Some people, I've noticed, seem to consider this concept of "True Love" as if it were a theological point--something worth mulling at length, considering, forming an opinion on, and trying to argue others out of their opinions if they think them wrong. This is all, in my opinion, incredibly stupid.
Love itself, especially the romantic kind, is an incredibly slippery concept. It seems that no matter what brilliant conclusion you've reached about it, no matter what platitude you decide to subscribe to and spew forth, there is always something--a historical precedent, a possible scenario, logic--something to disrupt said conclusion.
Asking someone if they believe in "True Love" is liking asking them if they believe in the Hero With a Thousand Faces.
Ask me to explain that sentence. I won't. It is its own explanation.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Wow...
Faithful readers of this blog, or even sporadic ones who are unusually lucky, may remember a post a while back during the course of which I talked about Whales On Stilts, by MT Anderson, the first of "MT Anderson's Thrilling Tales." For those who don't know, this is a juvenile fiction series (well, there's two books so far) making fun of basically all juvenile fiction series--the Hardy Boys, the Boxcar Children, Nancy Drew, Goosebumps, Tom Swift, Bobsey Twins, and their ilk.
I gave a positive review of the first book in the series, because it really is very funny, especially if you're at all familiar with the aforementioned childrens' series. Well, the second book is even better. The send-up of the Hardy Boys alone makes it worth reading. But there are very occasional glimpses of the fact that MT Anderson is a very good writer. The strongest one occurs here:
There are other passages I would offer as proof, but they would require more explanation (yes, more than none). It was surprising to open such a seemingly inane book and find, well, truth.
I gave a positive review of the first book in the series, because it really is very funny, especially if you're at all familiar with the aforementioned childrens' series. Well, the second book is even better. The send-up of the Hardy Boys alone makes it worth reading. But there are very occasional glimpses of the fact that MT Anderson is a very good writer. The strongest one occurs here:
She knew it was a good time not to say anything. Sometimes sadness is beyond words, because it is not an idea but a sensation, like hunger or pain.
There are other passages I would offer as proof, but they would require more explanation (yes, more than none). It was surprising to open such a seemingly inane book and find, well, truth.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Walking in the Fog.
A dense fog has settled over my town. I love it.
I love the isolation, the feeling that you're in your own little bubble and the trees and houses around you are the only things that are real, and aught else is mere myth and hearsay.
I love when a car goes past, and you can see its taillights fading into the mist and then they disappear and it's still close enough you could throw a rock and hit it, but you can't see it.
I love the way everything goes indistinct, and then you're right in front of a house and you can see it in detail, every line of every board and every color standing out, bright somehow in the gloom.
I love seeing a streetlight, but all you can see is this floating orb hanging, lonely, in the air.
I love when a figure looms in the mist, dark and foreboding, and gets closer and larger until it resolves into a small old woman.
She grunts hello.
"Hi," you say, "Nice night for a walk."
She grunts again, and is lost to the world.
I love the isolation, the feeling that you're in your own little bubble and the trees and houses around you are the only things that are real, and aught else is mere myth and hearsay.
I love when a car goes past, and you can see its taillights fading into the mist and then they disappear and it's still close enough you could throw a rock and hit it, but you can't see it.
I love the way everything goes indistinct, and then you're right in front of a house and you can see it in detail, every line of every board and every color standing out, bright somehow in the gloom.
I love seeing a streetlight, but all you can see is this floating orb hanging, lonely, in the air.
I love when a figure looms in the mist, dark and foreboding, and gets closer and larger until it resolves into a small old woman.
She grunts hello.
"Hi," you say, "Nice night for a walk."
She grunts again, and is lost to the world.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde was a flagrant homosexual.
Oscar Wilde produced some of the most Christian stories ever written.
I've had various people tell me I oughtn't to put those two sentences in proximity to each other. To those people I say, tough cookies. They're both true.
I have neither the expertise nor the time to research the vagaries of homosexuality and Christianity, or the possibility of their co-existence, though it is an interesting topic and debate, and it's one of the things I plan to look into more in the future. Wilde himself never claimed to be a practicing Catholic; his conversion happened on his deathbed. But he had flirted with Catholicism his whole life, and some of his stories, as I said, had strong Christian themes. Take, for example, his story The Selfish Giant.
