, clarified, or fixed from the previous versions. The Nacirema also reveal this fixation on the new in their educational system. Events that occurred within the living memory of teenagers are covered extensively in history lessons, while culturally defining events from a century ago receive little more than a paragraph. To receive college or university degrees, it is often a requirement that the student have new studies and provide original research. Nacirema educationists firmly believe that filling their places of learning with the latest and greatest technology, with exciting new methods, and with innovative presentations of ideas will speed up the intellectual development of their youth, despite continued evidence to the contrary. Indeed, it has come to the point that the concept of “evidence”, being traditional, is scorned in favor of more immediate appeals. With Mr. Miner, I must confess surprise that this society, with its rejection of anything that could be called old, has survived as long as it has. It is a culture of constant struggle, with “the future” held out before it as a mirage to a man dying of thirst. Until the Nacirema learn to look to the past, they will never be able to face the future.

Singing With My Brother But No Shoes

He has agreed to sing in the church choir with me. Very forbearing of him. The poor child is going bald already - i expect it's all my fault. The other singers said they knew immediately who he was - he wasn't wearing shoes (is it really illegal to drive without shoes? that doesn't make any sense... therefore it must be true, i suppose). Although, unfortunately for him, he does rather resemble me (except that the little brat managed to grow taller than me! it simply isn't fair). And of course, since he can actually sing (i swear i was bragging about him like a proud momma or something; it was bizarre, i almost couldn't stop myself: "Oh, he sings bass. He was in a barbershop quintet last year. And he plays brass - baritone, tuba, and trumpet. Plus piano and organ, a little. Unlike me, he can talk in coherent sentences and count past ten. Just brilliant.") they're grateful for him. I was so glad to be back. It's such an amazing group dynamic - people who are or have taught singing, english, elocution, and intruments, plus people who are there jsut because they like to sing, mostly a decade or two older than me... Most of them have known eachother for years and are always making fun of each other, and while people don't seem to mind being personally insulted i am glad we have such a tactful conductor - those musical discussions can get pretty heated. It is so different to sing with a group of people who are brought together because they are not only passionate but educated about music, versus a high school choir which is all about the grade. I love it. Even more, i love being able to share this experience with my brother. Life is wonderful, sometimes, isn't it?

chronicles of humiliation (i.e. school)

So, let's see... Don't tell my parents, but now that it's my car, and my gas... I slow down for speed bumps, stop at stop signs, turn the car off as soon as i park instead of finishing the song, i don't speed (as much)... My first class is an intro to computer course - what's a CPU, how to use excel, basic programming stuff. Vaguely interesting. Actually, i would probably be bored out of my mind except for the fact that the prof reads from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis, which i think is sooo cool. How many people would connect a fifteenth century monk with modern technology? Next is world literature. So far, nothing i haven't heard before. Art. The idea of growing up to be a painter has appealed to me from a young age. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), i have never learned to paint. I can sketch a little, but that is all. Not that this matters, since our first assignment is to draw on a banana. Because it is unconventional, and nothing in this world is worthwhile unless it be nontraditional or unconventional. Another way to be unconventional is to not comb your hair, roll up your pants, and get a tattoo. Or you could cut up random pieces of paper (magazines, cartoons, etc), take black and white photos of them, and then let the roll of film soak for a little while before developing. Or you could interpose shots of slavery and the holocaust with that of cute monkeys and bullfights, since obviously owning a pet is the same thing as genocide. This is also known as art. My most humiliating class is jogging. What kind of word is that, anyway? It always reminds me of hogs, from that nursery rhyme about the farmer coming home again. Why would anyone want to jog? I can walk much faster than i can jog. As a matter of fact, so could a turtle. I have now progressed so that i can run two whole laps without stopping. Are you not incredibly impressed? And i can run one and onehalf more before my legs fall off and i get sick. Yeah for regular exercise!! At least my example must be and incredible encouragement to the rest of the class.

First Day

I have internet!!! Wireless, even. One would think that after fourteen years of going to school, the First Day would lose most of its anticipation and agony. Well, perhaps it has lost some, but i still get an adrenaline rush from it. Actually, i suppose most people don't get an adrenaline rush from school. However, for me, the fear of large groups of people, and of getting lost, and of being late (heightened because of the messed up schedule for Convocation) is quite enough. Needless to say i am not exactly athletic (although i do need three PE credits to graduate - how sucky is that? - so i'm taking jogging this semester). Well, and my brother decided to attend the same school as i, so that's kinda nice. I took him and his roommate to a $3.50 movie this evening (Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull - rather Indy meets X-files, but it's cute). It's so weird being a responsible adult (or even a reasonable facsimile thereof). I do have my own room this year - blue walls ( i'm so sick of white), a proper closet (though, of course, nothing can beat a wardrobe), and three windows. It's an older house, with delightfully creaky stairs, odd corners, and comfortably ugly carpeting. It makes rather a nice change from military housing and cookie cutter development projects. I'm renting it from a lady whose kids are all out of the house at the moment, but she has a gorgeous fluffy cat that already seems awfully fond of sleeping on my stomache, and her eldest son (who lives not ten minutes away) has the most gorgeous dog - some type of husky, i think.

Fleeting Days of Summer

Or is it Fleeing? I've got less than a week left of my internship. It wasn't really at all what i expected (surprise, surprise! i often do try to live life without any expectations at all, but i've found that it falls flat. here's to being wrong!). As far as the logistics of running an archive, and helping people with research, i'm really no further than i was before. However, i've learned a bit about running a business, and the types of relationships that exist between bosses and employees. An academic library doesn't need to make money. A historic park does. This means that the organization and hierarchy of the staff is much more important. It means that the work done is not only "for posterity" but must have some (relatively) immediate purpose and value. It means that we can't just apply for another grant or scholarship, but must make do with what we have and must concentrate out efforts on that which will have the greatest public interests. GSRing has also been (much as i am loathe to admit it) a good experience for me. This may sound strange, but it is the first instance in which i have been able to relate to people as an adult - an equal. In the park offices i am an intern; at Sunday School and in choir i am the youngest by two decades; when living with my parents i am the Pastor's Daughter; at school i am a student. Of course there are always "peers" but that's not quite the same thing. I expect i shall tire of it soon - there are definite advantages to being young and ignorant. The new people being trained put this feeling into sharp relief - both elderly, and rather slow (dunno if it's fear of computers or what) - and i became a voice of experience (by some strange coincidence, i also saw buttercups buzzing after bees). I also learnt that i find 18th-20th century history rather prosaic. People would exclaim at how old an 18th century artifact was, and all i could think was "Wow, that's only a couple hundred years old!" Or they would be looking at a photograph from the late 19th century, and while i was exclaiming over what a recent process photography was, they would be like "Dude! it's in black and white!" It's just... American colonialism has nothing on European Medievalsim, i'm sorry.

FYI

I'm going through another slight transition period where my access to internet and inclination to post will be rather limited - moving from the place of my internship to the place where my school is to the place where i will be living during the school year to the place where my family lives and back.... Well, it's all rather confusing, but i won't be in any place for more than five days until after the first week in September. So posting is going to be even lighter than usual until then. If anyone is really that bored, i do have archives on the left side. Merry Christmas!!

"Thou Burning Sun With Golden Beam"

I really wish i could figure out how to get the photos off my cellphone, for even the poorest photo could give you a better idea than my words will. But it was such a magnificent event i simply must do my best to share. Let's see... Well, you know how they tell you the earth is round? I know it is not - they are wrong - for i saw the sun drop off the edge of the earth. Nor was i the only one. There is a small public beach 6-7 miles down the road. A bit of a bay - the land stretches almost to the horizon and then curves in a little, so it is relatively protected from the wind and waves. It is facing West. I like to go there to read after work, and in a pathetic attempt to get tanned. There were two or three other families there that day. I had been hoping to have the beach to myself, so i ignored them, and they returned the favour. The sun began to go down. The blue sky turned orange and purple - it brought to mind bizarre and abstract paintings. The sun was pink and yellow, and the closer it got to the edge of the water, the faster it went down. The light reflected off the water so that it formed a straight path on the waves - if i had so desired, i could have walked on it. I could have reached the edge of the earth and touched the sun. But i was rooted to the ground - we all were. We had all begun to pack (the sun sets late - it was after nine-thirty), but we could not leave. Even the youngest children paused their splashing and screaming. Our breath stopped, or at least it seemed completely irrelevant compared the pulse and rhythm of the waves and the sun. The sky faded, and only the perfectly circular sun was reflected on the water. The path was fading, though the sun was still bright. I wanted to follow so much that i ached. The sun continued to sink. The horizon was a straight line - i believe the earth stopped there. If we were still before now we became statues. The glow of the sand and the green of the grass and trees, the bright and raucous colours of our towels and lawn chairs, all of this seemed unbelievably dull and faded in comparison. It sank, and the path became shorter and shorter. Just the very top was visible, yet still we could not move. What we were hoping for or what we feared, i do not know. But the tension of both was in the air. The sun was gone. It had fallen. It was gone. A collective sigh, and we all looked at each other, curiously, as if we had just been given our vision and yet were surprised to find everything looking so familiar. Ridiculous grins plastered on, we all silently finished packing and staggered back to the parking lot. Not having any small children to pack, i was the first one to leave. We waved and nodded to each other as i headed back to the East.

