Writing Center work isn't without its occasional amusements.
On Tuesday, I had a walk-up client working under time constraint. Normally, it's rather irritating when someone drops in and says something to the effect of, "This is due in 20 minutes, but I just wanted to have someone read it over real quick." His paper wasn't long, though, and I was of a decent disposition. The following is a pretty accurate rendering of the session's dialogue.
Client: I'm one of those guys that can wait until the last minute to write a huge paper and still get an A.
Me (filling out preliminary paperwork): That's good.
Client: I've just read A LOT. And I have a very strong grasp of how a sentence should sound. I don't think you'll find a whole lot wrong with (my paper).
(My peripheral vision catches one of my fellow tutors turn her head to my table)
Me: Well, that typically comes in handy.
Client: I really don't write much though. It's not my idea of a good time. I have a level 70 character on World of Warcraft. (Stretching & leaning back in his chair) Fear my hunter!
(At this point, I'm having to summon every ounce of restraint I've accumulated in my 23 years. Don't laugh at him, Brandon)
I'm struggling to find something to say in response, so I start reading his paper...half-expecting to encounter prose that sings.
Me: Okay, this sentence ends in a preposition.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Dumbledore, we hardly knew ye....but evidently Gellert Grindelwald knew ye
It's 1:00, Saturday morning. I'm climbing into bed. Phone rings. I choose to ignore it.
Phone rings again. Fearing an emergency, I pick it up.
Ryan: Hey man. What are you doing?
Me: Sleeping.
Ryan: Don't tell me Abilene is so boring that you're already in bed at 1:00.
Me: Actually, it is.
Ryan has some bad literary news for me, which is "worth getting out of bed for." He instructs me to hasten to my laptop and pull up Yahoo. I drowsily comply. "Read the first story."
Rowling outs one of her characters
And there it is. Dumbledore. Gay.
I field yet another late night call about 10 minutes later. The Christian-Rowling-reading world is in disarray. For some reason, I'm not losing sleep over the matter, but I have a question or two. Help me, folks. I want some thoughts.
Why feel the need to offer such an arguably shocking statement? Certainly attention and money can be ruled out, right? I mean, you're the wealthiest woman in your whole freaking country, and I'm sure you're never lacking in fanmail or interview requests.
Why do we all need to know Dumbledore's sexual orientation? What bearing has it on the story? If she wished us to know of his preference, why not make it slightly more overt in the text?
What happens to the text when the author adds commentary like this? Is it a bit controlling of Rowling to make sure we know what she intended with Dumbledore's character?
I'm not really even concerned with the moral debate of sexual orientation here.
Paul, Kristina, I'd be interested in your thoughts on the matter if you're reading this.
Phone rings again. Fearing an emergency, I pick it up.
Ryan: Hey man. What are you doing?
Me: Sleeping.
Ryan: Don't tell me Abilene is so boring that you're already in bed at 1:00.
Me: Actually, it is.
Ryan has some bad literary news for me, which is "worth getting out of bed for." He instructs me to hasten to my laptop and pull up Yahoo. I drowsily comply. "Read the first story."
Rowling outs one of her characters
And there it is. Dumbledore. Gay.
I field yet another late night call about 10 minutes later. The Christian-Rowling-reading world is in disarray. For some reason, I'm not losing sleep over the matter, but I have a question or two. Help me, folks. I want some thoughts.
Why feel the need to offer such an arguably shocking statement? Certainly attention and money can be ruled out, right? I mean, you're the wealthiest woman in your whole freaking country, and I'm sure you're never lacking in fanmail or interview requests.
Why do we all need to know Dumbledore's sexual orientation? What bearing has it on the story? If she wished us to know of his preference, why not make it slightly more overt in the text?
What happens to the text when the author adds commentary like this? Is it a bit controlling of Rowling to make sure we know what she intended with Dumbledore's character?
I'm not really even concerned with the moral debate of sexual orientation here.
Paul, Kristina, I'd be interested in your thoughts on the matter if you're reading this.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (graduate school ed.)
The Good:
My tutoring job is going well, and I get to wear this cool lanyard around my neck that has my mugshot attached to it--Brandon Sayre: WRITING CENTER.
I've mastered Hamburger Helper.
The cricket infestation seems to have lapsed with the changing of the season.
My apartment no longer resembles a kennel.
My life is not a Dawson's Creek episode.
Stephen Colbert's book, I am America (And so can you!)
Dr. Rankin's explanations of colloquialisms during class: "I think it has something to do with mothers and copulating..."
The Bad:
There's an Air Force base a few miles from my apartment, so I occasionally wake up under the impression that Abilene is under siege. Still, it's preferable to the fresh small of dog food in the morning, compliments of the Purina plant located a mile or so from OC.
I eat Hamburger Helper.
I can't sleep.
I don't live in Lawrence during our greatest football season since the Glen Mason era.
The fact that Abilene makes Edmond seem a veritable paradise by comparison.
The Ugly:
I live in West Texas. The desolation has yet to endear itself to me.
Learning the price of air conditioning...the hard way.
Texas state pride: "What starts here changes the world."
Euphoria, meet Early Tuesday morning
I awoke at dawn this morning and, despite my greatest efforts, could not recommence my brief slumber. Fearing that I've become my mother (who considers sleeping till 6, sleeping in), I decided to put the kettle on and go about my day.
Sometime whilst the Starbucks Italian Roast brewed, it hit me.
10/16/07 J.E.W. Chase This Light.
After trudging through some 50 pages of writing center pedagogy and theory (and downing two cups of Italian Roast) I dressed and hopped in the Jeep.
Mission: favorite band's latest release retrieval. Initiate retrieval operation! POST HASTE!
I bore the rather dense fog, fully prepared to risk life and limb, en route to Walmart. I made a beeline to the electronics section and there it was, resting on its commerical throne. Only $13.98!!! They roll those prices back, in case you haven't seen the commercials. I would have happily forked over a fifty. God bless you, Wally World.
This is a good day, methinks.
Sometime whilst the Starbucks Italian Roast brewed, it hit me.
10/16/07 J.E.W. Chase This Light.
After trudging through some 50 pages of writing center pedagogy and theory (and downing two cups of Italian Roast) I dressed and hopped in the Jeep.
Mission: favorite band's latest release retrieval. Initiate retrieval operation! POST HASTE!
I bore the rather dense fog, fully prepared to risk life and limb, en route to Walmart. I made a beeline to the electronics section and there it was, resting on its commerical throne. Only $13.98!!! They roll those prices back, in case you haven't seen the commercials. I would have happily forked over a fifty. God bless you, Wally World.
This is a good day, methinks.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Query:
What's the probability that Sunday evening church services were established to enable men to devote their morning/afternoon to football? (And then, as an afterthought, punch their cards at evening assembly)
On a related note, a man in my class this morning brought a newly purchased Sooner gnome to church. I remember when I brought toys to church, too. I was 5.
On a related note, a man in my class this morning brought a newly purchased Sooner gnome to church. I remember when I brought toys to church, too. I was 5.
Monday, October 8, 2007
My Dubious Dudeness
Preface: The following conversation occurred today at Rosa's, where my classmates and I convinced Dr. Rankin to hold today's class. I was wearing a blue Kansas shirt and red KU basketball shorts, which evidently matched rather well.
Heather: I saw you walking earlier today and noticed how well your clothes matched. Pretty rare for a dude!
Sarah: I don't know if I'd say Brandon is really a "dude."
Dr. Rankin (returning from refilling his beverage): What are we talking about?
Me: My dubious dudeness.
Dr. Rankin: I think you're totally a dude.
Robyn: I think your vocabulary disqualifies you.
Me: I think I'm okay with this.
Heather: I saw you walking earlier today and noticed how well your clothes matched. Pretty rare for a dude!
Sarah: I don't know if I'd say Brandon is really a "dude."
Dr. Rankin (returning from refilling his beverage): What are we talking about?
Me: My dubious dudeness.
Dr. Rankin: I think you're totally a dude.
Robyn: I think your vocabulary disqualifies you.
Me: I think I'm okay with this.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Jayhawk progeny
Before I was conceived, I stood no chance. It was as genetically predetermined as any of my features, my ethnicity and my socioeconomic status. I, Brandon Roy Sayre, was to be a Kansas Jayhawk.
In attempt to uncover the derivative of this allegiance, I need look no further than family genealogy. My father received his Bachelor's in Business from the University of Kansas. Three of my four uncles attended KU. My Uncle Jason, who became a sort of childhood idol to me, was a KU yell-leader. I remember seeing pictures of him in his college years: sporting the then-fashionable crewcut and hoisting blond bombshells over his head, needing only a single hand to do so.
Sometime during my teens, I learned the true derivative of the Jayhawk faith. My late grandfather Roy attended his first Jayhawk basketball game in 1972 when KU hosted the Missouri Tigers. Though having no previous ties to the university, the atmosphere and tradition of Allen Fieldhouse (along with Bud Stallworth's 50 points) evidently made a believer of him. Roy Sinclair hence became the progenitor of his family's sports allegiance.
The funny thing about it was, to my recollection, my uncles & grandfather never even had to proselytize. I remember being utterly mesmerized by their behavior during basketball and football games: the emotion, the volatility, the pacing, the occasional breaking of a toy over the knee. As a famous country singer said, "I liked it, I loved it, I wanted some more of it" (of course, he didn't sing it with the past-tense).
As the steadfastness of my vicarious existence abounded to greater and more irrational heights, so did my distaste for the two (apparently) morally reprensible rivals. K-State, affectionally referred to by some of our ilk as KSUCK, our in-state and more agriculturally savvy rivals, and our mortal enemies: the Missouri Tigers. The hatred between Kansas and Missouri is astonishing, and I discovered that the mutual distaste actually finds its roots in the Civil War free state/slave state tension. The events of August 21, 1863 remain the foremost source of the border bitterness. This date marked the sacking of Lawrence, KS by William C. Quantrill and his band of Bushwackers. Per Wikipedia, "Arriving at the summit of Mount Oread and leading between three and four hundred riders, Quantrill descended on Lawrence in a fury. A four-hour session of pillaging, systematic execution of most of the male population, arson, and other mayhem ensued. By the time Quantrill's men rode out of town, one in four buildings in Lawrence had been burnt to the ground, including all but two businesses." Check out this classy Missourian (in case you can't read his hat, it bears the words "Remember Quantrill"):
Whenever a Missouri fan musters the gall to post on Phog.net, a KU message board I read with too much frequency, the ubiqitous response is "suck it, slaver." I remember, as a child, visiting Silver Dollar City in Branson, Missouri with my family. While awaiting a roller-coaster ride, one of the men facilitating the ride discovered that there were Kansans in his presence. "I thought I smelled somethin!" he crowed.
