At 6 p.m. PST, I turned off my green library lamp, my standing floor lamp, and my Ikea ceramic lamp - dear bright friends who turn my office from tomb-like into cave-like. My computer and digital photo frame followed shortly thereafter. I got into my car and the 30 minute commute home was spent by singing loudly to my iPod on shuffle, which delights me immensely as songs come up that I haven't heard in years.
I drove straight to the gym, where I got on the treadmill and ran for about 30 minutes while watching the last 12 minutes of Law and Order and the first 18 minutes of Bones (it was the one where Hodgins didn't tell the team that he used to date the dead man's wife and gets them all in trouble). I then went over to the arm-strength torture machine and did about 2.5 reps before completely wimping out and going home, ignoring the rest of the machines that scoffed at me.
I put in a frozen pizza and started making cookie dough for a meeting I'm going to tomorrow. I have found this fact to be completely true: people love you if you bring food. Counter space in my kitchen is quite limited, so it became a balancing act to eat pizza, make cookies, use the cookie cutters (woodland creatures, thank you Ikea), cool the cookies, and reuse the pans. Add to this watching Waiting for Guffman for the first time, and you have my night.
Feeling exhausted by my domestic activities, I was still in my workout clothes and apron when I sat down, too-brown cookies cooling on the counter (seriously, how does that happen? every single batch!). Flipping open my computer, I headed to Facebook. The university I graduated from and continue to work for began classes yesterday, and I saw post after post of my fellow graduates -- "So-and-so misses school" -- writing on other peoples' walls, lamenting their lack of school status.
I admit I was one of them. It's a very strange thing to go through 17 (more if you count preschool) annual first days of school and then to have the pattern end. I found much of my identity in school. I was a great student, a willing learner, an attentive listener. Thus, I miss the anxiety and excitement that comes along with new classes and new professors. And now, my nights are...not exciting. Filled with commonplace, domestic activities like baking and cleaning. I just feel so darn old -- and my attire that night didn't help.
But there's a few things I need to remember. First of all, I didn't love school with a burning fiery passion when I was in it. This first week was incredibly frightening and overwhelming. Oh, syllabus shock, how I've tried to forget you! Yet, it always happened, and I always broke down into tears at some point, claiming I couldn't do this semester. Late night reading, cramming, papers written with unfocused eyes - that's the kind of stuff that the alumni association doesn't like to remind you about. It wasn't all flag football, bonfires, crazy dress-up nights. It was a lot of work.
Secondly, this gradation thing is not a unique experience to me, my friends, or the class of 2009. Obviously. We forget, though, that this is a common experience. Everything ends, including school. Unless you become a career student (tempting in this economy), there will be a day when school ends and that experience is over. The awkward transition, the missing of friends, the anxious in-between...that's often what follows the ending of something huge. And it's okay to experience the melancholy.
But lastly, I can't live in the past. This is a danger for me, as nostalgia usually rules my day. But I need to be looking forward. Yes, my time at university was amazing. It was challenging and hilarious and beautifully difficult. But I will not let those be the best years of my life. I can choose where my life goes (with help from the Supreme Planner), and I choose to continue to climb. Yes, the past was wonderful, but the future - that's what's beaming off in the distance. So I'm going to take those lessons I learned and tally ho, onto what's to come!
How do you move on? Do you struggle with the balance between past and future? How do your cookies turn out?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
[prose#12] Birthdays, part 1
If you haven't already heard, "Birthdays, part 1" is posted over at Jeff Goins's blog. He was kind enough to allow me to be a guest on his blog and enter the conversation he and readers have been having about age and wisdom. My post just fit right in with that.
Read it here --> http://jeffgoins.myadventures.org/?filename=celebrating-old-age
And look for parts 2 and following coming soon on my own blog.
Also, Jeff's going to do a guest post on my blog, so look for that in the near future!
Read it here --> http://jeffgoins.myadventures.org/?filename=celebrating-old-age
And look for parts 2 and following coming soon on my own blog.
Also, Jeff's going to do a guest post on my blog, so look for that in the near future!
Update
In lieu of a true quote of the day, I thought I'd give a brief update about what's happening with my life/writing.
**In the midst of writing another article for the George Fox University Journal, my second one.
**Wrote a guest post on Jeff Goins's blog (http://jeffgoins.myadventures.org)
**Trying to convince a few other bloggers that having me guest post would be a grand idea
**Sent off an academic paper that I told myself I'd send out before school started again - just barely made it!
**Looking around at some other websites that may be interested in some articles written by moi.
**Doing a fair amount of goal-setting Haven't been too successful at it in the past, but here's to the future!
May the Lord guide my steps. And may you keep wanting to read my words!
**In the midst of writing another article for the George Fox University Journal, my second one.
**Wrote a guest post on Jeff Goins's blog (http://jeffgoins.myadventures.org)
**Trying to convince a few other bloggers that having me guest post would be a grand idea
**Sent off an academic paper that I told myself I'd send out before school started again - just barely made it!
**Looking around at some other websites that may be interested in some articles written by moi.
**Doing a fair amount of goal-setting Haven't been too successful at it in the past, but here's to the future!
May the Lord guide my steps. And may you keep wanting to read my words!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
[prose#11] The Treasure of Like-Minded People
I waited on the stone retaining wall near the new children's park, where he said he'd meet me. My feet dangled down, as I shivered a bit from the clouds, unaccustomed to them after a few months of summer though they mark our Pacific Northwest fall, winter, and spring. A small girl, curly brown hair dangling in barrettes, shrieked as she ran around the play structure, her shoes making soft thwaps on the bouncy rubbery ground. I remember when playgrounds meant woodchips and sandboxes.
He said he'd be late, and he was, but he made up for it with a huge hug. Eight months since we spent time like this, with a hug good-bye outside a coffeeshop downtown in December, two days after my graduation and a week before he left for a semester in Oxford. Now, he's back after studying in England, researching in Dublin, praying in France. I can't wait to hear his stories.
We play disc golf in the park as we chat, or I pretend to play and accidentally throw the disc into the bushes. Patiently, he climbs through the brush to get the disc and sails it back on track. I warned him. I'm a writer, not someone with any sense of spacial relation or aiming ability whatsoever.
He's a fellow writer, and I ask him about his research project about Quaker John Woolman he's been working on all summer, funded by a grant from the university. His passion in talking about what he's been studying is evident, and we talk drafts and citations, those things that excite people like us.
Then comes the question he always asks me with a wry smile: "How's your writing life?" For some reason, I always answer him honestly, and I tell him about the struggle and my existential crisis brought on by the professor for whom we share a deep love and respect. He laughs knowingly and says, "Bill can do that. He can just slice you straight to your heart." I felt warm relief flow through my chest - I wasn't alone in what this wonderful man did to me.
After completing the course only because he was able to correct my horrendous throws, we finished the night on a bench talking about his travels and studies through Europe, something I've always dreamed about doing. He talked about the libraries he touched, the books he read, the places he saw, all the things my heart wonders about.
I met her for coffee in the late morning. She walked in, lithe of frame, long hair braided down her back and wearing an embroidered tank top, obviously not from the Gap down the street. We embraced, and it didn't seem like a year since I'd seen her face, since she walked across the graduation stage and soon after left returned to Jordan.
We got in line for coffee, and she took in the aromas. This was her first time back in this coffeeshop where she spent time reading and writing and drinking caffeinated beverages for four years of undergraduate life. Now she's off to graduate school in the UK at one of the world's most respected institutions.
We sat down to catch up. There was a candidness between us as we shared the challenges of the last year -- her teaching secondary school in Jordan, my foray into the professional world, the struggle to create art or anything in the time that is left over. I was amazed by this woman who sat before me, that mind that thinks in such a beautiful way, a person who has always been stuck between two cultures and so many loves.
The struggle to edit, to write, came up, and we discussed the difficulty in finding the lines between projecting our own writing perspective onto those we edit and helping them find their own way to communicate. She shared the scariest part of teaching, the ability to forever change someone's feelings about learning in general. I knew precisely what she was talking about, and could understand to some degree her discomfort and exhaustion in the classroom due to her introversion. I also understood her hesitation when a mutual acquaintance came over to greet her and asked her if she'll be teaching after graduate school. She said "maybe" with a slight smile.
The treasure of like-minded people is unlike any other. I'm blessed with a good number of people who love me and do their best to understand this passion of mine. They support me and encourage me, make me write when I do not want to, read what I've written. But they can no more understand my passion than I can understand their passions for directing, for teaching, for singing. I can understand it on the most basic level: it makes them happy, it drives them, it is intrinsically and fully valuable. But I cannot ever fully know what it is about the notes, the images, the people that makes it so.
That's why I need my support group of like-minded people. Other people who write and know the struggle of creation. Others who love the sounds of words and the power of sentence structure. Who use paper and black and white letters to say something. Who understand the same literary vocabulary and allusions and use them to communicate. Because they understand the core of me and why it is I do what I do. Why I need to do what I do.