What Is It With Small Towns? I Have Never Been This Creeped Out In a City.

So, the first time i noticed it was in the stores here. As i mentioned before, they absolutely pounce on you. "Did you see this? Did you know that we can do this? Do you know what a good bargain this is? What's your name? Where you from? What's your SSN?" Okay, they didn't really ask that last question. And then, of course, there was the yarn lady... Another time, i was sitting on a sort of wall right next to the curb, talking to my dad on the phone. Not bothering anybody. A policeman drives up, pulls over, and asks me who i am. I give him my first name, and he drives off w/o another word. A couple weeks later, and i am again talking to my dad on my phone (which is very cute and purple, btw). I am walking up and down a side street, behind a motel and a couple of residences. It's right off one of the main drags. I'm wearing this huge black sweater - it reaches down past my knees and wraps all the way around me - a scarf, and a beat up grey purse. The whole outfit, while comfortable, is quite ugly. This white haired man in a gold pickup drives up and down the street at least half a dozen times, smirking and waving at me each time he passes. It's daylight and there are other people around, but my dad (to whom i'd been relating the whole) insisted that i go to a more popular area. I moved to the main street, and the guy drove around the block a coupla times before leaving. Okay, but the next event is even more amusing. Somebody called the cops on me! I just don't get people here - they must be bored outa their minds. Blame it on the library. I was on the phone again (and i know i'm not the only person here with a cell phone - it's not like it's a bluetooth or anything) talking to someone i hadn't heard from in a while. I sat on the steps of a church, since i could see the water from there, but it was across the road from the park and there wasn't even any sidewalk on this side of the road so i wouldn't be in anybody's way and they wouldn't be in mine. And i was talking on my phone, laughing and smirking, banging away at bugs with my shoe (all the things one normally does while on the phone). I saw some shoes coming down the walk as if from church, and thought "well, that's odd, i didn't think anyone was in there and didn't hear the door." It was a (cute, blonde) policeman - "Do you need help, ma'am?" (Ma'am!!) "Umm, no... Do you want me to leave?" (i assumed it must be loitering - couldn't think of anything else) "Oh, no - you're fine. Some one called and said you were talking to yourself, but i see that you are on your phone." And then he left. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? I tell ya, ya gotta love these small town communities.

Let Me Introduce You to Helen...

She was like "So, when should i come pick you up?" and i was like "I have a car!!" and she was like "Really? Wow!!" and i was like "I have a car, and her name is Helen!" and she was like "Helen?" and i was like "it was on the key chain." And then i was like "i have a car!" Guess what? I have a car!! And it's really cute, too. Well, and it's 1/2 my brother's, but still. Once the first rush of "Ihaveacar!!!EEEEEEE!!!"-ness passes, it becomes a rather melancholy thought. I'm glad of the independence it gives me, and it will make life much more convenient transportation-wise. But... I have many unreasonable fears (i.e. dark and enclosed spaces, People, hairy spiders, numbers) and i know they are silly. My fear of driving, however, has always seemed to me to be eminently reasonable. A slight mistake in a speech, or mathematics problem, can be corrected. A slight mistake in an automobile will at the very least cost thousands, and at worst causes irreparable damage also known as death. The first time i drove was in a huge empty parking lot, with no obstacles. My dad got me into the drivers seat, and i held onto the steering wheel for dear life. My dad put the car in drive, 'cause there was no way in tarnation i was going to let go of that wheel. He said "Why don't you take your foot of the brake?" I squeaked "Because then the car will start moving." A few days later i did eventually get my foot off the brake. The first time the car moved i completely freaked - started weeping so badly i couldn't see. Yup, i was making real progress. My hands would be sore for days after driving from holding the steering wheel so hard i would lose circulation in my fingers. My parents realized that all they'd had to do to cure me of slouching was put me in the driver's seat of a car. They had to threaten to stop my horse-back riding lessons to get me to put my foot on the acceleration pedal, but i refused to go above 15 miles an hour. Although i got my permit when i turned fifteen, i didn't get my full license until my brother had also learned to drive (i was nearly eighteen). Dad kept having to go off on deployments, and though Mom tried, she had enough to deal with without my hysterics. I did manage to learn to drive, and am even comfortable enough that my knuckles stay a nice fleshy colour and my heart is content to plod along normally and my stomache pretends that it's much more comfortable in my abdomen than in my esophagus. But... More than that, a car means i am never going back - that my parent's home is no longer mine, that there is a line drawn between my money and theirs, between my books and my brothers, between my clothes and my mom's. Just like the last time Dad came back from deployment, and he was no longer simply my dad but also a man with faults and irritating habits... My relationship with my family is evolving. And while i know it's necessary, and normal, and probably healthy, it's also awkward and uncomfortable and painful. My brothers are no longer little brats but young men; taller than i, tanner and fitter, and with gorgeous baritone voices. My mom is still my mom, but also a gorgeous lady with a complexion that anyone would envy. A car is one more sign that while they are still and will always be my parents, yet i am also become their equal and must begin to take an equal share in the responsibilities of adulthood. And i think it sucks. Bigtime. So. I have a car!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Texting Can Be Hazardous to Your Health!!

I love this article. It's full of really great medical advice along the lines of "why reading a book and unicycling can be dangerous" or "why you should face forward when walking down the sidewalk" or "why you should not drink hot coffee and jumprope at the same time..."

Moving, Part IV

Motta Sant'Anastasia. We just called it Motta (pronounced mohtah), and it was a long while before i realized that wasn't its whole name. It was built around a Norman castle - a Count Roger was responsible for that - on the slopes of Mt. Etna (Sounds quite romantic, doesn't it? Living on a volcano? But just wait until you have to hang your laundry out to dry). We moved into a fourth floor apartment (Sicilian movers, like Sicilian drivers, are something else), and as we weren't supposed to drink the faucet water we had to carry all of our drinking water up. I must have run up and down those stairs several times a day, but it was simply the way things were and i counted it no hardship. I would moan horribly today. Nobody lived on the ground floor. Second floor was also an American family - the Whites. I don't remember much about them, except that they had marital issues, and that Mrs. White taught me basket-weaving. I very much enjoyed it and made several baskets, but have never done it since. Third floor up was an Italian family. They were very friendly, and invited us over a few times. However, since we didn't speak Italian and they didn't speak English, our attempts at polite conversation were somewhat limited. At that point in time, we were the top floor, but i'm sure they have since added another level. Our landlord was also very friendly. He lived a block down the street, and was in the process of finishing another floor on his own residence, for his son and family to live. This was not uncommon - most apartment buildings were owned by families, and if they ran out of room they would simply build another floor. Building-wise, this apartment is my favourite of all the places i have lived so far. Like most Europeans, Italians eschew closets, and so we had the most enchanting wardrobes. I have to say that i do miss those wardrobes. They are so much more attractive than closets, and one is much less tempted to simply throw junk in there and lose it. It also gives one much more freedom as to where one's furniture may be placed. If ever i were to build a house, i would have a pantry and a nice large linen cupboard, but no other closets. The floor was all tile - so easy to clean, though chilly in the winter. It was a point of pride between my brothers and i to never wear socks inside. My mother rolled her eyes, but said as long as we stayed a reasonable distance from the kerosene heater, we could be as cold as we liked. There were no yards, of course. But we had a narrow balcony that went around three sides (bouncy balls, as you may imagine, were in high demand), a couple of trees, and a lovely steep hill to bike down. All of the rooms except the bathroom, and my parent's bedroom, had at least one pair of large glass doors that entered onto the balcony, and which were usually covered by persianas (large, heavy wooden blinds that went on the outside) to protect from the rain or sun. And anyway, my brothers and i preferred to climb out the bathroom window. I finished out my second grade year at the DOD school on base, but going from a school of 26 to a class of 26 and a school of over 300 (which sounds small now) was slightly whelming. We were home-schooled the rest of the time we were there. I still miss that place - Mt. Etna and Catania, the gelato truck, the orchards and the aqueducts, the fresh breads and cheeses, Taormina and Siracusa, Caltagirone and Palermo, Erice and Agrigento, the markets and the ruins... We never did find out what our dog thought of those stairs. He jumped off a couch while stateside awaiting transportation and paralyzed his two back legs. They had to put him down, and it was years before we were able to get another pet. However, there were quite a few strays running around - people who would bring their dogs here, and then decide it was too much work to take them stateside and abandon them. We stayed there for just over a year, and then a house opened up on base. UPDATE: Moving, Part I (links to all the other parts available in Part I)

Grow Up!!

