If I could have it my way, I'd like to live my 20s a few times over. This decade of life makes all the difference once it is completed and none when you're in the midst of it. Not accomplishing anything substantial by the time you're 25 is not really a big deal. There are flimsy excuses and legitimate reasons aplenty to offer if you're not well-established and successful--at least by the world's standards--at that age. As a twentysomething, life is an exciting and frightening welter of possibilities; you can dip your toes into the pool of adulthood without being required to get all the way in. But come 30, your stars should be aligning...or, you should be calming down, anyway.
I actually believe that these years are vital, irreplaceable for the development of character, real values (not what Mom and Dad so graciously conveyed to you), and the lifestyle that will typify the rest of your adulthood. Still, there is an open-ended and giddy quality to the twenties that I'm keen to hold onto. If I could be in my 20s several times over I would opt for the following...
...a PhD before age 30. Serve as a TA, slave over a dissertation, get an impressive credential, move to a small town to teach ungrateful undergraduates who don't look much older than me...
...service overseas. Work among the poor, speak another language, write about what I see, have an open door policy, own less clothes, never want to come back...
...a few kids--have more energy for this in my 20s than I will in my 30s. Buy small shoes, read children's books before bedtime, take trips to the library, nap in the afternoon, have no kids in the house after age 50...
...independent musician. Quit my job, live out of my car, sing in interesting bars, play piano and learn guitar, get a few tattoos, make a living by age 30...
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Oh that? It's a black hole/television
With my budget, if I lived by myself, I would either have a 10 inch television with 2 channels, or I would have no television whatsoever. But I don't live by myself. I live with my aunt, who, a few years ago, invested in a large, sleek, flatscreen TV with HD ("High Definition" for those of you still living in the 1990s). It's a miracle of science, really, and, to be honest, I enjoy basking in its glow. Lazily reclining on the couch and watching an episode of "Mad Men" is one of my favorite ways to check out. And there are worse means to escape, I hope you agree.
Now, relatively speaking, I don't watch that much TV. There are a number of people I know of who have "shows" they watch or TiVo (read "record") every evening--"I have to get home to catch 'my shows'". Nonetheless, I wonder what sort of person I would be, or what kinds of things I would have done, had I never watched one minute of television. What an idea!
Television, it seems to me, is just another way to shield yourself from the world, from its cold realities, responsibilities, and overwhelming possibilities. TV is insular in the way that suburbs are, or personal cars, or large bank accounts; it induces the same passivity, the same softness.
Ironically, I'm actually too tired now to finish this post...if I hadn't viewed x number of hours of television, perhaps I wouldn't be so soft and could stay up later. Regardless, I'd like to lay this out more adequately in a future post...
Now, relatively speaking, I don't watch that much TV. There are a number of people I know of who have "shows" they watch or TiVo (read "record") every evening--"I have to get home to catch 'my shows'". Nonetheless, I wonder what sort of person I would be, or what kinds of things I would have done, had I never watched one minute of television. What an idea!
Television, it seems to me, is just another way to shield yourself from the world, from its cold realities, responsibilities, and overwhelming possibilities. TV is insular in the way that suburbs are, or personal cars, or large bank accounts; it induces the same passivity, the same softness.
Ironically, I'm actually too tired now to finish this post...if I hadn't viewed x number of hours of television, perhaps I wouldn't be so soft and could stay up later. Regardless, I'd like to lay this out more adequately in a future post...
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
stale is the only option
I'm tired of the same old words. They are like ash on my tongue, dishwater on my fingertips. To write "regarding," "please note," or "it is requested" till the end of time could very well bring on a premature death--perhaps not literal, but every other kind of death that is referred to in the literary realm.
The past few days I've been looking through a book of vocabulary. Call me ridiculous, but I've been making flashcards for words I only half-know, or don't know at all. I'll flip through them, maybe at stoplights on my way to work, or during commercials when I watch TV on Sunday night, or at the kitchen table after a long day.
Studying is like slipping on an old, worn, but friendly t-shirt. It's familiar and comfortable. It reassures me that things aren't so bad, that they'll get better.
The real challenge, I suppose, won't be thumbing through the definitions on a semi-regular basis, but actually making use of the words I'm studying. There's no modest way to insert "bellicose" in the middle of an e-mail. It's pretentious, no two ways about it. It's like wearing a siren red suit while working in a grey cubicle under dim artificial lighting. You can't help but notice. And who do you think you are anyway, throwing around "desultory" and "edacious"? What's the occasion for that suit? Trying to show you're more than just common. Warding off an identity that is already upon you--might as well give in. In fact, it is requested that you do.
The past few days I've been looking through a book of vocabulary. Call me ridiculous, but I've been making flashcards for words I only half-know, or don't know at all. I'll flip through them, maybe at stoplights on my way to work, or during commercials when I watch TV on Sunday night, or at the kitchen table after a long day.
Studying is like slipping on an old, worn, but friendly t-shirt. It's familiar and comfortable. It reassures me that things aren't so bad, that they'll get better.
The real challenge, I suppose, won't be thumbing through the definitions on a semi-regular basis, but actually making use of the words I'm studying. There's no modest way to insert "bellicose" in the middle of an e-mail. It's pretentious, no two ways about it. It's like wearing a siren red suit while working in a grey cubicle under dim artificial lighting. You can't help but notice. And who do you think you are anyway, throwing around "desultory" and "edacious"? What's the occasion for that suit? Trying to show you're more than just common. Warding off an identity that is already upon you--might as well give in. In fact, it is requested that you do.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
reprints
Throughout all four years of college I made intermittent entries in e-journals I affectionately named in honor of each year. These titles aren't especially ingenious and could actually be a source of embarrassment to me if I publicize them. Perhaps on another day when I am feeling more bold...
Still, not all of the material contained within the journals is rotten. Much of it should be picked up again and developed further. Now, I'm not at all interested in telling you any sordid and intimate tales of love and loneliness. As I so clearly stated when I began this blog, unreserved self-disclosure simply isn't my style. I like to keep some cards up my sleeve when writing, going on first dates, or socializing at work. Therefore, any of my journal entries reprinted on this blog will be carefully selected and edited, if necessary. And I may not always tell you when I've done the latter. All of that being said, here's a little something from a night at the library junior year:
November 28, 2006
Call me crazy, but sometimes I really enjoy working. Adam's curse does not always pan out in life, thank goodness. I had this epiphany as I was working on ideas for my senior paper and taking notes for an upcoming Romantic Literature paper. Any time I try to develop ideas and logic for papers it takes a long time. I must sit quietly, not writing, just thinking. Then I must re-read works, often taking painstaking notes (but not always, mind you). In regard to productivity, it must be likened to watching paint dry. Yet, when I get an idea, when my brain is in fire, and I scrawl down some beautifully profound connection, it's total euphoria. There is this satisfying feeling that usually causes me to sigh with pleasure, and shuffle my papers vigorously, setting them back neatly to signify that similar order has now come to my thoughts.
As of now, I'm unsure that this evening's work is worth that satisfaction. My senior paper idea has not been approved, and I have not officially started writing my paper for Romantic Lit. Perhaps when I do the real work of writing I will kick myself for feeling mildly happy about the work completed tonight: Stupid, stupid...that wasn't even close to insightful. You were just taking up time doing mindless drivel so that you could pretend to work.....Oh gosh, I hope that is not the case. And now it is too late anyway. This journal entry has just interposed doubt into pleasurable feeling and it has subsequently turned it into a sickening feeling. In writing about a hypothetical future I have made it my present. Yuck.