Those people are important, nearly as important as my favorite movie buddy or the person I choose to cry on after a hard day. Because, often, they understand the cry of my soul and why I cannot express it in words. I'm thankful for these people that surround me, a little community of artists who have scattered all over this world who know my art and know my struggle. It's an invaluable community.
He said he'd be late, and he was, but he made up for it with a huge hug. Eight months since we spent time like this, with a hug good-bye outside a coffeeshop downtown in December, two days after my graduation and a week before he left for a semester in Oxford. Now, he's back after studying in England, researching in Dublin, praying in France. I can't wait to hear his stories.
We play disc golf in the park as we chat, or I pretend to play and accidentally throw the disc into the bushes. Patiently, he climbs through the brush to get the disc and sails it back on track. I warned him. I'm a writer, not someone with any sense of spacial relation or aiming ability whatsoever.
He's a fellow writer, and I ask him about his research project about Quaker John Woolman he's been working on all summer, funded by a grant from the university. His passion in talking about what he's been studying is evident, and we talk drafts and citations, those things that excite people like us.
Then comes the question he always asks me with a wry smile: "How's your writing life?" For some reason, I always answer him honestly, and I tell him about the struggle and my existential crisis brought on by the professor for whom we share a deep love and respect. He laughs knowingly and says, "Bill can do that. He can just slice you straight to your heart." I felt warm relief flow through my chest - I wasn't alone in what this wonderful man did to me.
After completing the course only because he was able to correct my horrendous throws, we finished the night on a bench talking about his travels and studies through Europe, something I've always dreamed about doing. He talked about the libraries he touched, the books he read, the places he saw, all the things my heart wonders about.
I met her for coffee in the late morning. She walked in, lithe of frame, long hair braided down her back and wearing an embroidered tank top, obviously not from the Gap down the street. We embraced, and it didn't seem like a year since I'd seen her face, since she walked across the graduation stage and soon after left returned to Jordan.
We got in line for coffee, and she took in the aromas. This was her first time back in this coffeeshop where she spent time reading and writing and drinking caffeinated beverages for four years of undergraduate life. Now she's off to graduate school in the UK at one of the world's most respected institutions.
We sat down to catch up. There was a candidness between us as we shared the challenges of the last year -- her teaching secondary school in Jordan, my foray into the professional world, the struggle to create art or anything in the time that is left over. I was amazed by this woman who sat before me, that mind that thinks in such a beautiful way, a person who has always been stuck between two cultures and so many loves.
The struggle to edit, to write, came up, and we discussed the difficulty in finding the lines between projecting our own writing perspective onto those we edit and helping them find their own way to communicate. She shared the scariest part of teaching, the ability to forever change someone's feelings about learning in general. I knew precisely what she was talking about, and could understand to some degree her discomfort and exhaustion in the classroom due to her introversion. I also understood her hesitation when a mutual acquaintance came over to greet her and asked her if she'll be teaching after graduate school. She said "maybe" with a slight smile.
The treasure of like-minded people is unlike any other. I'm blessed with a good number of people who love me and do their best to understand this passion of mine. They support me and encourage me, make me write when I do not want to, read what I've written. But they can no more understand my passion than I can understand their passions for directing, for teaching, for singing. I can understand it on the most basic level: it makes them happy, it drives them, it is intrinsically and fully valuable. But I cannot ever fully know what it is about the notes, the images, the people that makes it so.
That's why I need my support group of like-minded people. Other people who write and know the struggle of creation. Others who love the sounds of words and the power of sentence structure. Who use paper and black and white letters to say something. Who understand the same literary vocabulary and allusions and use them to communicate. Because they understand the core of me and why it is I do what I do. Why I need to do what I do.
Those people are important, nearly as important as my favorite movie buddy or the person I choose to cry on after a hard day. Because, often, they understand the cry of my soul and why I cannot express it in words. I'm thankful for these people that surround me, a little community of artists who have scattered all over this world who know my art and know my struggle. It's an invaluable community.
True quote of the day...
"Everybody was asking, 'What is it to be a man? What is it to be a woman? It's a hard question, so in The Left Hand of Darkness I eliminated gender to find out what would be left."
--Ursula K. Le Guin
This quote was on the wall of the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle. Admission is tied to admission to the Experience Music Project, and I was determined to get my $15 worth. It was an interesting experience, walking into that museum of science fiction memorabilia. I was a little out of my element, but I was able to appreciate the E.T. model and the Star Trek captain's chair, if not the intricate details of costumes and models from shows I've never heard of.
Le Guin is a science fiction writer and has been for many years. She lives in Portland, OR, which makes her one of our own. I had never heard of this book before, but in doing some research, Le Guin writes socially conscious science fiction, often examining view of ethnicity and gender through her characters and alien races.
I love this quote because it's an example of someone using writing, story, to work out an issue or problem in real life. Because there was so much confusion and tumult over the concept of gender, she decided to do away with gender and explore what was leftover, doing it through the guise of fiction. You can get away with a lot through fiction.
I've always used writing to work through concepts that are floating through my mind and heart. I think it's much more socially acceptable than other methods, perhaps less self-destructive and more beneficial for the world, especially if you come up with some kind of conclusion.
--Ursula K. Le Guin
This quote was on the wall of the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle. Admission is tied to admission to the Experience Music Project, and I was determined to get my $15 worth. It was an interesting experience, walking into that museum of science fiction memorabilia. I was a little out of my element, but I was able to appreciate the E.T. model and the Star Trek captain's chair, if not the intricate details of costumes and models from shows I've never heard of.
Le Guin is a science fiction writer and has been for many years. She lives in Portland, OR, which makes her one of our own. I had never heard of this book before, but in doing some research, Le Guin writes socially conscious science fiction, often examining view of ethnicity and gender through her characters and alien races.
I love this quote because it's an example of someone using writing, story, to work out an issue or problem in real life. Because there was so much confusion and tumult over the concept of gender, she decided to do away with gender and explore what was leftover, doing it through the guise of fiction. You can get away with a lot through fiction.
I've always used writing to work through concepts that are floating through my mind and heart. I think it's much more socially acceptable than other methods, perhaps less self-destructive and more beneficial for the world, especially if you come up with some kind of conclusion.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
[prose#10] Poor Wilson.
It's not a big secret that I'm not a huge animal lover. I like animals well enough. I understand the need to protect all of God's creation and I see the joy that pets give to people. I don't ever swerve to kill squirrels running stupidly across the street, though that could be more my extreme dislike of dead things than zeal for the sanctity of that squirrel's life. I find I like the idea of animals much more than the actual animal itself. I can't stand birds in real life, but I find myself fascinated by pictures of birds, graphics of birds, birds on t-shirts and pillows. I even have a flock of plastic birds on my living room wall. Same for pigs - I adore photos of pigs, stuffed animals of pigs, calendars and figurines of pigs. They're clearly adorable, in real life as well, but in real life, they are frightfully loud. So, it's a no go on the live piglets.
As with all idiosyncrasies, I blame my parents. We had few pets growing up, mainly because my folks aren't much for pets either. We had the obligatory fish, first goldfish, then beta. Hermit crabs for a while - not a very exciting pet. Our family has owned two dogs, both of which were free from parishioners and as such, my parents felt obligated to take them. Both dogs - St. Bernard Mollie and Boxer Gracie - our family has loved fiercely, but they were never at human status. My parents made it very clear they were animals, and deserved to be loved but not doted upon. Regardless, every animal that has been mine in some way I have been absolutely in love with.
That includes my beta fish, Wilson. My roommate Jessie and I got him just before Christmas at the small town pet shop, Critter Cabana. It was a spontaneous decision by Jessie - not uncommon - and I went along for the ride. Wilson was swimming in his little plastic tub, surrounded by two dozen of his fishy friends. Beautiful purple and blue fins, he matched the rocks we got for free from a friend. It was meant to be. We named him after a dear doctor that we spent many hours with - Dr. Wilson from television's House.
When Jessie left me to go get married, we decided that I would have custody of our child. It would be less traumatic for Wilson to move, and Stephen could never love him like Wilson was his own fish. Custody battle complete, I was forced to take over the job that I never did before. Jessie was the fishbowl cleaner. Now, a single pet owner, I had to do the duty.
It's not the cleaning out the bowl itself. I don't mind that at all. It's the catching of Wilson and putting him in another bowl. This task is quite difficult. Wilson's fishbowl is shaped like a football, and he's a smart little guy (takes after his owner). He likes to hide in the corners where I can't get him with a cup. That's what I'd prefer, of course - to be able to scoop him up in a plastic cup and carry on my way. He's just too clever for that. So I bought a net. It's actually a mini strainer from the dollar store, metal and just the right size to sneak under him and pull him up out of the water. It's effective, except for the part where poor Wilson can't breathe in this strange air filled with oxygen and carbon dioxide and no H2O. He flails his shimmering body around in panic, hitting the edge of the strainer so hard I'm afraid he's either going to cut himself or throw himself on the ground, where it would be nearly impossible for me to save him, given the fact I would be hysterically crying by that point.
