Thursday, March 22, 2007

my constant one

Benjamin Franklin once said, "In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes." With all due respect to Mr. Franklin, however, I beg to differ.

Today was one of those days I like to refer to as a "short circuit day." A blip on the radar that monitors the inner workings of what is known as me. Much of the time, I imagine myself in a coma of sorts - not morbidly, but in the sense that for the most part, things are moving along with a feeling of normalcy and that life is simply an exercise of inhaling and exhaling. This pattern is safe and expected.

Then there is a hiccup in the system. Perhaps I have forgotten to inhale, causing a cerebral panic as my lungs struggle to serve their purpose. On the other hand, which seems more likely, perhaps I have forgotten to exhale, having amassed too much "air" and inducing a similar cerebral panic before my lungs succumb to an inevitable implosion. Either way, something has gone terribly wrong, and the need for immediate assistance will soon be made clear by a series of urgent beeps and an erratic red line.

On these rare days of short circuitry, I deviate from what has come to be known as my normal behavior. Though I still haven't quite pinpointed what exactly for me is "normal," I do believe that I am generally a very compassionate, forgiving, peacemaking person (no doubt some of the more mild, socially-favored aspects of my nature). Today, however, without any hint of rhyme or reason, all of these qualities decided to pack their bags, fly right out the window and migrate to the West Indies.

Why today? There seems to be no method to the madness that comes over me at random. All I know is that I become angry, impatient and grossly irrational. I want to throw things, many things, at the walls and scream obscenities until my throat becomes hoarse. I want to cry, and sometimes I do. No, this is not a tantrum I speak of. It's a human cataclysm. A science project gone wrong.

It is during these spells that I am reminded of the song "Manic" by Plumb, in which the second half of the chorus reads:



There is a chemical in your brain
It's pouring sunshine and rage
You can never know what to expect
You're manic, manic

Am I manic? I don't know. I don't think so, as generally the term refers to those who are chronic in their disorder. As previously stated, these frenzied outbursts are out of the ordinary for me. And for the record, I have never been afflicted with any common female side effects during PMS. So it's not that.

(Don't think that I'm not taken aback by my childish, irrational behaviors; the truth is I find them disgusting and embarassing. A torrent of thoughts driven both by hopelessness and helplessness will rip through my brain: I have always been patient with others; what did this person do to deserve such a horrible attitude? I have always been quick to forgive, so what's with this burning hatred filling my heart up with ashes? Why am I being so stubborn? Am I really so inconsolable? How petty can I be? I must be losing it. I have completely gone off the deep end.)

The point is, even the things we are most sure of, such as our own human tendencies, can betray us. We, along with the weather and relationships and occupations and everything, are inconsistent. Unreliable. Unstable. Subject to change at any given time. We cannot prepare for tragedies, we are ruled by our emotions, and we are constantly at the mercy of the battle between good and evil.

I stand by my firm belief, however, that death and taxes are not the only things we can count on in this world. God is certain (more so, even, than either death or taxes). He is unchanging, unshakeable and (best of all) undefeated. Hebrews 13:8 tells us that "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." The same Christ that left His throne to take on the form of man, turned water into wine, summoned people out of their graves, and saved the world from eternal damnation by sacrificing His life so that we might truly live, is the same Christ who sits at the right hand of the Father today.

Joel 2:13 tells us God is "gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and He relents from sending calamity." And Isaiah 26:3 promises that God will "keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in [Him]." I don't know about anyone else, but this is a higher power I can trust. This is a God I can put my absolute faith in. Unlike other gods and idols, who are human (or like the Greek gods, have human characteristics), my God has remained the same throughout time and history, and His ways will never change. There is nothing we can or must do to earn His love, because He gives it freely and unconditionally. One of the most comforting verses I have ever found in the Bible is Romans 8:38-39: "For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

My gratitude for this Christ of consistency hit me full force today as I lamented the uglier sides of human nature, and how sometimes what appears to be a minor blip on the radar screen can actually become catastrophic. I can rest in the fact that my God has no blips. He makes no mistakes and uses all things for good. I can rely on Him for peace and wisdom and truth. He will never abandon or abuse, never tease or provoke or confuse. He is never unpredictable in the way that He deals with us, and will never leave me at the mercy of any bi-polar tendencies. He is always near and none of this will ever change. In other words, I can take Him for granted - which, in this world filled with evil and uncertainty, is something He knows that I fully intend on doing.