I turn on the tube and what do I see A whole lotta people cryin’ ’don’t blame me’ They point their crooked little fingers at everybody else Spend all their time feelin’ sorry for themselves ... You wallow in the guilt; you wallow in the pain You wave it like a flag, you wear it like a crown Got your mind in the gutter, bringin’ everybody down Complain about the present and blame it on the past I’d like to find your inner child and kick it’s little ass Get over it Get over it All this bitchin’ and moanin’ and pitchin’ a fit Get over it, get over it - the Eagles ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It's election year here in the States. The first one in which i am old enough to vote. Which i won't. I have proclaimed myself officially apolitical during my college years. I'm proud to be apolitical. Perhaps this is rather silly of me, but i've been stupid before. If anyone thinks they have a decent argument to the contrary i'm perfectly ready to listen, and be persuaded. And it's not solely because i am lazy, or because i have completely lost track of which state i'm now a resident of, or because the greatest difference i see between the candidates is the colour of their tie (although all of these things are true). It's because of Hurricane Katrina, a council of elders, my grandfather, my seventh grade Civics/English teacher, and several other small incidents which would be of even less interest to you than these (why, you may ask, if i think these events will interest you so little, are you writing about them? well, i may answer, i've got a lotta work to avoid and i'm desperate). The year i was in the seventh grade was also an election year. Civics was in the curriculum, and my teacher Mrs. Twinkletoes thought she would get us involved. The whole Mr. Smith Goes to Washington principle - don't get me wrong, i love the movie. Maybe it would've worked better if it hadn't been small, private, Christian school. She, along with the majority of the class, supported one particular candidate. One girl stood alone against us, and while we all liked her we all also treated her as deluded. Mrs. Twinkletoes included (i had other issues with her, and i hated to agree with her, but there it was). I simply couldn't understand how anyone could think differently than my father. Anyone who did so must be incredibly stupid, or evil, or both, and were therefore frightening. This whole time, my father and grandfather were also discussing the election, from opposite points of view. They seemed to get quite het up towards each other. This, also, frightened me. I couldn't imagine talking to my dad the way he was talking to his father*, simply over the state of the Union. Over the state of the Bathroom/Laundry/[insert disagreeable task here], well, that was a different matter entirely. The war happened. My father was in the Navy at the time, and i know several other people in the Military. The huge gulf between the information i was getting (and am still getting) from the general media, and the news from the actual soldiers, increased my distrust of any news source i was not personally aquainted with. Hurricane Katrina hit. It was immediately publicized. Everything was the result of a government-wide conspiracy by the other side. Some extremists linked it to other natural disasters such as a recent tsunami, claiming that nuclear bombs set off in the middle of the ocean were the obvious cause of all of this. If only the government was more environmentally friendly, or had given more money to the levees, or had remembered school buses, or had more affirmative action plans, or had surrendered in Iraq - whatever the pet projects of that particular party were. The whole situation was reported as Lord of the Flies-like as possible. It was ridiculous. Even worse, though, were the discussions i came acrost on the internet a few days later. One particular person reported seeing a van pulled over on the side of the road. A mother, with two young children. It appeared they had left hurriedly and it was in the vicinity of Katrina. This person had been going to pull over and offer assistance, but upon seeing the bumper sticker of a candidate they disagreed with, sped up and drove off. They later expressed regret at not running the lady over, or at least snatching her two children, so they wouldn't have to be raised by such a misguided individual. Several people expressed support. Other, similar, stories circulated, and on both sides of the political spectrum. It was too prevalent to be some sick joke - whether the original story was true or not, all the comments could hardly be faked. These people really saw those ideologically opposed to them as less than human. During the next election cycle, a church group regularly attended by one of my family members, met. An ostentatious event! A man stood up and said that he did not see how anyone could vote for an opposing candidate and still remain a Christian. He firmly believed that all people in the other party were going to Hell. Since then i have heard several similar sentiments expressed, also by people from both sides of the political spectrum. My father is a pastor, and while he has very strong political convictions, he takes great care never to speak politics from the pulpit. I have found that he is the exception rather than the rule. The most gentle, generous people i know will get involved in a political discussion, and suddenly everyone is out to get them. Conspiracies worthy of X-files abound and scenarios that wouldn't make the cut for the Twilight Zone are passionately believed. The "other" side is completely doltish, ignorant and behind the times. Yet these same people, once in power, are remarkably clever, incredibly devious, and in control of oil prices, foreign potentates, weather, the courses of the planets and the seasons of the moon. Please, people. Just get over it. UPDATE: The Anchoress is much more coherent on this subject in her post on Obama's prayer. _____ *In case you're wondering, my father and grandfather loved each other very much. They just disagreed with each other's political attitudes and alignments.

ROTFLOL

We were in a hotel room channel surfing when we heard this joke on TV. I about died. My eldest brother and dad found it somewhat amusing, and my mom thought that the funniest thing about it was that i found it so funny. I expect this doesn't say much for my sense of humour. Oh well. Tell me what you think. It's much funnier when told out loud - there's a certain accent, and all that. But this is the best i can do for now. How many surrealists does it take to change a lightbulb? ... ... ... ... ... Yarn.

A Perpetuation of the Blonde Stereotype

I'm working at this historic state park place, right? The first European settlers in the area were French voyageurs, and later British troops who took over their fort and then later moved it to a nearby island. A guy is working admission on the island. I heard this story directly from his own lips, and from my own experience working admission, i find this entirely believable. A blonde woman in her late 30's comes up to the booth. After an exchange of greetings, the dialogue goes something like this... "Is this a State Park?" "Yes Ma'am." "Oh... I didn't know that France had states." "Ummm... France doesn't have states." "Oh! Then ---- State runs it for them?" "No, the park is owned by ---- State." "Oh? So, they don't have to pay rent or anything?" "No Ma'am." "Oh. When did the fort stop being French?" "It never was - this was a British Fort." "So, it isn't French?" ...

I forgot my knitting needles

I have a confession to make. (A completely unimportant, uninteresting, dull confession. In fact, it's not even really a confession as much as a statement. A rather dull and unimportant statement. But i thought it would probably be unwise to start out the post as "i have a dull and uninteresting statement to make." Of course, it's probably not very wise of me to be telling you this now, but i just couldn't bring myself to draw the wool over all ya'lls eyes, or whatever the colloquialism is. Where does that come from, anyway? Back to the statement. It does lead to not quite as dull and relatively interesting statements. Well, it tries to. Sorta. Kinda.) I buy my yarn at Walmart. Sometimes Michael's. I'm cheap. I knit often, but although i started a blanket once (it's about two feet long at the moment), i've never finished anything more complicated than a scarf that spirals. But it's a really cool scarf that spirals. So, here i am, stuck in this silly little "City" that has no Walmart, no Target, no Micheal's, or anything. Well, there is a tiny little IGA. The only place for knitting supplies is a small boutique across from one of the ferry lines. It's teal and green. There's a yard in front - fenced in, white picket. The stairs and the long handicap accessible ramp are also fenced in. Since the yard is tiny, it's already looking rather cluttered. Evidently not cluttered enough, as there are assorted shiny lawn ornaments everywhere. The ambiance is similar to that of Harry Potter's Professor Trelawney. Or that of a crow (or a jackdaw? the bird that is obsessed with "shiny!!"). Inside it looks even more like a bird's lair - a very colourful and expensive nest, and about as unorganized as such a nest would be. The insubstantial-looking proprietor greets me but she's on the phone, so I nod, smile, and duck into the first side room. There is barely room for me to turn around - yarn is piled everywhere - but with the window it is bright enough. She comes by and asks me if i knit or crochet. I say i'm a knitter, though not a very good one. She looks pleased and says she doesn't know how to crochet either. I browse, and pick up a book on crocheting. It's in poor condition, but it looks useful. She gives me approximately 45 seconds before checking up on me again. "I thought you said you didn't know how to crochet?" She sounds startled, almost betrayed. I just say that i would like to learn, and stick my nose back in the book. She won't leave. I return to the main room, and wander around. She stands by the register, staring at me. The next side room is just as small as the first, and without the window. She follows me in and starts dusting, careful to keep an eye on me through the small mirror on the wall. This behavior starts to amuse me. I really am interested in crocheting, so i decide to see if i can find any crochet hooks, and move back into the main room. She decides she has finished dusting a few seconds later and returns to the register. In fact, she never lets me out of her sight again. I had been in there for a total of 20 minutes when i left - which is, in a yarn store, like no time at all. My appearance is far from intimidating. Tell me - why??