Something I've realized is that I could easily shed my allegiance. It took me one score and three years to discover it, but it's actually within my strength to make a concerted effort to lessen the fervor of my vicarious existence (I tell myself I will do this very thing each year...typically following a premature upending in the NCAA tournament). I want to emphasize that the existence is indeed of the vicarious nature: I have virtually no connection to any of the Kansas players and coaches...though, for whatever reason, I refer to them often by first name (e.g. "Oh come on, Julian! Dunk the stupid ball!").
I've often been chided for the anti-scholastic nature of my affiliation. I've also realized, in my objective moments, that my fanship provides no practical benefit to my life or to the University of Kansas. By the way, the word "fan" in Italian is tifoso as noted by Elizabeth Gilbert in her memoir Eat Pray Love, "Derived from the word for typhus. In other words--one who is mightily fevered." Food for thought. I'm not an Alum or Donor...and a Kansas victory does not necessarily improve my life in any measurable fashion. In fact, sports tend to make me even more irrational than women do...which is no small statement.
But here I sit today, resting delightedly on the laurels of yesterday's victory over Kansas State. The win propelled our team into the the top 25 for the first time since 1996, also marking our (note the possesive pronoun) first win in Manhattan in some 18 years. Needless to say, I'm sporting a rather broad grin today, a grin that magically makes all the irrationality and idiocy of being a serious sports fan worthwhile.
I suppose I've come to the conclusion that not everything we do/enjoy in life is even remotely rational, and I think I'm quite okay with that.
Kansas--30
Kansas State--24
Lift the Chorus ever onward,
Crimson and the Blue
In attempt to uncover the derivative of this allegiance, I need look no further than family genealogy. My father received his Bachelor's in Business from the University of Kansas. Three of my four uncles attended KU. My Uncle Jason, who became a sort of childhood idol to me, was a KU yell-leader. I remember seeing pictures of him in his college years: sporting the then-fashionable crewcut and hoisting blond bombshells over his head, needing only a single hand to do so.
Sometime during my teens, I learned the true derivative of the Jayhawk faith. My late grandfather Roy attended his first Jayhawk basketball game in 1972 when KU hosted the Missouri Tigers. Though having no previous ties to the university, the atmosphere and tradition of Allen Fieldhouse (along with Bud Stallworth's 50 points) evidently made a believer of him. Roy Sinclair hence became the progenitor of his family's sports allegiance.
The funny thing about it was, to my recollection, my uncles & grandfather never even had to proselytize. I remember being utterly mesmerized by their behavior during basketball and football games: the emotion, the volatility, the pacing, the occasional breaking of a toy over the knee. As a famous country singer said, "I liked it, I loved it, I wanted some more of it" (of course, he didn't sing it with the past-tense).
As the steadfastness of my vicarious existence abounded to greater and more irrational heights, so did my distaste for the two (apparently) morally reprensible rivals. K-State, affectionally referred to by some of our ilk as KSUCK, our in-state and more agriculturally savvy rivals, and our mortal enemies: the Missouri Tigers. The hatred between Kansas and Missouri is astonishing, and I discovered that the mutual distaste actually finds its roots in the Civil War free state/slave state tension. The events of August 21, 1863 remain the foremost source of the border bitterness. This date marked the sacking of Lawrence, KS by William C. Quantrill and his band of Bushwackers. Per Wikipedia, "Arriving at the summit of Mount Oread and leading between three and four hundred riders, Quantrill descended on Lawrence in a fury. A four-hour session of pillaging, systematic execution of most of the male population, arson, and other mayhem ensued. By the time Quantrill's men rode out of town, one in four buildings in Lawrence had been burnt to the ground, including all but two businesses." Check out this classy Missourian (in case you can't read his hat, it bears the words "Remember Quantrill"):
Whenever a Missouri fan musters the gall to post on Phog.net, a KU message board I read with too much frequency, the ubiqitous response is "suck it, slaver." I remember, as a child, visiting Silver Dollar City in Branson, Missouri with my family. While awaiting a roller-coaster ride, one of the men facilitating the ride discovered that there were Kansans in his presence. "I thought I smelled somethin!" he crowed.
Something I've realized is that I could easily shed my allegiance. It took me one score and three years to discover it, but it's actually within my strength to make a concerted effort to lessen the fervor of my vicarious existence (I tell myself I will do this very thing each year...typically following a premature upending in the NCAA tournament). I want to emphasize that the existence is indeed of the vicarious nature: I have virtually no connection to any of the Kansas players and coaches...though, for whatever reason, I refer to them often by first name (e.g. "Oh come on, Julian! Dunk the stupid ball!").
I've often been chided for the anti-scholastic nature of my affiliation. I've also realized, in my objective moments, that my fanship provides no practical benefit to my life or to the University of Kansas. By the way, the word "fan" in Italian is tifoso as noted by Elizabeth Gilbert in her memoir Eat Pray Love, "Derived from the word for typhus. In other words--one who is mightily fevered." Food for thought. I'm not an Alum or Donor...and a Kansas victory does not necessarily improve my life in any measurable fashion. In fact, sports tend to make me even more irrational than women do...which is no small statement.
But here I sit today, resting delightedly on the laurels of yesterday's victory over Kansas State. The win propelled our team into the the top 25 for the first time since 1996, also marking our (note the possesive pronoun) first win in Manhattan in some 18 years. Needless to say, I'm sporting a rather broad grin today, a grin that magically makes all the irrationality and idiocy of being a serious sports fan worthwhile.
I suppose I've come to the conclusion that not everything we do/enjoy in life is even remotely rational, and I think I'm quite okay with that.
Kansas--30
Kansas State--24
Lift the Chorus ever onward,
Crimson and the Blue
While on my way to retrieve quarters from my Jeep...
I chanced upon an amusing scene.
I opened my door and, looking up, caught the glimpse of girl bearing what appeared to be a 12 pack of Coors Light as she ascended the staircase.
Not thinking much of it, I proceeded to walk toward my Jeep. I heard her open the door. The sight of this girl toting said ethanol was met be a chorus of all-male cheers from the interior of the apartment.
I laughed.
I opened my door and, looking up, caught the glimpse of girl bearing what appeared to be a 12 pack of Coors Light as she ascended the staircase.
Not thinking much of it, I proceeded to walk toward my Jeep. I heard her open the door. The sight of this girl toting said ethanol was met be a chorus of all-male cheers from the interior of the apartment.
I laughed.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Why October kicketh butt
Sunflower Showdown: 10/6/07
Late Night in the Phog: 10/12/07
Jimmy Eat World: Chase This Light 10/16/07Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Found this gem in my Comp/Rhet book...
and couldn't resist. Read it.
"The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers is one hell of a spectacular epic despite consisting mostly of guys in medieval armor running around scenic vistas, smashing, thrashing, and flinging arrows into each other with effortless skill. Don't these warriors ever get tired?
So the Fellowship has been broken and our heroes travel their separate ways. Otherwise, not too much has changed. Aragorn is still brave and unshaven, the Dark Lord Sauron is still brewing trouble, and Liv Tyler still speaks in a breathy monotone.
Since the first chapter in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the evil wizard Saruman continues to build his army of disgusting, mindless creatures using his magical powers, his crystal ball of fear, and the biggest nose in all of Middle-Earth. If this world conquest thing doesn't work out, confides Saruman, I could always be the new Toucan on the Froot Loops box.
Come on, is that Saruman's real nose or are his eyes using a walking stick? There will be no dawn for men, he drones. And no spare Kleenex either!
Now I see why we didn't get a better look at one of the Ring's previous owners, Gollum, in the first movie. He's Steve Buscemi in a loincloth!
Hobbits Merry and Pippin meet up with a new character, Treebeard....
Treebeard is an Ent--a race of walking, talking trees. He looks like a towering Sideshow Bob with a bad case of Dermatitis. Treebeard is the oldest being in Middle-Earth, but only because of Joan Rivers lies.
And then there's Gimli the Dwarf who offers war-torn refugees some comic relief. Today he kills twice nightly at Caesars Atlantic City. He's one Brooke Shields shorts of a USO show.
Gimli and Treebeard sound suspiciously alike, suggesting that while Orcs may be abundant in Middle-Earth, voice talent is not.
The time of the Elves is nearly over, warns the Elf leader. Soon, there will be no one to bake the Keeblers....
Elsewhere in Middle-Earth...."There!" exclaimed Frodo, "It's the tower of Sauron." What gave it away? The enormous rabbit-ears on top with a vast EYE in the center? So the Dark Lord gets CBS! You'd think he'd be early on DIRECTV.
Say, if the Dark Lord was really all that powerful, wouldn't he invent a gun?
The good wizard Gandalf returns from what we thought was the dead, but what turned out to be the deepest hole there ever was. Now resurrected, Gandalf the Grey is Gandalf the White. But Gandalf, plum or periwinkle would coordinate better with your coloring, noted helpful Elf Legolas. When Gandalf mounts his trusty steed, it's off-camera for two hours until his triumphant return.
So our heroes speed towards their destination, the place where The Ring must meet its end before our friends do: The fires of Mount Doom...
Say what you want about sequels, but this one is worth its weight in gold. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers is a towering, stupendous achievement.
Maybe the trilogy is like an Oreo cookie: The middle might be the best part."
(Mark Ramsey, moviejuice.com December 11, 2002)
"The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers is one hell of a spectacular epic despite consisting mostly of guys in medieval armor running around scenic vistas, smashing, thrashing, and flinging arrows into each other with effortless skill. Don't these warriors ever get tired?