It's funny how little journal entries, so disheveled in their organization and feeble in their offerings, influence when I only intend them for reflection. All I wanted to say initially was: I feel good about the work I did tonight. What I ended up doing was second-guessing myself and souring any sense of accomplishment. In five minutes, in two hundred and fifty words, you can end up falling back into cynical patterns and convince yourself that things are really worthless after all.
Still, not all of the material contained within the journals is rotten. Much of it should be picked up again and developed further. Now, I'm not at all interested in telling you any sordid and intimate tales of love and loneliness. As I so clearly stated when I began this blog, unreserved self-disclosure simply isn't my style. I like to keep some cards up my sleeve when writing, going on first dates, or socializing at work. Therefore, any of my journal entries reprinted on this blog will be carefully selected and edited, if necessary. And I may not always tell you when I've done the latter. All of that being said, here's a little something from a night at the library junior year:
November 28, 2006
Call me crazy, but sometimes I really enjoy working. Adam's curse does not always pan out in life, thank goodness. I had this epiphany as I was working on ideas for my senior paper and taking notes for an upcoming Romantic Literature paper. Any time I try to develop ideas and logic for papers it takes a long time. I must sit quietly, not writing, just thinking. Then I must re-read works, often taking painstaking notes (but not always, mind you). In regard to productivity, it must be likened to watching paint dry. Yet, when I get an idea, when my brain is in fire, and I scrawl down some beautifully profound connection, it's total euphoria. There is this satisfying feeling that usually causes me to sigh with pleasure, and shuffle my papers vigorously, setting them back neatly to signify that similar order has now come to my thoughts.
As of now, I'm unsure that this evening's work is worth that satisfaction. My senior paper idea has not been approved, and I have not officially started writing my paper for Romantic Lit. Perhaps when I do the real work of writing I will kick myself for feeling mildly happy about the work completed tonight: Stupid, stupid...that wasn't even close to insightful. You were just taking up time doing mindless drivel so that you could pretend to work.....Oh gosh, I hope that is not the case. And now it is too late anyway. This journal entry has just interposed doubt into pleasurable feeling and it has subsequently turned it into a sickening feeling. In writing about a hypothetical future I have made it my present. Yuck.
It's funny how little journal entries, so disheveled in their organization and feeble in their offerings, influence when I only intend them for reflection. All I wanted to say initially was: I feel good about the work I did tonight. What I ended up doing was second-guessing myself and souring any sense of accomplishment. In five minutes, in two hundred and fifty words, you can end up falling back into cynical patterns and convince yourself that things are really worthless after all.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
sunday afternoons
In general I dislike Sundays. It has probably been that way for the past four or five years. If I actually kept the Sabbath, I'm sure I would enjoy enjoy it more. But Sunday always seems to take the brunt of the consequences for my procrastination during the week and weekend. Cleaning and bills and emails and grocery-shopping and laundry and getting-a-hair-cut and scheduling and cooking and calls home and paperwork are perpetually shuffled off to that block of time called the weekend, which appears during the frenzy of the week as a vast, empty piece of real-estate burgeoning with opportunities for productivity. May your to-do list be writ 20 items long--a Saturday will always do to complete it! Now, either I am simply undisciplined or the weekend is a cheating little son-of-a-gun--promising acres of time and only providing about 10 square feet once you actually arrive on the property. Either way, I rarely accomplish over the weekend what I set out to when I pull into my parking spot on Friday evening after my commute home from work.
Of course I can't do anything on Friday night. Grocery shopping on Friday nights is for single losers and married people. I may very well be a single loser, but I would rather not advertise that fact to my fellow Evanstonians by taking part in those kinds of activities on a Friday night.
And then Saturday...gosh, it's nice to sleep in a bit, make breakfast, listen to talk radio, read Dostoyevsky on the couch. Errands are for the afternoon, tasks that require the most time, the least brain, and offer the most satisfaction when you press pen to paper and cross them off of your list. Evening arrives, and I've got plans and all day Sunday.
So it comes to pass: around 12:30 p.m. on Sunday I walk into my kitchen after church and I gripe about all that I must do. I want the couch and a novel; a nap or a movie; a walk or an afternoon concert; an hour on the piano; a glass of wine and a conversation. I don't want to write a check and send it away; I don't want to fill out tax forms; I don't want to renew my stupid parking sticker. Monday cometh, and such banal tasks only seem to speed its arrival. The only respite, the only mercy, is Sunday afternoon NPR. At least I can listen to Tavis Smiley while I wash dishes, or to BBC News while I compose message #43 in a thread of e-mails about something that really shouldn't have gotten that complicated...
Really I should be more diligent on Saturdays. I used to be when I was in college. It wasn't unusual for me to wake up at 8:30, pack up my laptop and book it to the library to stay until 3 or 4 p.m. Perhaps I just need to commit--really commit--to a schedule on the weekend. Maybe then I wouldn't hate my life on Sundays...
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Even though they are decontextualized...
I find the following quotes positively enchanting. Last night around 12 a.m. I was sitting on the floor in my room and began to page through a small leatherbound volume where I occasionally record particularly delicious quotes from books I'm reading. As I sat there, I thought, to hell with sharing recipes on my blog, I'll post these. Ok, ok, the language is a bit strong. And I still may provide you with instructions for making savory meals--that's just not especially high on my priority list at the moment. The mind and spirit before the body: I have Jesus himself to back that up, per his forty days in the desert. But I'm really taking this too far. All I want to do is allow you to enjoy the following:
"I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I'm sick of myself and everybody that wants to make some kind of splash."
-Franny in J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey
"Like so many Americans, she [Billy's mother] was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops."
-Kurt Vonnegut Slaughterhouse Five
"We are not slaves bound to suffer incessantly unrecorded petty blows on our bent backs. We are not sheep either, following a master. We are creators. We too have made something that will join the innumerable congregations of past time. We too, as we put on our hats and push open the door, stride not into chaos, but into a world that our own force can subjugate and make part of the illumined and everlasting road."
-Virginia Woolf The Waves
"Thou from the first/ was present, and, with mighty wings outspread/ Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss/ And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark/ Illumine, what is low raise and support;/ that, to the heighth of this great argument/ I may assert Eternal Providence/ and justify the ways of God to men."
-John Milton Paradise Lost
"We've got ninety-nine percent the same genes as any other person. We've got ninety percent the same as a chimpanzee. We've got thirty percent the same as a lettuce. Does that cheer you up at all? I love about the lettuce. It makes me feel I belong."
-Caryl Churchill A Number
"Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up."
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky Notes from the Underground
"Leonato: Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.
Beatrice: Not till God make man of some other mettle than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valient dust?"
-William Shakespeare Much Ado About Nothing
"Nick went into his room, undressed, and got into bed. He heard his father moving around in the living room. Nick lay in the bed with his face in the pillow. 'My heart's broken,' he thought. 'If I feel this way my heart must be broken.'"
-Ernest Hemingway "The Northern Woods" from The Nick Adams Stories
"The hands of the King are hands of healing, dear friends..."
-Gandalf in J.R.R. Tolkien's Return of the King
"I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I'm sick of myself and everybody that wants to make some kind of splash."