I will close with a song.

My Constant One
by Michelle Tumes

When I wake, when I sleep
I hear whispers that seek to reach me
My constant One
When I dance, when I weep
When I run, You are with me

Everyday, every night
After death in this life
You are constantly keeping
In my joy, in my strife
When I taste my desires
I am caught in your eyes holding me
My constant One

When I taste of the words that You speak
They will feed my hunger
My constant one
When I stray, when I turn
I will say that I love you

Everyday, every night
After death in this life
You are constantly keeping
In my joy, in my strife
When I taste my desires
I am caught in your eyes holding me
My constant One


I want to kiss the mouth that soothes me
When the smile has vanished from my face
When I sparkle in the mist that clouds me
Be sure that I am lost in You
Lost without a trace
My constant One

Saturday, March 17, 2007

dear miss manners...go climb a tree

Every time I sit down to a meal including meat or poultry of any kind - chicken, turkey, beef, steak, lamb, alligator, etc. - I always cut my grub into bite-sized pieces before proceeding to consume. I had not been consciously aware of this habit at all (in retrospect, however, I realize that I have been eating this way my entire life) until somewhat recently when it was brought to my attention by my loving family.

I distinctly recall my mom inquiring about this tedious routine one night over dinner. "Why are you cutting your meat into tiny pieces?" She demanded, earning a blank stare from me, her blissfully ignorant daughter. I stopped cutting and pondered the question, thoroughly confused. "What do you mean?" I asked dumbly, glancing at my beautifully sliced meat that was finally prepared and ready for consumption. "You're always doing that," she replied, pointing her knife at my plate, "and it drives me crazy."

The rest of the conversation isn't much worth repeating in detail. After a series of blanket statements made by my mother and disoriented gazes from myself, the issue never quite got resolved. I didn't get it; what was the big deal? Not only had my parents been keenly aware of this particular tendency of mine at the dinner table, they were concerned. Good grief.

Fast forward to this evening, as my family and I sat down to a lovely meal of breaded chicken, pasta and sugarsnap peas. Grace was spoken, dishes were passed, and the festivities began. Everything was moving along so pleasantly.

"I am absolutely going to forbid you to cut your food like that on the cruise," my mom blurted out, snapping me out of my absentmindedness that had become for me a dinnertime ritual.

"What?" I looked at my plate and frowned. I had done it again! There was my chicken breast, divided into about fifteen small pieces on the side of my plate. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious," she replied. "You're going to have to cut one piece off at a time and eat it like a normal person. You're the only person in this family who cuts their meat that way."

"But...I don't...Why is it such a big deal??" I sputtered, mentally taking note of everyone else's plates. She had been right - I was the only one!

"Because you're not a little kid." (I resent that statement. As long as I'm not making someone else cut my food for me, I don't see how kids are relevant to this issue.)

"It's actually true," my dad interjected cautiously, his head shrinking into his shoulders as he hunched over slightly (a form of body language he shares with his brother, which generally means "I'm out of my comfort zone taking sides with someone here and I don't want to offend anyone so please don't get mad at me"). "Proper etiquette means cutting one piece at a time."

Responding considerately to my dad's body language, I directed my gaze back to my mom. "I think that's retarded," I quipped in all my unpolitically correct glory. "Because a waiter might pull me aside and tell me I'm cutting my chicken incorrectly...?"

"No, because everyone on the ship will be staring at you cutting your food like a little kid."

I allowed the squabble to end there, sharing a knowing glance with my younger brother who clearly was on my side on this one, and during our discussion had (bless his soul) cut his own chicken breast into many pieces. That right there is what I call sibling loyalty, my friends. Without it, you will be left entirely on your own in situations where, in the end, you will be made to feel like an absolute fool over something as silly or trivial as the way you cut your food (or where you dispose of your bath towel, or how long your Tonka truck's been sitting in the driveway...). But with it (please pardon my cheesy, unintended pun), no matter which way you slice it, you always come out a winner.