So the Fellowship has been broken and our heroes travel their separate ways. Otherwise, not too much has changed. Aragorn is still brave and unshaven, the Dark Lord Sauron is still brewing trouble, and Liv Tyler still speaks in a breathy monotone.
Since the first chapter in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the evil wizard Saruman continues to build his army of disgusting, mindless creatures using his magical powers, his crystal ball of fear, and the biggest nose in all of Middle-Earth. If this world conquest thing doesn't work out, confides Saruman, I could always be the new Toucan on the Froot Loops box.
Come on, is that Saruman's real nose or are his eyes using a walking stick? There will be no dawn for men, he drones. And no spare Kleenex either!
Now I see why we didn't get a better look at one of the Ring's previous owners, Gollum, in the first movie. He's Steve Buscemi in a loincloth!
Hobbits Merry and Pippin meet up with a new character, Treebeard....
Treebeard is an Ent--a race of walking, talking trees. He looks like a towering Sideshow Bob with a bad case of Dermatitis. Treebeard is the oldest being in Middle-Earth, but only because of Joan Rivers lies.
And then there's Gimli the Dwarf who offers war-torn refugees some comic relief. Today he kills twice nightly at Caesars Atlantic City. He's one Brooke Shields shorts of a USO show.
Gimli and Treebeard sound suspiciously alike, suggesting that while Orcs may be abundant in Middle-Earth, voice talent is not.
The time of the Elves is nearly over, warns the Elf leader. Soon, there will be no one to bake the Keeblers....
Elsewhere in Middle-Earth...."There!" exclaimed Frodo, "It's the tower of Sauron." What gave it away? The enormous rabbit-ears on top with a vast EYE in the center? So the Dark Lord gets CBS! You'd think he'd be early on DIRECTV.
Say, if the Dark Lord was really all that powerful, wouldn't he invent a gun?
The good wizard Gandalf returns from what we thought was the dead, but what turned out to be the deepest hole there ever was. Now resurrected, Gandalf the Grey is Gandalf the White. But Gandalf, plum or periwinkle would coordinate better with your coloring, noted helpful Elf Legolas. When Gandalf mounts his trusty steed, it's off-camera for two hours until his triumphant return.
So our heroes speed towards their destination, the place where The Ring must meet its end before our friends do: The fires of Mount Doom...
Say what you want about sequels, but this one is worth its weight in gold. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers is a towering, stupendous achievement.
Maybe the trilogy is like an Oreo cookie: The middle might be the best part."
(Mark Ramsey, moviejuice.com December 11, 2002)
Monday, October 1, 2007
Week 6
Evidently I'm not appeasing the masses with my sporadic posting. HERE:
I find myself, all of the sudden, in the midst of Week 6. I'm a third of the way through the semester. My love for graduate school abounds with each turn of the page and each sip of freshly brewed Starbucks (I had four cups this morning, a full cup above average).
Literary theory is rocking my world. I am intrigued by the study of power dynamics and hierarchies that attempt to pass themselves off as "natural." I'm a bit embarrassed to have been such an unwitting, complicit sheep in these constructions before delving into our Lit. Theory anthology. This class necessitates adopting an intellectual humility, which I think bears some valid applications to our spirituality. I would be happy to elaborate, but I promised Brain a reprieve. The Dude is rather worn out, understandably. If you'd like to make an appointment, he'll be in at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.
I still enjoy Truth in Nonfiction as well, though it's interesting how much nihilism can pervade the discussion at times. I'm not really bothered by it, but it's suprising that so many people subscribe completely to social constructionism and scoff at essentialism. I am bothered by the notion that nonficton apparently MUST be dark and hopeless to accurately reflect reality and be taken seriously. Rarely a dull moment in that class.
If you'll permit me to alter course a bit here, I'd like to regale you with a conversation I had with my fellow grad students last week. After realizing our 9:00 had been canceled, we decided to go to breakfast. They are all female, so as per usual, I endured some good natured jeering. Evidently someone had stumbled upon some questionable Facebook pictures of mine involving kilts and suggestive homo-erotic poses. *Removing tag* Anyway...
Somehow, I think we were talking about chivalry or some such nonsense (read with intended irony) and I am proud to have learned a thing or two concerning flower-giving etiquette.
Roses, evidently, are an epic cop-out flower. Too cliche.
Chrysanthemums are also a no-no. Why? I can't remember. Wasn't really paying attention...
Carnations are disgusting. Might as well give them a flamming bag of excrement, I suppose.
I heeded the words of the eldest (she's only 27) and married member of the group, who lauded the Star Gazer Lily. Quite lovely, indeed.
For some reason, all of this was relayed by my peers to our professor today before class. He recommends the Corpse flower, which is reminiscent of the smell of a decomposing mammal, due to its fragrance. It's also known as the carrion flower.
I walked away feeling rather empowered by the knowledge. Flowers: man's power to make women either swoon or vomit.
I find myself, all of the sudden, in the midst of Week 6. I'm a third of the way through the semester. My love for graduate school abounds with each turn of the page and each sip of freshly brewed Starbucks (I had four cups this morning, a full cup above average).
Literary theory is rocking my world. I am intrigued by the study of power dynamics and hierarchies that attempt to pass themselves off as "natural." I'm a bit embarrassed to have been such an unwitting, complicit sheep in these constructions before delving into our Lit. Theory anthology. This class necessitates adopting an intellectual humility, which I think bears some valid applications to our spirituality. I would be happy to elaborate, but I promised Brain a reprieve. The Dude is rather worn out, understandably. If you'd like to make an appointment, he'll be in at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.
I still enjoy Truth in Nonfiction as well, though it's interesting how much nihilism can pervade the discussion at times. I'm not really bothered by it, but it's suprising that so many people subscribe completely to social constructionism and scoff at essentialism. I am bothered by the notion that nonficton apparently MUST be dark and hopeless to accurately reflect reality and be taken seriously. Rarely a dull moment in that class.
If you'll permit me to alter course a bit here, I'd like to regale you with a conversation I had with my fellow grad students last week. After realizing our 9:00 had been canceled, we decided to go to breakfast. They are all female, so as per usual, I endured some good natured jeering. Evidently someone had stumbled upon some questionable Facebook pictures of mine involving kilts and suggestive homo-erotic poses. *Removing tag* Anyway...
Somehow, I think we were talking about chivalry or some such nonsense (read with intended irony) and I am proud to have learned a thing or two concerning flower-giving etiquette.
Roses, evidently, are an epic cop-out flower. Too cliche.
Chrysanthemums are also a no-no. Why? I can't remember. Wasn't really paying attention...
Carnations are disgusting. Might as well give them a flamming bag of excrement, I suppose.
I heeded the words of the eldest (she's only 27) and married member of the group, who lauded the Star Gazer Lily. Quite lovely, indeed.
For some reason, all of this was relayed by my peers to our professor today before class. He recommends the Corpse flower, which is reminiscent of the smell of a decomposing mammal, due to its fragrance. It's also known as the carrion flower.
I walked away feeling rather empowered by the knowledge. Flowers: man's power to make women either swoon or vomit.
Lo, the phallic Corpse flower.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Nerd
Preface: A friend in my grad program is new to the country. When I met her, she had been in the States for a grand total of 3 days. She learned how to speak English in Ukraine and decided that she wanted to get her master's in the U.S.
The other day, Oksana confided in me that she occasionally has trouble understanding our vernacular. I find this understandable, particularly when Dr. Rankin drops phrases like "rolling up a fatty" and "up in my grill" during class.
"What does it mean to be a nerd?"
I snickered and then proceeded to relate society's conception of nerdery. "A nerd is generally a person who reads all of the time rather than engaging in what our society deems more 'cool' endeavors. But we literary folk," I explained, "tend to embrace this." I thus welcomed her to the fold.
"I'm not a nerd. I'm smart."
'Atta girl.
The other day, Oksana confided in me that she occasionally has trouble understanding our vernacular. I find this understandable, particularly when Dr. Rankin drops phrases like "rolling up a fatty" and "up in my grill" during class.
"What does it mean to be a nerd?"
I snickered and then proceeded to relate society's conception of nerdery. "A nerd is generally a person who reads all of the time rather than engaging in what our society deems more 'cool' endeavors. But we literary folk," I explained, "tend to embrace this." I thus welcomed her to the fold.
"I'm not a nerd. I'm smart."
'Atta girl.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Serpent and South America
Invariably, when I meet new people, someone will notice my two curiously located scars. They are on my wrists.
"How did that happen?"
I know what you're getting at, which necessitates the following assurance:
"No, I didn't try to kill myself."
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. I had nearly forgotten them. The right-wrist scar slithers like a serpent whenever I rotate the arm. The left-wrist scar somewhat resembles South America. The wounds narrowly missed striking veins, serving as a very visceral reminder of mortality and how fortunate I am to be sitting here today, typing the story. In fact, this particular event marked the third notable time I had evaded death before turning 13.
I was in 6th grade and it was summer. My room was located in the basement of our home in Garden City, KS. Anyone familiar with a window well? I had one, which I believe was supposed to serve as an escape route in case of a fire. One night I lifted the window to allow some fresh air. In order to close the window, you must manually push the entire glass structure down and into its frame.
Glass can be quite dangerous, and I was about to learn it the hard way. The window would not go in all of the way, so I applied more force with my next push.
Harder still on the next push. It won't cooperate. The exertion increases as each effort fails and the frustration of a 12 year-old boy mounts. It was probably the fourth or fifth push when...
CRASH.
The glass shatters and I'm standing, completely bewildered and dumbfounded, before the shards which, moments ago, composed a complete and cohesive window. It takes a moment for reality to register. Did I really just do that? For a brief second, I'm pleased to discover that a frail life-form such as myself can destroy a structure as (presumably) strong as a window. I don't feel anything, only incredulity. I just broke my window with my bare hands.
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. Except, they aren't scars at this point. They are deep, bloody gashes. I know instantly that I'm in big trouble. I release a primal, blood-curdling scream and proceed to run, mortified, up the stairs and into the kitchen where my mother is preparing dinner. I cannot verbally communicate what has happened, I can only offer my wrists and the hysteria in my eyes. My mother interprets the signs and acts quickly, wrapping my wounds in dish towels. We find dad in the garage. He climbs behind the wheel of our minivan while my mother ushers me into the back.