-----
The Selfish Giant
EVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
"What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
"My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED
He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there," they said to each other.
Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.
And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
"But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away."
"You must tell him to be sure and come here tomorrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all."
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
"Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him."
"Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love."
"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise."
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.
-----
I post this story here because it's the shortest example that best makes my point. "The Happy Prince" and "The Nightingale and the Rose" are both supremely interesting to read on this point; they're both at www.oscarwildecollection.com.
Further reading:
A Catholic article about Wilde's "Long Conversion" to Catholicism.
An article by an unusually fair-minded "queer critic" about Wilde's tendency toward self-destruction, that touches on Wilde in regards to Catholicism.
Oscar Wilde produced some of the most Christian stories ever written.
I've had various people tell me I oughtn't to put those two sentences in proximity to each other. To those people I say, tough cookies. They're both true.
I have neither the expertise nor the time to research the vagaries of homosexuality and Christianity, or the possibility of their co-existence, though it is an interesting topic and debate, and it's one of the things I plan to look into more in the future. Wilde himself never claimed to be a practicing Catholic; his conversion happened on his deathbed. But he had flirted with Catholicism his whole life, and some of his stories, as I said, had strong Christian themes. Take, for example, his story The Selfish Giant.
-----
The Selfish Giant
EVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
"What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
"My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED
He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there," they said to each other.
Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.
And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
"But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away."
"You must tell him to be sure and come here tomorrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all."
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
"Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him."
"Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love."
"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise."
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.
-----
I post this story here because it's the shortest example that best makes my point. "The Happy Prince" and "The Nightingale and the Rose" are both supremely interesting to read on this point; they're both at www.oscarwildecollection.com.
Further reading:
A Catholic article about Wilde's "Long Conversion" to Catholicism.
An article by an unusually fair-minded "queer critic" about Wilde's tendency toward self-destruction, that touches on Wilde in regards to Catholicism.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Art For Art's Sake
All my sources dismiss the Aesthetic Movement as a sort of transitional phase, moving out of Victorianism and into other styles; a fairly minor blip on the radar of artistic history. In furniture and decorating, it apparently served as a bridge to "Arts & Crafts," and that is as far as my very limited knowledge of those subjects takes me. In literature, its best-known representative is Oscar Wilde.
I mention this movement mainly because their motto, "Art for art's sake," has great appeal to me. This is the part where I may be transmogrifying how the Aesthetics actually thought, but I'm purposely redefining their phrase to suit my ends.
The idea of "Art for art's sake," as far as I can tell, is that art need not have a purpose outside of itself. That is, it need not exist to instruct, inform, promote, change, protest, etc (though art can do all these things): it need only exist to be enjoyed, admired, even loved. (This was a rather anti-Victorian idea: to Victorians, for example, all stories should have a helpful moral.)
In The Four Loves, CS Lewis says something like this about God: that He need not have created us, that is, there was no necessity in the existence of human beings: we were created to love and to be loved. So in creating something that exists simply to be loved in one way or another, the artist is a reflection (however imperfect and fallen) of the Creator.
This is one of the things I like about the film Napoleon Dynamite. There is no moral to that story, no earth-shattering message it's trying to get across (granted, there is little to no story at all). The movie exists simply to make people laugh. (It says some subtle and true things about our generation at the same time, and they are things we may or may not want to be proud of.) In a sense, it really doesn't matter whose artistic standards it does or does not live up to, or whether individual critics (paid or amateur) like it: the movie was a huge success if it made one person laugh. And it did, millions of times over.
I'm not saying here that all art is good, or that just because one person thinks something is worthwhile that it is worthwhile. Rather, as Wilde said, "The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is useless."
In the White Stripes song "Little Cream Soda," there's a line that goes: "And every beautiful thing I come across tells me to stop moving and shake this riddle off, oh well." As usual with the Stripes, this could be interpreted in several ways. It could easily be talking about art: good art demands to be stared at or read or listened to, demands that you shake off all the riddles that plague you daily and widen your eyes and receive it, like a child listening to a story. (I also think Jack White could easily be a follower of "Art for art's sake."