Every time I pull him out of the water, my heart wrenches. It's about three seconds before I plop him in a nice warm bowl of water, a holding place while I scrub out his bowl. But during that three seconds, Wilson feels like he's dying. He cannot breathe. Fish don't have a very large brain - it seems to mostly know swim and eat - but he knows he's dying. And he knows that the big blurry object that crouches by his tank twice a day and food suddenly appears, he knows that object that normally gives him life is killing him.
I hate that. I really hate it. Besides the fact that I'm terrified he's going to die on me (see above: abhorrence of dead things), I feel guilty. But I know I'm doing the right thing. I need to clean his tank. I need to change out the water so he can breath better. I need to filter the rocks, get any debris out. I need to scrape scum from the sides so that bacteria or whatnot isn't clouding the water. I know this is what he needs. I know he doesn't have a clue of what he needs, and all he feels is the momentary panic of "I cannot breathe."
This moment is repeated daily in different walks of life, and parents can definitely relate. I've seen that look in the eyes of moms in the grocery store who have a screaming child because they will not buy cookies for their child. The child wants a cookie now, and even though the mother knows best - it will ruin your dinner, you just had one, you should eat carrots instead - the child is convinced that the mother is simply doing this because she hates her daughter. Fast forward 10 years, and the story is the same, except put a boyfriend in place of the cookie. Or a party. Or the car.
If God had eyes that we could see, that painful look would be in them constantly. If he had a heart that could be felt, it would be wrenched every moment. Because sometimes, we can't breathe. We're in a panic because life is rotten and we are dying. But because we're such fish with such small bodies and memories, we cannot see past those three seconds of gasping for air and realize that we are being moved to safety so that God can clean our tank. So that God can give us something better, something cleaner, healthier, more beautiful. It never feels good to not be able to breathe. But it will not last forever. So hold your breathe and count. Wait and hope. Like Wilson cannot do.
As with all idiosyncrasies, I blame my parents. We had few pets growing up, mainly because my folks aren't much for pets either. We had the obligatory fish, first goldfish, then beta. Hermit crabs for a while - not a very exciting pet. Our family has owned two dogs, both of which were free from parishioners and as such, my parents felt obligated to take them. Both dogs - St. Bernard Mollie and Boxer Gracie - our family has loved fiercely, but they were never at human status. My parents made it very clear they were animals, and deserved to be loved but not doted upon. Regardless, every animal that has been mine in some way I have been absolutely in love with.
That includes my beta fish, Wilson. My roommate Jessie and I got him just before Christmas at the small town pet shop, Critter Cabana. It was a spontaneous decision by Jessie - not uncommon - and I went along for the ride. Wilson was swimming in his little plastic tub, surrounded by two dozen of his fishy friends. Beautiful purple and blue fins, he matched the rocks we got for free from a friend. It was meant to be. We named him after a dear doctor that we spent many hours with - Dr. Wilson from television's House.
When Jessie left me to go get married, we decided that I would have custody of our child. It would be less traumatic for Wilson to move, and Stephen could never love him like Wilson was his own fish. Custody battle complete, I was forced to take over the job that I never did before. Jessie was the fishbowl cleaner. Now, a single pet owner, I had to do the duty.
It's not the cleaning out the bowl itself. I don't mind that at all. It's the catching of Wilson and putting him in another bowl. This task is quite difficult. Wilson's fishbowl is shaped like a football, and he's a smart little guy (takes after his owner). He likes to hide in the corners where I can't get him with a cup. That's what I'd prefer, of course - to be able to scoop him up in a plastic cup and carry on my way. He's just too clever for that. So I bought a net. It's actually a mini strainer from the dollar store, metal and just the right size to sneak under him and pull him up out of the water. It's effective, except for the part where poor Wilson can't breathe in this strange air filled with oxygen and carbon dioxide and no H2O. He flails his shimmering body around in panic, hitting the edge of the strainer so hard I'm afraid he's either going to cut himself or throw himself on the ground, where it would be nearly impossible for me to save him, given the fact I would be hysterically crying by that point.
Every time I pull him out of the water, my heart wrenches. It's about three seconds before I plop him in a nice warm bowl of water, a holding place while I scrub out his bowl. But during that three seconds, Wilson feels like he's dying. He cannot breathe. Fish don't have a very large brain - it seems to mostly know swim and eat - but he knows he's dying. And he knows that the big blurry object that crouches by his tank twice a day and food suddenly appears, he knows that object that normally gives him life is killing him.
I hate that. I really hate it. Besides the fact that I'm terrified he's going to die on me (see above: abhorrence of dead things), I feel guilty. But I know I'm doing the right thing. I need to clean his tank. I need to change out the water so he can breath better. I need to filter the rocks, get any debris out. I need to scrape scum from the sides so that bacteria or whatnot isn't clouding the water. I know this is what he needs. I know he doesn't have a clue of what he needs, and all he feels is the momentary panic of "I cannot breathe."
This moment is repeated daily in different walks of life, and parents can definitely relate. I've seen that look in the eyes of moms in the grocery store who have a screaming child because they will not buy cookies for their child. The child wants a cookie now, and even though the mother knows best - it will ruin your dinner, you just had one, you should eat carrots instead - the child is convinced that the mother is simply doing this because she hates her daughter. Fast forward 10 years, and the story is the same, except put a boyfriend in place of the cookie. Or a party. Or the car.
If God had eyes that we could see, that painful look would be in them constantly. If he had a heart that could be felt, it would be wrenched every moment. Because sometimes, we can't breathe. We're in a panic because life is rotten and we are dying. But because we're such fish with such small bodies and memories, we cannot see past those three seconds of gasping for air and realize that we are being moved to safety so that God can clean our tank. So that God can give us something better, something cleaner, healthier, more beautiful. It never feels good to not be able to breathe. But it will not last forever. So hold your breathe and count. Wait and hope. Like Wilson cannot do.
True quote of the day...
Sophie Fisher: A melody is like seeing someone for the first time. The physical attraction. Sex.
Alex Fletcher: I so get that.
Sophie Fisher: But then, as you get to know the person, that's the lyrics. Their story. Who they are underneath. It's the combination of the two that makes it magical.
Guess what I watched tonight?? That's right, Music and Lyrics. Chick flick, but one that involves Hugh Grant singing awful 80s songs with awful 80s dance moves which makes it a winner in my book. It was on Oxygen, which meant I had to sit through seven million Dance Your A** Off commercials, but it was worth it.
This piece of dialogue struck me. When I discuss music with my friends, we each tend to fall into one of two campus: music or lyrics. We all have an appreciation for both, but one aspect of the music strikes us more than the other. Many of my friends feel the melody is more important. The catchiness of the song, the chord progression, the transition into the bridge - that's what most important. I fall on the other side. I like a song mainly for its lyrics - if its lyrics are offensive, demeaning, or just plain stupid, I struggle to enjoy the song, regardless of the notes involved.
This piece of dialogue rings true. The music is the initial attraction, the element that catches your ear and makes you pay attention. The heat. The lyrics take longer to get to know and remember. Sometimes it requires googling the song lyrics or looking at the album sleeve (album? who buys physical albums anymore?). Some songs make you think, make you wonder what it means. More challenging.
How does this relate to writing? Well, I think the concepts can be applied to writing as well. Often, there is some element that draws people in, and some element that makes them stick around. I propose that the element that draws them in is the actual story that is being told, the meaning of the words themselves. The writer has to have a plot, even within a nonfiction article, a progression of events that leads readers to a conclusion. This is the initial attraction. The deeper level is the way the piece is written: the words utilized, the sentence structure, the way the piece flows. This is what makes someone pause, read a piece again, become a devotee of an individual's writing. In this way, it's almost opposite of what music does - the elements are flipped.
Thoughts on this? Agree, disagree?
Alex Fletcher: I so get that.
Sophie Fisher: But then, as you get to know the person, that's the lyrics. Their story. Who they are underneath. It's the combination of the two that makes it magical.
Guess what I watched tonight?? That's right, Music and Lyrics. Chick flick, but one that involves Hugh Grant singing awful 80s songs with awful 80s dance moves which makes it a winner in my book. It was on Oxygen, which meant I had to sit through seven million Dance Your A** Off commercials, but it was worth it.
This piece of dialogue struck me. When I discuss music with my friends, we each tend to fall into one of two campus: music or lyrics. We all have an appreciation for both, but one aspect of the music strikes us more than the other. Many of my friends feel the melody is more important. The catchiness of the song, the chord progression, the transition into the bridge - that's what most important. I fall on the other side. I like a song mainly for its lyrics - if its lyrics are offensive, demeaning, or just plain stupid, I struggle to enjoy the song, regardless of the notes involved.
This piece of dialogue rings true. The music is the initial attraction, the element that catches your ear and makes you pay attention. The heat. The lyrics take longer to get to know and remember. Sometimes it requires googling the song lyrics or looking at the album sleeve (album? who buys physical albums anymore?). Some songs make you think, make you wonder what it means. More challenging.