By the way, I fully intend to practice my surprisingly controversial meat-cutting habits on the cruise. In the deep words of a wise man named John Reuben, "Do not tell me what I can and cannot do when I rock."

Thursday, March 15, 2007

movie reviews [season 2]

(movies are listed in order with the most recently seen one last)

invincible: i'm a sucker for inspiring, feel-good sports movies. like this one, they are usually based on the true stories of underdogs, which in my book means relatable and awesome. disney is great for these. mark wahlberg did not let me down.

sherrybaby: well...there's no doubt maggie gyllenhaal is a phenomenal actress. as a whole, it was very well done. one just has to be aware that it's a very tense film driven by bitterness and rage, littered with explicit/offensive language and sexuality. it definitely stirs up emotions.

the illusionist: one of the best movies i've seen in the last year, with an awesome surprise ending. i've come to the conclusion that edward norton is one of hollywood's overlooked gems. he's a rarely seen actor that you don't seem to give much thought to, but then he'll pop out of nowhere in a film in which he'll completely blow your mind (fight club, anybody?). i love this man.

bandidas: come on, tell me the thought never crossed your mind that penelope cruz and salma hayek should star in a movie together (i still am holding out hope that helen hunt and leelee sobieski will join forces someday). though incredibly cheesy at times, it was cute and comical. and i mean seriously, who doesn't love steve zahn?

man about town: we all know good will hunting was pretty much affleck's one shining piece of work. but i like the guy and i don't think his acting is really much worse than anyone else's (okay, okay, so i've fallen into the "he's a local, therefore i'm loyal" trap). in the end my rose-colored tendencies don't really matter because there was nothing all that outstanding about this film.

the guardian: again, one of the best films i've seen in a long time. i love army/navy/coast guard movies probably more than any other genre. and it was after watching this that i finally decided to stop reading movie reviews altogether because without fail my opinion about a movie is always exactly the opposite. i basically knew after reading so many horrible reviews that i was going to love it, and i did. and to all of you who cannot take a movie for what it is and have a little imagination, ignore the whole guardian-of-the-seas aspect and just friggin' admit that you liked it.

stranger than fiction: even better than i was expecting it to be. if you're a writer, you will thoroughly appreciate this film. in fact, you'll wish you'd written the book it was based on. and i know i'm stating the obvious here but will ferrell is so great. is there anything he can't do?

running with scissors: wow, um...hands down one of the most bizarre and disturbing movies i have ever seen in my entire life. to think that it was based on one man's actual childhood just blows my mind. i don't think anything wrong or odd about life will shock me after this. yes, it's rated R for a bunch of things, but i still wish more people would go see it so we can discuss.

employee of the month: call me crazy but i liked it. I KNOW, okay? let's just call it a guilty pleasure or something. it made me laugh! you know what it is? it's andy dick. the guy is a comical genius. this is probably so wrong and i'm sorry, but that scene where he was startled at a little girl's birthday party and screams the f-word nearly made me rupture an organ laughing. it's because he was blind and never saw it coming. haha. i'm cracking up just thinking about it now...seriously, everyone should rent it just to see that scene. hahaha

crank: so not worth it. a freelance killer wakes up to learn he's been poisoned and the only way to prolong his life and seek vengeance is to keep his adrenaline pumping. the rest is a string of high-speed car chases, red bulls, epinephrine and coke (oh yeah, and sex in a very public location). it's go go go until the last thirty seconds when he falls from thousands of feet in the air and hits the ground and dies. there, now i've spoiled it and saved you the trouble.

a guide to recognizing your saints: if you think you can get past the reasons for its well-deserved R rating (pervasive [as in, some of the worst i've ever heard in my life] language, some violence, sexuality, and drug use), then you should see it. robert downey, jr. is another one of those hidden hollywood gems (if you haven't seen a scanner darkly yet, even though i demanded that you do so in my last blog of reviews, please listen this time). and you all know how i feel about shia labeouf. the language was almost unbearable, but i've always been interested in real-life portrayals of teenage relationships. this was based on a true story, so i kept that in mind.

flyboys: another true story. not one of the best military/war action movies ever, but still good and definitely worth seeing. i am a fan of james franco, although i think he needs to branch out more in his character roles. anyway, it was very moving.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

hanging by a moment

Listening to: "Take This Life" by Shawn McDonald

As I sit here now, my emotions on edge, my heart a mess as usual, I am thinking above all else two things: Life is short, and I need God.