I don't know if I had a point, or if this was simply a conceptual ramble. Ah well, draw your own conclusions.
I mention this movement mainly because their motto, "Art for art's sake," has great appeal to me. This is the part where I may be transmogrifying how the Aesthetics actually thought, but I'm purposely redefining their phrase to suit my ends.
The idea of "Art for art's sake," as far as I can tell, is that art need not have a purpose outside of itself. That is, it need not exist to instruct, inform, promote, change, protest, etc (though art can do all these things): it need only exist to be enjoyed, admired, even loved. (This was a rather anti-Victorian idea: to Victorians, for example, all stories should have a helpful moral.)
In The Four Loves, CS Lewis says something like this about God: that He need not have created us, that is, there was no necessity in the existence of human beings: we were created to love and to be loved. So in creating something that exists simply to be loved in one way or another, the artist is a reflection (however imperfect and fallen) of the Creator.
This is one of the things I like about the film Napoleon Dynamite. There is no moral to that story, no earth-shattering message it's trying to get across (granted, there is little to no story at all). The movie exists simply to make people laugh. (It says some subtle and true things about our generation at the same time, and they are things we may or may not want to be proud of.) In a sense, it really doesn't matter whose artistic standards it does or does not live up to, or whether individual critics (paid or amateur) like it: the movie was a huge success if it made one person laugh. And it did, millions of times over.
I'm not saying here that all art is good, or that just because one person thinks something is worthwhile that it is worthwhile. Rather, as Wilde said, "The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is useless."
In the White Stripes song "Little Cream Soda," there's a line that goes: "And every beautiful thing I come across tells me to stop moving and shake this riddle off, oh well." As usual with the Stripes, this could be interpreted in several ways. It could easily be talking about art: good art demands to be stared at or read or listened to, demands that you shake off all the riddles that plague you daily and widen your eyes and receive it, like a child listening to a story. (I also think Jack White could easily be a follower of "Art for art's sake."
I don't know if I had a point, or if this was simply a conceptual ramble. Ah well, draw your own conclusions.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Another Day Older, In These Exiled Years...
So, it's 2008. That means there are only two more years till the new decade. I know that's a largely insignificant fact, but it makes me feel old, somehow. We're getting beyond Science Fiction territory, now. All the old stories, it seems, take us up to the millennium or just beyond it, or make the leap into the year 3000 or something. There is very little literature to guide us past, say, 2010.
For New Year's Eve, Zeke and I went to the Gehlbachs' (who are insanely awesome) for an insanely awesome New Year's Eve party, where we had enormous fun with a group of MouthHousers and the like. I would write a post about it, but Nat has already done so, and what I wrote would basically be that post with the viewpoint shifted.
However, it does strike me that I haven't posted here since school started, since "Tag" posts don't count.
School has, in all vital aspects, been going very well. A large percentage of the students there annoy me in one way or another, but that is only because it's extremely hard to find a group of more than five of my peers where the majority of them don't annoy me (the crowd at Gehlbachs' being an exception). I have made a few awesome friends, and I prefer a few awesome ones to a bunch of average ones. My introversion does come into play, though, as there are a few others I would like to have gotten to know better but haven't. Ah well.
The adjustment to school wasn't particularly difficult, at least in regard to obstacles. The worst thing was leaving my family. Oh, I was excited about it in August; I had a mental list of stuff I was happy to get away from. However, by the beginning of October, the list of stuff I missed was longer and more convincing. I have (necessarily) been far more extroverted at school than ever before, which wears on me sometimes. The biggest thing, though, has been the necessity of getting up, getting dressed etc, and being in a specific place on time each day. Also, the whole actually having to have homework done when it's supposed to be done was a bit of a change. But, while these things were new, they weren't really challenges. (I overslept a total of one time the whole semester, which surprised even me.)
While I'm not hopping for break to be over, I'm not dreading next semester, which is a good sign.
Thus the obligatory ramble. It hardly seems long enough to make up four months of silence, but such is life.
