The grave-digging instinct kicks in, and I find myself holing up in the bathroom reading books I haven't touched since I was ten in order to avoid doing things that will enable me to graduate. Lovely, lovely; finding things in there that I never knew were written in it, stuff a fifth-grader wouldn't notice, stuff about life and pain and adult perspective. I'm going to put these same books away and read them again when I'm thirty-five and so on every few years, to see if it keeps happening. I am convinced that a well-written work of children's fiction is automatically in the 98th percentile of the world's best books.
Children traditionally resent the idea that "you'll understand better when you're older." It's becoming a delightful thought to me, as I hope it still holds true.
Also I am thinking about John Donne, and poems about God raping us.
Some people find this imagery extremely offensive, and I can see why. But what is more offensive than the idea of someone directly influencing your will against every inclination of your being? God did that to me several times this month that I was aware of. I didn't want my mind to be changed and then suddenly I knew it was about to be changed for me and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. The weird part is the moment when the will says "okay" to this as it is happening. As if, in the ravishment, the victim consents and becomes the beloved in his own eyes, which he was in the eyes of the lover all along.
Heh, heh. In looking up information on an author, I somehow stumbled across this blog. It's well-written reflections of a middle-aged mother about the Fundy Baptist College she went to - the messes there, her wacked-out roommates, hypocrisy and true grace. Listen to this.
"That day, after Mack hit the wimmins libbers so hard, Lilly started a new comic named Femm-Bomm, menopausal mistress of mayhem and carnage. Femm-Bomm attacked Christian womanhood by going around blowing up Bible believing churches and could only be stopped by taking away her IUD."
I haven't read very far, but this is enjoyable - cynicism and forgiveness, both.
The Chronicles of Narnia never prepared me for drudgery and procrastination. Those kids were always doing something that had nothing to do with applying the brain to research papers. Here am I, sitting in front of my bulimic closet that spews forth its innards all over my desk, trying to do my homework that itself is preventing me from working on my SIP. I've shat enough about it, so I'd better buckle down, I suppose.
Dreary...dreary...
Oh! Oh! NEWS. Some of you may remember Chris Powers, who was a voice major who graduated from Covenant a couple of years ago. I found out that he was the original "Chris P from Schenectady" whose email was answered by Strong Bad a long time ago. And then, today when I gladly watched a new email in SB's inbox during another bout of procrastination, I saw up on the King Of Town's cellar shelf a box of Schenectady Chrispies, apparently some kind of breakfast cereal. That's a person I knew! I was in classes with him! This made my day. Also I found out that my roommate Sarah Funke will read a paper she wrote at some conference at Vanderbilt. I bask in the glory of my friends and acquaintances.
Many thanks to Evan Donovan for actually quoting me on his blog, it made my evening.
But it's painful. Yeah. Here's my response to you.
The only thing, Evan, is that what scares me is not still having this body, but not not still having this body. Sorry about that construction. Um, well, anyway, you can call it a holistic view of existence or whatever it is, but to quote Tabitha Kapic (who I think was quoting someone else), "the body is imprisoned by a disoriented soul." What the, and I do mean hell, would I do as a thought?
However. The only relief to being burdened with my self is being bowled over with the utter realization that my thought is only sustained by the thought of an Other, and that is why I remain a Christian. All my life clinging to reality of a person who in one instant told me beyond doubt that I was not my own. I cannot now, for long, be as I was before that brush with the numenous. Most terrifying experience of my life, but at least I could never be an atheist even if I wanted to.
I'm not sure what illusion of solidity you're referring to. For me, the overwhelming sensory perception in life is one of strained thinness with gaping holes in it - but I think that that is the illusion. God and reality are more solid than I usually want them to be, honestly.
I just don't get it. Here I am, in a safe place (Valhalla), innocently reading, typing, etc. on Linnea's computer, and this advertisement pops out of nowhere, telling me not to get older this year. What's the deal? I like the old people in my life. Some of them. But I like the way they look, for the most part. I want to look like them someday. I have my first permanent facial creases - and yeah, they came from smiling or laughing, so that's pleasant to begin with. Why the heck would I want to not get older? -looking I mean?
Now if they could come up with Botox for your joints that'd be another matter. I am definitely not looking forward to arthritis. But speaking of etymologies, the name "Botox" worries me. Sounds really bad for you. If I were in charge of naming that stuff I'd have called it something different to avoid poisonous connotations. You'd think they'd have problems selling the stuff, but no, people are probably more likely to do really scary things in order to achieve eternal youth.