Mom is holding my wrists with her hands. The panic in the vehicle is palpable, and it is taking the van to greater and greater speeds. I feel like I know what my poor mother is thinking: I'm about to lose my eldest son. HE'S 12 YEARS OLD. Please, God, don't let this happen. I'll do anything.
We set a world-record in covering the distance from our home to the hospital in approximately 24 seconds (which, oddly, was plenty of time for my life to flash before my eyes). I remember being practically carried into the hospital's main entrance by my parents. I remember wildly scanning the entrance and meeting the horrified expressions of people sitting in the waiting room. Somebody HELP ME.
Someone must have lead us to the E.R., but I have no recollection of it. The next thing I recall is the face of my doctor. He's elderly, but not frail. I had never seen such poise in a person. The calmness and reassurance he exudes, by some osmosis, overtakes my spastic, apocalyptic despair. I'm not going to die. My grandfatherly doctor administers the pain numbing anesthesia (though I never recalled feeling any pain, probably due to the endorphins still flowing steadily) and begins stitching my wrists back together. All the while, he lauds me for my "bravery." His reassuring words are better than the anesthesia. Thank God for this gentle, venerable Saint whom I shall never forget.
I sit here today, some 13 years after-the-fact. I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. The stitch marks are still quite noticeable. Before this incident, I had nearly drowned twice. Once, my grandfather jumped into the pool, fully clothed, to save me. His eldest grandson. In high school, I survived a spontaneous pneaumothorax (basically a hole in my lung, resulting in the worst kind of pain I've felt). Then there was the time I had my icy brush with death, climbing the mountain in Colorado (scroll down if you want to read about that particular endeavor).
I don't enumerate these experiences because I think I'm unique, only because I think I'm lucky. Not lucky in a roll-of-the-dice sort of way, either. I'm 23 and, objectively speaking, I'm quite fortunate to be alive. The scars remind me of my mortality. The incidents spark some questions, naturally. Was God watching over me? Did He save me? Why did He want to keep me alive? Am I to do something deeply impacting in this life? To what is God calling me?
I think we're all living on borrowed time. My near-death encounters were humbling. I'm frail. I can be killed in an instant. What do we do with this knowledge? I'm grateful to still occupy this physical terrain, and the experiences impress upon me a sense of responsibility. It's like God says to me I didn't rescue you without purpose, kid. Though we know we will all die, I believe that most of us regard the fact that we can perish--at any given moment--incredulously. Sometimes though, we're sent wake-up calls. Someone close to you dies. Perhaps you have a brush with death. What will you do with your borrowed time? Will you regard it as a gift? Cherish it?
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist.
"How did that happen?"
I know what you're getting at, which necessitates the following assurance:
"No, I didn't try to kill myself."
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. I had nearly forgotten them. The right-wrist scar slithers like a serpent whenever I rotate the arm. The left-wrist scar somewhat resembles South America. The wounds narrowly missed striking veins, serving as a very visceral reminder of mortality and how fortunate I am to be sitting here today, typing the story. In fact, this particular event marked the third notable time I had evaded death before turning 13.
I was in 6th grade and it was summer. My room was located in the basement of our home in Garden City, KS. Anyone familiar with a window well? I had one, which I believe was supposed to serve as an escape route in case of a fire. One night I lifted the window to allow some fresh air. In order to close the window, you must manually push the entire glass structure down and into its frame.
Glass can be quite dangerous, and I was about to learn it the hard way. The window would not go in all of the way, so I applied more force with my next push.
Harder still on the next push. It won't cooperate. The exertion increases as each effort fails and the frustration of a 12 year-old boy mounts. It was probably the fourth or fifth push when...
CRASH.
The glass shatters and I'm standing, completely bewildered and dumbfounded, before the shards which, moments ago, composed a complete and cohesive window. It takes a moment for reality to register. Did I really just do that? For a brief second, I'm pleased to discover that a frail life-form such as myself can destroy a structure as (presumably) strong as a window. I don't feel anything, only incredulity. I just broke my window with my bare hands.
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. Except, they aren't scars at this point. They are deep, bloody gashes. I know instantly that I'm in big trouble. I release a primal, blood-curdling scream and proceed to run, mortified, up the stairs and into the kitchen where my mother is preparing dinner. I cannot verbally communicate what has happened, I can only offer my wrists and the hysteria in my eyes. My mother interprets the signs and acts quickly, wrapping my wounds in dish towels. We find dad in the garage. He climbs behind the wheel of our minivan while my mother ushers me into the back.
Mom is holding my wrists with her hands. The panic in the vehicle is palpable, and it is taking the van to greater and greater speeds. I feel like I know what my poor mother is thinking: I'm about to lose my eldest son. HE'S 12 YEARS OLD. Please, God, don't let this happen. I'll do anything.
We set a world-record in covering the distance from our home to the hospital in approximately 24 seconds (which, oddly, was plenty of time for my life to flash before my eyes). I remember being practically carried into the hospital's main entrance by my parents. I remember wildly scanning the entrance and meeting the horrified expressions of people sitting in the waiting room. Somebody HELP ME.
Someone must have lead us to the E.R., but I have no recollection of it. The next thing I recall is the face of my doctor. He's elderly, but not frail. I had never seen such poise in a person. The calmness and reassurance he exudes, by some osmosis, overtakes my spastic, apocalyptic despair. I'm not going to die. My grandfatherly doctor administers the pain numbing anesthesia (though I never recalled feeling any pain, probably due to the endorphins still flowing steadily) and begins stitching my wrists back together. All the while, he lauds me for my "bravery." His reassuring words are better than the anesthesia. Thank God for this gentle, venerable Saint whom I shall never forget.
I sit here today, some 13 years after-the-fact. I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. The stitch marks are still quite noticeable. Before this incident, I had nearly drowned twice. Once, my grandfather jumped into the pool, fully clothed, to save me. His eldest grandson. In high school, I survived a spontaneous pneaumothorax (basically a hole in my lung, resulting in the worst kind of pain I've felt). Then there was the time I had my icy brush with death, climbing the mountain in Colorado (scroll down if you want to read about that particular endeavor).
I don't enumerate these experiences because I think I'm unique, only because I think I'm lucky. Not lucky in a roll-of-the-dice sort of way, either. I'm 23 and, objectively speaking, I'm quite fortunate to be alive. The scars remind me of my mortality. The incidents spark some questions, naturally. Was God watching over me? Did He save me? Why did He want to keep me alive? Am I to do something deeply impacting in this life? To what is God calling me?
I think we're all living on borrowed time. My near-death encounters were humbling. I'm frail. I can be killed in an instant. What do we do with this knowledge? I'm grateful to still occupy this physical terrain, and the experiences impress upon me a sense of responsibility. It's like God says to me I didn't rescue you without purpose, kid. Though we know we will all die, I believe that most of us regard the fact that we can perish--at any given moment--incredulously. Sometimes though, we're sent wake-up calls. Someone close to you dies. Perhaps you have a brush with death. What will you do with your borrowed time? Will you regard it as a gift? Cherish it?
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Eat, Sleep, Read. Wash, Rinse, Repeat.
For those requesting an update on my life, here's my typical day:
I wake up anywhere from 7:00-8:00. Hello new day. I turn on Jimmy Eat World loud enough so that I can hear it in the shower, but not loud enough that my neighbors batter my door town and claim my life for disturbing their slumber.
I put the coffee on and proceed to consume 2-3 cups over the course of the next couple hours. I get out my new set of highlighters and a mechanical pencil. I'm ready to read. I don't turn down my music.
I typically read until my body cries FOOD or my clock says CLASS TIME. When clock says CLASS TIME, I strap on the gas mask (because of the stench) and make my way over to my cricket infested/plauged building. I mercilessly slay all crickets in my path...which reminds me of how my mother used to swerve her van to try to run over snakes. I digress...
Once I actually get to class: As you might imagine, I sit with my peers and discuss literary theory, rhetoric and memoirs. I understand rhetoric and attempt to understand theory. Jacques Derrida makes me want to chew glass, spit it out, and then walk on the shards. Nevertheless, class periods have been the highlight of each day so far. Our first assigned memoir was James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. He's a guy who, by the time he reached 23, had been an alcoholic for ten years and a drug addict for three. It was a 430 page roller coaster ride. We read a memoir a week for the class.
I just started working in the Writing Center today, so add this to the routine. I'm here from 1:30-7:00, hence my current post. I've seen one student in this duration, but my first experience was a good one. I kill time with the internet gateway drug (Facebook) and filling out my summer study abroad application. I daydream about going to Oxford and sitting in Eagle and Child.
Brandon + Lewis + Tolkien + Oxford + Faith and Literature + 6 credit hours in a month = The Best Thing I Can Currently Imagine.
The following may genuinely shock those who know me best, but I give my honor as a Gentleman to its veracity. I cook my own dinner every single night. I'm quite proud of it too. Brandon Sayre: budding intellectual giant and aspiring culinary wizard--a man of many parts. Don't you forget it. Okay, so my culinary spectrum ranges roughly from pancakes and eggs to hamburger helper. This area is undoubtedly the most difficult in terms of being physically estranged from my parents (Mother, if you're reading this, I miss you. However, please don't look for a wife for me).
I also read after class/before dinner. Sorry, I forgot to mention that. Post dinner, I typically clear my mind playing a computer game. Judge me. This is how I fill my need for competition (well, I'm slaughtering a computer player) and some sort of escapism. It's usually rather satisfying. My best friend takes out his medical school rage by killing bad guys too. Highly therapeutic.
I read some more. I usually read until I'm too tired to continue. I can't stay up nearly as late as I used to, so I'm out by 11:00 or 12:00.
Blissful slumber.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I love it so far. I'm slowing coping with the fact that I possess only a hint of a social life (Don't worry, mom).
I've successfully killed about half an hour.
I wake up anywhere from 7:00-8:00. Hello new day. I turn on Jimmy Eat World loud enough so that I can hear it in the shower, but not loud enough that my neighbors batter my door town and claim my life for disturbing their slumber.