-Franny in J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey
"Like so many Americans, she [Billy's mother] was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops."
-Kurt Vonnegut Slaughterhouse Five
"We are not slaves bound to suffer incessantly unrecorded petty blows on our bent backs. We are not sheep either, following a master. We are creators. We too have made something that will join the innumerable congregations of past time. We too, as we put on our hats and push open the door, stride not into chaos, but into a world that our own force can subjugate and make part of the illumined and everlasting road."
-Virginia Woolf The Waves
"Thou from the first/ was present, and, with mighty wings outspread/ Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss/ And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark/ Illumine, what is low raise and support;/ that, to the heighth of this great argument/ I may assert Eternal Providence/ and justify the ways of God to men."
-John Milton Paradise Lost
"We've got ninety-nine percent the same genes as any other person. We've got ninety percent the same as a chimpanzee. We've got thirty percent the same as a lettuce. Does that cheer you up at all? I love about the lettuce. It makes me feel I belong."
-Caryl Churchill A Number
"Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up."
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky Notes from the Underground
"Leonato: Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.
Beatrice: Not till God make man of some other mettle than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valient dust?"
-William Shakespeare Much Ado About Nothing
"Nick went into his room, undressed, and got into bed. He heard his father moving around in the living room. Nick lay in the bed with his face in the pillow. 'My heart's broken,' he thought. 'If I feel this way my heart must be broken.'"
-Ernest Hemingway "The Northern Woods" from The Nick Adams Stories
"The hands of the King are hands of healing, dear friends..."
-Gandalf in J.R.R. Tolkien's Return of the King
Saturday, February 7, 2009
i'm trying to be back
It's impossible to make reparations for a four months' absence from my blog. Not that an apology is particularly necessary--life has been busy and I highly doubt anyone is pining away for me to make new entries. The issue is that now I would like to begin writing here again, and I'm not so sure that anyone is still visiting my little site. I guess it's no matter. To everyone or to no one, here are five recent happenings in my life:
1. I went to South Korea for two weeks over Christmas and New Year's to visit my dear friend, April Hope.
2. Starting on January 1st, I began making a new recipe each week. Highlights? Korean bibimbap and Chicken Mexican stew. Tonight I'm making Vegetarian Mediterranean Stew.
3. I went to Hawaii for one week (see picture).
4. I started a new job at the beginning of December.
5. Super Bowl Sunday marked the conclusion of my first year in Chicago. Much has happened over the past 12 months, and I'm grateful for the place in which I find myself.
Stories, pictures, and possibly recipes upcoming...
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Palindrone
Although he may be labeled as out-of-touch in other areas, John McCain was no fool when he picked Sarah Palin as his VP. McCain's campaign was in some serious need of energy when compared with Obama's just prior to the Democratic and Republican conventions, and the selection of Palin was a total boon for the GOP. I think almost everyone can agree with that statement, whether you're now buying Palin glasses or sporting a "Women for Obama" sticker on the back of your gas-efficient Prius. Palin energized McCain's conservative base, generated headlines, further substantiated McCain's reputation as an unpredictable maverick, and made the Republican party look progressive. Those are pretty significant accomplishments that have to do with more things than her gender. Not just any Republican female politician could have been Palin to McCain, if that makes sense.
As with most other things in politics, opinions about Palin are extremely polarized. To many Democrats, Palin's appointment as VP candidate was almost laughable--McCain was essentially pulling a publicity stunt by selecting an attractive, articulate, but inexperienced female to manipulate vulnerable and disgruntled Hillary voters. To many Republicans, putting Palin on the ticket was invigorating proof that McCain is sufficiently conservative and innovative enough to lead and reform the many woes of the 30% approval George Bush party--in other words, they could not be more thrilled.
But, in accordance with my usual manner of thinking, I don't really agree with either side wholeheartedly. I don't dislike Sarah Palin. Categorizing her as nothing but a down-home mother of five who got lucky politically in Alaska is to deny her the attribution of intelligence, raw talent, and political skill that she deserves. However, I think McCain selected her because she had the potential to be a campaign and public relations gold mine--not because she was the best candidate for the position. She gave McCain the bump in the polls he needed; deal with the practical ramifications later.
Disregarding her experience, Palin is, to me, the perfect female politician. She's tough, smart, and confident, all the while maintaining valuable female characteristics. In other words, unlike Hillary Clinton, she is not a "bone shrinker." Somehow, she's managed to acquire the male qualities necessary to succeed in the political world without compromising her femininity. She is the sought-after supermom--cradling her children one moment and leading the office (or state or nation) the next. The pitbull-with-lipstick joke may have been more apt than she realized.
Yet her experience is the sticking point. Being a mayor and governor in Alaska provides limited experience, even when compared with governors of other states with larger budgets, larger and more diverse populations, and with the complex concerns associated with the continental United States. There are some crucial issues upon which Sarah Palin hasn't even a sliver of knowledge. That isn't meant to be an attack on her person; it's simply the truth about what she knows and what she has done. She doesn't know the Bush doctrine, yet emphatically delivers heavily scripted words about Iran's nuclear program? That is problematic. If McCain was interested in gaining a political edge that would be beneficial to him before and after the campaign, should he be elected, he should have selected another female Republican, one with more broad and lengthy political experience. Considering the overwhelming number of problems the next president will inherent from George W., I simply wouldn't feel comfortable with potential that Palin could take the helm.
And honestly, as a woman, her selection feels like an attempt at manipulation of the "weak" female mind (Hillary supporters were not just hungry for a female president) and affirmative action. It would be one thing if Palin hoofed it on her own. Her riding into the White House on 72 year old McCain's coat tails doesn't really look like the glass ceiling shattering to me.
The question is, I suppose, if McCain felt it was politically gainful to select a female VP, why Sarah Palin above other, more experienced female politicians? I said at the beginning of the post that not just any female Republican could have been Palin to McCain. That statement makes complete sense to me on an intuitive level, but it seems to be difficult to substantiate. McCain met her once prior to vetting. Alaska is not exactly a place many of us think about or hear of often. A pro-life woman with a large family and lifetime NRA membership from a rural, backwater town sounds more disaster on a Dan Quayle scale than diamond in the rough. Still, whether or not you like her or think she's truly capable, most everyone admits they underestimated her.
As with most other things in politics, opinions about Palin are extremely polarized. To many Democrats, Palin's appointment as VP candidate was almost laughable--McCain was essentially pulling a publicity stunt by selecting an attractive, articulate, but inexperienced female to manipulate vulnerable and disgruntled Hillary voters. To many Republicans, putting Palin on the ticket was invigorating proof that McCain is sufficiently conservative and innovative enough to lead and reform the many woes of the 30% approval George Bush party--in other words, they could not be more thrilled.
But, in accordance with my usual manner of thinking, I don't really agree with either side wholeheartedly. I don't dislike Sarah Palin. Categorizing her as nothing but a down-home mother of five who got lucky politically in Alaska is to deny her the attribution of intelligence, raw talent, and political skill that she deserves. However, I think McCain selected her because she had the potential to be a campaign and public relations gold mine--not because she was the best candidate for the position. She gave McCain the bump in the polls he needed; deal with the practical ramifications later.