As for New Year's Resolutions, I don't really make them. They always end up being the same resolutions I make every day and have an equal success or failure if I make them specially at the beginning of the year. While a good reason to, say, have a party, the New Year never seems like that big a deal to me. "The thing that hath been, is that which shall be, and the thing which is done, is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing under the sun. And all is vanity and vexation of spirit."
For New Year's Eve, Zeke and I went to the Gehlbachs' (who are insanely awesome) for an insanely awesome New Year's Eve party, where we had enormous fun with a group of MouthHousers and the like. I would write a post about it, but Nat has already done so, and what I wrote would basically be that post with the viewpoint shifted.
However, it does strike me that I haven't posted here since school started, since "Tag" posts don't count.
School has, in all vital aspects, been going very well. A large percentage of the students there annoy me in one way or another, but that is only because it's extremely hard to find a group of more than five of my peers where the majority of them don't annoy me (the crowd at Gehlbachs' being an exception). I have made a few awesome friends, and I prefer a few awesome ones to a bunch of average ones. My introversion does come into play, though, as there are a few others I would like to have gotten to know better but haven't. Ah well.
The adjustment to school wasn't particularly difficult, at least in regard to obstacles. The worst thing was leaving my family. Oh, I was excited about it in August; I had a mental list of stuff I was happy to get away from. However, by the beginning of October, the list of stuff I missed was longer and more convincing. I have (necessarily) been far more extroverted at school than ever before, which wears on me sometimes. The biggest thing, though, has been the necessity of getting up, getting dressed etc, and being in a specific place on time each day. Also, the whole actually having to have homework done when it's supposed to be done was a bit of a change. But, while these things were new, they weren't really challenges. (I overslept a total of one time the whole semester, which surprised even me.)
While I'm not hopping for break to be over, I'm not dreading next semester, which is a good sign.
Thus the obligatory ramble. It hardly seems long enough to make up four months of silence, but such is life.
As for New Year's Resolutions, I don't really make them. They always end up being the same resolutions I make every day and have an equal success or failure if I make them specially at the beginning of the year. While a good reason to, say, have a party, the New Year never seems like that big a deal to me. "The thing that hath been, is that which shall be, and the thing which is done, is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing under the sun. And all is vanity and vexation of spirit."
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Tagged!
So, I probably should have posted at least three times at this point, blogging-wise. To sum up, I came to college, went home, and came back. It's going great. Also, it has eaten up pretty much all the free time I used to spend blogging (and writing email, and reading recreationally, and...).
But, I seem to have been tagged. This seems to be some sort of viral game traveling the internet, eating up people's truths and spitting them out in a form that is much the same or rather, is, in fact, the same.
I post this on my blog, and then it will get imported to Facebook by the friendly Internet Faeries.
The rules:
Link the person who tagged you.
Tell seven truths about yourself.
Tag seven new people. (Certain Facebookers will soon feel my wrath.)
Hmm, seven TRUTHS? Oh my... This could get dangerous. Watch for flying fallacies (they're green, and they look kind of like fish, except in tutus [I seem to be feeling very random tonight]).
1. I have nearly read through the complete works of Mark Twain. The only stragglers are A Tramp Abroad, which is a really thick travel book, Following the Equator, same description, and Joan of Arc, a really thick history book that Twain considered his greatest work. Also, I read his Autobiography kind of loopily: I've read the first quarter or so and the last several chapters several times, and the middle chapters all at least once, though none of this in the correct order.
2. Related to number 1, I think that the best way to get to know someone who writes frequently is through their writing. Through being such a nerd, I feel I have gotten to know Mr. Clemens rather well, insofar as one man is ever able to know another. This may be because he put so much of himself into his writing, and because I have sought out the posthumously published stuff that was often very personal and perhaps shouldn't have seen the light of day. There have been times, however, that I have looked at things and situations and thought I knew what Mr. Twain would say, if he were here. Also, I think I reveal more of myself in my stories than I ever do to most people.