I put the coffee on and proceed to consume 2-3 cups over the course of the next couple hours. I get out my new set of highlighters and a mechanical pencil. I'm ready to read. I don't turn down my music.
I typically read until my body cries FOOD or my clock says CLASS TIME. When clock says CLASS TIME, I strap on the gas mask (because of the stench) and make my way over to my cricket infested/plauged building. I mercilessly slay all crickets in my path...which reminds me of how my mother used to swerve her van to try to run over snakes. I digress...
Once I actually get to class: As you might imagine, I sit with my peers and discuss literary theory, rhetoric and memoirs. I understand rhetoric and attempt to understand theory. Jacques Derrida makes me want to chew glass, spit it out, and then walk on the shards. Nevertheless, class periods have been the highlight of each day so far. Our first assigned memoir was James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. He's a guy who, by the time he reached 23, had been an alcoholic for ten years and a drug addict for three. It was a 430 page roller coaster ride. We read a memoir a week for the class.
I just started working in the Writing Center today, so add this to the routine. I'm here from 1:30-7:00, hence my current post. I've seen one student in this duration, but my first experience was a good one. I kill time with the internet gateway drug (Facebook) and filling out my summer study abroad application. I daydream about going to Oxford and sitting in Eagle and Child.
Brandon + Lewis + Tolkien + Oxford + Faith and Literature + 6 credit hours in a month = The Best Thing I Can Currently Imagine.
The following may genuinely shock those who know me best, but I give my honor as a Gentleman to its veracity. I cook my own dinner every single night. I'm quite proud of it too. Brandon Sayre: budding intellectual giant and aspiring culinary wizard--a man of many parts. Don't you forget it. Okay, so my culinary spectrum ranges roughly from pancakes and eggs to hamburger helper. This area is undoubtedly the most difficult in terms of being physically estranged from my parents (Mother, if you're reading this, I miss you. However, please don't look for a wife for me).
I also read after class/before dinner. Sorry, I forgot to mention that. Post dinner, I typically clear my mind playing a computer game. Judge me. This is how I fill my need for competition (well, I'm slaughtering a computer player) and some sort of escapism. It's usually rather satisfying. My best friend takes out his medical school rage by killing bad guys too. Highly therapeutic.
I read some more. I usually read until I'm too tired to continue. I can't stay up nearly as late as I used to, so I'm out by 11:00 or 12:00.
Blissful slumber.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I love it so far. I'm slowing coping with the fact that I possess only a hint of a social life (Don't worry, mom).
I've successfully killed about half an hour.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Amid the desolation, the plagues return
"So Moses stretched out his staff over Egypt, and the LORD made an east wind blow across the land all that day and all that night. By morning the wind had brought the locusts; they invaded all Egypt and settled down in every area of the country in great numbers." --Exodus 10:13-14
I've determined that Abilene Christian must be holding a large group of people in bondage. Else, why would God deem appropriate to smite our campus with cricket infestation? There's also the possibility that some dolt awakened a mummified priest (ala "The Mummy") who has brought with him the plagues of Egypt. Pray it is not the latter.
Cry out in anguish, doomed citizens of Abilene, for the plagues have returned.
Seriously though, I need to get a picture on here soon for all to see. Chambers Hall (The English building, of course) is literally crawling with scores upon scores of these insects. The mere sight of a them nestled on our outer wall is enough to induce violent, projectile regurgitation. One of my female peers shrieked in horror upon the sight of one in our classroom the other day, before I stamped out his life with my mighty flip flop. I can only hope there are others as galant as I on campus...a fool's hope.
"They covered all the ground until it was black."
I'd also like to report the arrival of a newfangled plague: bird excrement falling from the sky like hail. One may not safely walk beneath any tree. Here is wisdom: Cover thy food and beverage while traversing campus.
Other than these drawbacks, it is a lovely campus.
I've determined that Abilene Christian must be holding a large group of people in bondage. Else, why would God deem appropriate to smite our campus with cricket infestation? There's also the possibility that some dolt awakened a mummified priest (ala "The Mummy") who has brought with him the plagues of Egypt. Pray it is not the latter.
Cry out in anguish, doomed citizens of Abilene, for the plagues have returned.
Seriously though, I need to get a picture on here soon for all to see. Chambers Hall (The English building, of course) is literally crawling with scores upon scores of these insects. The mere sight of a them nestled on our outer wall is enough to induce violent, projectile regurgitation. One of my female peers shrieked in horror upon the sight of one in our classroom the other day, before I stamped out his life with my mighty flip flop. I can only hope there are others as galant as I on campus...a fool's hope.
"They covered all the ground until it was black."
I'd also like to report the arrival of a newfangled plague: bird excrement falling from the sky like hail. One may not safely walk beneath any tree. Here is wisdom: Cover thy food and beverage while traversing campus.
Other than these drawbacks, it is a lovely campus.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Embarking on the Scholastic Journey
So I just finished my second day of graduate school. I'm happy to learn that I will be challenged here. I just counted up my textbooks for my three courses and (drumroll please)....it comes to a paltry sum of 28. I shall require another bookshelf quite soon.
All of my professors are amiable and helpful. Dr. Rankin insists we call him Bill, while he addresses us as Dr. (last name). Amusing little inversion, no? I appreciate that they all seem to regard us as peers rather than wielding their superior intellect and experience over us. Some students respond to be treated like crap or indifferently, I suppose, but I anticipate myself molding my teaching methodology after what I've been exposed to thus far at ACU.
As for my course load: I've got Literary Theory, Rhetorical and Composition Praxis, and Contemporary Literary Non-fiction. As to the third class, I was told the course would be "Boundaries of Truth in Fiction." Imagine the surprise upon glancing at the bold letters at the top of the syllabus. "Oh crap, I'm in the wrong place." It turns out that the premise of the course still involves exploring "Truth," just through non-fiction...12 books of it, to be precise.
Comp/Rhet Praxis has me really excited because we actually discuss how to teach. All my standardized testing in the past reveals I'm strongest in rhetoric, so I'm quite interested to see how I perform in this class.
My brain is getting heavily just writing this stuff. Gone are the days of being a social butterfly. I'll be the guy constantly encamped in the writing center, entombed by stacks of books--which I'm sure will all bear coffee stains before long. Sounds a bit depressing, but this is what I love and I'm blessed to be doing it.
Pictures and such to come soon.
All of my professors are amiable and helpful. Dr. Rankin insists we call him Bill, while he addresses us as Dr. (last name). Amusing little inversion, no? I appreciate that they all seem to regard us as peers rather than wielding their superior intellect and experience over us. Some students respond to be treated like crap or indifferently, I suppose, but I anticipate myself molding my teaching methodology after what I've been exposed to thus far at ACU.
As for my course load: I've got Literary Theory, Rhetorical and Composition Praxis, and Contemporary Literary Non-fiction. As to the third class, I was told the course would be "Boundaries of Truth in Fiction." Imagine the surprise upon glancing at the bold letters at the top of the syllabus. "Oh crap, I'm in the wrong place." It turns out that the premise of the course still involves exploring "Truth," just through non-fiction...12 books of it, to be precise.
Comp/Rhet Praxis has me really excited because we actually discuss how to teach. All my standardized testing in the past reveals I'm strongest in rhetoric, so I'm quite interested to see how I perform in this class.
My brain is getting heavily just writing this stuff. Gone are the days of being a social butterfly. I'll be the guy constantly encamped in the writing center, entombed by stacks of books--which I'm sure will all bear coffee stains before long. Sounds a bit depressing, but this is what I love and I'm blessed to be doing it.
Pictures and such to come soon.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Self-inflicted woe
Yet if you devote your heart to him
and stretch out your hands to him,
If you put away the sin that is in your hand
and allow no evil to dwell in your tent,
then you will lift up your face without shame;
you will stand firm and without fear.
You will surely forget your trouble,
recalling it only as waters gone by.
Job 11:13-16
and stretch out your hands to him,
If you put away the sin that is in your hand
and allow no evil to dwell in your tent,
then you will lift up your face without shame;
you will stand firm and without fear.
You will surely forget your trouble,
recalling it only as waters gone by.
Job 11:13-16
Isolation can do things to the mind. Though until yesterday I was blessed to have the company of a close friend, I've felt my mind and soul aching--asking me to search within myself. I attempt to analyze every so often the course of my life: who I am, who've I been recently, my struggles, my sins, my weaknesses, and my relationships. Through all of this, I attempt to gain some insight as to the direction my life will head if I continue on my present heading.
Regarding the passage above: I've been reading Job the past few days and have been struck with the applications I've been able to draw. It took a great deal of misfortune to finally crack Job and for him to assume the role of the undeserving victim. God strips Job completely bare. Though incredulous to the words of criticism offered by his three friends, I began to wonder if our own wayward and misguided mindsets are often the source of our woe. It's easy to recoil in the face of strife and assume the role of the victim, but I believe God tries to communicate the areas in our life needing correction through the unfortunate patterns that develop in our lives. How much more beneficial to seek God and to improve oneself than to lament our pain?
I realize now that I've been quite a fool insofar as I've been on a quest for comfort. Not only have I been on the quest for comfort, but I've sought comfort and validation through other people and things--not God. I wrote in a previous post how we all seem to believe that if we just had that one thing that seems to elude us, we'd somehow be okay and happy. For the longest time, in my own life, that has been a relationship. The outcome of my pursuit seems now fairly predictable: lots of pain received and dished out, innumerable misunderstandings, regrets, and (most unfortunately, perhaps) friendships severed. I think sometimes we have to be corrected harshly before we can resolve to make changes in our lives. In Job 5:17-18, Eliphaz offers the following words to his beleaguered friend:
Blessed is the man whom God corrects;
so do not despise the discipline of the Almighty.
For he wounds, but he also binds up;
he injures, but his hands also heal.
Sometimes we receive a gut-check from above. As somewhat of a side-note, let me say that it's incredible the amount of clarity and peace can be received through simply reading the Bible. I didn't find it coincidental that I found my way to the book of Job when I finally realized I needed to actually seek God. Seeking God is the crux of the matter. All this time I've bemoaned my own misfortune, I wonder how earnestly I've sought God instead of comfort and happiness. Not surprisingly, I was reminded of the following quote: "If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth--only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin with and, in the end, despair." --C.S. Lewis.