Disregarding her experience, Palin is, to me, the perfect female politician. She's tough, smart, and confident, all the while maintaining valuable female characteristics. In other words, unlike Hillary Clinton, she is not a "bone shrinker." Somehow, she's managed to acquire the male qualities necessary to succeed in the political world without compromising her femininity. She is the sought-after supermom--cradling her children one moment and leading the office (or state or nation) the next. The pitbull-with-lipstick joke may have been more apt than she realized.
Yet her experience is the sticking point. Being a mayor and governor in Alaska provides limited experience, even when compared with governors of other states with larger budgets, larger and more diverse populations, and with the complex concerns associated with the continental United States. There are some crucial issues upon which Sarah Palin hasn't even a sliver of knowledge. That isn't meant to be an attack on her person; it's simply the truth about what she knows and what she has done. She doesn't know the Bush doctrine, yet emphatically delivers heavily scripted words about Iran's nuclear program? That is problematic. If McCain was interested in gaining a political edge that would be beneficial to him before and after the campaign, should he be elected, he should have selected another female Republican, one with more broad and lengthy political experience. Considering the overwhelming number of problems the next president will inherent from George W., I simply wouldn't feel comfortable with potential that Palin could take the helm.
And honestly, as a woman, her selection feels like an attempt at manipulation of the "weak" female mind (Hillary supporters were not just hungry for a female president) and affirmative action. It would be one thing if Palin hoofed it on her own. Her riding into the White House on 72 year old McCain's coat tails doesn't really look like the glass ceiling shattering to me.
The question is, I suppose, if McCain felt it was politically gainful to select a female VP, why Sarah Palin above other, more experienced female politicians? I said at the beginning of the post that not just any female Republican could have been Palin to McCain. That statement makes complete sense to me on an intuitive level, but it seems to be difficult to substantiate. McCain met her once prior to vetting. Alaska is not exactly a place many of us think about or hear of often. A pro-life woman with a large family and lifetime NRA membership from a rural, backwater town sounds more disaster on a Dan Quayle scale than diamond in the rough. Still, whether or not you like her or think she's truly capable, most everyone admits they underestimated her.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
part 2
As promised, I'm providing small reviews of five more books that you may enjoy. However, despite my lengthy justification for it, I'm scrapping my efforts to describe the mood or style of each book after giving the genre. The descriptions weren't really all that useful, now that I look back on them.
6. The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman (Current events, Globalization): There are an awful lot of uninformed generalizations readily proferred in many lay discussions about globalization, outsourcing, computers, and the internet in relation to the economy. Friedman's voluminous work provides a comprehensive, but accessible, explanation of the development and operation of the leveled playing field of 21st century business. Although Friedman's commentary on the current and future merits of this hyper-connected world may not be unassailable, he certainly gives structure to all of the disconnected talk about closing American factories, Indian Dell Help-Line Operators, and the powers of workflow software. Case studies are the main way Friedman presents sometimes complex, abstract concepts of business; some of my favorites were: the development of Apache open-source software, Indian telemarketers, and a start-up data entry business in Cambodia. According to an MBA friend of mine, Friedman's work is required reading for most upper-level business classes. So if nothing else, you'll feel kinda sorta smart reading it.
7. Shake Hands with the Devil by General Romeo Dallaire (Non-fiction): I decided to pick up this book after watching a film by the same name which followed General Dallaire on his return to Rwanda, 10 years after the genocide. While the film is primarily an examination of Dallaire and Rwanda after the genocide, the book is a detailed, day-by-day account of the operations of the U.N. prior to and throughout the genocide. A Canadian commander, Dallaire was in charge of the UNAMIR peacekeeping force, which, unfortunately, failed in its mission due to the inefficiency of the U.N. and apathy of the international community. The book is difficult to read, not because of graphic accounts of genocide--Dallaire mercifully spares us from numerous descriptions of atrocities--but because of the infuriating truth that the mass slaughter could have been prevented. The complacency, and even complicity, of Western nations was criminal.
8. Blink by Malcolm Gladwell (Social Science): By systematically studying intuition, Gladwell manages to incorporate modern and postmodern ideals into his examination of the human ability to know certain things quite confidently with very little information. In some situations, Gladwell proposes, more and more information only confuses the initial and correct suggestion of our instinct. Intuition enables us to make necessarily rapid decisions in everything from war to marriage to art--a few arenas in which he finds case studies. But in other situations, subconscious bias influences intuition in a manner that is destructive and even dangerous. Through understanding the dynamics of our instinct, Gladwell believes that societies and individuals can appropriately impede or release the power of intuition for personal and social betterment.
9. Piece of Cake by Cupcake Brown (Autobiography): There are plenty of autobiographies out there whose authors experienced pasts filled with dysfunction, addiction, and crime. I'm not sure that Cupcake Brown has produced the best of the bunch, but her story is surely one of the most dramatic and fascinating to read. (And, as far as I know, Oprah hasn't called her onto the carpet for any false details either.) Severely abused as a child in a foster care home and on the streets, Cupcake began drinking, using drugs, and prostituting herself before her
12th birthday. Of course, it only got worse from there. Her intelligence and tenacity eventually enabled her to become sober and successful, but most true stories about people with backgrounds like hers--I wish there were no such thing as a background like hers--don't have such pleasant endings.
10. Gang Leader for a Day by Sudhir Venkatesh (Sociology, Social Science): The only reason I decided to pick up a book with such a sensational title was because, well, Stephen Levitt mentioned Venkatesh in his excellent book, Freakonomics (also something you should consider picking up). As a graduate student of sociology at University of Chicago, Venkatesh naively wandered into a dangerous housing project on the South side to survey poor young black men. He had an extended run-in with gang members upon his arrival, but he repeatedly returned to the community and ended up befriending one of the gang's leaders. I found that the most interesting story in the book was not the naive grad. student in the ghetto, but rather the organizational structure of the gang and of life in the Robert Taylor community. Though certainly unpredictable, Venkatesh reveals that survival in the projects is not random, but determined by an alternative infrastructure and code of behavior, rather than the normative systems of mainstream culture.
6. The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman (Current events, Globalization): There are an awful lot of uninformed generalizations readily proferred in many lay discussions about globalization, outsourcing, computers, and the internet in relation to the economy. Friedman's voluminous work provides a comprehensive, but accessible, explanation of the development and operation of the leveled playing field of 21st century business. Although Friedman's commentary on the current and future merits of this hyper-connected world may not be unassailable, he certainly gives structure to all of the disconnected talk about closing American factories, Indian Dell Help-Line Operators, and the powers of workflow software. Case studies are the main way Friedman presents sometimes complex, abstract concepts of business; some of my favorites were: the development of Apache open-source software, Indian telemarketers, and a start-up data entry business in Cambodia. According to an MBA friend of mine, Friedman's work is required reading for most upper-level business classes. So if nothing else, you'll feel kinda sorta smart reading it.
7. Shake Hands with the Devil by General Romeo Dallaire (Non-fiction): I decided to pick up this book after watching a film by the same name which followed General Dallaire on his return to Rwanda, 10 years after the genocide. While the film is primarily an examination of Dallaire and Rwanda after the genocide, the book is a detailed, day-by-day account of the operations of the U.N. prior to and throughout the genocide. A Canadian commander, Dallaire was in charge of the UNAMIR peacekeeping force, which, unfortunately, failed in its mission due to the inefficiency of the U.N. and apathy of the international community. The book is difficult to read, not because of graphic accounts of genocide--Dallaire mercifully spares us from numerous descriptions of atrocities--but because of the infuriating truth that the mass slaughter could have been prevented. The complacency, and even complicity, of Western nations was criminal.