Redemption...

and relief were evident in my roommate's eyes when i returned from a library used bookstore yesterday with over half a dozen Agatha Christie novels...

Penguins, Dante, and Pretentions

Okay, so i am slightly obsessed with Penguin Classics. I love the introductions, and the endnotes, and the commentaries, and everything. I also think they smell better than most any other brand. And so i saw Dante's Paradiso - Penguin edition - in the miserable little excuse for a bookstore they have here. (I also saw The Three Musketeers, but it turns out that was a Puffin, and abridged. Disgusting.) I bought it, since in spite of my medieval minor i have never read more than a few excerpts of the Commedia, which is really rather pathetic, i think. And since i read everything else backwards, i might as well read this backwards also. Have i mentioned how much i love Penguin? They have the Italian right across from an English translation, and although my Latin is extremely poor i still find it helpful. And it just sounds better in Italian. Anyway, so here i am, reading the ultimate Romance (or one of them, anyway, though i can't say i'm hugely fond of Milton). My roommate, who prefers to read the Romance novels that are actually in the Romance section (and i mean no slight to her intelligence, though i find her taste lacking), sees this with as much disgust as i view her romance novels. She practically sneered. It was highly entertaining, and i'm ashamed to say rather startling. Isn't that just...odd? To sneer at Dante? Of course, i suppose it is just as odd to sneer at romance novels. If i ever own a bookstore, i will reclaim the word "Romance." Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, Elizabeth Gaskell, John Milton, Connie Willis, John Donne, Kazuo Ishiguro, Dante Alighieri, C.S. Lewis, Mark Twain, Peter Abelard...

An Entirely Subjective Description of People I May or May Not Actually Work With and Know in Real Life

So, my boss at GSRing is a guy named Ron. Fifties, mebbe? People don't like him, and i'm not really sure why. He's not really friendly, or anything, and often sounds really annoyed. But in practice he has been very generous to me, making sure i have some one to help me, walking me through things several times - i mean, the fact that i still have the job... But a couple of times my other boss has asked me about him, if i think he's mean or a creep. And so have a couple other people. He seems to have a dry sense of humour, but i don't think that can be it entirely. I believe ppl simply take him too seriously. But anyone who can put up with my stupidity and not fire me can't be a complete creep... dunno. I mean, i'm the one that's usually frightened by people, and here's a guy that intimidates everyone else, and i think he's rather nice. Weird. He used to work for the Coast Guard, and hands out lollipops. His new haircut makes his ears stick out and in spite of his height, beard, and grey hair looks like a little boy And then there's Ruth, the lead at the Lighthouse. Late fifties? She's just as reserved as Ron, but has a very friendly exterior. Loves dogs - raises greyhounds. More than one person has commented about how obsessed she is with her dogs, and how weird it is to hear her talk about bitches. Don't see why - just b/c she prefers greyhounds to popular culture and politics... Anyway, i've always found her very interesting. She almost bought a dog named Ella, after Fitzgerald, (the puppy she did buy, a brindle, is Billy, after Holiday, and was flown in tonight if all went well) and we also share aging dog stories. Her husband Art works at mill creek, and her son Vince is building them a new deck. Paints an inch think, manicures, highlights, whole nine yards. Rose is one of the assistant leads. Generally friendly, and resents having to tuck in her shirt. Been here for a coupla years. 5-6 kids, some grandkids. I believe one of her sons is Coast Guard. Peggy is another assistant lead. A very jolly sort of person; reminds one of the stereotypical physical education instructor. Eloise is a housing director here. She is taking classes at a (relatively) nearby city, and also GSR's for money. She has been married once or twice, and i believe has a son that lives in Colorado. She thinks that it's disgusting the way ppl dress up their daughters these days, and agrees that romance isn't all it's cracked up to be. A bit of a nomad, she is planning on returning to Eastern Europe once she is done getting this degree (it's in business/marketing field, as i remember - she had to take an accounting class and she hated it). Gives the impression of being continually flustered, and has a rather unflattering hair cut, although a distinctive (slavic looking) face which could be beautiful. No makeup. John is a nice enough kid - gamer type - who i think might have been trying to start a longterm dating relationship. According to gossip, he tries to date anyone who isn't outright rude to him, no matter if he or she is already involved in a relationship, and can become quite stalkerish. Helen is a pretty blue-eyed blonde. Married, with two young daughters (2 and 4, i believe). She grew up here, went to school in Minnesota, i believe. Has recently been living in Wyoming, where her husband was (is?) editor of a magazine. They are in the process of moving to Wisconsin (which she pronounces wes-consin) this summer. She is living with her sister at the moment, and i believe her husband is in Wisconsin looking for a place to live. Like my mom, she eschews (is that the right word? i think maybe it's the antonym of the word i want, and i don't even know if i spelt it right, but whatev) ownership and hopes to rent an apartment. She got her degree in some sort of developmental psych. Though she grew up Catholic, her husband didn't and so now they are both Methodists (which was, i gather, a sort of middle ground). She is hoping to get a job in the church involving children's education. Mike has a girlfriend in the nearest "city" with a Walmart, whom he fought with over Fourth of July weekend. It's her birthday this weekend, and he doesn't know what to get her. The type of person you can say practically anything to, as long as you don't take anything too seriously. I haven't actually ever worked with Louise, but she's always around. A little old lady, reminds me a little of Murgatroyd from A Murder is Announced. Beth is amazingly ugly. However, she has a boyfriend, and her future expectations revolve around four children she's going to have, the German Sheperd she's going to get for each of them, and the land they will be living on. She is also making a list of every lighthouse in the United Atates, and enjoys reading Michigan ghost stories. She's picked out her wedding dress, and has already started buying clothes for her children (though she doesn't plan on getting pregnant for another four years). My dad thinks this needs a conclusion/wrap-up of some kind. I think it's just a list, albeit (i hope) an interesting list - there's no narrative. Although i suppose i could put one in. What do you think?