3. As for the dating thing, I hardly ever get asked if I have a girlfriend. Except by my grandparents, who immediately jump to the conclusion that I am, ahem, beating the girls off with sticks. While I have some vague plans and hopes in this department, I am not concerned at all about my "single" status, and I consider the mass of people's obsession with dating rather disgusting. If I say much more on this, I will be on for hours, and will either end up in cynicism or sentimentalism, neither of which is a desirable result. So I'll end here.
4. Some people seem to consider me wise, or some such. I am not wise. I do, however, seem to be a good listener, and I have a policy that if my friends need someone to talk to, they can literally tell me anything. If it's wanted, I do try to offer my advice, for what it's worth. Usually it's "Go talk to somebody who knows more about [this subject] than me."
5. I know more about movies and movie stars and directors and even film genres from 60-80 years ago than I do about modern movies... and I love it that way.
6. I am completely unsatisfied with the current level of my writing. I'm talking fiction here, the stuff I really care about. I can see the level I'd like to write at, and I can sort of see how to get there, I'm just not there yet. And I know the only way to get there involves time and practice. It's a tad annoying.
7. Unlike my psych- er, brother, I actually like revealing things about myself. If you want to know something, ask.
But, I seem to have been tagged. This seems to be some sort of viral game traveling the internet, eating up people's truths and spitting them out in a form that is much the same or rather, is, in fact, the same.
I post this on my blog, and then it will get imported to Facebook by the friendly Internet Faeries.
The rules:
Link the person who tagged you.
Tell seven truths about yourself.
Tag seven new people. (Certain Facebookers will soon feel my wrath.)
Hmm, seven TRUTHS? Oh my... This could get dangerous. Watch for flying fallacies (they're green, and they look kind of like fish, except in tutus [I seem to be feeling very random tonight]).
1. I have nearly read through the complete works of Mark Twain. The only stragglers are A Tramp Abroad, which is a really thick travel book, Following the Equator, same description, and Joan of Arc, a really thick history book that Twain considered his greatest work. Also, I read his Autobiography kind of loopily: I've read the first quarter or so and the last several chapters several times, and the middle chapters all at least once, though none of this in the correct order.
2. Related to number 1, I think that the best way to get to know someone who writes frequently is through their writing. Through being such a nerd, I feel I have gotten to know Mr. Clemens rather well, insofar as one man is ever able to know another. This may be because he put so much of himself into his writing, and because I have sought out the posthumously published stuff that was often very personal and perhaps shouldn't have seen the light of day. There have been times, however, that I have looked at things and situations and thought I knew what Mr. Twain would say, if he were here. Also, I think I reveal more of myself in my stories than I ever do to most people.
3. As for the dating thing, I hardly ever get asked if I have a girlfriend. Except by my grandparents, who immediately jump to the conclusion that I am, ahem, beating the girls off with sticks. While I have some vague plans and hopes in this department, I am not concerned at all about my "single" status, and I consider the mass of people's obsession with dating rather disgusting. If I say much more on this, I will be on for hours, and will either end up in cynicism or sentimentalism, neither of which is a desirable result. So I'll end here.
4. Some people seem to consider me wise, or some such. I am not wise. I do, however, seem to be a good listener, and I have a policy that if my friends need someone to talk to, they can literally tell me anything. If it's wanted, I do try to offer my advice, for what it's worth. Usually it's "Go talk to somebody who knows more about [this subject] than me."
5. I know more about movies and movie stars and directors and even film genres from 60-80 years ago than I do about modern movies... and I love it that way.
6. I am completely unsatisfied with the current level of my writing. I'm talking fiction here, the stuff I really care about. I can see the level I'd like to write at, and I can sort of see how to get there, I'm just not there yet. And I know the only way to get there involves time and practice. It's a tad annoying.
7. Unlike my psych- er, brother, I actually like revealing things about myself. If you want to know something, ask.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
MacBeth, Version 2.0
Okay, so this may seem a bit hypocritical after my last post. But MacBeth needs a version 2.0. For, while the first four acts are pretty awesome, the climax is just... lame. What? We're going to dress the whole army up as shrubberies? Are you drunk? Oh. You are. Ok then.
Anyway, I have put some effort probably better spent elsewhere into improving the climax of this classic play.