8. Blink by Malcolm Gladwell (Social Science): By systematically studying intuition, Gladwell manages to incorporate modern and postmodern ideals into his examination of the human ability to know certain things quite confidently with very little information. In some situations, Gladwell proposes, more and more information only confuses the initial and correct suggestion of our instinct. Intuition enables us to make necessarily rapid decisions in everything from war to marriage to art--a few arenas in which he finds case studies. But in other situations, subconscious bias influences intuition in a manner that is destructive and even dangerous. Through understanding the dynamics of our instinct, Gladwell believes that societies and individuals can appropriately impede or release the power of intuition for personal and social betterment.
9. Piece of Cake by Cupcake Brown (Autobiography): There are plenty of autobiographies out there whose authors experienced pasts filled with dysfunction, addiction, and crime. I'm not sure that Cupcake Brown has produced the best of the bunch, but her story is surely one of the most dramatic and fascinating to read. (And, as far as I know, Oprah hasn't called her onto the carpet for any false details either.) Severely abused as a child in a foster care home and on the streets, Cupcake began drinking, using drugs, and prostituting herself before her
12th birthday. Of course, it only got worse from there. Her intelligence and tenacity eventually enabled her to become sober and successful, but most true stories about people with backgrounds like hers--I wish there were no such thing as a background like hers--don't have such pleasant endings.
10. Gang Leader for a Day by Sudhir Venkatesh (Sociology, Social Science): The only reason I decided to pick up a book with such a sensational title was because, well, Stephen Levitt mentioned Venkatesh in his excellent book, Freakonomics (also something you should consider picking up). As a graduate student of sociology at University of Chicago, Venkatesh naively wandered into a dangerous housing project on the South side to survey poor young black men. He had an extended run-in with gang members upon his arrival, but he repeatedly returned to the community and ended up befriending one of the gang's leaders. I found that the most interesting story in the book was not the naive grad. student in the ghetto, but rather the organizational structure of the gang and of life in the Robert Taylor community. Though certainly unpredictable, Venkatesh reveals that survival in the projects is not random, but determined by an alternative infrastructure and code of behavior, rather than the normative systems of mainstream culture.
bookies anonymous
There are two factors that have influenced the number of books that I have read over the last six months. First of all, while I've always enjoyed reading, college didn't really leave me much time to pick up books of my choosing. Even on the rare week that it did, I was tired of reading for class and going back to the library, just for fun, wasn't all that appealing to me. But I slowly accumulated lists of books that I wanted to read once I had the time and the space in my head. Along comes graduation, and I find not only hours here and there to read, but also an intense desire to continue improving my lil' ol' brain.
Secondly, the novelty of my commute on the CTA has worn off. For the first few months, I never brought books with me. I was happy listening to my iPod, looking out the window, watching people, and thinking about life in the abstract. During this period of time, I felt that using public transportation provides enormous potential for fulfilling reflection and even solitude. Even though I still feel this is true, I find I don't have a need for 2 1/2 hours of reflection and solitude every day (the total time I spend in my round-trip commute). Really. I don't. When I started to get bored with my iPod and people watching, I brought along books. Suddenly, I have a 2 1/2 hour block of time that I can use to read. This is a beautiful thing.
So, because of my post-college motivation and the time afforded by my commuting hours, I've gotten to read some great books. If you're looking for a good read, consider one of my ten suggested books that I've read since moving to Chicago. I'm including the first five in this post, the final five in the next. They're in no particular order; don't assume any hierarchy in their placement on the list. After the title, I include both the book's genre and its mood--or, the ideal attitude and desires of the reader as he or she completes the book. Optimistic readers looking for light, humorous fare shouldn't select The Lovely Bones, for example. Incongruities between the book's purposes and style and the reader's mood at the particular time can translate into dissatisfaction of the latter with the former for no other reason than timing. I would hate for anyone to put down a great book and never pick it up again because it didn't compliment the individual's particular reading needs at the time.
1. Why are all the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Tatum (Social Science; Detailed, intensive, thought-provoking--not a book that may be consumed quickly): If you're interested in the formation of racial identity, racial tensions, and the complexity of personal and institutional relationships between blacks and whites in post-civil rights movement America, Dr. Tatum's book is an essential and foundational read. She combines her scientific knowledge as a psychologist with her experiences leading racial identity and reconciliation classes; the narratives of some of her students are compelling and the best illustration of the information she presents theoretically.
2. Dubliners by James Joyce (Short Story fiction; brief, unresolved, modern, dramatic, relational, romantic, and literary goodness): The presiding theme of this collection is paralysis, and while Joyce certainly pulls you into the psychological states of these impotent characters, the beauty of the language and the characters' bittersweet reckoning with what is and what could have been won't leave you depressed. His final story, "The Dead," is absolutely magnificent.
3. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold (Fiction; tragic, suspenseful, intense, and all-absorbing read): Although this novel may certainly be a fast read--I completed it in a day--it's not a light one. Sebold vividly describes the rape and murder of a young girl, the grieving processes of her family members as they attempt to reorder their lives after her death, and the girl's own thoughts as she watches from heaven while her family struggles. A rape victim herself, Sebold is brutally realistic about the possibility of achieving justice or normalcy after such a senseless act.
4. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson (Non-fiction; mysterious, historical, easy reading with its journalistic prose): Between its details on the 1894 Chicago World's Fair and the horrific psychopath that haunted it, Larson's book is a 20/20 murder special and History Channel documentary combined. What Daniel Burnham and the city of Chicago achieved at the turn of the century with their creation of the White City is fascinating enough; the Devil lurking in his hotel nearby their triumph makes the book difficult to put down. Dr. H.H. Holmes, the unremorseful serial killer and con artist, was little known prior to the publication of this book, but his perversion easily matches that of any modern murderers. It is a necessary read for Chicagoans and any who appreciate accounts of good ol' American innovation, determination, and calculated homicide.
5. God's Politics by Jim Wallis (Current issues and Religion; intense political and religious fare in straightforward language): As I mentioned previously, Wallis' book doesn't entirely fulfill the bipartisan promises on its cover. Wallis does a better job of articulating the perspectives and priorities of Christian progressives than he does question the Democratic party that he is so obviously a part of. However, if you're a dissatisfied conservative, or a member of the Religious Right who would like to understand the Religious Left, I would highly recommend this book. Afraid of adopting any liberal ideologies? Mix with equal parts of Rush Limbaugh.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
why so partisan?
On my facebook account, I'm listed as a moderate, and appropriately so. Well, actually no. Perhaps a moderator might be a more apt term to describe the way in which I interact with politics. Though my opinions are not nearly so shifty and poll-dependent as many of our political leaders, I often find that I emphasize conservative issues and counterpoints while with Democrats, and liberal viewpoints while with Republicans. Each group, in its sincerest and most admirable form, should be represented fairly to "the other side." It would be nice to have "the other sides"; here's to wishful thinking. I placate my liberal friends by saying that many Republicans recognize and care about the same problems that they do--conservatives just believe in different solutions. To my conservative family and friends, I expose the policies of death and destruction that our "pro-life" President has so readily implemented during his term--Iraq and torture, for example. Almost everyone I talk to about these kinds of things, by the way, is a person of faith. All sincerely claim to allow their faith to influence their politics, as it should; of course, all are partisan, if not rabidly so.