How does this relate to writing? Well, I think the concepts can be applied to writing as well. Often, there is some element that draws people in, and some element that makes them stick around. I propose that the element that draws them in is the actual story that is being told, the meaning of the words themselves. The writer has to have a plot, even within a nonfiction article, a progression of events that leads readers to a conclusion. This is the initial attraction. The deeper level is the way the piece is written: the words utilized, the sentence structure, the way the piece flows. This is what makes someone pause, read a piece again, become a devotee of an individual's writing. In this way, it's almost opposite of what music does - the elements are flipped.
Thoughts on this? Agree, disagree?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
[poem#27] The Vulnerability of Garage Sales
A garage is not necessary. All
you need are folding tables, round
colored stickers, a box or two, some
rolls of quarters for making change.
And you need the things that you
are willing to bid farewell: the outgrown
t-shirts, the dirty toys, the forgotten
books, the ignored elliptical, the extra
furniture.
Also you must say goodbye to the memories
of popsicle stains after a walk to the park,
the train left outside in the rain once the drizzling
starts, the books left facedown on the coffeetable
so their spines are ruined.
You must sit and watch as strangers paw through
what was yours and what is no longer,
as things leave for 25 cents, a dollar, taking
with them the past free of charge.
But its worse to be left behind, for then it's sighs
reevaluation, and finally black plastic bags
dropped off at the nearest Goodwill drop site.
So we sit and wait and hope everything
and nothing is bought.
(there's something here. it's not here yet. but it's coming.)
you need are folding tables, round
colored stickers, a box or two, some
rolls of quarters for making change.
And you need the things that you
are willing to bid farewell: the outgrown
t-shirts, the dirty toys, the forgotten
books, the ignored elliptical, the extra
furniture.
Also you must say goodbye to the memories
of popsicle stains after a walk to the park,
the train left outside in the rain once the drizzling
starts, the books left facedown on the coffeetable
so their spines are ruined.
You must sit and watch as strangers paw through
what was yours and what is no longer,
as things leave for 25 cents, a dollar, taking
with them the past free of charge.
But its worse to be left behind, for then it's sighs
reevaluation, and finally black plastic bags
dropped off at the nearest Goodwill drop site.
So we sit and wait and hope everything
and nothing is bought.
(there's something here. it's not here yet. but it's coming.)
[prose#9] Haven't Met Him Yet
or, How Michael Buble Continues to Ruin My Life
Just saying the name Michael Buble causes hundreds of girls all over this world to fall into a dead faint, regardless if they are within earshot. The syllabus of his name have a timbre to them that reverberates through the earth's core and touches the hearts and souls of women. It's understandable - the guy sings love songs in a clear jazz voice and looks stellar doing it. Buble is this millennium's Bing Crosby: accessible and normal-looking, with a quirky personality and smooth voice. He's our go-to guy to tackle any jazz standard (runners-up: Brit singer Jamie Cullum and N'awlins boy Harry Connick Jr.).
My roommate loves him. My sister loves him. Even my mom brightens a bit when she hears his name. I too enjoy his music, but I'm not quite as smitten with him. He causes me to be "that girl" that I hate so much: the hopelessly pathetic romantic. When I listen to his music, my heart pangs and I start looking around wistfully for someone to fall in love with - a dangerous occupation when walking down the street.
He's hard to avoid these days, Buble, especially with his hit single "Haven't Met You Yet," an anthem for every single girl (or guy, but let's be honest - girl) about waiting and wishing and hoping. I love the song, I do. It has a good perspective on this whole looking for love journey, saying that waiting patiently is a good and necessary thing. But what I love (and loathe) even MORE is the story behind it.
Rumor is that he wrote this song in 2008 after a devastating break-up with Emily Blunt (now married to Jim Krasinski - please, someone keep me away from People.com). In late 2008, he met an Argentinian actress with about five names, the majority of them starting with L. Bada bing, bada boom: she stars in his video for the not-quite-in-love song, they're engaged, wedding on the beach.
Here is where a chorus of my happily-in-love friends chimes in with the moral of the story. All together now: "Once you begin being satisfied and stop looking for a significant other, that's when he'll show up." Next comes the part where each person tells her individual story about how she gave up on love and then love found her. And to end it all, a pat on the arm or encouraging look, followed by, "He's out there. It's going to be so great when it happens for you."
I love my happily-in-love friends. I roll my eyes at their flirting. I make "awww" noises at their romantic gestures. I dance at their weddings. I'm happy for their happiness, because I truly believe that all of us are meant to go through life with other people, and for many of us, that means a spouse. I love that they want me to experience the same joy they have, and I hope I get the chance someday.
BUT. I say bull. I don't believe that this love thing works the way they tell me it does. I don't believe that all I have to do is close my eyes and wait in order for the perfect one to suddenly appear in front of me. I believe that falling for another person is hard work and often painful - hence the term "falling." It's a risk, it's a struggle, and along with the joy comes a bunch of frustration.
Ultimately, it's like sticking your hand in a bag containing many pieces of diamond-shaped glass and a few diamonds. Sometimes, you know you have a diamond and you grab onto it. Sometimes, it's just a piece of glass, and you've got to let it go and swirl your hand through the options again. Most of the time, it seems like it's hard to tell until you look at it in enough different lights. Regardless, that piece of glass or diamond will probably make you bleed. But the diamond refracts the light in the most beautiful ways, making rainbows everywhere you see. The trick seems to be putting your hand in the bag.
Sometimes it seems that the only options presented to me are disregarding the other gender or viewing each single man I meet as my future spouse (hint: neither are healthy). Instead, I'm trying getting to know and love others. In this way, I can create a support system of people who care about me. And if sometime, my future partner finds his way into that system, I'm going to spend my time marveling at how that diamond makes the most beautiful rainbows in my life until my final days on this earth.
OR I suppose I could choose this fourth option: writing something about how I'm fine with waiting forever. It seemed to work for Michael Buble, and - let's be honest - I'd be fine with an Argentinian.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Understanding doesn't mean that you can suddenly speak the language. Far from it. It's a small step, nothing more, yet its rewards are intoxicating and deceptive. The teacher continued her diatribe and I settled back, bathing in the subtle beauty of each new curse and insult.
'You exhaust me with your foolishness and reward my efforts with nothing but pain, do you understand me?'
The world opened up, and it was with great joy that I responded, 'I know the thing that you speak exact now. Talk me more, you, plus, please, plus.'"
--Me Talk Pretty One Day, David Sedaris
I just finished my first David Sedaris book. I enjoyed it - I love a good memoir. I especially love a good character within a good memoir. Sedaris is the main character within his stories, and he crafts the character carefully. The tone is sardonic and sarcastic, deprecatingly funny. Within that, David Sedaris the character is equally self-conscious and self-aware. His pride and laziness are rarely seen as flaws, instead just informing and shaping the character. Sedaris never apologizes for who he is, especially those traits that some would see as negative, namely his homosexuality, drug use, and smoking. This is most obvious in his essays about living in France - how he doesn't really care to learn the language, see the sights, or experience much of the culture. Instead, he goes to movies. Again, Sedaris the character is not what others want him to be; he just is.
Note that I made a distinction between Sedaris the character and Sedaris the author. Perhaps they're one and the same, but a reader should rarely assume that. Even within the realm of nonfiction, the speaker can tell the "truth" (let's not get into that, okay?) and still paint himself a certain way. We as readers really have no way of knowing if Sedaris really does smoke that much or think a certain way. But he's an interesting character, and this sort of extreme character 1) creates more humorous situations, and 2) can more clearly convey themes.
The quote above comes from the title essay of the book, describing a French class Sedaris took while living in France. The teacher insulted the class the entire session, but it was only near the end of the session that Sedaris began understanding what the teacher was saying. He clearly describes the effect of that understanding, and how it can change the meaning of words. If the focus is simply on the understanding and not on the connotations of the words, this was a great accomplishment instead of a great embarrassment. But instead of getting too serious, Sedaris pulls back. Understanding isn't speaking. There is still a large gap between being able to formulate words and catching the meaning of others' words. Even so, the understanding is a crucial piece of the road to fluency.
Apply this to writing as you wish.
'You exhaust me with your foolishness and reward my efforts with nothing but pain, do you understand me?'
The world opened up, and it was with great joy that I responded, 'I know the thing that you speak exact now. Talk me more, you, plus, please, plus.'"
--Me Talk Pretty One Day, David Sedaris
I just finished my first David Sedaris book. I enjoyed it - I love a good memoir. I especially love a good character within a good memoir. Sedaris is the main character within his stories, and he crafts the character carefully. The tone is sardonic and sarcastic, deprecatingly funny. Within that, David Sedaris the character is equally self-conscious and self-aware. His pride and laziness are rarely seen as flaws, instead just informing and shaping the character. Sedaris never apologizes for who he is, especially those traits that some would see as negative, namely his homosexuality, drug use, and smoking. This is most obvious in his essays about living in France - how he doesn't really care to learn the language, see the sights, or experience much of the culture. Instead, he goes to movies. Again, Sedaris the character is not what others want him to be; he just is.