Till Birnam Wood Come to Dunsinane... The climax of this play, in which MacDuff leads his army against MacBeth, is all about the fulfillment--and subversion-- of the two prophecies regarding MacBeth's downfall:
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.
And:
Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.
The way the first prophecy is fulfilled, if I recall correctly, is that MacDuff's army chops down trees from Birnam Wood, makes suit coats out of them, and uses the fact that they now look like a gay pride parade rather than an army to get close to MacBeth's castle. Riiight.
Now, how much cooler would it be if MacDuff had had his men, say, chop down trees in Birnam Wood, make arrows, battering rams, etc out of them, and simply use those to attack MacBeth's castle? Much cooler, in this scribbler's opinion.
The second prophecy is fulfilled/subverted by the fact that MacDuff was "From his mother's womb untimely ripped," a sort of nast C-section, apparently. Now, this is much less lame, and it did give rise to one of the oddest and coolest phrases English literature has perhaps ever seen. However, it doesn't quite work here.
Apparently this is supposed to make MacDuff "not of woman born"; however, he still comes from a woman (his mother), and he is still, in fact, born--however unnaturally.
This scribbler's idea may not be much better, but at least it's a better fit. Attack dogs. Or, trained hawks. Or something. Some form of vicious animal, trained to kill, could seize upon MacBeth and take him down.
"Ah, but Spot here was not of woman born! Ahahahaha!"
(Yes, when I rewrite Shakespeare, there is evil laughter involved.)
Anyway, I have put some effort probably better spent elsewhere into improving the climax of this classic play.
Till Birnam Wood Come to Dunsinane... The climax of this play, in which MacDuff leads his army against MacBeth, is all about the fulfillment--and subversion-- of the two prophecies regarding MacBeth's downfall:
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.
And:
Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.
The way the first prophecy is fulfilled, if I recall correctly, is that MacDuff's army chops down trees from Birnam Wood, makes suit coats out of them, and uses the fact that they now look like a gay pride parade rather than an army to get close to MacBeth's castle. Riiight.
Now, how much cooler would it be if MacDuff had had his men, say, chop down trees in Birnam Wood, make arrows, battering rams, etc out of them, and simply use those to attack MacBeth's castle? Much cooler, in this scribbler's opinion.
The second prophecy is fulfilled/subverted by the fact that MacDuff was "From his mother's womb untimely ripped," a sort of nast C-section, apparently. Now, this is much less lame, and it did give rise to one of the oddest and coolest phrases English literature has perhaps ever seen. However, it doesn't quite work here.
Apparently this is supposed to make MacDuff "not of woman born"; however, he still comes from a woman (his mother), and he is still, in fact, born--however unnaturally.
This scribbler's idea may not be much better, but at least it's a better fit. Attack dogs. Or, trained hawks. Or something. Some form of vicious animal, trained to kill, could seize upon MacBeth and take him down.
"Ah, but Spot here was not of woman born! Ahahahaha!"
(Yes, when I rewrite Shakespeare, there is evil laughter involved.)
The Wal-Mart Theology Department
So the other day, my brother and I are wandering around Wal-Mart (having lost my dad somewhere) and we wander past the Books section. Naturally, me being there, we have to stop. So I peruse their collection of Steamy Romances, Clever Romances, Not So Steamy But Also Not So Risque Romances, the racks of westerns with one story but so many different covers, the poorly written novels meant to thrill adults, the poorly written novellas meant to scare children....
And I happen upon their Bibles. My eye immediately went to the one most obviously designed for someone in my demographic. This book was not called The Bible, or even The Holy Bible; oh no, this was "The Message: Remix." In fact, it was Version 2.0. Because apparently version 1.0 or even 1.5 wasn't quite up to snuff, Word-of-God wise.
I was giving voice to some of these thoughts (aimed in the direction of my brother), when a Wal-Mart employee with pink hair wandered past (though I'm sure she had a purpose). Apparently she overheard me, for she said, "Okay now, making fun of themed Bibles is just too easy."
We talked with her for a couple minutes, and she told us about a Bible they had once that was even worse. Apparently it was bright pink, and, in sequins, had the word PRINCESS emblazoned across the front.