Because this is a source of frustration to me, I eagerly purchased and devoured (no, not literally, you fool!) Jim Wallis' book God's Politics whose premise has become widely known through the '04 newspaper ads that boldly proclaimed: "God is not a Republican...or a Democrat." It turns out that its premise should have been, at least in my estimation, something like: "Christians can be Democrats too." Wallis slaughters the policies of the Right without mercy, and I found myself agreeing with him a majority of the time. And like any naive believer-of-book-premises, I sat waiting, confidently at first, for him to fulfill the promises of the cover and mercilessly shred the policies of the Left. This time never came. His criticisms of the Democratic party were not really policy related. Apparently the only thing they need to do is juice up their speeches with a little Jesus. If Democrats would only recognize the place of faith within the public arena, within social movements, then, yeah, sure, God would be a Democrat.
I closed Wallis' book a little more liberal and a lot more disillusioned with Christians and politics. Just when I thought I had discovered someone, a movement even, of Christians who weren't interested in partisanship, I just found a minority group who flies under the blue flag.
Now, I understand that when it comes right down to it, we must all choose "a side." When I cast my vote in November, I cannot vote for "neither." And I cannot custom-design a candidate. In the end, we all have to make a definitive, and yes, partisan, decision, based upon which candidate most completely meets our standards in regard to policy, experience, and character.
It is not this that I find most problematic; I'm a realist and try to be pragmatic. Some Christians will vote as Democrats, some as Republicans, unless we get a sweet new viable third party (unlikely)--this is the reality of the world we live in. But I wish that our discussions about politics were markedly non-partisan. There are things that Christians should care about that Democrats don't, and things that Christians should care about that Republicans don't. These issues go beyond merely peppering your policy speeches with religious language. It seems that once good, church-going folk select their party line, they focus on the issues that their party gets right in relation to traditional interpretations of Scripture, and are mostly indifferent to the ones that their party has royally messed up over the years. Why can't Christian Republicans admit the incongruence between the war in Iraq and biblical teaching on war and violence? Why are some so zealous to endorse what we have done there? Why are Christian Republicans uncomfortable about addressing poverty within a political context? Why are Christian Democrats closed to the possibility that a large, socialist government is unsafe and ineffective? That the welfare system may not equal "taking care of the poor"? Why don't any Christians at my liberal church recognize abortion as a significant social, if not political, issue? If our core committment is to the teachings of Christ, Christians should be prepared to discuss and address issues as Jesus people first, Republicans or Democrats second.
Healthier, more honest exchanges about political issues among Christians could result not in landslide victories for one party or another, but actual change in the priorities and policies of our politicians. If Red Christians retreat to one corner clutching their two issues, yelling, "These are the most important!" and Blue Christians go to the other with their two issues shouting the same, we'll get to...well, pretty much where we are right now. Jesus really isn't a Republican or a Democrat, and if we can get past some of the partisanshit, er, you know, and dialogue about all of the issues, regardless of the party line, we might start reaching real solutions.
Because this is a source of frustration to me, I eagerly purchased and devoured (no, not literally, you fool!) Jim Wallis' book God's Politics whose premise has become widely known through the '04 newspaper ads that boldly proclaimed: "God is not a Republican...or a Democrat." It turns out that its premise should have been, at least in my estimation, something like: "Christians can be Democrats too." Wallis slaughters the policies of the Right without mercy, and I found myself agreeing with him a majority of the time. And like any naive believer-of-book-premises, I sat waiting, confidently at first, for him to fulfill the promises of the cover and mercilessly shred the policies of the Left. This time never came. His criticisms of the Democratic party were not really policy related. Apparently the only thing they need to do is juice up their speeches with a little Jesus. If Democrats would only recognize the place of faith within the public arena, within social movements, then, yeah, sure, God would be a Democrat.
I closed Wallis' book a little more liberal and a lot more disillusioned with Christians and politics. Just when I thought I had discovered someone, a movement even, of Christians who weren't interested in partisanship, I just found a minority group who flies under the blue flag.
Now, I understand that when it comes right down to it, we must all choose "a side." When I cast my vote in November, I cannot vote for "neither." And I cannot custom-design a candidate. In the end, we all have to make a definitive, and yes, partisan, decision, based upon which candidate most completely meets our standards in regard to policy, experience, and character.
It is not this that I find most problematic; I'm a realist and try to be pragmatic. Some Christians will vote as Democrats, some as Republicans, unless we get a sweet new viable third party (unlikely)--this is the reality of the world we live in. But I wish that our discussions about politics were markedly non-partisan. There are things that Christians should care about that Democrats don't, and things that Christians should care about that Republicans don't. These issues go beyond merely peppering your policy speeches with religious language. It seems that once good, church-going folk select their party line, they focus on the issues that their party gets right in relation to traditional interpretations of Scripture, and are mostly indifferent to the ones that their party has royally messed up over the years. Why can't Christian Republicans admit the incongruence between the war in Iraq and biblical teaching on war and violence? Why are some so zealous to endorse what we have done there? Why are Christian Republicans uncomfortable about addressing poverty within a political context? Why are Christian Democrats closed to the possibility that a large, socialist government is unsafe and ineffective? That the welfare system may not equal "taking care of the poor"? Why don't any Christians at my liberal church recognize abortion as a significant social, if not political, issue? If our core committment is to the teachings of Christ, Christians should be prepared to discuss and address issues as Jesus people first, Republicans or Democrats second.
Healthier, more honest exchanges about political issues among Christians could result not in landslide victories for one party or another, but actual change in the priorities and policies of our politicians. If Red Christians retreat to one corner clutching their two issues, yelling, "These are the most important!" and Blue Christians go to the other with their two issues shouting the same, we'll get to...well, pretty much where we are right now. Jesus really isn't a Republican or a Democrat, and if we can get past some of the partisanshit, er, you know, and dialogue about all of the issues, regardless of the party line, we might start reaching real solutions.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
nothing of note
The past few days I've gotten onto my blog determined to post something new, only to realize that I have nothing in particular to talk about, other than the fact that my Mom and older sister read my blog now. This is a good thing because they are providing me with stable, loyal readership. But this is also potentially a sensitive thing because I would rather not admit all of my imperfections or describe any offensive behavior in writing for them to produce later to my own detriment. Who knows. (And, I'm sure, you don't care.)
Although I'm tired and don't have any new material, I might as well generate another fascinating list for you all to consume. With my rather indolent addiction to composing lists instead of essays, I should probably rename my blog or at least feature a sub-title that pays homage to these ridiculous collections of random fact.
7 quirkiest happenings of late
1. While at the DMV, my application for an IL driver's license was marked with an astigmatism restriction and a desire to be an organ donor, both of which I do not possess. I was fortunate enough to correct the vision mistake, but not the one regarding the use of my organs. After 1 1/2 hours of standing in DMV lines, I decided not to get back in line and to let the chips fall where they may in regard to my organs. Shoot.
2. While in a predominantly African-American neighborhood just West of Wicker Park, a young man threw a piece of fruit at my car as I made a left-hand turn. He was successful in his endeavor to hit it.
3. I am reconsidering my political affiliations.
4. Today, after a snack of toast at the family home of the children whom I babysit, I left nearly half a loaf of Wonderbread on the counter. While I was out of the house, the family dog obtained the bread, shredded the bag, and consumed its contents. I later learned that this was the second loaf of bread he had stolen in that week alone. May the god of dogs have mercy upon his digestive tract.