Note that I made a distinction between Sedaris the character and Sedaris the author. Perhaps they're one and the same, but a reader should rarely assume that. Even within the realm of nonfiction, the speaker can tell the "truth" (let's not get into that, okay?) and still paint himself a certain way. We as readers really have no way of knowing if Sedaris really does smoke that much or think a certain way. But he's an interesting character, and this sort of extreme character 1) creates more humorous situations, and 2) can more clearly convey themes.
The quote above comes from the title essay of the book, describing a French class Sedaris took while living in France. The teacher insulted the class the entire session, but it was only near the end of the session that Sedaris began understanding what the teacher was saying. He clearly describes the effect of that understanding, and how it can change the meaning of words. If the focus is simply on the understanding and not on the connotations of the words, this was a great accomplishment instead of a great embarrassment. But instead of getting too serious, Sedaris pulls back. Understanding isn't speaking. There is still a large gap between being able to formulate words and catching the meaning of others' words. Even so, the understanding is a crucial piece of the road to fluency.
Apply this to writing as you wish.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
not tonight.
things i would write about if i weren't so tired that my thoughts were thick:
--SYTYCD
--Buffy the Vampire Slayer
--Agatha Christie
--ambulance
also, i would research organic farming.
tomorrow.
--SYTYCD
--Buffy the Vampire Slayer
--Agatha Christie
--ambulance
also, i would research organic farming.
tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
[poem#26] Apology
I read that this year the ground cracked,
rumbled and burped, ate whole buildings
and families, threw cars, swallowed trees
and threw a poor nation into despondency.
Also, a cap flew off,
I hear, in the ocean, causing crude oil to cruise
along the ocean's tides, not refined enough
to leave the pelicans and dolphins, fish
and seaweed alone.
And today I sit
at my small octagonal breakfast table, hot tea
securely warming my hand, reading
while eating whole-grain toast, its goodness
drenched in sweet butter.
Today I am happy. For this, I apologize.
rumbled and burped, ate whole buildings
and families, threw cars, swallowed trees
and threw a poor nation into despondency.
Also, a cap flew off,
I hear, in the ocean, causing crude oil to cruise
along the ocean's tides, not refined enough
to leave the pelicans and dolphins, fish
and seaweed alone.
And today I sit
at my small octagonal breakfast table, hot tea
securely warming my hand, reading
while eating whole-grain toast, its goodness
drenched in sweet butter.
Today I am happy. For this, I apologize.
[prose#8] Embracing Arrested Development and Community
Or, Why I'm Sad It's Not 2003 Anymore
Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a bit of an obsessive personality (there are at least five people who are falling out of their chairs, laughing, as they read that sentence). They know that I tend to fixate on certain areas of pop culture for brief lengths of time. At some point, I'll have to talk about my fascination with the Christian boy band, Plus One. Or my love for Paul Newman. Or my recent fixation on Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
The StrengthsFinder says it's because one of my top strengths is Input, which means I like to find out things. For example: I decide I like Paul Newman. I do my best to watch every movie he's ever been in. I watch youtube videos of interviews he's done. I Google Image search him. I memorize his IMDB.com page. I read books about him. I become a walking trivia encyclopedia... until the obsession passes and I move on to something else.
All that aside, my most recent pop culture fixation is Arrested Development. Thanks to the beauty of Netflix, I watched the entire series in a matter of days. I always follow that sentence quickly with "each episode is only 21 minutes long" and "the series only lasted two and a half years," just to hopefully remove any judgment welling up in the eyes of the individual I'm talking to. Both of those justifications make me sad, because that means the entire series is only 20 hours long. I may have used that calculation to help me fall asleep for a number of weeks.
Arrested Development was a show before its time. I say this because I keep hearing of peers who have recently discovered the show -- which ran from 2003 to 2006 (IMDB, duh) -- and are despairing the fact that it went off the air with very little fanfare. It truly is comedic gold: understated, ironic, and incredibly uncomfortable, exactly what my generation loves in comedy.
The show brings familial dysfunction to a whole new level. The plot centers around Michael Bluth, who is having to hold his family together after his father is arrested for a number of business-related crimes. Michael does his best to run the business, keep his family from spending whatever money is left, and raise his son amidst such social dysfunction. Of course, each family member has his or her own set of weaknesses and fears that give the character strength and struggle. This sounds like a serious drama, but here's some levity for you: they own a frozen banana stand. The oldest son is a horrible magician. The youngest son hasn't gotten through his Oedipal stage. The mother hates one of her sons, tolerates another, and dotes on the last, leaving her most vicious barbs for her daughter. Hilarity ensues!
Here's why Christians should embrace this show (or nonChristians, or anyone really)-- besides the fact that it's really, really funny, it's an amazing picture of persistence and acceptance. Sure, none of the Bluths really like each other, but they all love each other. And none of them could live without the others, as much as they would protest. Each character has such obvious foibles, but there is always someone who balances out their faults. It's usually Michael who does that. Michael tries to leave time after time, ditch the lot of them to survive on their own which he knows is impossible. They are nothing without him. But he, in turn, is nothing without them. He needs to have someone to take care of, fires to put out (occasionally literally), and people who need him.
No matter how dysfunctional the Bluths are, they stick together. I feel like, in communities, we let go far too quickly. We start seeing someone's faults, how glaring and obvious they are, and how uncomfortable and awful they are. We may throw them a bone, noting a good quality or two, but in the long run, their faults win the day. In doing so, we separate ourselves from this other, highlighting the differences and the impossibilities, instead of realizing that our faults are often what make us interesting characters, and that we all have them. Instead of pulling away, we should draw toward, because we're all we have, really. I at least feel like I should be sitting next to someone while I eat lunch instead of eating by myself. We humans are social. We need people.
In conclusion, watch Arrested Development. And love people.
Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a bit of an obsessive personality (there are at least five people who are falling out of their chairs, laughing, as they read that sentence). They know that I tend to fixate on certain areas of pop culture for brief lengths of time. At some point, I'll have to talk about my fascination with the Christian boy band, Plus One. Or my love for Paul Newman. Or my recent fixation on Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
The StrengthsFinder says it's because one of my top strengths is Input, which means I like to find out things. For example: I decide I like Paul Newman. I do my best to watch every movie he's ever been in. I watch youtube videos of interviews he's done. I Google Image search him. I memorize his IMDB.com page. I read books about him. I become a walking trivia encyclopedia... until the obsession passes and I move on to something else.
All that aside, my most recent pop culture fixation is Arrested Development. Thanks to the beauty of Netflix, I watched the entire series in a matter of days. I always follow that sentence quickly with "each episode is only 21 minutes long" and "the series only lasted two and a half years," just to hopefully remove any judgment welling up in the eyes of the individual I'm talking to. Both of those justifications make me sad, because that means the entire series is only 20 hours long. I may have used that calculation to help me fall asleep for a number of weeks.
Arrested Development was a show before its time. I say this because I keep hearing of peers who have recently discovered the show -- which ran from 2003 to 2006 (IMDB, duh) -- and are despairing the fact that it went off the air with very little fanfare. It truly is comedic gold: understated, ironic, and incredibly uncomfortable, exactly what my generation loves in comedy.
The show brings familial dysfunction to a whole new level. The plot centers around Michael Bluth, who is having to hold his family together after his father is arrested for a number of business-related crimes. Michael does his best to run the business, keep his family from spending whatever money is left, and raise his son amidst such social dysfunction. Of course, each family member has his or her own set of weaknesses and fears that give the character strength and struggle. This sounds like a serious drama, but here's some levity for you: they own a frozen banana stand. The oldest son is a horrible magician. The youngest son hasn't gotten through his Oedipal stage. The mother hates one of her sons, tolerates another, and dotes on the last, leaving her most vicious barbs for her daughter. Hilarity ensues!
Here's why Christians should embrace this show (or nonChristians, or anyone really)-- besides the fact that it's really, really funny, it's an amazing picture of persistence and acceptance. Sure, none of the Bluths really like each other, but they all love each other. And none of them could live without the others, as much as they would protest. Each character has such obvious foibles, but there is always someone who balances out their faults. It's usually Michael who does that. Michael tries to leave time after time, ditch the lot of them to survive on their own which he knows is impossible. They are nothing without him. But he, in turn, is nothing without them. He needs to have someone to take care of, fires to put out (occasionally literally), and people who need him.
No matter how dysfunctional the Bluths are, they stick together. I feel like, in communities, we let go far too quickly. We start seeing someone's faults, how glaring and obvious they are, and how uncomfortable and awful they are. We may throw them a bone, noting a good quality or two, but in the long run, their faults win the day. In doing so, we separate ourselves from this other, highlighting the differences and the impossibilities, instead of realizing that our faults are often what make us interesting characters, and that we all have them. Instead of pulling away, we should draw toward, because we're all we have, really. I at least feel like I should be sitting next to someone while I eat lunch instead of eating by myself. We humans are social. We need people.