The Day I Met Jane Austen

UPDATE: Welcome, AustenBloggers. Thanks very much for coming. I have read a lot of literature, from many time periods, genres, cultures, and so forth. One of my favourite authors remains Jane Austen. As with most such opinions, i am not entirely sure why. As a little child (oh, be quiet, boys - just because i'm shorter than you doesn't mean i can't still beat you up!), i used to hate going to bed. This is now incomprehensible to me, but so it was. My brothers and i would camp in the doorways of our rooms and whisper to each other across the hall, inching as far out of our rooms as we dared, so our parents could trip over on their way up to bed. I always felt especially pathetic when i knew they were watching a movie, or having a party.* I remember at least one time when i tried to stay awake all night, to convince my parents that it was cruel of them to keep me up in my room while they were having fun, since i wouldn't sleep anyways. I used any excuse to get up and join the fun. One night, my parents decided to host a murder. By the purest stroke of luck, i fell off the couch and hit my head on the table. That doesn't sound like much, but when mom found blood on her fingers, they had to take me to the emergency room to get my head stapled. I've still got a scar, under my hair (cool, eh?), and left some authentic blood on the carpet (a clue!). Once it stopped hurting, i thought it was pretty fun. I got to drink lemonade and sit at the table with them. (Where is Jane Austen, in all this mess, you ask? To be quite frank, i'm not absolutely sure, but in the next paragraph or so, i promise.) As i got older, i came up with what i thought of as a very clever plan for movie nights. i would wait, dozing, for half an hour or so for them to get settled. Then i would be thirsty. I would dawdle in the background and eventually, or so i thought, they would forget about me. Depending on the movie, and on whether it was a school night, my parents would put up with this, as i soon fell asleep anyway. I was probably about eight when i used this tactic to watch the last half of Pride and Prejudice. The BBC, Colin Firth and Jennefer Ehle, 6 hour version. Much to the bemusement of my parents, i loved it. They re-rented the first half, and i watched that too. The elegant language, the elaborate hair and dress styles, beautiful houses, and gorgeous soundtrack... In the same way i watched the last half of Emma, and then the first. This was how i learned about hypochondria, noblesse oblige, prejudice, premarital intercourse (i remember the first time my dad explained to me exactly what it was that Lydia had done, and what threatened Georgiana), inheritances, et cetera. We lived in Sicily at the time, perhaps the book wasn't available. My dad printed it off of the internet for me and put it in a black three ring binder. I didn't think it was completely perfect - how could Lydia be the tallest? That didn't even make sense. And Mr. Bingley seemed somewhat of a fool. I simply couldn't like him. It wasn't until we got back stateside that i learned of Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility, Persuasion (my father's favourite), and Mansfield Park. I read them all, but Pride and Prejudice was, i decided, my favourite. I did not understand Mansfield Park at all. Eventually, although i will always have fond memories of Pride and Prejudice, i began to value the quirkiness of Emma above Pride and Prejudice. Emma was made much more aware of her faults than Lizzie, who only suffers through the actions of Lydia and Wickham. I gave Mansfield Park another try - dad seemed to pick up a copy everytime he went on cruise, so there were several copies laying around the house. It began to grow on me. The theatre scene, which for many people is completely ridiculous, was one i could completely identify with. I hated talking to people - still do. Fanny's fear and shyness, and her strength in spite of these, is something i perfectly understand. And while the impropriety of a private theatre seems incomprehensible today, with my own father often gone i could understand the evils of spending my father's money on activities he would not approve of and which would put considerable strain on already tenuous relationships. Other books are cute or amusing or probing or intellectual or adventursome or romantic or realistic. These books contain aspects of all of these, but mostly they are about Life. Her bit of ivory was nonetheless beautiful for being small. These are people one could meet (and indeed, i believe i have met) walking down the street anytime, and anywhere. Reading these books, i get the same feeling of delight as when i was a little girl and allowed to stay up past my bedtime (though without the headache). I get to catch a glimpse of a life other than my own, yet very like it - a "grown up" world, foreign and familiar, in which (in spite of appearances) I might just fit. ...... *a small clarification, as one must be careful - my dad was the pastor of a church at the time, so these parties were hardly raucous. the only alcohol was the caffeine in coffee, and the rowdiest game played was How to Host a Murder.

On Their Poor Substitute for a Public Library

The place where i work and live right now is called a City. Even though i can walk all around it in a couple of hours. There is one excuse for a grocery store in which everything costs twice as much as it does everywhere else, which, what with rising gas prices and all that, is quite substantial. The main street consists almost entirely of t-shirt print shops and fudge shops, which i tried to browse once, but the t-shirt people stalk you and the fudge people don't have to. I can't resist. I begin to realize that however peaceful rural life sounds in theory, i have been too spoiled by suburbia. But worst of all is the Library. This is not the one where i work - that is the state park library and archives. This is the Public library. It is a ways out of town - 20 minute walk. A small, brown, tin building, with a few narrow slits for windows. The organization is inconsistent and inconvenient. There is no computer catalogue at all, and the card catalogue is stuck in a corner with the few public computers available, so that it is almost impossible to utilize. However, since a good portion of the books aren't catalogued at all anyway, it doesn't really matter. A good third of the book selection consists of Romance novels. Not that i have anything against Romance novels per say - i am rather fond of Georgette Heyer (although i don't think her novels ought to be in the Romance section, anyway; or, i think they ought to be, and that most of the books now in the Romance section ought to be put under Sex/Lust/Bad Grammar, but that's another story)... where was i? umm... and i like light reading as much as anyone, but their selection of fantasy, science fiction, and mystery is abysmal. They have a few classics, but only the most famed, or the books are so old and in such poor condition they're practically impossible to read anyway. My family's library is much more comprehensive, better organized, and in better condition. Their selection of movies is worse - very few classics, and of course nothing too popular or i suppose it would get stolen... this is a big tourist area, and it it would never get returned. So i do understand that. Libraries are all about the books, anyway. And there they have fallen short. Oh, and the way they divide books between young adult and adult? Also completely nonsensical - worse than usual. Why can't they do everything my way??? AAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! When i do manage to find a book, which sometimes happen (they do have a decent collection of Dickens - which really ought to be catalogued! - and i've just discovered the Septimus Heap series, which is interesting but mainly i like it because of Septimus Harding), i turn down the road towards the water. I walk past the few feet of "woods," the little yellow house with the little white dog with the little loud bark, the nice gray house with the wrap around porch, and the large tree in the middle of a small gravel parking lot. Summer cottages are on either side of me, but there are few trees which means there are fewer bugs (it has been a really wet season here, and they are everywhere, but bugspray makes me break out if i use it a lot, so i just get bitten. my brothers swear by their own unique remedy of swallowing two match heads, but i think they're just trying to tease me.) A bench swing sits in a small plot of sand, just in front of a rather large rock - evidently a memorial of some kind. It is a gorgeous view of the water, with the Bridge on my right, and the sun setting on my left. One tall lone conifer is all that is between me and the sun, and sometimes i feel that if i could climb to the top i would be able to reach out and touch the last rays. Soon the light is gone and the bugs come out in full force. Back to the compound.

GSR-ing

So. I have a couple of posts in the works but right now i am just going to ramble, okay? Because this is all about me, anyway. The internship is unpaid, but they do provide a part-time job so that i can eat. And housing. Nice, right? I'm claustrophobic (which i never realized until i was lost in a hay maze for over an hour - not a good way to find out). After that, i hate talking to People (as opposed to Persons - there is a difference), and Money. This job - Guest Services Representative - is both of the latter. When i say hate, don't imagine impassioned and angry. Agonizing terror would perhaps be better. I have very little control over this, in part because i am afraid of losing control. Does that make sense? No, i didn't think so. I get butterflies, i feel faint, my hands shake, and i lose all power of logical thought processes (not that i ever had much to began with, as my brothers will gladly tell you). My parents say, "It's good experience for you. Growing." I think it sucks. Okay, okay. This is my second weekend (for some reason, the paperwork wasn't prepared for me at first). I have a spiel pretty much down, i know where the bathrooms are (the number one question), i know most of the prices, and have managed to make conversation with all of my co-workers. I had zero training and no previous experience, but people seem to be pretty generous of my mistakes. Today i was only 16 cents over, and they allowed me to come in a couple of hours late so i could attend church. I work primarily in one bookstore, under a bridge. However, sometimes i cover lunches at a gift shop down the way. While there, two children, their mother, and aunt came in. The aunt is a very ... shall we say, forthright? forceful? personality. She takes her time shopping. I was holding a compass behind the counter for the boy. They were bored, and started asking questions about how the date stamp worked, and the clicker, etc. So i told them. And we must have chatted for half an hour. I mean, it was so random. About Pennsylvania, and lighthouses, and sibling relationships, and dogs, and compasses, and i don't even remember. Anyway, on their way out, they asked my name, and i told them. And then they came and greeted me in the other store later, around closing time - just the kids, you know - and played with the clickers there, and we chatted some more... and i think if i had been working in the store the next day, they would have tried to come and visit me again. I don't even know their names. I mean, it was weird. But cool. Anyway. I still strongly dislike it, and often get flustered. I much prefer the library. But i can do this. My battery is getting pretty low. So, like, i should probably go. But i really, really missed you!!

HI!!!!!!

Oh, blog, how i've missed you! My neglect has been entirely involuntary, i promise you. I managed to obtain an collections/research internship in the archives of a state park. Unfortunately, access to internet is pretty much limited to Burger King, and a public library which closes half an hour after i get off work. So. Yay! I hope to be more regular, but until school in September, my access will be limited.

Hey

i'm still here. You will please forgive my lack of posting - i have been on the road and in the hospital, which unhappily prevented me from blogging.