5. I drank a beer with my grandparents. That's right. My grandparents.
6. Due to the entertainment needs of Bryce and Angelica, I have now adopted a new persona/identity that is known to them as "monkeyman." The monkeyman has yet to be seen by anyone older than 8.
7. I am developing a killer impression of Daniel Plainview in the final scene of There Will Be Blood, sans drool and vodka. "I drink your milkshake...I drink it up!" It is probably the only attention-getting thing I know to do at social gatherings. I need to foster a greater sense of inhibition and dignity.
Although I'm tired and don't have any new material, I might as well generate another fascinating list for you all to consume. With my rather indolent addiction to composing lists instead of essays, I should probably rename my blog or at least feature a sub-title that pays homage to these ridiculous collections of random fact.
7 quirkiest happenings of late
1. While at the DMV, my application for an IL driver's license was marked with an astigmatism restriction and a desire to be an organ donor, both of which I do not possess. I was fortunate enough to correct the vision mistake, but not the one regarding the use of my organs. After 1 1/2 hours of standing in DMV lines, I decided not to get back in line and to let the chips fall where they may in regard to my organs. Shoot.
2. While in a predominantly African-American neighborhood just West of Wicker Park, a young man threw a piece of fruit at my car as I made a left-hand turn. He was successful in his endeavor to hit it.
3. I am reconsidering my political affiliations.
4. Today, after a snack of toast at the family home of the children whom I babysit, I left nearly half a loaf of Wonderbread on the counter. While I was out of the house, the family dog obtained the bread, shredded the bag, and consumed its contents. I later learned that this was the second loaf of bread he had stolen in that week alone. May the god of dogs have mercy upon his digestive tract.
5. I drank a beer with my grandparents. That's right. My grandparents.
6. Due to the entertainment needs of Bryce and Angelica, I have now adopted a new persona/identity that is known to them as "monkeyman." The monkeyman has yet to be seen by anyone older than 8.
7. I am developing a killer impression of Daniel Plainview in the final scene of There Will Be Blood, sans drool and vodka. "I drink your milkshake...I drink it up!" It is probably the only attention-getting thing I know to do at social gatherings. I need to foster a greater sense of inhibition and dignity.
Monday, July 21, 2008
surreal night life
Especially since leaving a conservative Christian university and entering what some term to be the real world, I have covertly, sometimes unconsciously, fostered a sense of pride regarding irresponsible behaviors that I did not engage in during college. To name them here would not only be futile and tedious, it would probably only perpetuate any such arrogant sentiments. Whatever. There are lots of people who didn't participate in such things and there is no reason for them, or me, to run around telling tales of self-discipline and restraint.
The reality is, however, that I live in a city, I'm young, and I no longer exist inside the strict, but necessary, constructs of a Christian university. And I guess I'm somewhat curious. I'm wise enough, and self-aware enough not to "go crazy," as so many of my high school friends predicted that I would when I went off to college. Some people really believe that motivated women who style their hair conservatively have a secret desire to toss away reason with reckless abandon when offered the right opportunity. No, up to this date, I have not loosed my hair and started acting like a freshman sorority girl because some enlightened male gave me cause. For me, exercising new-found freedom consists of no longer apologizing for an occasional penchant for top 40 commercialized rap and drinking a pint of beer at a low-lit bar once a week. But over the past few months, I have managed to make my way into two environments that pushed the bounds of my newly expanded standards of decorum and sophistication.
The first took place about a month ago. Soon afterwards, I wanted to chronicle it on this blog, but never got around to it. Just as well, I guess. Here's the deal: through a former connection at work, I managed to get a large group of friends on the guest list at Soundbar, one of the pretentiously sleek clubs in downtown Chicago. The night was in celebration of a good friend's 21st birthday; apparently she wanted it to be done right. Some of friends decided to plan an evening that was neither a sleazy, down-21-shots-of-vomitous-alcohol evening at somebody's house, nor a staid exchange of gifts and polite blowing-out-of-candles occasion. Primarily, I felt ambivalent about going out to a club, although I guess I was a bit nervous about what to expect.
After dinner all 20 of us walked over to the club to show our IDs and get started. I explored the two floors of the club and laid down $10 for an apple martini. Within 20 minutes I felt like a cliche. I had a black evening dress on, and I was dancing with a drink in my hand, most of it drizzling down my arm. What else does one do in such an establishment? One man had the courtesy to ask me to dance (I politely declined), while others simply felt entitled to come up behind me, or make a grab at my waist. I wondered if women tolerated this kind of thing regularly, or why men felt that because a woman entered a club she was interested in being grabbed by a stranger without permission. Are there different rules? I was grateful for the guys in our group, who managed to discreetly maneuver most such men away. Although I was somewhat put out by this behavior, I was even less prepared for what I saw at the lounge next door.
Around 1 a.m., we left Soundbar and went to the lounge next door. We had VIP access to a partially concealed lounge, which turned out to be convenient as most of our group was shielded from the two provocative dancers, who, among other things, wore large feather boots. While I was beginning to feel like I was having a bizarre out-of-body experience, most other patrons, outside of my group, looked pleased with themselves, slovenly kissing whomever they happened to be with and preening themselves in between dancing. One woman in particular was almost impossible to ignore in the melee of buzzed 20 and 30 somethings. She wore spike heels, an expensive scrap of a dress, and was, in a most focused manner, kissing some dark-skinned handsome man at the bar. This was not terribly surprising--I've seen worse on the train--but I could scarcely conceal astonishment when she turned around and began doing the same with a white-haired 60-something man to her left. Her drunkenness was apparent, but her soul was sober enough to allow her to slump over the martini glass at the bar and sob. Once this spectacle began, the Spanish-looking man walked away, but the older man began patting her shoulder in a way I can only describe as fatherly. He was probably married, his wife at home knowing the truth.
As I watched, the whole scene seemed almost staged--a few minutes from Sex and the City, or some other banal TV program. I felt like I shouldn't be watching, yet I could hardly help it. Do people really live this way? Spend their weekends this way? We left that club soon afterwards; there was talking of going somewhere else, but I think we had all seen enough. By 1 or 2 a.m., things really begin deteriorating at clubs, and at some bars. If you're not drunk, or not hooking up, you wonder why you're there, and begin to feel guilty about witnessing and judging behavior that is drenched in alcohol.