As many of you know, last July I stepped foot in a third-world country for the very first time. I went with a team based out of my church to El Camino, a children’s home in Palmira, Colombia, expecting to give of myself and share God’s love with the children there. What actually took place was an experience that words failed to describe and photographs failed to capture. I left having received so much more from the children than I ever could have given them, with a heart so saturated with love and emotion that I knew it would never be the same again.

My return home (though where was home anymore?) immediately fell hard on the bitter end of bittersweet. I remember walking around in a fog of sorts, in denial that I had ever left that beautiful country and its more beautiful people. I was disgusted by so many things. I thought about the children nonstop and oftentimes my heart would begin to swell so big that my eyes welled up with tears. In one of a handful of tormented blogs I confessed, "Life seems so routine, so void without the presence of the children I have left behind...I guess I will never feel complete without those children around me," followed by an onslaught of contradicting emotions that you can read about here.

During this time of unwilling readjustment, as blog after blog recording my daily struggles was produced, I remember listening to Shawn McDonald on repeat much of the time. Ironically, I began listening to him for the first time since then just now as I started this blog, having completely forgotten that connection. I am hoping that this is a sign of something good.

I knew that another team from our church would be going back to Colombia this year, and while anxiety birthed by impatience took over, I never doubted that I would be on that team. Just recently, however, I was informed that this year's team will most likely be chosen based on who can bring the money in. Not only is a $100 deposit due in a couple of weeks, but apparently there will come a time when those wanting to go will have to produce at least the price of their ticket in order to reserve a spot on the team. This sunk my heart like an anchor for several reasons, the first being that I had a very difficult time raising the amount of money needed for our last trip. By the time we left, I hadn't even raised a fraction of what was required of me. Now I still managed to go, and after about two weeks of being home all the rest of the money came in (by some very generous friends of the family whom I am forever indebted to), but all of that is irrelevant this time around. So I fear that the same thing will happen again, but this time it will be worse because my husband is also signed up to go. That means a $200 downpayment and a lovely little sum of $3,000 to raise. This with one income and, since my parents are also going and will be sucking our family members dry, a limited number of friends and colleagues to beg for help.

Now, the sinking of my heart didn't happen right away. When I first heard about this change in procedure, I was fine. So fine, in fact, that it started to worry me. As I drove to Starbucks with my mother one day, I remember saying, "I've been so relaxed about this that I feel like it must be the calm before the storm." And she agreed, thinking it odd that I wasn't already freaking out.

But it did come. Slowly but surely the doubt, the dread had been creeping up on me, and the same voices that told me I'd never go back when I only just returned from Colombia were finally starting to wear me down again. I looked back on old blogs, knowing that God had made me a promise (unless, of course, that was something I completely fabricated, which I suppose is entirely possible). Then I found it. At the end of my second blog upon returning home, I had recorded this vivid memory:

God will bring me back. I knew this as we were leaving Colombia, having just reached our steady altitude in the air. When the plane took off, I began weeping and begging God, "Please...I need to know...Assure me that I will be returning to these kids." And I looked out the window and there, in the clouds that hovered over Colombia, was a perfect solid shadow of the plane, with a rainbow ring around it. I wiped my eyes because my vision was blurry with tears, but I had seen correctly. And I knew exactly what that symbol meant: that I should have peace about returning to Colombia, and that my God is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow and wants to fulfill the desires of my heart.

And He will. I don't know how, but I don't need to know how. It's just a matter of time. In about 60 seconds, the symbol of the plane with the rainbow ring was gone, and I am willing to bet that not one other person on the entire plane had seen it.

Here I am, God. Send me.

Now, a good slap of reality will tell me that the shadow of the plane was not an uncommon occurrence, and the rainbow ring was no doubt the result of some kind of refraction of light cast upon the clouds, and probably every other person sitting on that plane had seen it. But at the time, I took it as a sign. The moment of truth, I guess, will come soon enough.