Has anybody read any account of any immortal being that wasn't frightening to contemplate? I mean the kind of immortality that stays in its present location for the duration of its immortality, not like Elves who go sailing off for beautiful lands. One of the things that scares me most about life is that we are faced with the prospect of never not-being again. We are mathematical rays - we had a beginning point, and so can't really understand the idea that we'll go on straight to infinity.
So here are my thoughts about Mr. Holberg's sister's article.
I'm single, but I'm not thirty-five. A lot of what she says I can't apply to my life or even relate to very fully, so I felt sort of...ashamed, to try to say that it affected me very much. That seems presumptuous. But shoot, that never bothered me with any other story.
As Linnea has aptly pointed out with a quote from one of my favorite books, there is a distinction we put separating truth, myth, and fact, and that distinction is unhelpful almost all of the time, and harmful some of the time.
For instance, Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder tells the story of the title character and his family and the place they live. I understand a lot about this boy. He helps me enjoy my life by his enjoyment of his life. It doesn't matter that I don't particularly love horses or know what it's like to be the youngest in the family or male.
So I posted Mr. H's sis' a. , because it is important to me, with no compunctions. It's a story that I'm glad I read. I read it from where I am; if I was thirty-five and single (I might have the chance to find out someday) I'd read it from there, and only then would I know how close or far apart those perspectives are.
But I'll never get a chance to be a lastborn farm boy in New England. Unless 1) reincarnation actually happens and 2) you can be reincarnated back in time or maybe 3) there's some group of people that will go back to living that way in the future and I get reincarnated there instead. It occurs to me now that this list of possibilities is in no way exhaustive, but I need to go to bed.
Ooh, wait, hey Linnea, here's a review of it for you -
"I will tell you that you should get this book. I loved this book and I know you will to. This book is about a boy that lives on a farm. The boy's name is Almonzo. My favorite part is when Almonzo got his cousins to ride his sled and they all fall of. Farmer Boy is the best book I've ever read. I would recommend this book to you."
Okay, this is a very long post. Below you will find an article by Jennifer Holberg, sister of our ex-male-model (yes, it's completely true, ask him) Kresge librarian.
SWF Seeking King
(From Perspectives)
Jennifer Holberg
I have decided that asking God for a husband is like the Israelites asking for a king: they only wanted one because everyone else had one, and once they got one, it was all downhill from there.
Don’t get me wrong – I wouldn’t refuse a husband if he showed up. After all, God clearly has excellent taste and sent the Israelites someone that my students would term a “hottie.” The King James version puts it quite nicely: Saul was “a choice young man, and goodly and there was not among the children of Israel a goodlier person than he” (1 Samuel 9:2). I could definitely go for “choice and goodly” – in fact, if one can discount Saul’s little issues later on with anger management and spear-throwing, he seems like quite the catch, especially given the choice of available men for women over thirty.
No, I’m not anti-marriage at all, but when was the last time anyone heard a sermon on the latter part of 1 Corinthians 7? This chapter clearly valorizes the single life, praising in particular the ability of single people to focus on the work of the church and encouraging them to remain unmarried. It is notable that in this text and related ones throughout Scripture, Christianity assumes a respect for the single life, and in Pauline terms, one could argue almost a downright bias toward it. But one wouldn’t know it from contemporary Christian culture.
While most single Christians I know don’t mind the myriad sermons preached on marriage each year (married people are after all the overwhelming majority and clearly need all the spiritual encouragement they can get), while they tolerate the very occasional (almost always lame) attempt by the politically correct minister to include them in sermon illustrations and the like, and while they try to charitably answer the well-meaning people in their church who say sensitive things such as, “You’re such a great gal – I can’t believe no one’s snatched you up yet,” what I do think is difficult for most single Christians is that the Church seems to have so completely bought into the larger culture’s ideas about what marriage means.