In conclusion, watch Arrested Development. And love people.
True quote of the day...
A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.
-Charles Peguy
Some people just seem to have it so easy. They breathe poetry, they write it on their hands, on scraps of paper in their pockets, on the backs of envelopes. It flows out of them like water. Jon Foreman writes a song a day in a little notebook he keeps in his pocket. They're not all good songs, but they're songs and he's writing them. For some people, the inspiration and the phrases are ever-present and must be written.
For others, writing is a constant struggle. While it's the best and most beautiful action, these writers have to fight to do it. Life seems to be constantly conspiring against them, turning their attention to other-life duties such as grocery shopping, phone calls home, and commuting. Writing is so much, but it's often last, unless a purposeful decision is made and life is constantly reorganized.
These two types of writers could be what Peguy is speaking of. Or he could be highlighting the differences between tone of writers. Some writers are heavily emotional, confessional, and heart-wrenching. Every word is thick with passion and pain, often attempting to put an abstract emotion into our poor words. Other writers are more grounded, more earthy, tending to record life as it stands and just touching upon higher concepts. These writers can be seen as more accessible to the general public, as their writing does not have to be deciphered so much as simply read.
There are all types. I'm sure each writer wishes at one point or another to trade spots with her opposite, but hey, all types are good. I think there's something to be said for looking at your opposite, finding the worth in what and how they communicate, and doing your best to develop skills on both sides. Obviously, I think procrastination shouldn't be practiced, but at the same time, there is a value in the struggle.
Update: I've been doing some writing lately. I have an interview for the Journal article I am doing this weekend, which means I need to do some organic farm research so I don't sound like an idiot. I also posted my entry for the Don Miller contest that ends in two days, which is why it doesn't appear that I posted yesterday. I kind of hid it because it's...I don't know why I hid it. It's in plain sight, so read it if you wish. I'm sleepy tonight because I've been working out and completely nullifying any workout I do by eating enormous amounts of sugar. Also, Roommate and I put together a cabinet tonight. It was empowering.
-Charles Peguy
Some people just seem to have it so easy. They breathe poetry, they write it on their hands, on scraps of paper in their pockets, on the backs of envelopes. It flows out of them like water. Jon Foreman writes a song a day in a little notebook he keeps in his pocket. They're not all good songs, but they're songs and he's writing them. For some people, the inspiration and the phrases are ever-present and must be written.
For others, writing is a constant struggle. While it's the best and most beautiful action, these writers have to fight to do it. Life seems to be constantly conspiring against them, turning their attention to other-life duties such as grocery shopping, phone calls home, and commuting. Writing is so much, but it's often last, unless a purposeful decision is made and life is constantly reorganized.
These two types of writers could be what Peguy is speaking of. Or he could be highlighting the differences between tone of writers. Some writers are heavily emotional, confessional, and heart-wrenching. Every word is thick with passion and pain, often attempting to put an abstract emotion into our poor words. Other writers are more grounded, more earthy, tending to record life as it stands and just touching upon higher concepts. These writers can be seen as more accessible to the general public, as their writing does not have to be deciphered so much as simply read.
There are all types. I'm sure each writer wishes at one point or another to trade spots with her opposite, but hey, all types are good. I think there's something to be said for looking at your opposite, finding the worth in what and how they communicate, and doing your best to develop skills on both sides. Obviously, I think procrastination shouldn't be practiced, but at the same time, there is a value in the struggle.
Update: I've been doing some writing lately. I have an interview for the Journal article I am doing this weekend, which means I need to do some organic farm research so I don't sound like an idiot. I also posted my entry for the Don Miller contest that ends in two days, which is why it doesn't appear that I posted yesterday. I kind of hid it because it's...I don't know why I hid it. It's in plain sight, so read it if you wish. I'm sleepy tonight because I've been working out and completely nullifying any workout I do by eating enormous amounts of sugar. Also, Roommate and I put together a cabinet tonight. It was empowering.
Monday, August 16, 2010
[poem#25] Dreamcatcher.
Today I followed a red Honda
from Bonita to Durham. It was moving
under the suggested speed of the road,
and curt speech slipped out from under
my tongue. It was an older model,
dirty from the roads it has traveled,
two old and obese passengers driving -
or was it driving them? Human and metal
seemed passive. Around the review mirror
showing what was behind was a dream-
catcher. A woven circular net made by the first
lovers of this land to keep the dreams of demons
and loneliness far from the sleep of the small
and dreams of drought and stampede
from the heads of their warriors.
Made to catch the fears that sneak in through
ears overnight, it swung from the mirror,
foreign yet complacent. How many dreams
did it catch in the scalding light of day? How many
fears did it let through with the confusion of the dawn?
Did it work in the daylight's warmth
or did its power only press through the night?
from Bonita to Durham. It was moving
under the suggested speed of the road,
and curt speech slipped out from under
my tongue. It was an older model,
dirty from the roads it has traveled,
two old and obese passengers driving -
or was it driving them? Human and metal
seemed passive. Around the review mirror
showing what was behind was a dream-
catcher. A woven circular net made by the first
lovers of this land to keep the dreams of demons
and loneliness far from the sleep of the small
and dreams of drought and stampede
from the heads of their warriors.
Made to catch the fears that sneak in through
ears overnight, it swung from the mirror,
foreign yet complacent. How many dreams
did it catch in the scalding light of day? How many
fears did it let through with the confusion of the dawn?
Did it work in the daylight's warmth
or did its power only press through the night?
[prose#7] Running.
Some children are born to run. You can tell it almost as soon as they can walk. Their limbs are long, bend easily, and pound the pavement with a beat, a rhythm that you know they feel in their ribcage. All the while, they have that glow in their eyes once they start that indicates they are never going to stop this wildness, this movement of air that fills their void where they once where. Those children grow into preteens who run on the baseball diamond, the football field, the basketball court, the track, and side streets. They love to move their feet and move them fast.
I was never that child. Never. Born stocky with a passive temperament, content to never push and always stay, I lagged behind in gym class and dreaded the day of "running the mile." I had enough competitiveness to fiercely desire NOT to be last, but never enough to try to be first...or in the top half, even. I rarely ran, not even during competitive sports, preferring to save my energy and not expend any more than I had to. Thus, I was often picked last for kickball and tried to pretend it did not hurt my feelings.
As with most things that we do not excel at, we prefer to think they do not matter. Deep down, I know that physical exertion is life-giving, and yet, because I've never felt able to do it, I ignore its importance. Well, I have until late. Now, out of school, I'm trying to prioritize my life, give credence to things that truly matter. Only 23, I see 30 in the distance, and my dear co-worker Jen says things start falling apart at that age. So I'd like to get all of my parts in working condition before that birthday, so that they can take longer to fall apart. Or something like that.
All this to say, I've started running. Recently I've been doing an "every other" routine: basically, every other week, I feel guilty and/or motivated to run in the morning before work. And then I don't for a week...or two. Then I see Shape magazine, a swimsuit, or try on my skinny jeans, and am suddenly motivated to run again.
When I do go, it's outside. I've had gym phases (read: summer 2009), but never legit outdoors running, with pavement and real air and vehicles. Running on the street is completely different than, say, an elliptical. And I'm awful at it. I can barely run a mile without wanting to lay down in the middle of the road, spread my arms wide, and let destiny take its course. I hate it. I hate doing things I'm not good at, and I am not good at running. I am good at eating, sitting, watching tv, and commenting on people's facebook walls, but I am bad at running.
The other unknown about running outside is other people. Most of the time when I run, I only see two other people, gray-haired ladies, taking it slow and chatting. We smile, or I muster up whatever I can given the point in my route, and I go past them. But today, today was different. I saw four different people and two dogs. That's a lot for me to handle.
For some reason, I need to prove myself to them. I know I'm not a good runner, but they don't, and by golly, that stranger's opinion of me and my running ability matters! So when I saw this woman ahead of me with her dog, I think (through a haze - I'm over halfway through my route), oh no. She's a ways ahead of me, and I lose track of her around a bend and up a hill, but, to my despair, she's there at the top of the hill, waiting for her dog to do his dirty work in the ditch. I am just trying to put one foot in front of the other, when she looks at me with her mom eyes and says, "Good for you!"
Those words revolved in my head as I barely stumbled past her and around the bend where I slowed to a walk (instead of passing out, like I really wanted to do). The cynic and defamer in me said, she said that patronizingly. She knows you're a chubby gal who can barely get off her couch to get a tub of ice cream during a commercial of Project Runway. It's the equivalent of a pat on the head, an "attagirl," a "good try." But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the lie that defamer was telling me. I don't know her intentions. Maybe the high school prom queen in her was pitying me, but she just seemed like a nice lady. For a second there, through my glazed over eyes, she looked like my mom. And my mom, if she said, "Good for you," she meant it. She meant, "I'm proud of you for doing something that is hard." I'm sure this woman could tell from my lack of form and energy that I wasn't a usual runner. And she meant to encourage me. To tell me that someone noticed my effort and was commending me for it. It was early in the morning, it was chilly, and I was running instead of the approximately five million other things I'd rather be doing.