If anybody sees Charles Finney, give him a good kick for me, ok?
And I happen upon their Bibles. My eye immediately went to the one most obviously designed for someone in my demographic. This book was not called The Bible, or even The Holy Bible; oh no, this was "The Message: Remix." In fact, it was Version 2.0. Because apparently version 1.0 or even 1.5 wasn't quite up to snuff, Word-of-God wise.
I was giving voice to some of these thoughts (aimed in the direction of my brother), when a Wal-Mart employee with pink hair wandered past (though I'm sure she had a purpose). Apparently she overheard me, for she said, "Okay now, making fun of themed Bibles is just too easy."
We talked with her for a couple minutes, and she told us about a Bible they had once that was even worse. Apparently it was bright pink, and, in sequins, had the word PRINCESS emblazoned across the front.
If anybody sees Charles Finney, give him a good kick for me, ok?
Sunday, August 19, 2007
1,000,000
So I read that Mr. Bradbury says, in regards to becoming a good writer, that once you've written a million words you start to know what you're doing. Hmm.
Doing some quick math, I've determined that at a thousand words a day (the rate Mr. Baradbury claims to have written since age 13), it would take around three and a half years to write a million; say I started in six days, at that rate I'd "know what I'm doing" by partway through senior year.
Of course, I'm no Bradbury, and (as proven by the bestseller status of The Da Vinci Code, Eragon, and James Patterson's novels) the general public in this country doesn't give a rip about writing quality these days.
Still, I figure I'm at somewhere over three hundred thousand words. It's something to think about.
Ok, enough bloody introspection. I need to carve up some literature.
Doing some quick math, I've determined that at a thousand words a day (the rate Mr. Baradbury claims to have written since age 13), it would take around three and a half years to write a million; say I started in six days, at that rate I'd "know what I'm doing" by partway through senior year.
Of course, I'm no Bradbury, and (as proven by the bestseller status of The Da Vinci Code, Eragon, and James Patterson's novels) the general public in this country doesn't give a rip about writing quality these days.
Still, I figure I'm at somewhere over three hundred thousand words. It's something to think about.
Ok, enough bloody introspection. I need to carve up some literature.
Diaspora, and Such
Well I've grown sick and tired
Of trying to stand still
I've learned to let the wind
Blow me where it will
To throw myself into the will of the wave
How can we ever be brave until we're free
-Dustin Kensrue
Though I doubt there is anyone who's had any contact with me over the past couple months who doesn't know this, I'll be going to Bethany Lutheran College this fall. And by this fall, I mean starting in six days. Yikes.
I'll be an English major. I've made no secret of my desire to become a sucessful fiction writer; and I have no delusions as to what that will entail. As to life immediately after college (assuming that bestseller doesn't hit while in school), I really have no idea. Oh, I'm not scared of not making money, of not working. I just don't know what form that work will take. There are a couple jobs abroad I may go for; I'd like to get out and see the world somewhat, before getting too tied down.
I have evangelical friends who like to remind you to "factor God in" to your plans, as if He's a girlfriend or something and you want to make sure not to move too far away from Him. One must make sure one is honoring God in all one does. This last part is Biblical, of course, but the phrasing is deceptive.
I personally find it rather arrogant to be "facoring God in", implying that if we don't remember the Creator of the Universe then, well, He can't do anything with us. It seems rather pointless for me, a fallen, sinful being, to try and determine the will of God, at least on a personal level where he has not inspired a Biblical passage about it (ie, "Where thou shalt go to school" as opposed to "Thou shalt not murder").
Rather, I have faith that despite my blindness, God will lead me down the path He has set forth for me. Even though in my sinful nature I fight him, he has already cleansed me of that nature. Nothing I can do, no "factoring in," can either help or harm this. I simply have faith that He will lead me down the path and, in the end, lead me home.
Of trying to stand still
I've learned to let the wind
Blow me where it will
To throw myself into the will of the wave
How can we ever be brave until we're free
-Dustin Kensrue
Though I doubt there is anyone who's had any contact with me over the past couple months who doesn't know this, I'll be going to Bethany Lutheran College this fall. And by this fall, I mean starting in six days. Yikes.