Though it's difficult, I consider myself blessed for the correction I've received. I wish to stand firm, to lift my face without shame, and to forget my troubles as water that has passed under the bridge. Thankfully, God has yet to give up on me. I hope you'll take heart that He hasn't given up on you, either.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Abilene Christian University
Today Paul and I went exploring on the campus. The most common words uttered today were "wow," "good grief," and from Paul "I'm jealous." The campus is incredible. There are courtyards everywhere, trees (!), art work and scultures in front of nearly every major building (including a spectacular display of rock, water, and plants at the university's entrance called "Jacob's dream"), and much more.
I would describe the campus as the oasis in the middle of the desert. The town is not impressive by any stretch of the imagination, but I will be spending most of my time on campus anyway--a fact that makes me quite excited. The interior of each building was as impressive as the exterior. The Bible building was remarkable: equipped with a spiral staircase, a very nice chapel, a train-staion-esque portion (for lack of better description), numerous paintings...etc.
The student center has a campus store vastly superior to that of OC. There are several fast food chain restaurants inside and a bowling alley on the bottom floor--because their student center actually requires multiple levels.
The library blew me away. First of all, there's a Starbucks on the 2nd level (including a Starbucks OFFICE nearby, which Paul and I both found incredible). The Theological Room of Reading was fantastic--it alone may house more books than the entire first floor of the OC library. Needless to say, I believe I shall enjoy the hours I spend in this building, likely sipping on my Starbucks macchiato as I research.
Lest I forget, the campus has a football and baseball field--making the OC facilities look rather paltry in comparison, I'm afraid. If I can get over the omnipresence of Purple, I believe I'll have quite a nice time.
More to come later, I'm sure. For now I must continue getting organized in my new apartment (which deserves a description and post of its own).
I would describe the campus as the oasis in the middle of the desert. The town is not impressive by any stretch of the imagination, but I will be spending most of my time on campus anyway--a fact that makes me quite excited. The interior of each building was as impressive as the exterior. The Bible building was remarkable: equipped with a spiral staircase, a very nice chapel, a train-staion-esque portion (for lack of better description), numerous paintings...etc.
The student center has a campus store vastly superior to that of OC. There are several fast food chain restaurants inside and a bowling alley on the bottom floor--because their student center actually requires multiple levels.
The library blew me away. First of all, there's a Starbucks on the 2nd level (including a Starbucks OFFICE nearby, which Paul and I both found incredible). The Theological Room of Reading was fantastic--it alone may house more books than the entire first floor of the OC library. Needless to say, I believe I shall enjoy the hours I spend in this building, likely sipping on my Starbucks macchiato as I research.
Lest I forget, the campus has a football and baseball field--making the OC facilities look rather paltry in comparison, I'm afraid. If I can get over the omnipresence of Purple, I believe I'll have quite a nice time.
More to come later, I'm sure. For now I must continue getting organized in my new apartment (which deserves a description and post of its own).
Thursday, August 16, 2007
To everything, there is a season
So it's finally registering. The end of my final pre-adult summer has essentially ended. I daresay I've learned some things over the past few months and stand poised for chapter: Graduate School.
Lessons learned:
J.K. Rowling can write a whole lot better than I wanted to believe. Any aspiring author must read constantly--a fact voiced by every successful author I've had the opportunity to meet/hear speak. Reading the Potter series was pretty eye-opening in the sense that I was awakened to the caliber of writing one must produce to earn a fortune comparable to that of J.K. Rowling. Strange that reading something so enjoyable can also be considered research as well, no?
If you're going to paint a house by yourself during the dog days of summer, it's best to do so either in the morning or in the evening. Duh. What did I do most of the time? Painted during the middle of the afternoon. At least I can boast being a darker shade of Caucasian.
Adulthood is freaking expensive. When you move into a new place, there's a deposit or some other type of fee for everything. I had a conversation this afternoon with one of my undergrad professors about "good" debt and "bad" debt. Luckily, student loans qualify as the former, she said. She advised me to find a trust-fund baby wife in Abilene. In all honesty, though, I'm elated to be doing something I anticipate to bring me much fulfillment and joy. I can't do Corporate America...sorry. For all those who share the end goal of fulfillment/making a difference in the lives of others--as opposed to getting rich--I salute you!
Jet skiing is fabulous.
Misery usually doesn't last, though there are times we cannot possibly see any hope of respite. I suppose the same can be said for happiness. I do believe my faith developed a bit over the summer, and I try more and more to allow God to do what is best for me, for "the best schemes plans of mice and men go oft awry" indeed. I feel like I could write a novel on that last sentence, but that Steinbeck guy already did. Suffice it to say that trusting God (and surrendering your own "control") is one of the most difficult things to do. I hope I'm getting better.
I believe I'll insanely miss my mother's cooking. But...I do have a crock pot to work with. And a George Foreman grill...
I'll be happy to report on the grad school scene in Abilene soon. I make the trek early tomorrow morning, and will be interested to see if this place is the desolate wastleand I've envisioned through the descriptions of various Texans. I have this picture of Luke Skywalker's home planet of Tatooine in my head...hope I'm wrong.
Lessons learned:
J.K. Rowling can write a whole lot better than I wanted to believe. Any aspiring author must read constantly--a fact voiced by every successful author I've had the opportunity to meet/hear speak. Reading the Potter series was pretty eye-opening in the sense that I was awakened to the caliber of writing one must produce to earn a fortune comparable to that of J.K. Rowling. Strange that reading something so enjoyable can also be considered research as well, no?
If you're going to paint a house by yourself during the dog days of summer, it's best to do so either in the morning or in the evening. Duh. What did I do most of the time? Painted during the middle of the afternoon. At least I can boast being a darker shade of Caucasian.
Adulthood is freaking expensive. When you move into a new place, there's a deposit or some other type of fee for everything. I had a conversation this afternoon with one of my undergrad professors about "good" debt and "bad" debt. Luckily, student loans qualify as the former, she said. She advised me to find a trust-fund baby wife in Abilene. In all honesty, though, I'm elated to be doing something I anticipate to bring me much fulfillment and joy. I can't do Corporate America...sorry. For all those who share the end goal of fulfillment/making a difference in the lives of others--as opposed to getting rich--I salute you!
Jet skiing is fabulous.
Misery usually doesn't last, though there are times we cannot possibly see any hope of respite. I suppose the same can be said for happiness. I do believe my faith developed a bit over the summer, and I try more and more to allow God to do what is best for me, for "the best schemes plans of mice and men go oft awry" indeed. I feel like I could write a novel on that last sentence, but that Steinbeck guy already did. Suffice it to say that trusting God (and surrendering your own "control") is one of the most difficult things to do. I hope I'm getting better.
I believe I'll insanely miss my mother's cooking. But...I do have a crock pot to work with. And a George Foreman grill...
I'll be happy to report on the grad school scene in Abilene soon. I make the trek early tomorrow morning, and will be interested to see if this place is the desolate wastleand I've envisioned through the descriptions of various Texans. I have this picture of Luke Skywalker's home planet of Tatooine in my head...hope I'm wrong.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Blasphemy
The dominant color of my new school is purple. The mascot is the Wildcat.
I'm surprised the residents of Lawrence have yet to lynch me.
I'm surprised the residents of Lawrence have yet to lynch me.
Adulthood....alas!
Pro-rated August rent: $329
UHaul one-way to Abilene: $232
TXU electricity deposit: $250
New tires for Jeep: $450
The prospect of being broke by the time I reach the Texas border: Sobering
Resolving to write a best-seller by the time I'm 30: ......Priceless
UHaul one-way to Abilene: $232
TXU electricity deposit: $250
New tires for Jeep: $450
The prospect of being broke by the time I reach the Texas border: Sobering
Resolving to write a best-seller by the time I'm 30: ......Priceless
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Transforming potential into reality
"The smallest good act today is the capture of a strategic point from which, a few months later, you may be able to go on to victories you never dreamed of."
--Lewis, Mere Christianity
I want to expound on something I wrote in my last post.
"I believe God does not wish us to be idle, and that the unhappiness and discontent that follow long durations of it offer proof that God wants us to live up to our potentials and do great things with our lives."
Granted, there are folks who drift through life in a purple haze and don't value their existence enough to lament their aimlessness. The existence of such people would seem to contradict the belief I posit in quotations above. However, I personally believe this seeming indifference to be veiled cowardice. I think a lot of people are afraid of giving their all, being passionate about life...which I suppose makes some sense. If they give their all and fail, where does that leave them? In the words of George McFly, "I just don't know if I could take that kind of rejection!"
Lately a good friend and I have discussed how we desire to do something. We both think we've been blessed with abilities and potential to succeed and leave a lasting mark in life. I recently realized that we both needed to grow up, stop bemoaning our boredom, and do something. I believe God opens doors, but that we have to put ourselves in position to be successful! The thing I of which I am most proud in regard to my college career is this: I allowed myself to be placed in leadership positions which stretched me and forced me to mature. I immersed myself as fully as I could in the campus and busied myself with various responsibilities in addition to my academics.
I believe to busy yourself is to allow God to give you a sense of fulfillment. This summer has been good for me in several ways. I've had time alone to think about my life and the course I wish to follow. One of the things I realized is that I cannot live long without being immersed in something--which is partially why I opted to go to graduate school in the fall. After I have been idle for any decent duration, something within me groans. I am not satisfied. There is much more to do in this life, much more to be. Earlier this summer, I was miserable, but then I was offered a path..a means to end my discontent. The decision was not difficult. In effect, I feel I chose happiness. I think we're all faced with similar choices every so often. I am reminded of the lyrics of a favorite song of mine: "If I don't let myself be happy now, then when? If not now, when?"
An important point to remember: we must be careful with that which we busy ourselves. Many activities and pursuits may fill the time, but will they all offer you fulfillment? There come times when we all must choose to either listen to the whispers blown to our hearts--which I perceive to be God imploring "let me help you!"--or ignore them, elongating our misery.
Here's to not being satisfied, to making realities of dreams and potential, to putting ourselves in a position to be successful.