A case in point: this past spring I thought about joining a Bible study group run by a well-known national organization. I had heard that they had a thriving singles’ study and, I’ll be honest, I had decided that perhaps I should “make an effort” and try to meet some single people. (Okay, read: single men.) At least, I rationalized, I would be increasing my knowledge of Scripture, particularly if none of the men turned out to be “choice and goodly.” So during coffee after our morning service, I approached a women in my church who was involved with this ministry and expressed my interest. I should have instantly known I was in trouble when she immediately turned to her husband and said, “Honey, Jennifer’s interesting in Bible study. We should introduce her to Jim [not his real name] – he’s [and yes, she really said it] such a great guy!” The classic words of Monty Python, “Run away, run away,” began to reverberate loudly in my head, but I ignored them and began to marshal all my energies toward resisting the deadliest form of “the set-up,” that done by members of one’s church who, like Star Trek’s Borg, believe that resistance is futile. Instead, her husband responded, “Oh no, remember – he’s not in that study anymore.” Curious, I inquired into the sad fate of poor Jim and found out the following: (1) that this singles’ group was in fact called the “Young Adult” study; (2) that this “Young Adult” group had an age limit of thirty-five; and (3) that after thirty-five, one could no longer attend, but was forced to leave the co-ed group and join a single sex study. Unlucky Jim – I almost took his number out of pity. Tossed out of his Bible study at thirty-six and when he probably needed it most. What was more troubling for me, though, was when this woman then inquired as to my age and chirruply remarked: “Why you’re just under the wire.” What a comfort – I still had at least a year before being exiled forever into a warm puddle of estrogen.
Thankfully, it turned out my racquetball league conflicted with the study, and I got over my obviously rash decision to “make an effort.” But the underlying assumptions of this group unfortunately reflect the attitudes of Christian culture in general about the single person: first, that “young” and “single” are synonymous. Last summer, for example, when Christianity Today ran a special issue on the single Christian, most of the articles were written by singles in their twenties. Their early twenties. While I’m not denying that this group of singles has legitimate issues with which to deal, it is also laughable to pretend that that demographic has any clue about single life in the thirties and beyond. Christianity Today’s failure to seriously address mature single life lends credence to the idea that if one is single, one has an extended adolescence at least until one’s mid-thirties, if not permanently. Certainly, it is often implied that, like an adolescent, the single person has unlimited supplies of free time and an endlessly flexible schedule. Moreover, if one is unmarried and childless, life must be one long vacation, full of fun and self-indulgence. Or if it isn’t, at least it’s not as bad and time-consuming as endlessly schlepping the children around in the minivan. To be honest, most people (married and single) wouldn’t admit it publicly, but deep down they have bought into the idea that maturity only comes after one says, “I do.” While I admit that, from my own observations, marriage certainly does require a great deal of forbearance, the maturity formed by the peculiar combination of self-reliance and loneliness that is the single'’ lot is rarely acknowledged, even by singles themselves.
Of course, if we pretend singleness is only a function of youth, then it makes sense to assume, as the Bible study group did, that after thirty-five there is no real need for a special group for singles. I mean really, this seems to suggest, if it has taken you until now to find someone, you must be beyond hope. And, in some ways, I agree that segregation by marital status can be tedious. After all, most of my closest friends are married women with children, and naturally, I prefer hanging out with them. And, I do believe that single people should be fully involved in the life of the church – in every ministry opportunity and at every social event. At the same time, however, the either/or mentality of this group and many churches is troubling: one can either be single or one can be adult. It seems to me that a better option would be to offer a range of studies, based on age and marital status, that would provide an opportunity, if one desired, to meet with like-minded people. That doesn’t mean that I might not choose to go to the study with a variety of women, but it would show greater Christian charity, a greater effort to build everyone up, to concede that there will be times when everyone is more nourished by being able to share his or her concerns with other in similar circumstances (in much the same way that no one balks at a ministry for mother of pre-schoolers or study groups for young marrieds). Everything in its season.
Neither of these assumptions, I think, arises from malice or bad intentions. Instead, in an attempt to combat the rising tide of broken homes, promiscuity, and a general decline in public morality, the Church has focused on elevating marriage and family to almost salvific heights, thereby unintentionally trading a rich theology that proclaims fulfillment in Christ for the more popular Jerry Maguire syndrome: “You complete me.” This syndrome is definitely very romantic, even if it is ultimately intellectually analogous to the tradition when I was in junior high of couple wearing halves of a heart around each other’s neck. While the rhetoric is tempting, the math is all wrong: ½ + ½ = 1. But the Bible teaches us a much more complicated formula: we are only completed by Christ’s redemptive work, never by each other. The wonder of marriage is that two completed people, mysteriously, can become one. This implies, of course, that as Christian, we move toward wholeness as we acquire more and more the heart of Christ- not the junky jewelry version of broken-hearted man.