I'll be an English major. I've made no secret of my desire to become a sucessful fiction writer; and I have no delusions as to what that will entail. As to life immediately after college (assuming that bestseller doesn't hit while in school), I really have no idea. Oh, I'm not scared of not making money, of not working. I just don't know what form that work will take. There are a couple jobs abroad I may go for; I'd like to get out and see the world somewhat, before getting too tied down.
I have evangelical friends who like to remind you to "factor God in" to your plans, as if He's a girlfriend or something and you want to make sure not to move too far away from Him. One must make sure one is honoring God in all one does. This last part is Biblical, of course, but the phrasing is deceptive.
I personally find it rather arrogant to be "facoring God in", implying that if we don't remember the Creator of the Universe then, well, He can't do anything with us. It seems rather pointless for me, a fallen, sinful being, to try and determine the will of God, at least on a personal level where he has not inspired a Biblical passage about it (ie, "Where thou shalt go to school" as opposed to "Thou shalt not murder").
Rather, I have faith that despite my blindness, God will lead me down the path He has set forth for me. Even though in my sinful nature I fight him, he has already cleansed me of that nature. Nothing I can do, no "factoring in," can either help or harm this. I simply have faith that He will lead me down the path and, in the end, lead me home.
FOR YOU
This year's HT conference was great, of course. I found it a lot harder to write summaries of this year than last year, as we didn't do a whole lot of stuff that makes for good reading. Heidi posted as good a summary of that as I can write.
I do have a few thoughts, though (and all the people run away screaming). One is that, unlike many of the various sorts of youth gatherings I went to in my younger days *cough*, HT conferences aren't designed to be "mountaintop experiences." They're designed to be a great time, of course, and there's all sorts of euphoria that goes along with that. But you will NEVER see, for example, an emotional call to repentance delivered by a pastor who is nearly crying himself, backgrounded by soft praise music that suddenly gets louder as said pastor declares an Altar Call.
There were several moments that brought tears to my eyes, but they were tears at the sheer beauty contained in our faith, rather than those coerced by provocative preaching and mood music. One example, perhaps, is in order.
The closing service was glorious, as always at HT conferences. We took Communion while 1000 people sang At The Lamb's High Feast--now if you want beauty, there you go. I'd been hearing teaching about Communion (among other things) all week, and as I went back up into the balcony after taking the body and blood of our Lord, thoughts that had troubled me were laid to rest. I had looked down on someone, but (I suddenly realized) Christ died for that sin. I had resented someone, and He died for that sin too. I had unthinkingly snubbed someone, and he died for that too. A whole host of sins, some of which I'd forgotten, some of which I hadn't let myself think about, came rushing back to me--and they were all laid to rest, defeated, by the body and blood of our Lord, given and shed for me--and for you.
I do have a few thoughts, though (and all the people run away screaming). One is that, unlike many of the various sorts of youth gatherings I went to in my younger days *cough*, HT conferences aren't designed to be "mountaintop experiences." They're designed to be a great time, of course, and there's all sorts of euphoria that goes along with that. But you will NEVER see, for example, an emotional call to repentance delivered by a pastor who is nearly crying himself, backgrounded by soft praise music that suddenly gets louder as said pastor declares an Altar Call.
There were several moments that brought tears to my eyes, but they were tears at the sheer beauty contained in our faith, rather than those coerced by provocative preaching and mood music. One example, perhaps, is in order.
The closing service was glorious, as always at HT conferences. We took Communion while 1000 people sang At The Lamb's High Feast--now if you want beauty, there you go. I'd been hearing teaching about Communion (among other things) all week, and as I went back up into the balcony after taking the body and blood of our Lord, thoughts that had troubled me were laid to rest. I had looked down on someone, but (I suddenly realized) Christ died for that sin. I had resented someone, and He died for that sin too. I had unthinkingly snubbed someone, and he died for that too. A whole host of sins, some of which I'd forgotten, some of which I hadn't let myself think about, came rushing back to me--and they were all laid to rest, defeated, by the body and blood of our Lord, given and shed for me--and for you.
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