All of this while my grandfather lies uncomfortable and fragile in a hospital bed, a line of staples trailing from his stomach all the way around to his back, having just undergone a painful operation that probably won't even prolong his life by much in the end. Both of his kidneys are loaded with tumors and he has emphysema, and though my mother was miraculously healed from emphysema not too many years ago, I wonder if God might not be inclined to save another member of my family, especially one who, as far as I know, has not accepted Him as his Savior. I am scared that my grandfather's illness is truly malignant and that he might not have much time left. I wonder if praying for him will be enough.

So I'm back in this waiting room again. Hanging by a moment, expecting nothing and everything at the same time. I am waiting to hear if I will be allowed to see the children in Colombia who have become my family, my purpose in life. I am waiting to hear if my grandfather will be spared any longer than he has been, or if he is literally lying on his deathbed. I am waiting for practical things and unlikely things and a whole lot of impossible things. I am waiting for God to tell me that I've finally done something right.

But most of all, I am just waiting.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

a mark, a mission, a brand, a scar

Spontaneity. It means I will write about what I want, when I want to.

Recently a friend of mine wrote about maturity (along with the word "indescribable", which has nothing to do with this blog, so if you really want to you can click
here to read about it. Otherwise, I shall copy and paste her thoughts on maturity here):

Part one- A word I like and can easily define: mature.

Some words are so defined by our lives that they become a part of us and are grafted forever into our nature. One such word is mature. The definition of mature is mainly twofold. In one instance it describes age as in a living thing, "complete in natural growth or development." On the psychological and spiritual side of the coin, it is denoted as "fully developed in body or mind, as a person, or a characteristic of full development. To me mature describes a person who does not behave with recklessness, but is full of wisdom and makes responsible choices. Maturity is something I strive for constantly. It is strong, smart, brave, cautious, and knows how to love. There is a regalness about it that causes one to instantly be attracted and intently listen to one with such a quality. It is more times than not assumed that maturity is a thing for the middle-aged, that with age comes the time to rise into the position of a smart and bright leader. Most are sadly mistaken, for assumption is the lowest form of knowledge and when one has reached a certain mind of development, they have indeed learned this. What would life be if we were all so willing to learn!

Indeed. A very well-written, thought-provoking speculation. I, however - while still respecting her opinion and being in full agreement with several points she mentioned - have different thoughts on the matter. These I briefly touched upon in some sort of hurried, makeshift response:

see now, i hate the word "mature"! its definition makes my nerves writhe.

on which scale are we measuring a person's completion or development? what level of this adjective are we expected to arrive at, or at least aspire to, and why?

all man is not created equal. by that i mean that God made every single one of us so irrevocably different (read: unable to be annulled) that to judge a person's growth seems to me somewhat blasphemous. sure, to some degree you can determine immaturity (throwing a tantrum when you don't get your way long after elementary school is over, for example), but i loathe the way the term "mature" is tossed around like a trait to be admired.

if we must use this word, i prefer us to be honest with it and apply it correctly: we have moments of maturity. but i disagree with straight up labeling a person with it (i can see it now: John Smith strolls into the business meeting sporting cutting-edge pomade, old spice aftershave and a new, freshly-pressed Georgio Armani marred only by a modest blue-and-white sticker stating, "HI, I'M...Mature"). the way i see it, maturity is a term bleached in obscurity that the world uses as yet another way to forge some sort of societal pyramid.

and that's all i have to say about that. :)

(Which was, of course, not all I had to say about that, but remembering that I was in a rush and for the sake of simplicity, I kept my rambling to a minimum. And if you don't know me, yes that was a minimum, as once I get involved in any kind of debate or deep discussion about something, I usually cannot stop myself until all facets have been touched upon and all trains of thought have been exhausted.)

Now, about my rebuttal. Please don't get me wrong; wisdom and responsibility and [insert any number of admirable qualities here] are certainly worthy of striving for. In fact, even in the Bible we are encouraged to seek and acquire these and/or similar attributes. It is not the pursuit of these things that I have a problem with, but the notion that having them means that we are mature. (And again, what is maturity? The fact that someone, somewhere decided it was capable of being defined in a neat little package - just so as to earn it a place in Websters? - irks me.)