Good for me, indeed. I'm going running tomorrow.
I was never that child. Never. Born stocky with a passive temperament, content to never push and always stay, I lagged behind in gym class and dreaded the day of "running the mile." I had enough competitiveness to fiercely desire NOT to be last, but never enough to try to be first...or in the top half, even. I rarely ran, not even during competitive sports, preferring to save my energy and not expend any more than I had to. Thus, I was often picked last for kickball and tried to pretend it did not hurt my feelings.
As with most things that we do not excel at, we prefer to think they do not matter. Deep down, I know that physical exertion is life-giving, and yet, because I've never felt able to do it, I ignore its importance. Well, I have until late. Now, out of school, I'm trying to prioritize my life, give credence to things that truly matter. Only 23, I see 30 in the distance, and my dear co-worker Jen says things start falling apart at that age. So I'd like to get all of my parts in working condition before that birthday, so that they can take longer to fall apart. Or something like that.
All this to say, I've started running. Recently I've been doing an "every other" routine: basically, every other week, I feel guilty and/or motivated to run in the morning before work. And then I don't for a week...or two. Then I see Shape magazine, a swimsuit, or try on my skinny jeans, and am suddenly motivated to run again.
When I do go, it's outside. I've had gym phases (read: summer 2009), but never legit outdoors running, with pavement and real air and vehicles. Running on the street is completely different than, say, an elliptical. And I'm awful at it. I can barely run a mile without wanting to lay down in the middle of the road, spread my arms wide, and let destiny take its course. I hate it. I hate doing things I'm not good at, and I am not good at running. I am good at eating, sitting, watching tv, and commenting on people's facebook walls, but I am bad at running.
The other unknown about running outside is other people. Most of the time when I run, I only see two other people, gray-haired ladies, taking it slow and chatting. We smile, or I muster up whatever I can given the point in my route, and I go past them. But today, today was different. I saw four different people and two dogs. That's a lot for me to handle.
For some reason, I need to prove myself to them. I know I'm not a good runner, but they don't, and by golly, that stranger's opinion of me and my running ability matters! So when I saw this woman ahead of me with her dog, I think (through a haze - I'm over halfway through my route), oh no. She's a ways ahead of me, and I lose track of her around a bend and up a hill, but, to my despair, she's there at the top of the hill, waiting for her dog to do his dirty work in the ditch. I am just trying to put one foot in front of the other, when she looks at me with her mom eyes and says, "Good for you!"
Those words revolved in my head as I barely stumbled past her and around the bend where I slowed to a walk (instead of passing out, like I really wanted to do). The cynic and defamer in me said, she said that patronizingly. She knows you're a chubby gal who can barely get off her couch to get a tub of ice cream during a commercial of Project Runway. It's the equivalent of a pat on the head, an "attagirl," a "good try." But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the lie that defamer was telling me. I don't know her intentions. Maybe the high school prom queen in her was pitying me, but she just seemed like a nice lady. For a second there, through my glazed over eyes, she looked like my mom. And my mom, if she said, "Good for you," she meant it. She meant, "I'm proud of you for doing something that is hard." I'm sure this woman could tell from my lack of form and energy that I wasn't a usual runner. And she meant to encourage me. To tell me that someone noticed my effort and was commending me for it. It was early in the morning, it was chilly, and I was running instead of the approximately five million other things I'd rather be doing.
Good for me, indeed. I'm going running tomorrow.
True quote of the day...
"Decide what to be and go be it."
--"Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise," the Avett Brothers
Such sweet, simple advice. It sounds so perfect, so easy, so life-giving. Only the latter is true. The hard part is to decide, to commit, to say, "this is me." Because therein lives the danger, the possibility of failure. Even so, it is the vital step to success. Because after the decision is made, the only possible course of action is to go for it with everything you possess. Once you are whole-heartedly invested, it is all or nothing.
By the way, I am obsessed with the Avett Brothers. Please check them out - their musicality is phenomenal, their lyrics are thought-provoking, and they are amazing overall. Thank you.
--"Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise," the Avett Brothers
Such sweet, simple advice. It sounds so perfect, so easy, so life-giving. Only the latter is true. The hard part is to decide, to commit, to say, "this is me." Because therein lives the danger, the possibility of failure. Even so, it is the vital step to success. Because after the decision is made, the only possible course of action is to go for it with everything you possess. Once you are whole-heartedly invested, it is all or nothing.
By the way, I am obsessed with the Avett Brothers. Please check them out - their musicality is phenomenal, their lyrics are thought-provoking, and they are amazing overall. Thank you.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
[prose] living a better story seminar contest entry.
Living a Better Story Seminar
I have always loved stories better than anything else. When I was a little girl, lying on a hospital bed with a cancerous tumor in my belly, I watched Sesame Street, my mom curled up next to me. I sensed her fear and desperation, but as Maria went to the hospital and returned with a baby, everything was fine on that fair street, and we believed everything would be fine on our street too. In sixth grade, my teacher read the final pages of Where the Red Fern Grows aloud, and her fierce teacher shell cracked in the middle of the classroom, tears clouding her voice as she let the image of the noble dogs’ death scene paint the air and move a classroom of twelve-year-olds to sniffling. And in high school, I spent months in different worlds of theatre productions, watching a stage grow from nothing to buildings and street corners and children grow into men and women, even if only for a moment. All of these experiences were supplemented by my own voracious appetite for books, especially true stories written by the people who lived them.
At George Fox University, I worked at the writing center. One woman, much older than the usual clientele, made an appointment because it was required by the professor of her memoir-writing class. She entered the appointment with annoyance, believing she didn’t need any help with her writing. But as we worked through her stories, we clarified the themes, made the images crisper, and finally we solidified the point – that she survived the abuse and pain to love. When we finished, her face reflected gratefulness and relief, understanding that we didn’t kill her story but rather enhanced it so that others could feel through it. At the end of the appointment, she shared with me that she was taking this class in order to write down her painful past so her children and grandchildren could know how she became herself. She thanked me for my help, and I knew I wanted to work with people’s stories forever.
My dream is to continue helping people express themselves. I want to do that by going to graduate school and learning more about stories – how they’re created, how they work, how they impact the lives of others. Then I can use what I’ve learned to teach students at the college level how to tell their stories, whether they want to or pretend they don’t. No wonder Facebook, Twitter, and blogs, are so popular, especially for young people. We all want others to hear and affirm our lives.
What about those who don’t communicate best through words on a page? Some communicate better through music. Visual art. Theatre. And what about those who are not in college? Many people who need to learn the value of their stories are middle-aged, ensconced in the lives of others. There is a desire for expression, as evidenced by the reaction to Don’s book. We has humans are always trying to change our lives, but we neglect something important. In order to create a new story, we need to understand our old stories. We need to find the beauty inside the horror, the pain inside the greatness, the truth inside the mundane. We need to understand ourselves as characters. Characters living stories.
I want to help people do this by creating a workshop for the nonprofessional artist – the businessman, the mother, the insurance salesperson – anyone who wants to tell his or her story. As part of the workshop, individuals would decide how they wanted to create their story into art – through song, speech/monologue, painting, or essay. Maybe people would choose the art form they love, or maybe they would try something new. It would be up to them, but whatever they create would be purposeful and representative. The point is not to simply plop something down on a page or a canvas and say “this is my life,” but instead, through revision and process, make pieces of our lives into something of complete and beautiful. Also, I believe individuals should avoid trying to encompass their entire life. When we think of testimonies, we think of beginning, middle, end – birth, growth, death. Autobiography. But truly, the power is found in the smaller chunks, seemingly mundane events or emotions that contain a beginning, a middle, an end, and the effects of that “end.”
The vision for this workshop is a four session workshop, over the course of two weekends, giving time for the process of creation. Professionals in each of the artistic fields would be available to help guide the artistic process. With my connections at George Fox University, I would use students and professors to help moderate these sessions. The early sessions within the first weekend would contain an overview of the basic tenets of each art form, as well as a discussion about stories and what they mean to ourselves and others. Following that would be exercises to help spur ideas on what stories would be created and how.
The second weekend would be more revision after – hopefully – a week of creating and practicing on the individual’s own time. The third session would be a workshop, getting back together to share what has happened with the stories so far. The final session would be a public performance. There needs to be a performance, because it’s one thing to tell yourself who you are, but it’s fully another to share your story with others. The performance is another step of ownership, both of who you are as an artist and how others see you as a human. I foresee this being especially powerful in churches, where we struggle with transparency and yet long for true connection. The community – meaning family and friends – would be invited to support and affirm the work these individuals have done in sharing their stories. Hopefully, out of this workshop would come artistic communities, where the people in the different medium groups could continue meeting together to share new stories.