Bliss

She is waiting. Her father is gone. Getting shot at. Or whatever. She knows that more people die every year in California in car accidents than die Over There. In the Sandbox. If she had been marking days off a calendar, like some people did, she would know that her father was supposed to have been back by now. She would be impatient and anxious. She was glad she didn't do that. Wasn't anxious. He had told her mom the new date of return. But it would probably change, too. Always did. Better not to know. Perhaps it was today. She could go inside, but then she'd have to talk to people. She'd rather wait outside. The air was brisk, but the sky was rosy and the birds were singing. She looked around. One of the hanging plants had fallen, and someone had placed it in the rocking chair. There was a nest in it. Dead baby birds. It had landed on the mama bird. Bird brains. Well, can't do anything about them now. Don't look. It's just a couple of birds. There's a reason "bird-brain" is an insult. Don't care. Birds are singing. Birds are singing abnormally close. She glances back at the nest. One left. Ugly little thing. About the size of her thumb. About the same colour, too. You're not supposed to pick up eggs, 'cause then the mother won't return. Well, mama won't be returning. And it must be cold. She can see right through it. And it can't see a thing. She looks at the door. Talk to people. She tells them. Asks for something to put it in. She will bring it to school with her, to the biology teacher, Mrs. Pattern. Mrs. Pattern will understand. Will help. They bring an empty jewelry box. The poor thing looks so alone, so cold. It can't grip the slick cardboard. She holds it in her hands. Keeps it warm. It seems to understand, to trust her. It quiets, and lays still. She can see it breathing. Feel it's blood beating against her hands. It's an hour to school. The bird brain stays asleep. He's rather cute, really. In a Smeagol sort of way. Mrs. Pattern hasn't come yet. School doesn't officially start for another hour, and she has choir practice. He will probably like their singing. Make him comfortable. Anyway he's still asleep. He sleeps through most of choir practice. A few kids ask her what she's holding. She shows them, carefully. She doesn't want him to wake. They laugh. She gets someone else to put her folder away, and rushes up to the biology lab. Oh, good! Mrs. Pattern is here. She reveals the bird. Mrs. Pattern gets out a heat lamp, and a towel, and calls the animal people. Mrs. Pattern tells her she shouldn't have touched him. And tells her to come back every hour to feed the bird a few drops of water. At the end of the day, Mrs. Pattern will take the bird to a rescue agency. She leaves class early to feed the bird. Sneaks into the back of the lab. Still breathing! She gets out the dropper, and watches him drink. She can see him swallow - see the water go down his throat and into his belly. His belly gets bigger and bigger throughout the day. There is an air bubble in it. He is still calm. Other kids have heard about him. Come to see him. Mrs. Pattern decides to let a couple other kids pick him up, after they have washed their hands. She is worried. At the end of the day Mrs. Pattern gives her an email address where she can write to find out if he survives. He probably won't, you know. She knows. She gets home. Math, ugh. Dinner time. Clean the kitchen. She turns on the computer. "Dear Dad, Hey. How are you? Is it very hot? I found a bird today. Got my math test back - B. It's cold here. Bye. Love you." Click. Send. She stares at the address. Slowly... "Dear Rescue Agency, Hello. I found a baby bird today. My teacher, Mrs. Pattern, brought it in. She said I could send to this address to find out. So I was wondering how he was doing. Thanks. Bye." Click. Delete. Better not to know.

STUDMUFFIN!!!

this is to give you something to look at while i am pretending to work:

*

*

i am related to this person...

*

(that's a baby shirt he used to actually wear. we found it in the rag bin and decided to see if it would still fit him. it seemed like a good idea at the time.)

and this person...

*

(see his muscles!! that's a blade in his hand, in case you can't tell. and he's wearing a pirate necklace with a matching earring. i somehow don't think many pirates wear socks, but oh well.)

and this person...

(do you know, he actually asks for ties at Christmas? and has since he was eleven? i love this kid. even though he's way cuter than me. he has to fend off the girls with a stick.)

awww... isn't he adorable?

and always remember, there's no wrong way to eat a Reese's

Exams...

so, like, i'm kinda really busy write now, b/c i was, like, an imbassilic idiotic stupid person and, like, majorly overextended myself this semester, and, like, i'd really rather be writing blog posts, but, like, i kinda need to finish my papers and study and maybe if i'm, like, extremely lucky i'll have time to sleep. so if i don't post anything for the next couple of weeks (b/c i know you're all simply drooling to see what i'll come up with next, which, at the moment, looks like it will be either the first time i met jane austen or the next chapter in my "moving" series - btw, don't i just have the most original titles? - or umm... yeah... where was i?) oh yeah - actually, like, really working, like, really. okay. can you tell i have a paper due tomorrow? okay. i gotta go now. really. like, i so totally mean it. okay. like, 'bye. i hope you miss me, but i know you won't. or don't. or whatever. okay. no. back to the utrecht psalter!!!

On Learning Latin

When i was in eighth grade, i had a choice between Home Ec/Art (i never did figure out what the Ec stood for) and Latin. My dad chose Latin. I love to bake and to sketch, and hate grammar, so you may imagine my dismay and resentment. On the first day of class we found the the original Latin teacher had dropped out last minute and instead we were going to be taught by a poor, innocent math teacher because she was able to speak Spanish (or at least, we were to assume so as she had spent some months in Mexico). Our textbooks were hand-me-downs from another school, and had scribbles throughout (some of them not very "nice" and we enjoyed shocking some of the more conservative teachers with them until they forced us to white it all out). While she laboured over dipthongs, i worked on my algebra homework and cogitated on various ways to talk my dad around. About a month in, we were informed that a new Latin teacher had been found, and hired. A couple of weeks later, we walked into class, and there was the Magister. No one would call him diminuitive, though he was not tall. He had come out of retirement to teach us, and had formerly taught not only Latin, but also English, Spanish, and French. Often he would forget and start speaking in the wrong language, but it made us all feel very cosmopolitan, so we didn't mind. His taste in dress was exquisite and his outfits were always perfectly coordinated - shoes, socks, vest, shirt, and tie. He traveled often, and could tell the most wondrous stories. And he had a most gorgeous tenor voice combined with a suavity of manner James Bond would envy. He was, to put it simply, a Gentleman. I can totally see him fighting a duel. I'm afraid we didn't learn much Latin. It was rather late for him to crack down on us and he hadn't been teaching in a while. However, we learned quite a lot of mythology that year, and Magister's stories were always instructive on some level. And when the fire alarm went off because the Home Ec teacher had left something in the oven, and i heard all her students moan about having to make accounts and all the busy work, i began to appreciate my father's choice. They were not, after all, learning anything i did not already know how to do, and somehow Magister was much more adept than the Home Ec teacher (also our Bible teacher) at capturing the imagination. I continued Latin until the tenth grade. Some days he would be very active, jumping all around and shouting at us. Other days he had a migraine, so he would sit holding his head with the lights off, and tell us to behave. Sometimes we did. Sometimes we would all go outside, or watch movies - Spartacus or The Oddysey. We started actually working at Latin, but i think we still learned much more about mythology, and English grammar, than Latin. We discussed many things in that class - Politics, Theology, Biology, Wrestling, Music, and even Knitting. One day we spent learning how to waltz, and the next we would argue about Ecclesiastes, and the next over whether his car was cranberry or purple. In discussions of the latter sort, or whenever he felt that we were being ridiculous, he would exclaim "When donkeys fly!" Further absurdity would drive him to adding "...with a rubber hose!" and in greatest extremity he would end with "...up your left nostril!" I loved that class. Thanks, Dad.

Non nobis, Domine, sed nomini tuo da gloriam.

My high school choir teacher died this week. Cancer killed her. Years and years of fighting. Chemo. Wigs. Weakness. Her husband is confined to a wheelchair. One of her sons is known as "a disappointment." She taught all of the choirs for the school - elementary, advanced elementary (Wed. afternoons), middle school, high school, and a capella. She was also involved in church choirs. Before Mrs. T, choir was held in a beat up trailer behind the school (band still is), and had been for years. The school focused on their atheletics; the fine arts program existed because all schools need a fine arts program. It is a small high school - around 200 children. Mrs. T got between 70 and 80 of them to school an hour early every school day, and several other days beside. The choir was moved inside, and eventually the room (with the technical capacity of 30) was revamped with more acoustic friendly tiling. The guys wore tuxedos. She got the school to help fund an annual choir trip - to New York, Toronto, Orlando, San Antonio... She continued teaching until less than a month ago. I can't picture the place without her. More importantly, she loved the Lord. She was passionate, dedicated, and tireless. I never saw her without a smile. Her patience with me gave me the courage to continue to sing wherever i can; to volunteer for church choirs. I know how much she means to so many people, and how her example inspired. Now she is dead. Life goes on. Her funeral is hundreds and hundreds of miles away. My brothers still need to be teased and my papers still need to be written. She is dead.