Allow me to repeat: on which scale are we measuring a person's completion or development? Is there some sort of human growth handbook I'm not aware of? Or perhaps we're supposed to compare ourselves with an existing group of pre-ordained masters of righteous living. One might seem "mature," but compared to their pastor, for example, they have a long way to go. A student may seem bright, but compared to that irritating overachiever in the front row, the bulbs on their tree are looking a little dim. One more time: A kid could break every track record in high school history, but compared to Lance Armstrong, he or she hasn't accomplished much. Getting the picture? I hope so, because these conclusions are so ridiculous that just typing them out makes me angry.

I don't know. When I start thinking about subjects such as this one, I tend to feel like I've been thrust into a lonely game of tennis. I keep hitting balls over the net (each ball representing a thought), but since no one is standing on the other side, they just roll around until they finally stagnate. Instead of bouncing ideas off of walls, however, I'm looking to bounce them off of other people! So if you have an opinion about this matter, even if it's just a simple disagreement about something I've said, please pick up a racket and swing away. I need you!

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

please bury me in the library

Freshly ground coffee and thick, alluring novels being opened for the very first time.

These are the smells that warmly greet me as I am swept with the snow into my bookstore, and my heart swells in anticipation. Indeed, for a true lover of reading and writing, such heightened senses are not only likely but are to be expected. (For the record, one should be wary of entering into relationships with said lovers, as these types of people are already involved in a lifelong affair; that is to say, if one is flirting with the thought of marriage, one should know that this marriage will not be monogamous at all and will no doubt have to make room for these lusted books, as these books will not make room for them.)

"My" bookstore happens to be Borders, one of the largest chain stores in the country (a statement declared with no significance in pride, believe me, but is just that, a statement). Borders is no Shop Around the Corner (come on, admit it - you've seen You've Got Mail, and you liked it), but beggars can't be choosers. I was never fortunate enough as a child to have one of those quaint little bookstores tucked away in a charming nook downtown, strung with twinkling lights and cozily stacked with tomes filled with stories ready to whisk me away to faraway places where the impossible could become possible with a simple turn of the page.

No - and I admit this with a heavy sigh - I was ill-fatedly born in one of the more useless towns in Massachusetts devoid of both quaint, charming shops and garish chain stores, and was thus unfairly forced to rendezvous with my opportunistic lover at the mall. Now, you must know, there are very few things in my life that have caused me to truly pity myself, but this is most certainly one of them.

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of perusing the rows of books at Borders at my leisure (well, okay, I perused one row - it takes me forever and a day to move along when I'm this intently focused), and discovered a number of books that, for one reason or another, sparked my interest. Having left my extra limb, otherwise known as a notebook, at home (seriously, how could I forget my greedy nature when presented with mass quantities of literature?), I had no choice but to tediously key the titles into the memo section of my cellphone.

Never again.

So here they are, in no particular order (except for the first one), the books I intend on worming my way through at some point this season:

  1. All He Ever Wanted [Anita Shreve] - I put this one first because I already bought it, and not even at Borders but at Marshalls for $4. The price was one of two reasons for my purchase, the second being that I see Anita Shreve's name on forefronted books all the time and have never read any of her work. So far it is slightly boring and I haven't yet determined if her strange and repeated use of parenthesis is genius or just plain annoying.
  2. Man Gone Down [Michael Thomas] - I read a blurb about this one in a magazine, but it wasn't the summary that intrigued me so much as this comment made by a reviewer that I found on amazon.com: "There are parts of the book where you wonder what in the HELL he is talking about because of the rambling, but just as you begin to get exasperated, Thomas hits you with a brilliant passage like an espresso shot and you sit up and pay attention again." Mmkay. Sold.
  3. All Saints [Liam Callanan] - Found this one in the same magazine. I want to read it if for no other reason than to hear about someone who has the potential of being more screwed up than I am.
  4. Then We Came to the End [Joshua Ferris] - I read somewhere that reading this book is like watching Office Space. Though that's all I needed to know, I did end up reading the first chapter while standing on a stool at Borders and no doubt turned a few heads with my secluded snorting fits.
  5. The Turtle Warrior [Mary Ellis] - The synopsis for this one reminds me of A River Runs Through It, which I loved. I think I just have a soft spot for dysfunctional families.
  6. The Meaning of Night: A Confession [Michael Cox] - Intrigue, history and romance? Washington Post says, "The sensation novel, after all, deals in narrative traps for the unwary and diabolical plot twists and innocence besmirched and oily evil laughingly triumphant (at least for a while). But Cox further darkens his own superb pastiche by imbuing it with a modern noir sensibility when he makes the character of his hero as unsettling as that of his villains." Heeeeeeeeeck yes.
  7. The Vanishing Moon [Joseph Coulson] - I've always been fascinated by stories of life during The Great Depression. Toss in some "emotionally damaged characters" and you've got yourself a deal.
  8. Running For the Hills: Growing Up on My Mother's Sheep Farm in Wales [Horatio Clare] - I know, I know what you're thinking. I'm laughing at my dorkiness right now, as I knew I would when I decided to add this one to my list. But seriously, I am making a point to read more memoirs and, oh, there's no way to avoid admitting this...it sounds interesting to me! I mean, I really would like to know what it's like growing up on a sheep farm in Wales. Is that a crime?
  9. The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop [Lewis Buzbee] - I'm in no rush to read this one, but have no doubt that I eventually will. Go back and read the first couple paragraphs of my blog - this book is basically 180 pages of that.
  10. The Echo Maker [Richard Powers] - Not gonna lie, the title got me. I was determined to read it regardless of its content which, fortunately, sounded awesome: A guy gets into a very bad accident, goes into a coma, and emerges "unable to match his visual and intellectual identifications with his emotional ones. " Fill in the blanks and don't tell me you aren't riveted!
  11. Water For Elephants [Sara Gruen] - The account of a man's life after joining the circus in Depression-era America. I'm all over this one.
  12. A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of A Boy Soldier [Ishamel Beah] - Saw this one at Starbucks a few weeks ago and have been itching to read it ever since.

Now it's 12:08 AM, and I'll admit the point of this blog was originally to pass the time and keep myself awake so I could watch Anberlin on the Late Late Show with Craig Fergusen at 12:35. That's pretty good timing, especially considering something went very wrong about 20 minutes ago and my entire blog - and I do mean the ENTIRE thing - got deleted. Lost in cyberspace forever. At first I was planning on crying. Hard. Thankfully, though, I recently discovered that when it comes to writing, I have an eidetic memory. I'm still in the process of testing the limits of this newfound gift, but so far - especially after tonight - I'm very pleased. I have just re-written my entire blog word for word, exactly as it was the first time around.

Now, wish me Godspeed as I race to the television to catch the greatest band of all time perform their first new single Godspeed.

Sunday, March 4, 2007

how do you paint yourself?

I suppose the material for this blog was originally woven from the blog of another, Stephen Christian of Anberlin, although at the time I had no idea that my passing thoughts would be of any use to me.

Stephen recently posted a few paintings by Austrian artist Egon Schiele (see them here), self-portraits that, upon first glance, may very well make you cringe. As I peered at this man's awkward facial structure and dirty complexion of which the shadowing seemed to have no rhyme or reason, I couldn't help but succumb my reflexes to a negative first reaction. With a slight wrinkling of the nose, I thought, "Ouch...that's ugly. Why did he paint himself as a mutant of sorts?"

Then, as I often do after spending a moment doing something like viewing a piece of art, I went on with my day and forgot about the paintings, dismissing my personal thoughts about them as trivial and relatively worthless. After all, unless by "art" the topic of discussion at hand includes the use of words or clever references to literature or perhaps even a challenge to create new forms of onomatopoeia, it has been concluded that I have no skill or understanding whatsoever (which I have humbly accepted), and therefore have no right to analyze, critisize, or otherwise formulate an opinion about it. To venture to do so would surely result in nothing less than travesty on some level, and I am not in the business of committing such crimes.

Fast forward several hours later, as I'm sitting in my room pondering the meaning of my existence and once again rehashing all the not-so-favorable moments of my life and the somewhat muddy aspects of my personality. I've never been one to consider what people are thinking of me, which, as we all know, can be both a good thing and a bad thing. But lately the temptation to act a certain way or speak with a certain refrain simply because I'm in the presence of a particular kind of person has been creeping up on me without the slightest bit of warning.

I hate this.