To acquire the heart of Christ means I must strive to be content with the life he has given me. That doesn’t mean becoming complacent or defeatist and it also doesn’t mean not acknowledging disappointments. But to believe that my own disappointments are greater because I am single than those disappointments that occur within the lives of my married brother and sister would be a grave error. Our dissatisfaction is really claiming that God hasn’t given us exactly what we think we need, that we know how our lives should be and God doesn’t. I guess I’m ultimately not willing to say that. Or to spend my time pining over something that God doesn’t think I need at the moment. I like the fact that “content” makes a nice pun: we are most content when we are full of content. I want to be that person of substance, not some empty vessel waiting to be “complete” by a relationship, a job, or a possession. By cultivating a spirit of thankfulness, we continually remind ourselves of our dependence on God and help counteract our desire to have a king like everybody else. Instead, we can focus on the real work of all of our lives: to love our friends and family extravagantly, to serve God faithfully, and to live out our salvation joyfully.
I just watched the Chattanooga news for, I think, the first time ever. There were cute blond kids being rescued from their kidnapper, and more human remains from that crematory mess found filed with some paperwork (gross), and houses burning down in Alton park, and a murder on Doris Road. What a great area is that known as northwest Georgia. It made me feel much better after watching a little movie called "My Dog Skip" that somehow managed to make five reasoning college seniors sob for ten minutes about a puppy getting hit on the head with a shovel. What did the Greeks used to say about drama and catharsis?
I was checking to make sure they weren't planning on making a movie of Charlotte Doyle and I found the best book review I've read in a long time. The title caught my eye - Viking It and Liking It. Ha.
The Time Warp Trio guys warp into Viking time. First the Vikings don't like them, then they do later in the book. When they find the magic book it was a stone that said "Fred, Sam, and Joe were here." When they were captured by a bad guy it was cool how they escaped. This book is cool, funny, and awesome.
Gosh, I love the prose of eight-year-olds.
My last Internet search was actually fruitful. Anyone know anything about Melanie Safka? Never heard the name before today, but there was an old song of hers I had in a completely unidentified form on a tape and knew enough of the lyrics for Google to find it for me (Lay Down with the Edwin Hawkins singers, no wonder I liked it.) Huzzah, and yipee! Buy this album for my birthday.
So far, Hind's Feet On High Places looks and feels like the love-child of Pilgrim's Progress and Elsie Dinsmore. Ack! But, because of the widely disparate people that have recommended it to me, onward will I plow. Prow. Kazow.
We need a site that can help you find things on the 'net when you have no idea what they are called or who made them.
However, there are things you can find that you never knew you wanted to see. I didn't know that they did this sort of thing.
Anyway, I am looking for two things - a movie that had a bunch of teenagers in space, I don't remember why exactly, and the oldest one had to fight this horrible fight with a nasty rock-star type bad guy on the edge of this incredibly scary pit, all industrial and backlit, with crowds around. Spiky hair, lots of it, on most of the characters, and clothes that were a mix of James Dean and that other chick the Matrix that wasn't Trinity. The one that wore white. That's all I remember of it. You can see why I can't just go to IMDB about this one.
The other thing is a playset I used to have. There were these cool little green plastic people, little more than 2-inch long, 1/2 inch wide cylinders with heads (and the women flared out just before the base to represent skirts, that's how you knew they were women). And these cool orange plastic chassis parts, in which you could install these cool yellow plastic axles on which you may affix these cool red plastic wheels. Both the chassis..es... and the wheels had sockets in them of the right size to put in either the end of one of the axles (say you wanted to make the orange piece into a boat instead of a car, you would put the axle standing straight up from the middle as a mast) or one of the people (like they were sitting in a seat.) Or you could make scary-cool trees out of combinations of the people and axles for trunks and branches with the wheels for foliage. This was the coolest playset except my wooden blocks that I had, and MY MOM GAVE IT AWAY. And now I cannot find it, no, I cannot, always looking, never finding...
So here's my predicament. I'm dressed in my bathing suit and sarong, have slept well, eaten well, and have at least three hours ahead of me free to myself, and the beach and fun shops are but a few blocks' walk away, and it's stinking raining. Only the sun breaks through every now and then, just enough to make you think you're not in Georgia.
It's later now. I decided the drizzle wasn't going to let up, so I headed out anyway, and boy...I didn't need to go swimming. Honolulu has all these cool malls that are half indoor, half outdoor, which means I got to breath about half the time I was out. You would think my old Mad Goat friend there would be more grateful for what I went through to get her birthday present, precious, wouldn't you? Seething with anger, my escutcheon. It was fun, but not the kind of fun I want for the next two days...