Moving, Part III

We had to leave our dog at my grandmother's house. She would send him to us later, when the paperwork was finished. We arrived in Sicily. Our loyal van would follow us a few days later. None of our goods have arrived yet, so for the first month or so we live in TLA. I'm not sure what that stands for anymore - Temporary Living Assistance? We lived in one apartment for only a few days, and then moved into a different one. Us kids loved it. It was on a hill, so that we could walk off the street into our front door, but out the back was a balcony which looked down a whole story into a parking lot. The floors were all marble, and the bathroom was the biggest room. Right when you walked in, you could either walk down three steps to the side, or facing straight ahead make a flying leap into the boys' bedroom. Inexplicably, my parents preferred the former. My first memories of Kinder Eggs are in this place. We thought they were the greatest things, and they were the only toys we had with us at the moment. They call them Kinder Surprise here, and actually have made them illegal most places stateside in case people don't realize that the toys inside aren't edible. This is a great pity. Polly Pockets, of which i still have a large collection, are illegal for the same reason. Silly people. The Sicilians were (and i assume still are) very friendly. One lady gave us a ride around town in a great white van soon after we arrived. It was just Mom and the kids - Dad was at work. You have never driven, until you have driven in Sicily. The lanes are narrow, the hills are steep, the driving is fast, and there is absolutely zero personal space on the road. We thought it was just as good as a roller coaster ride, and treated it as such, leaning into each other and shouting. Mom looked a little green, although both she and my father came to love driving in Sicily and constantly complain about the arrogance of American drivers. Dad has a favourite story about one of the first times he was driving: It was the first time we saw a police car, we saw another driver flash his headlights(the signal for "Get out of my way, please") at it, and instead of ticketing the guy for speeding the cop moved over. Another time, on the mainland, traffic was jammed solid across four lanes (which in Naples means six lines of cars). There was an ambulance with sirens going lights flashing, stuck behind all of these cars. One driver really needed to get through -he was honking his horn and waving a whitehandkerchief. People just squeezed their cars tighter together so hecould get on through, which he did, through several miles of such traffic.The ambulance had to wait, though, with the rest of us. As long as you kept your head and were respectful, you could get away with pretty much anything. Soon, though, we found a more permanent residence in Motta. Before we left the landlords invited us to a sort of party downstairs. There was a lot of pizza, and wine. Each pizza had different toppings on it, like eggplant, or french fries. We didn't eat much. My brothers and I spent most of the time playing with bouncy balls in the parking lot. UPDATE: Moving, Part I (links to all the other parts available in Part I)

April Rain Means May Mud

So, just in case you were curious, those toes at the top of the page are mine. 100% flesh and blood Marshymallow toes. Okay, that sounds really gross, but you get the point. The toes at the top of the page are on a beach one autumn evening. They are near Sally chasing the tiny sand crabs into the water, and in turn being chased by the surf. Those toes are wiggling over the soft green moss proud of the way the metallic-purple polish is set off. Balancing precariously on the rocks, they know that if they falter the camera risks injury. Those toes are inherited from my father. They stick out like radar. They are big and fat an ugly. And they don't even match - if i ever got shoes that fit properly my left foot would wear size 10 and my right a size 8 1/2. And those toes love to walk in the mud. I remember when my mother used to read the Laura Ingalls Wilder books - i always envied the children because they were allowed to run around barefoot half the year. I love shoes - i love to look pretty, and feet (at least, mine) are never going to be at all aesthetically pleasing. But for comfort, i'll kick off the shoes any day. In North Dakota my brothers and i would have mud circuses. With my brothers those toes ran unshod over the gravel parking lot and through the fields, capturing poor little toads (or frogs?) and putting them in buckets 1/4 full of mud. We were convinced that they were having as much fun as we were, and hopped around out of sheer gratitude, for sharing the mud with them. The shoe-kicking habit stayed with us in Sicily, even though there was rather a shortage of mud. My toes tread on the cold marble floors, up and down the asphalt street, around the balcony - it didn't really matter. As i have grown older i've been forced to retain my shoes in more and more situations. Yet, i've become a master of unobtrusively removing and then replacing my shoes under or at picnic benches, desks, pews, dinner tables, et cetera. I believe it's quite an art. I never buy a pair of shoes without taking into consideration its kick-off-ability. So you can imagine how ecstatic i was upon finding that, excepting the food preparation locations, the college i attend has no policy regarding footwear. It was nearly two months (well, i did wear shoes to church, or at least bring them) before my toes touched another shoe. Freedom!!! I went to class, to work, to choir practice, to my grandmother's, to the library - all with naked feet. Have you ever watched an infant or a small child explore something? They want to know all about it - how it looks, tastes, smells, and feels. Often they place objects in their mouth so they can experience the object with their sensitive gums. I walk everywhere, but I reveled in the different textures and temperatures of the various surfaces - the grass (sometimes dry and prickly, other times deliciously spongy and squelchy, or smooth and verdant), the cement (rather like walking on varying grades of sandpaper), the asphalt (HOT in the sun, but otherwise its a free foot massage), the thick road paint (very smooth, and it always felt deliciously cool after the black asphalt), and the mud. Perhaps you will scoff, but i didn't expect many people to notice. However... Odd looks, comments from fellow students. I noticed a couple approving glances from fellow free feeters. On my way to the (public) library one day, a red truck stopped in front of me. A man called out - "Why aren't you wearing shoes?" "It's such a gorgeous day, and i didn't want to." He smiled, and pulled out. I have found out that it was a main subject of conversation over coffee break in the Archives. I painted my nails bright blue in response. There is even a vocal minority among my fellow choristers protesting my choice. Rumours of passing a plate around for a Marshymallow toe covering came to my ears. But i stood firm on my exposed extremities. Winter came, and with it heavy boots and socks. Blackened remnants of the towering white mountains still remain. Yet, spring is definitely in the air. I have gone puddling twice now this year, and there look to be many more opportunities to track mud inside of the dormitory before i leave forever. It's drizzling outside. Over it i hear the construction being constructed and various people prating and prattling. It's grey and dreary outside, but i don't mind because it will mean more delicious mud. UPDATE: Scientific Proof! Bare feet are better!

What I Learned in School Today:

The Bayeux Tapestry is pretty awesome - to learn more, go here.

on having a blog, and writing in general.

You desperately want everyone to read it, and to tell you exactly what they think of it. At the same time, you dread that this will finally clinch the matter for them - you are stupid, and cliched, and have no original thoughts, or you would be if you weren't completely incoherent. Even worse is the thought that they couldn't care less about you and your stupid blog. reading it is a waste of time - it gives no amusement or enlightenment - you are a stupid college student with nothing to say, and should keep your mouth shut in the presence of your betters. After all, the blogs you read are written by experienced and interesting adults who actually have some authority and status in the world. It is presumptuous to think anyone (other than your long-suffering parents, and a handful of friends who are used to you shamelessly dumping manuscripts in their laps and begging for opinions) will bother to read this junk. But you do it any way. practice makes perfect, you say. If you can keep this up, in another twenty years, you might write something worth publishing. You haven't even managed to get anything published in any of the mediocre school rags yet, but you convince yourself that such an outlet is unworthy of your talents, anyway. If you have any talent. Lots of people are aspiring writers. Every last John/Jane Doe out there has a blog, nowadays. You are so behind the curve it isn't even funny. You blench at how many hackneyed phrases you've used just in the last paragraph. You wonder how embarrassed you will be on happening upon any of these writings twenty years from now. You give up. Until tomorrow.

Moving, Part II

My mom was never going to marry a sailor or a pastor. She had moved around all her life, and wanted a nice, steady life from now on.

Then she met Dad.

My dad is a pastor. His first church was in a tiny (literally - there were about 14 people living in the town, and half the district had the same last name) town in the rural Midwest. Us kids (i have two younger brothers) loved it. We lived right across the church and would run barefoot over the gravel parking lot, or in the huge puddles which would fill the plain behind our garage. We had several sets of "grandparents" who loved to treat us, and so we ran wild (well, as wild as PK's ever get ;) - climbing trees, having toad circuses, feeding chickens, building huge snowforts, and sneaking into the abandonded house across the way.

One day my dad got a postcard from the Navy. They were recruiting for chaplains.

The moral of that story is: Never say never.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I was in the second grade when we moved.

I remember standing in the kitchen. Everything was white, and brown - not pristine white, not even all the same shade of white, but the floor and walls and fridge and phone and countertops were all white. Only the cupboards were brown. I was trying to wheedle a snack out of mom, and wondered why she wasn't paying as much heed to me as i felt i deserved.

"Your father wants to join the Navy," she told me, in despairing accents. I wasn't sure how this was supposed to make me any less hungry.