I began to wonder what causes people to suffer in that emotional state of discomfort, where a whisper of a suggestion, either verbal or physical, can take us by such force that we are instantly inclined to betray ourselves and appease our adversaries. Is the need to be accepted truly so great that we will twist our thoughts and modify our identities to gain it? And since when did acceptance become something we must earn?

My heart goes out to those who never really feel as though they fit in anywhere. And I despise that term, by the way - "fit in," "fit the bill," "fit the mold." What exactly is "the mold," and who decides what fits in it? Everyone is completely and irrevocably different, and not because of some freak genetic accident! We all have a place in this world, but we cannot allow others to tell us where our place is. We cannot allow anyone to put us in a box and label us as they choose. No, instead, we must stay in motion, continually seeking and learning and giving. For I do not believe that our place is any one place at all, but an endless string of places, each equally if not more important than the last.

I recently completed one of the most thought-provoking and shameless books I've ever come across called Veronika Decides to Die, which also happens to be a Stephen Christian recommendation. I'll spare you its summary, which you can (and should, followed by a purchase) read at amazon.com, but consider this: You are living in an insane asylum. You can talk to yourself all day long, or perhaps to an imaginary friend; heck, you can even share your troubles with a hairbrush without receiving so much as a raised eyebrow because, after all, you are crazy. You can eat odd meals at odd hours, laugh for no reason at all, listen to music from morning to night and wear black from head to toe, and all of this is perfectly acceptable.

What if life were that simple? What must it feel like to be so free, so comfortable, so fearless? In Veronika, one woman named Zedka describes how she plans on living her life after she leaves Villette, an insane asylum in Slovenia:

"When I came here, I was deeply depressed. Now I'm proud to say I'm insane. Outside I'll behave exactly like everyone else. I'll go shopping at the supermarket, I'll exchange trivialities with my friends, I'll waste precious time watching television. But I know that my soul is free and that I can dream and talk with other worlds that, before I came here, I didn't even imagine existed.
I'm going to allow myself to do a few foolish things, just so that people can say, "She's just been released from Villette." But I know that my soul is complete, because my life has meaning. I'll be able to look at a sunset and know that God is behind it. When someone irritates me, I'll tell them what I think of them, and I won't worry what they think of me, because everyone will say, "She's just been released from Villette."
I'll look men in the street, right in their eyes, and I won't feel guilty about being desired. But immediately after that, I'll go into a shop selling imported goods, buy the best wines my money can buy, and I'll drink that wine with the husband I adore because I want to laugh with him again.
And laughing, he'll say, "You're crazy!" And I'll say, "Of course I am, I was in Villette, remember! And madness freed me. Now, my dear husband, you must have a vacation every year, and make me climb some dangerous mountains, because I need to run the risk of being alive.""

So there I was, sitting on my bed, remembering this passage and knowing how this ever-pressing need to be "accepted" in society angers me, and my mind suddenly goes back to Egon Schiele.

I don't paint myself in a bad light, I thought to myself, but I don't paint myself in a good light at all, either. I just paint. And if the end result (which is never really the end result, because I am - as we all should be - forever painting) brings happiness to others, then great. But if it turns out that who I am, which I must remember is irrevocably different and perfectly messy, is not appealing to others, then so what? So what? My aim is never to be approved or infallible. My aim is to appreciate my uniqueness, to live life to the fullest and to the best of my ability. And only by God's grace will I be rescued from my shortcomings - not by the scrutiny or branding of society.

Egon Schiele did not paint a pretty self-portrait. But what I saw over the course of haphazard timing is that his portrait is also far from ugly. And I have decided - in lieu of my short time in Villette, allowing myself an opinion regardless of the risk of travesty - that if he had painted his portrait with realism, I would not be able to respect him half as much as I do now. Because painting a person realistically only reveals what they look like on the outside, and gives no indication of what kind of person they actually are. Of course, looking at Egon's painting will not tell me if he was a light or heavy sleeper, what he preferred to eat for breakfast, or if he performed well in school (and the truth is that none of that really matters anyway). What it does tell me is that Egon was - like me - neither approved nor infallible, and also - like me - that he was an irrevocably different and perfectly messy human being.

We all screw up. We all possess characteristic oddities. We all are flawed. This should set us wholly, brazenly and eternally free.