--Lewis, Mere Christianity
I want to expound on something I wrote in my last post.
"I believe God does not wish us to be idle, and that the unhappiness and discontent that follow long durations of it offer proof that God wants us to live up to our potentials and do great things with our lives."
Granted, there are folks who drift through life in a purple haze and don't value their existence enough to lament their aimlessness. The existence of such people would seem to contradict the belief I posit in quotations above. However, I personally believe this seeming indifference to be veiled cowardice. I think a lot of people are afraid of giving their all, being passionate about life...which I suppose makes some sense. If they give their all and fail, where does that leave them? In the words of George McFly, "I just don't know if I could take that kind of rejection!"
Lately a good friend and I have discussed how we desire to do something. We both think we've been blessed with abilities and potential to succeed and leave a lasting mark in life. I recently realized that we both needed to grow up, stop bemoaning our boredom, and do something. I believe God opens doors, but that we have to put ourselves in position to be successful! The thing I of which I am most proud in regard to my college career is this: I allowed myself to be placed in leadership positions which stretched me and forced me to mature. I immersed myself as fully as I could in the campus and busied myself with various responsibilities in addition to my academics.
I believe to busy yourself is to allow God to give you a sense of fulfillment. This summer has been good for me in several ways. I've had time alone to think about my life and the course I wish to follow. One of the things I realized is that I cannot live long without being immersed in something--which is partially why I opted to go to graduate school in the fall. After I have been idle for any decent duration, something within me groans. I am not satisfied. There is much more to do in this life, much more to be. Earlier this summer, I was miserable, but then I was offered a path..a means to end my discontent. The decision was not difficult. In effect, I feel I chose happiness. I think we're all faced with similar choices every so often. I am reminded of the lyrics of a favorite song of mine: "If I don't let myself be happy now, then when? If not now, when?"
An important point to remember: we must be careful with that which we busy ourselves. Many activities and pursuits may fill the time, but will they all offer you fulfillment? There come times when we all must choose to either listen to the whispers blown to our hearts--which I perceive to be God imploring "let me help you!"--or ignore them, elongating our misery.
Here's to not being satisfied, to making realities of dreams and potential, to putting ourselves in a position to be successful.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Things I Believe In
I believe in saying "please" and "thank you"
I believe that people are to be cherished and not used
I believe in the power of literature and the importance of literacy, which are both gifts we ought to share with the world
I believe God works and communicates to us through those close to us
I believe Jimmy Eat World is the best band ever
I believe fantasy and myth offer compelling truths on reality
I believe that happiness is a choice, but that we can't make ourselves happy...if that makes sense
I believe KU won't win another national title during my lifetime, simply because I so fervently desire them to do so
I believe God does not wish us to be idle, and that the unhappiness and discontent that follow long durations of it offer proof that God wants us to live up to our potentials and do great things with our lives
I believe in the universality of the Moral Law: that we all know inherently how we ought to act and behave to one another
I believe in telling people what they mean to you
I believe that love is a verb
I believe in the wisdom of Yoda, Dumbledore, Gandalf, and Mr. Miyagi
I believe we need each other
I believe television poisons minds and destroys morals
I believe in the power of fellowship
I believe in satire as an effective means of criticism
I believe my family is wonderful
I'm beginning to believe in "tough love''
I believe in the importance of laughter
I believe in the necessity of pain
I believe in delayed gratification
I believe televangelists are not to be trusted
I believe God is not finished molding me or you
I believe money provides security, but not happiness
I believe that two opposing forces constantly battle in our thoughts, and that this tension offers compelling proof of spiritual warfare
I believe in being a Gentleman
I believe it takes more faith to be an atheist than to be a Christian
I believe a lot of people get married too young and too quickly
I believe that authentic relationships are worth the vulnerability
I believe character is more imporant (though less valued by society) than appearance, wealth and fame
I believe compassion the answer to many of the world's problems
I believe honest doubt trumps blind belief
I believe that people are to be cherished and not used
I believe in the power of literature and the importance of literacy, which are both gifts we ought to share with the world
I believe God works and communicates to us through those close to us
I believe Jimmy Eat World is the best band ever
I believe fantasy and myth offer compelling truths on reality
I believe that happiness is a choice, but that we can't make ourselves happy...if that makes sense
I believe KU won't win another national title during my lifetime, simply because I so fervently desire them to do so
I believe God does not wish us to be idle, and that the unhappiness and discontent that follow long durations of it offer proof that God wants us to live up to our potentials and do great things with our lives
I believe in the universality of the Moral Law: that we all know inherently how we ought to act and behave to one another
I believe in telling people what they mean to you
I believe that love is a verb
I believe in the wisdom of Yoda, Dumbledore, Gandalf, and Mr. Miyagi
I believe we need each other
I believe television poisons minds and destroys morals
I believe in the power of fellowship
I believe in satire as an effective means of criticism
I believe my family is wonderful
I'm beginning to believe in "tough love''
I believe in the importance of laughter
I believe in the necessity of pain
I believe in delayed gratification
I believe televangelists are not to be trusted
I believe God is not finished molding me or you
I believe money provides security, but not happiness
I believe that two opposing forces constantly battle in our thoughts, and that this tension offers compelling proof of spiritual warfare
I believe in being a Gentleman
I believe it takes more faith to be an atheist than to be a Christian
I believe a lot of people get married too young and too quickly
I believe that authentic relationships are worth the vulnerability
I believe character is more imporant (though less valued by society) than appearance, wealth and fame
I believe compassion the answer to many of the world's problems
I believe honest doubt trumps blind belief
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Cheating Icy Death
So I woke up at around 6:45 this morning after a lovely three hours sleep. Restless, I arose and decided to go about my day a few hours earlier than normal. I've been rummaging through assorted boxes I brought back from college, and I stumbled upon something my friends may find amusing. I was required to write a life experience in 2nd person narrative for Feature Writing. Here's what I turned in:
Inside your friend's SUV, your ears begin to pop as the elevation climbs higher and higher. You're on spring break, destination: Durango, CO. You've been looking forward to this for quite some time, a chance to finally escape the confines of classrooms and the various dramtics of your college life, which at times--much to your chagrin--strongly resembles an episode of Dawson's Creek.
The prospect of seeing mountains and experiencing the outdoors excites you even more than the fact that, for a week, you have absolutely no agenda. No concerns at all, except for that paper on Huckleberry Finn that'll be due within a week of your return. That can wait; it is time to frolic in the woods, imbibe the pine, and be free. Above all, it's time to do something both indisputably manly and profoundly stupid.
You encourage several of your friends to climb the mountain behind the resort. Some reluctantly agree at last and fill their backpacks with bottled water and walkie talkies. When the testosterone flows becomes palpable, your entourage sets foot to the trail in the middle of the afternoon. You don't really consider the amount of time it'll take to reach the top and return before the darkness sets, nor are you particularly concerned with your attire--a pair of Chuck Taylor's, ankle length socks, a pair of jeans, and a hoodie.
Undaunted, you plod through the snow (which is at least two feet deep) to the base of the mountain. Some of your number wise up--or chicken out (man rhetoric)--and drop out. They endure the jeers from the remaining three Neanderthals as they return safely to the resort. Proud Chief of the Neanderthals, you lead the way forth. You tell yourself you have a point to prove, but to whom you know not.
As the incline becomes increasingly steep, the ice cuts into your pathetic shoes and you begin to feel sharp pain in your feet and ankles. The situation does not improve. You switch with David and Lee as the designated leader, whose job is to plod a path of footprints so the followers don't have to sink into snow with each step. The destination seems to near, but you are more concerned with your feet and the setting sun--it'll undoubtedly be dark shortly after you reach the top. You brave the pain. "It has become a matter of pride," you tell yourself.
At last you reach what appears the closest thing to the clearing. Behold, you are on top of the world's shortest mountain. It's difficult to enjoy the moment, you know that you have to get to the bottom of the mountain very soon. After a few primal screams of triumph, you encourage the others that it's time to get down and get warm. It's the best idea you've had all day.
The descent proves much more perilous and painful than you could have imagined. The temperature drops dramatically and darkness sets in about 20 minutes into your descent. You can't safely walk down, so you're forced to sit, rendering your buttocks a most painful sliding apparatus. You start to worry about frostbite. You've seen those poor souls on the Discovery channel with blackened fingers.
The experience hits rock bottom when you see David lose his footing, fall, and barrel roll down the mountain. His forward motion is violently stopped by a tree...which he meets head first. You panic. What else can you do? You start yelling his name repeatedly. He doesn't answer. You immediately assume the worst.
Suddenly, he speaks. He's okay. It's time to get off this mountain. You contact the "pansies" sitting comfortably back in the resort via walkie talkie and relate the situation to them. Though you think it futile, the guys decide to come out in the car and attempt to find you. You no longer have any feeling below your shins...or in your buttocks.
At last, just before you profanely curse your existence and look for an icy tomb into which you can crawl, you catch sight of the most glorious vision yet to bless your eyes--the bottom of the mountain, the road, and your rescue team waiting in the SUV. Your icy hell has subsided. The friends graciously escort you back to the resort's pool area, which is thankfully equipped with a sauna. You literally thaw out and bless the heavens when you realize you aren't going to lose any appendages.
You wake up the next morning wondering if what had happened the previous night was merely a figment of your imagination. You decide it was real and scoff at Death's icy grasp which you so daringly escaped. Then you realize you almost died. The room seems suddenly much colder.
You shrug your shoulders and decide upon a warm spring break destination for next year.
Inside your friend's SUV, your ears begin to pop as the elevation climbs higher and higher. You're on spring break, destination: Durango, CO. You've been looking forward to this for quite some time, a chance to finally escape the confines of classrooms and the various dramtics of your college life, which at times--much to your chagrin--strongly resembles an episode of Dawson's Creek.
The prospect of seeing mountains and experiencing the outdoors excites you even more than the fact that, for a week, you have absolutely no agenda. No concerns at all, except for that paper on Huckleberry Finn that'll be due within a week of your return. That can wait; it is time to frolic in the woods, imbibe the pine, and be free. Above all, it's time to do something both indisputably manly and profoundly stupid.