Later my parents told us we were moving to North Carolina. They probably showed it to us on a map, but i was born without the proper wiring to process information formatted in such a way.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Our laundry room was on the end of the house. It was blue, and grey. There was the blue hamper which our dog used to tip over so he could chew on our underwear (maybe he liked the elastic??) and which we still have (unlike its pink counterpart which was mortally wounded in a struggle with a kerosene heater).

Mom was facing away from me, folding clothes. Her movements are precise than usual, yet hurried.

"Now they say we will be moving to Sicily." I thought that sounded prettier than North Carolina. Almost like sister. I'd always wanted a little sister. I went looking for the dog.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I rather liked moving. Everybody paid us a great deal of attention, and made us all sorts of presents.

My aunt came to help us and cut my hair. I remember her and my mom in the toy room, putting signs on the things for express shipment, and deciding to get rid of our loveseat. It was cream with huge dark red and blue flowers all over it. Dad wasn't there - he had gone to Rhode Island to learn to salute properly. Movers came, and packed up everything. It was great fun, rather like camping.

We had a navy blue minivan which stood out against all the white of the house and the empty parking lot. Mom packed us all in, and the dog.

We drove off in a snow storm.

UPDATE: Moving, Part I (links to all the other parts available in Part I)

SPRING IS...not

It's snowing. UPDATE: The ground is, again, pristine and white and beautiful. It covers the piles of mud and trampled grass left by the construction people. Fat flakes swirl and float around the lamppost - Narnia is just through my mud-splattered window. Tomorrow it will be brown and muddy and gross. As i slosh my way through the now icy puddles, i will curse it. But for now, it is beautiful. And i thank God i still haven't put away my winter boots.

It Sucks to be Inland... and a Picture's Worth 1000 Words.

Moving, Part I

I have moved often enough that it's been a rather defining characteristic in my life. And since they always say to write about what you know... The first move i remember took place when i was around four. Naturally, i don't remember much; all i do hold of that place in my memory is of the move, and i have no idea how accurate those memories are. I remember my grandmother came down to help us. I was tired, but excited. All i remember of the house is small room - there was just space enough for my parents bed. There was a lamp on a nightstand next to it which made the yellow wooden floor seem to glow. The rest of the house was empty. It was late at night. Then i am climbing up, up into the truck bed. There were stars in the sky. Dad was driving - he had hair. An old pair of black and blue flip-flops were on the ground. It was just Dad and me. There was a yellow bag in between the seats - Peanut M&M's (his favourite). Even though it was past my bedtime, he let me have some. Not much, is it? UPDATE: Moving, Part II UPDATE: Moving, Part III UPDATE: Moving, Part IV UPDATE: Moving, Part V

A Romantic's View of Amsterdam

Dear B----, I have fallen in love. You've met Her before - years ago, when you were flying home from Germany, you had two glorious hours with Her. Do you not remember? She is eminently practical, yet not at all lacking an appreciation for the finer things in life. If you look into Her eyes you can glimpse Her ancestors scratching out a foundation from the medieval mud, and Her struggle with the wild Sea. The Sea does His best to destroy Her, but She perseveres, and harnesses His strength. He has become Her most compassionate enemy and most bitter friend. She was brought up very zealously and still hides a passion in her breast, but has learned that strong beliefs are not usually worth the blood one pays for them. Once She was very wealthy and vestiges of that glorious and exotic time remain. Though there is, perhaps, some regret, there is no wistfulness in Her air when She speaks of it. That time is past. Since then She has suffered greatly. A distant Cousin once sought to purify Her, imprisoning and torturing Her for a time in His repulsive reich. She starved, was desolate, but She endured. She was not defeated. In Her quiet, patient way she fought Him and in the end Her patience was rewarded. They have since reconciled, but haunting memories still touch Her dreams. I cannot, and will not even attempt, to fully catalogue all Her quirks and charms. Yet I must give some impression of Her. One scene in particular remains emblazoned on my memory. I have not the gift of brush and palette; nevertheless I will attempt to follow in the footsteps of the great and paint for you a picture with my pen. It was morning, of course, and though rather late (for you B---. I was, I admit, still yawning) and the Sun was still just getting up. The sky was a pale blue, but in the bottom left of the horizon, just in the corner, were the beginnings of light - pale pink in colour. It was almost as if the Sun was blushing, embarrassed to get up so late in Her house, for She had been up long before. Indeed, there is reason to doubt She'd ever been to bed. Her canal, like an exposed artery, rippled in the slight wind so that it seemed covered in glistening fish scales and reflected the Sun's pale shame. In fact, it seemed to glow even brighter than the sky, and looking at the water, it seemed to me that I myself was but a reflection in Her life-blood. The true world was just out of reach, but somehow attainable through the water if only I were brave enough to reach for it. The narrow streets on either side of Her canal are of brick, as were the most of the tall, lean buildings that lined her. Usually red brick. She is much, much older than the modern automobile, but She accommodates them in Her fashion. She has no great dislike of them, but they are not at all her favored form of personal transportation. She prefers bicycles. Squished beside the artery, hovering tenuously on a ledge between pavement and perdition, there is a great long line of these horseless carriages parked nose-to-tail. In spite of Her aristocratic background, Her favourite mode of travel is "op de fiets." In any sort of weather and wearing any sort of garb. They were all over the railing on the canal bridge. It is practically impossible to distinguish one bike from another - it is merely a mass of tires and handlebars and horridly uncomfortable seats. Unlike the cars, which are usually shiny and in good condition, most bikes that you see are definitely used. Otherwise, as She has an unfortunate (though slight and perfectly reasonable) disregard for personal property, they get stolen. Sometimes they do anyway - She is human, after all. Looking at Her buildings can be a rather disconcerting experience. They are all right next to each other with no space between them at all, and I was surprised not to feel claustrophobic. At first they looked rather odd, but quaint and kind of cute with their gabled roofs and huge, elaborately decorated furniture hooks near the top of each building. They are tall and narrow, like arrows pointed towards the sky. Yet for all their similarities, each one is different, as if each shaft in the quiver has its own unique lineage and purpose. As I examined them more closely, their age and peculiar beauty were opened to me, and I came see them as open, even expressive. The disproportionately large windows were inviting, as if welcoming the outside world into the parlour, taming and domesticating it. I started to feel slightly off-balance for I could see that the world refused to be domestic, and each building had grown and expanded in its own way as these cramped townhouses tilted crazily in all different directions. I realized that She, the world, and the Sea are perpetually dancing, subtly, slowly waltzing through the ages. Ever so slowly, so very slowly, I was drawn into the dance. All my love (that I can spare), K---------

the smallness of it all

I was reading my medieval history book the other day, and i started to get this strange feeling, as if i were a slinky bouncing back and forth in time. Or not quite that, but... Time is linear, they say. Well, it is, but i don't think that's the end of it. Do you ever feel like Time is a sort of telescope, pointing at something? And sometimes you just barely manage to catch a glimpse down the barrel? You can see Time all at once, as in everything is happening on top of each other, and you can see the patterns, and you feel a strange unity with all people in the past and present and future. Truly there is nothing new under the sun. At the same time there is a strange, unfulfilled yearning for you know not what, and you wonder if you are looking up or down the telescope barrel, and if what you saw was the focus of the telescope or the person doing the focusing. you think of all of the small, seemingly insignificant details that have made you who you are and have brought you to this, specific place... and of all the things you thought were significant but aren't, really - at least, not anymore. Time is flying, running up and down, twisting and turning like some vast rollercoaster (and for some reason, it's always blue - dunno why), and all of the sudden it's over, and you're you, and you think how irrelevant it is that you're sitting on a faded green couch that you bought for $100 at a thrift store, drinking a can of apple juice.... everything is slightly out of focus and you think you know how those people in movies feel when they're in slo-mo... and all those famous names and places one can't help hearing about - they're given context. they were born, raised, etc. and you wonder if anyone you know will make it into a history book, and how strange it will seem... you imagine trying to explain to your children what life was like "back in the nineties" or how you thought that those people telling you planes were crashing into the WTC must be joking, and how you felt that after that everything was different, yet nothing had changed or how people used to not have internet and how weird cellphones were when they first come out. You imagine them laughing at the silly outfits people wear in your yearbooks, just like you laugh at your parents... you wonder how people can look at the vast expanse of history and the smallness of you and not believe in a God, and you wonder how, if there is a God, you ever came to believe he might spare thought on your slight concerns, such as finding your nail clippers for that hangnail that's really bugging you and which it now seems almost conceited of you to notice. then you look back at your book and remember that you have a test tomorrow and you really have to study, and where did you put those nailclippers?