What I need is help getting started. I need to talk to others who have created workshops, find out what works and what doesn’t. I need to gather my professionals. I need to buy much-needed supplies. I need help marketing, finding communities in which this is important, and getting people excited. I need someone saying, “Go and do.”
I too want to keep figuring out my own stories and putting them into words. My stories have power and I want the world to know them. I want someone – a stranger – to feel my words and have them resonate within her ribcage. I want her to hold my words next to her stomach and say, “these were not mine, but now they are because they have become part of me.”
When we humans think about dreams, we usually think about huge ideas that we’re not sure if we can attain. Most of the time, dreams scare me because they seem so out of reach. But I’m learning that dreams are beautiful, because they enhance stories. They enhance characters. They make characters more than they ever were.
I want to go to the conference, because in order for me to help others tell their stories, I need to understand what a story is. I need to understand how to trust myself and become a character whom I care about and want to succeed, even if her dreams seem too big and her abilities seem too small. I am a character in this divine book, and while my chapter may be short compared to the grand narrative, I want it to be memorable and meaningful. Isn’t that what we all want? For our stories to mean something?
www.donmilleris.com/conference
Living a Better Story Seminar from All Things Converge Podcast on Vimeo.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
tonight.
I've got nothing more tonight. I had great blogging plans that didn't quite work out, but it's Thursday night, well-known around the Kelm household as 1) results show night for So You Think You Can Dance, and 2) night of exhaustion. 6:30 am will come quickly tomorrow, only a few breaths and a dreamscape away.
But God's been good and things have been happening. I've got a few projects in the queue that I'm pretty excited about, and I'll let you in on those things in the near future.
One of the things I'm considering is a move - gasp - of blogging sites. I don't love blogspot (sorry, old friend), and I'd like to love the device that will be propelling me to greatness. Or something like that. I'll give you plenty of warning, so do not fear. I will not leave without giving you a forwarding address! I want you to follow me, dear friends.
And, tis all tonight. I shall dream of dancing Roberts (SYTYCD reference? anyone?), and I hope your night is just as pleasant.
But God's been good and things have been happening. I've got a few projects in the queue that I'm pretty excited about, and I'll let you in on those things in the near future.
One of the things I'm considering is a move - gasp - of blogging sites. I don't love blogspot (sorry, old friend), and I'd like to love the device that will be propelling me to greatness. Or something like that. I'll give you plenty of warning, so do not fear. I will not leave without giving you a forwarding address! I want you to follow me, dear friends.
And, tis all tonight. I shall dream of dancing Roberts (SYTYCD reference? anyone?), and I hope your night is just as pleasant.
True quote of the day...
I'm sitting on my couch right now, my new-to-me tan leather loveseat. I'm sitting lengthwise on it, and with my back up against the side of the couch - two pillows at my back - my feet hit the middle of the cushy couch arm. My big toes stare at me, intertwined as they tend to automatically do when I'm working. I'm still in my work clothes, 1) because I haven't had a chance to change out of them and 2) because I'm hoping it'll make me get into work mode. Writing mode.
And yet, the thought crosses my mind - "I wonder if I've gotten any emails since I checked two minutes ago." So I check, then I check Facebook, then Twitter, then Facebook again. Pause to watch a silly video posted by a friend, and back to my empty blog post. I'm distracted by my roommate's sudden exit, the boxes of her stuff waiting for a home in our apartment, the air conditioning going off and on.
The apostle Paul knew the struggle. He memorably said, "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do" and the rest of us humans have been quoting him for the past two thousand years, taking his words both in context and out. In Romans 7, Paul's talking about sin, going on to talk about how sin lives in us when we cannot do the good we want to do, that we are created to do.
My new brilliant writer friend Jeff sees writing as a gift that is meant to be shared with the world, and to keep it to ourselves is essentially sin. It's wrong. He said this to me among an enormous amount of tips and ideas for getting my voice out in the world. It's nice to know others who are walking down this writing road, struggling and succeeding occasionally at the same time.
I feel like a broken record, but it's hard, man, to do what you love. And it's easy to do the things that are meaningless. Because they take less work, less investment, and less dreaming. If they fail, nothing is lost. But the passions, they are hard to follow because they take you on winding, long trips in which the end is unclear. The point, though, is to keep going. Onward!
And yet, the thought crosses my mind - "I wonder if I've gotten any emails since I checked two minutes ago." So I check, then I check Facebook, then Twitter, then Facebook again. Pause to watch a silly video posted by a friend, and back to my empty blog post. I'm distracted by my roommate's sudden exit, the boxes of her stuff waiting for a home in our apartment, the air conditioning going off and on.
The apostle Paul knew the struggle. He memorably said, "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do" and the rest of us humans have been quoting him for the past two thousand years, taking his words both in context and out. In Romans 7, Paul's talking about sin, going on to talk about how sin lives in us when we cannot do the good we want to do, that we are created to do.
My new brilliant writer friend Jeff sees writing as a gift that is meant to be shared with the world, and to keep it to ourselves is essentially sin. It's wrong. He said this to me among an enormous amount of tips and ideas for getting my voice out in the world. It's nice to know others who are walking down this writing road, struggling and succeeding occasionally at the same time.
I feel like a broken record, but it's hard, man, to do what you love. And it's easy to do the things that are meaningless. Because they take less work, less investment, and less dreaming. If they fail, nothing is lost. But the passions, they are hard to follow because they take you on winding, long trips in which the end is unclear. The point, though, is to keep going. Onward!
Monday, August 2, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Still, even with such a system in place, things fell and things broke; piles formed and my methods of orientation always seemed to unravel. I was only twelve, but through the slow, inevitable burn of a thousand sunrises and sunsets, a thousand maps traced and retraced, I had already absorbed the valuable precept that everything crumbled into itself eventually, and to cultivate a crankiness about this was just a waste of time."
--p. 4, The Selected Works of T. S. Spivet, Reif Larsen
I am reading the most incredible book. It is about a young cartographer, a prodigy, who is invited to the Smithsonian to receive an award. He goes on a cross-country trip to get there, and madness ensues. At least I assume so - I haven't gotten to that point yet.
The first-person speaker of this novel, T. S., has an incredible mind, and it comes across in the way that he sees the world, and thus how we the readers see his world. The sentences in this book are masterfully written, full of imagery and power. And at the very base of it all is a young man trying to understand life and its pain.
This quote is from one of the side notes (in this book, there are literal side notes, notes written in the margins, along with drawings). This idea of entropy is something that I'm continually relearning, as I have to buy food each week because my produce goes bad, or I have to pay my mechanic to fix my car, or someone I know breaks a bone. Everything falls apart. Often, to make something new, something has to be destroyed, and as soon as that new thing is created, it already starts to die. Depressing, perhaps, but it's a fact of life. And, as T. S. says, there's no point in being cranky about it - though, for most of us (okay, for ME), it's our default.
I think that's why I write. I want something to last. I want to remember something as it was for one instant in time. It's the same reason that people take photographs or paint or do whatever it is that they do. We're trying to capture pieces of this world and keep them forever. Of course, that's truly impossible, but when we make art, we both commemorate and create. That is, we both pay homage to that piece of reality we decided needed to remain, as well as creating a new piece of reality and our perception of it that will continue. Each person makes the art into their own reality, creating their own world. And in this way, we fight entropy. We fight the breaking down by building up. Our desperate hope is that even as our bodies and minds waste away, we will remember a sliver of what life was and is and is to come.
--p. 4, The Selected Works of T. S. Spivet, Reif Larsen
I am reading the most incredible book. It is about a young cartographer, a prodigy, who is invited to the Smithsonian to receive an award. He goes on a cross-country trip to get there, and madness ensues. At least I assume so - I haven't gotten to that point yet.
The first-person speaker of this novel, T. S., has an incredible mind, and it comes across in the way that he sees the world, and thus how we the readers see his world. The sentences in this book are masterfully written, full of imagery and power. And at the very base of it all is a young man trying to understand life and its pain.
This quote is from one of the side notes (in this book, there are literal side notes, notes written in the margins, along with drawings). This idea of entropy is something that I'm continually relearning, as I have to buy food each week because my produce goes bad, or I have to pay my mechanic to fix my car, or someone I know breaks a bone. Everything falls apart. Often, to make something new, something has to be destroyed, and as soon as that new thing is created, it already starts to die. Depressing, perhaps, but it's a fact of life. And, as T. S. says, there's no point in being cranky about it - though, for most of us (okay, for ME), it's our default.
I think that's why I write. I want something to last. I want to remember something as it was for one instant in time. It's the same reason that people take photographs or paint or do whatever it is that they do. We're trying to capture pieces of this world and keep them forever. Of course, that's truly impossible, but when we make art, we both commemorate and create. That is, we both pay homage to that piece of reality we decided needed to remain, as well as creating a new piece of reality and our perception of it that will continue. Each person makes the art into their own reality, creating their own world. And in this way, we fight entropy. We fight the breaking down by building up. Our desperate hope is that even as our bodies and minds waste away, we will remember a sliver of what life was and is and is to come.
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