You encourage several of your friends to climb the mountain behind the resort. Some reluctantly agree at last and fill their backpacks with bottled water and walkie talkies. When the testosterone flows becomes palpable, your entourage sets foot to the trail in the middle of the afternoon. You don't really consider the amount of time it'll take to reach the top and return before the darkness sets, nor are you particularly concerned with your attire--a pair of Chuck Taylor's, ankle length socks, a pair of jeans, and a hoodie.
Undaunted, you plod through the snow (which is at least two feet deep) to the base of the mountain. Some of your number wise up--or chicken out (man rhetoric)--and drop out. They endure the jeers from the remaining three Neanderthals as they return safely to the resort. Proud Chief of the Neanderthals, you lead the way forth. You tell yourself you have a point to prove, but to whom you know not.
As the incline becomes increasingly steep, the ice cuts into your pathetic shoes and you begin to feel sharp pain in your feet and ankles. The situation does not improve. You switch with David and Lee as the designated leader, whose job is to plod a path of footprints so the followers don't have to sink into snow with each step. The destination seems to near, but you are more concerned with your feet and the setting sun--it'll undoubtedly be dark shortly after you reach the top. You brave the pain. "It has become a matter of pride," you tell yourself.
At last you reach what appears the closest thing to the clearing. Behold, you are on top of the world's shortest mountain. It's difficult to enjoy the moment, you know that you have to get to the bottom of the mountain very soon. After a few primal screams of triumph, you encourage the others that it's time to get down and get warm. It's the best idea you've had all day.
The descent proves much more perilous and painful than you could have imagined. The temperature drops dramatically and darkness sets in about 20 minutes into your descent. You can't safely walk down, so you're forced to sit, rendering your buttocks a most painful sliding apparatus. You start to worry about frostbite. You've seen those poor souls on the Discovery channel with blackened fingers.
The experience hits rock bottom when you see David lose his footing, fall, and barrel roll down the mountain. His forward motion is violently stopped by a tree...which he meets head first. You panic. What else can you do? You start yelling his name repeatedly. He doesn't answer. You immediately assume the worst.
Suddenly, he speaks. He's okay. It's time to get off this mountain. You contact the "pansies" sitting comfortably back in the resort via walkie talkie and relate the situation to them. Though you think it futile, the guys decide to come out in the car and attempt to find you. You no longer have any feeling below your shins...or in your buttocks.
At last, just before you profanely curse your existence and look for an icy tomb into which you can crawl, you catch sight of the most glorious vision yet to bless your eyes--the bottom of the mountain, the road, and your rescue team waiting in the SUV. Your icy hell has subsided. The friends graciously escort you back to the resort's pool area, which is thankfully equipped with a sauna. You literally thaw out and bless the heavens when you realize you aren't going to lose any appendages.
You wake up the next morning wondering if what had happened the previous night was merely a figment of your imagination. You decide it was real and scoff at Death's icy grasp which you so daringly escaped. Then you realize you almost died. The room seems suddenly much colder.
You shrug your shoulders and decide upon a warm spring break destination for next year.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Giving up the chase
"Since we are always planning to be happy, it is inevitable that we should never be so."
Blaise Pascal
A pensive mood waylaid me today while I continued my painting project...I'm sorry if it doesn't flow very well, but it needed to come out.
We spend an awful lot of time trying to figure out how we can be more happy. Regrettably, other people can become the well from which we attempt to extract as much joy or validation as possible. We don't care about the trail of tears or devastation left in our wake, as our happiness is a goal no mere mortal will deny us. Once we've siphoned as much amusement as possible from a person or object (frightening how often we treat them the same), we pack up and move on to something else. New relationships, new toys, etc. Far too many have adopted this philosophy on life...but tell me, how well does this attempt at securing happiness succeed?
I believe many of us think that if we just had that one thing we're missing (be it a relationship, a job, some material object...fill in the blank), that we'd somehow be okay. And so we labor in vain to procure the missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle. I think there's a reason God denies us certain things in life. In our Wednesday night Bible study, we watched one of Rob Bell's "Nooma" videos. He related an episode he had with his 5 year old son in the mall. It's something we all remember from childhood (at least those of us who weren't completely spoiled): the kid sees something spectacular dangling from a kiosk, and his eyes light up. "Daddy, I NEEEEED it!!!" Of course, the parent knows that the child certainly does not need the toy, it may even be harmful to him.
Bell discussed the perspective of the parent in relation to that of the child. The parent obviously possesses the wider perspective, knowing better than the child what he/she really needs and does not need. You could cater to every fancy of your child, but would that really be helping your child? Would it really demonstrate love? The correlation to our relationship with God ought to be obvious. Is it not possible that God knows better than we do what's good for us? God possesses an infinitely deeper knowledge than ours, and must at times deny us what deem the "missing piece." It's important to remember (and to believe) that God does this with best interest at heart: Jer 29:11 (NIV) "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
Donald Miller drew a cartoon in his book Blue Like Jazz, which depicts Don Rabbit's pursuit of Sexy Carrot. The rabbit chases the carrot throughout the state, across the country, and to the moon. At long last, Don Rabbit succeeds with a desperation lunge. Then, Miller presents the following moral: "If you work hard, stay focused, and never give up, you will eventually get what you want out of life." But on the next page, the Rabbit is dead--having choked on the carrot. Miller says that "I think the things we want most in life, the things we think will set us free, are not the things we need...sometimes the things we want most in life are the things that will kill us."
Here's to giving up the chase for happiness, which was, from the inception of humanity, a fool's errand. I don't mean that to sound so bleak, but I think we do ourselves and others a disservice by making happiness our end goal.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Jimmy and Harry
Preface: It's been too long since I have utilized writing as my creative, therapeutic outlet. Being several months removed from my beloved Opinions Editor post, my muse grows weary with my continued negligence. Sorry, muse. Prepare then, all ye brave and faitful, for my random musings, rants, and (hopefully) insights.
Friday, July 20 was one of the better days in recent memory. I had anticipated the release of The Deathly Hallows since finishing book 6 a couple weeks ago. Ergo, the release of the newest book already dictated that this heavenly decreed a good day.
The day improved exponentially when my brother Nick interrupted my painting project, bearing the good tidings of Jimmy Eat World appearing that night in Lawrence at the old Granada theatre. Ticket price? A paltry sum of $20.
Me, Jimmy, and Harry, joined together by some miraculous alignment of the stars.
We arrived at around a quarter till 8 and amicably endured the subdued, Indy opening act for the next half hour. --DOWN WITH OPENING ACTS-- After what seemed like aeons, watching the tech crew ensure each of J.E.W.'s 57 guitars operated properly, my favorite band took the stage. The place was tightly packed and it wasn't long before the sweat drops began to cascade down my face, back, etc. (too much information?). I didn't mind in the slightest. Looking around and taking in the audience reception of Jimmy, the concert seemed the equivalent of a religious experience for many. Hands were raised, eyes were closed, and Jimmy was praised.
I was pleased to glean just how much the band seemed to be enjoying their performance, as I'm sure they have slightly cooler places to visit than Lawrence, KS. Though appalled that they never played "Sweetness," they did play my favorite song of theirs, a lesser known from the Clarity album entitled "For Me This is Heaven." I was in heaven.
Part II of blissful day commenced upon our arrival to Hasting's to collect Deathly Hallows. The transition from Rock and Roll to the world of Nerdery was somehow seamless that night. I strolled past a portly wizard stationed at a table bearing the sorting hat, conducting a sorting ceremony for all aspiring witches and wizards. Gathering amusement as I spotted a pretty accurate childhood portrayal of Draco Malfoy, I almost lamented not giving in fully to my nerdery by ariving in costume. Almost.
The waiting wasn't quite as bad as I expected, nor the chaos as chaotic as I expected. Nick reported younglings casting unforgiveable curses upon one antother. Oh, to be young again...
I devoured a pot of coffee and various leftover food items because finally keeling over at 5 a.m. Thus ended my night of heaven on earth.
More to come on life, love, and graduate school.
Peace and good tidings.
Friday, July 20 was one of the better days in recent memory. I had anticipated the release of The Deathly Hallows since finishing book 6 a couple weeks ago. Ergo, the release of the newest book already dictated that this heavenly decreed a good day.
The day improved exponentially when my brother Nick interrupted my painting project, bearing the good tidings of Jimmy Eat World appearing that night in Lawrence at the old Granada theatre. Ticket price? A paltry sum of $20.
Me, Jimmy, and Harry, joined together by some miraculous alignment of the stars.
We arrived at around a quarter till 8 and amicably endured the subdued, Indy opening act for the next half hour. --DOWN WITH OPENING ACTS-- After what seemed like aeons, watching the tech crew ensure each of J.E.W.'s 57 guitars operated properly, my favorite band took the stage. The place was tightly packed and it wasn't long before the sweat drops began to cascade down my face, back, etc. (too much information?). I didn't mind in the slightest. Looking around and taking in the audience reception of Jimmy, the concert seemed the equivalent of a religious experience for many. Hands were raised, eyes were closed, and Jimmy was praised.
I was pleased to glean just how much the band seemed to be enjoying their performance, as I'm sure they have slightly cooler places to visit than Lawrence, KS. Though appalled that they never played "Sweetness," they did play my favorite song of theirs, a lesser known from the Clarity album entitled "For Me This is Heaven." I was in heaven.
Part II of blissful day commenced upon our arrival to Hasting's to collect Deathly Hallows. The transition from Rock and Roll to the world of Nerdery was somehow seamless that night. I strolled past a portly wizard stationed at a table bearing the sorting hat, conducting a sorting ceremony for all aspiring witches and wizards. Gathering amusement as I spotted a pretty accurate childhood portrayal of Draco Malfoy, I almost lamented not giving in fully to my nerdery by ariving in costume. Almost.
The waiting wasn't quite as bad as I expected, nor the chaos as chaotic as I expected. Nick reported younglings casting unforgiveable curses upon one antother. Oh, to be young again...
I devoured a pot of coffee and various leftover food items because finally keeling over at 5 a.m. Thus ended my night of heaven on earth.
More to come on life, love, and graduate school.
Peace and good tidings.
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