Fortunately, the second time I went out dancing was not nearly so traumatic. I went out to a neighborhood tavern in Wicker Park that features an evening that they title Sheer Magic. Within its dimly lit and limited space, a couple of DJs spin soul/funk music from the sixties and seventies for the fifty people that have somehow packed themselves onto a tiny dance floor. It's way fun, although sometimes I felt strange dancing to the same music that my mom probably did when she was 16. Oh well. My children will probably dance to Justin Timberlake remixes someday and I won't have anything to say about it. Anyway, all of the dancing, and the people, and the fans turned on full blast, and the one beer that I had finished two hours prior left me feeling a bit disoriented and dreamy (that feeling you have after a long afternoon nap) as I drove home around 1 a.m. It was raining on the empty streets, and I was listening to something chill--we'll say something equivalent to Snow Patrol. And at a stop light, some little cross-eyed boy, no more than 14 or 15, appeared next to my car (if you have ever been on Western Avenue at 1 o'clock in the morning in that neighborhood perhaps you have seen him too). He came within 6 inches of my window, looked at my face, and began to shake his cup for change. Usually I turn away, but I couldn't help but stare. The weirdness of it all near paralyzed me; I knew that I was being rude. When I didn't roll down my window to give him money, he extended open palms to the side of his body and began to thrust them up and down aggressively--"Come on, come on"--as if I owed him money. I did nothing but stare at him until the light changed. There was nothing normal or familiar about that night or driving at that hour, alone; as I continued to drive I struggled to integrate myself--little white, type-A, female, conservative, inexperienced me--with such new and odd experiences. Until six months ago I knew nothing, experientially, of the city, night life, the normative practices of other twenty-somethings, sometimes thirty-somethings, or of little boys begging for money at all hours. And though I enjoy the freedom outside of the constraints of my prior environment, I find that I have no desire to partake of normative, twenty-something night life practices. Since most of them seem like they have been getting drunk and getting cozy with strangers for a decent amount of time, I feel like an outsider, and strange for going out only to dance. All of the evils associated with clubs and bars that I was warned repeatedly about in high school youth group--the deadly slippery slope--turn out to be less seductive in nature, and more pitifully boring than generally marketed.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
ungracious and off
I'm not always as charitable as I would like to be. In high school I remember other kids in youth group who thrived off of helping or befriending people who could only take, and never give. Although I was part of a leadership group at a local camp, I never volunteered to help with the week designated for disabled students. I just felt I wasn't holy, wasn't patient enough. Of course I never articulated this; I assumed others innately sensed my inferiority in working with these particular students and therefore never tried to enlist me. I know it's what Jesus would do...give and give to people that cannot repay you, just seem to take and take. If some of my high school friends didn't actually possess the genuine, humble servanthood of Christ, they at least faked it pretty well, something I didn't feel I could do. Fortunately, I've grown up a bit since then; I'm not as frightened, or preoccupied, by the possibility of failing at ideal Christ-like servanthood. I'm just one broken person serving another. And yet, I still find myself surprised and, simultaneously, ashamed at my occasional impatience, my lack of compassion with those whom I serve.
There's a woman at my church who has been needing help with her apartment. It's terribly disorganized and she will be moving soon. I went over to her apartment to help, and within a half an hour, I found myself consumed by the task in front of me and, internally, spiritually, pushing her away. I was frustrated by how slowly everything was going--how she had to look over each bill before throwing it away, how every object was the opportunity for a meandering detailed story, how every photo a lengthy explanation. I was frustrated by the pencil shavings and paper scraps spilled on the floor after I painstakingly swept it with a five dollar broom. Besides the fact that it was late, I was ready to leave. She wasn't aware that anything was wrong, but I was. I was mad at how the evening went, mad at myself for being mad at her. Sorry Christian that I am, I didn't go home, repent, and promise never to feel this way again. I felt justified in my attitude, and, to tell the truth, it was quite easy to slip into the next time I interacted with her, this time in my own home. Why did she ask for more, and more? Why the presumption that I would help? Why the demand for making a list for her when I wanted to enjoy Sunday lunch? This is all terrible, no? She's not a self-sufficient, stable person--you are, Elizabeth...so why the filthy attitude?
I realize that engaging in another person's life is often a messy process; it may be punctuated by moments of frustration or anger. I'm not the sweet blonde girl who talks to homeless women on lunch break...this is to my shame, but, it's the truth, nonetheless. Still, I think I'm realizing just how selfish I can be, even in situations in which I am to be giving. I want to feel a sense of accomplishment, that I have helped, that I am appreciated, that I am not being taken advantage of. I hate feeling used, and pointless, and drained. What I do and do not want to feel when ministering to another person is irrelevant, at least according to Christ's teachings. If I am to give a man a shirt, why not my cloak as well? And if he strikes me on the cheek, am I not to turn the other? The way of Christ is a surrender of self, not a particularly humanitarian fulfillment of it. Christ emptied himself; the least I can do is damn my petty goals and expectations and desire for good feelings when I help someone to clean up their apartment.
There's a woman at my church who has been needing help with her apartment. It's terribly disorganized and she will be moving soon. I went over to her apartment to help, and within a half an hour, I found myself consumed by the task in front of me and, internally, spiritually, pushing her away. I was frustrated by how slowly everything was going--how she had to look over each bill before throwing it away, how every object was the opportunity for a meandering detailed story, how every photo a lengthy explanation. I was frustrated by the pencil shavings and paper scraps spilled on the floor after I painstakingly swept it with a five dollar broom. Besides the fact that it was late, I was ready to leave. She wasn't aware that anything was wrong, but I was. I was mad at how the evening went, mad at myself for being mad at her. Sorry Christian that I am, I didn't go home, repent, and promise never to feel this way again. I felt justified in my attitude, and, to tell the truth, it was quite easy to slip into the next time I interacted with her, this time in my own home. Why did she ask for more, and more? Why the presumption that I would help? Why the demand for making a list for her when I wanted to enjoy Sunday lunch? This is all terrible, no? She's not a self-sufficient, stable person--you are, Elizabeth...so why the filthy attitude?
I realize that engaging in another person's life is often a messy process; it may be punctuated by moments of frustration or anger. I'm not the sweet blonde girl who talks to homeless women on lunch break...this is to my shame, but, it's the truth, nonetheless. Still, I think I'm realizing just how selfish I can be, even in situations in which I am to be giving. I want to feel a sense of accomplishment, that I have helped, that I am appreciated, that I am not being taken advantage of. I hate feeling used, and pointless, and drained. What I do and do not want to feel when ministering to another person is irrelevant, at least according to Christ's teachings. If I am to give a man a shirt, why not my cloak as well? And if he strikes me on the cheek, am I not to turn the other? The way of Christ is a surrender of self, not a particularly humanitarian fulfillment of it. Christ emptied himself; the least I can do is damn my petty goals and expectations and desire for good feelings when I help someone to clean up their apartment.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
favorites so far
Of course I haven't taken advantage of everything that Chicago has to offer in the summer time. I haven't the time, nor the money. However, I will say that if I was independently wealthy and needed no job, I could easily fill my time with concerts, movies, outdoor restaurants, festivals, tours, and the like. Now that it is the end of June, I thought it might be useful for me, and mildly entertaining, to jot down the things I have enjoyed most about this summer:
1. Taking a nap in Millenium Park: the sun was on my face, the grass was cool, and I was completely unconscious.
2. Drinking a beer outside: it's relaxing.
3. Playing the piano with the windows open.
4. Slogging through the mud at The Blues Festival to see B.B. King perform.
5. Eating a picnic at Ravinia: jazz, dessert wine, and good company.
6. Building sand castles with Bryce and Angelica at the beach.
7. Dashing into the lake with friends at 10 o'clock at night while wearing American flag swim trunks as a few friends shot fireworks over our heads.
8. Wearing sun dresses whenever I want.
9. Dancing to soul music at a Wicker Park bar.
10. Smelling summer when I wake up in the morning.
There are still quite a few things on my summer list, most of which I hope to fulfill, although it seems to be rushing past me at a far greater clip than I anticipated.
1. Taking a nap in Millenium Park: the sun was on my face, the grass was cool, and I was completely unconscious.
2. Drinking a beer outside: it's relaxing.
3. Playing the piano with the windows open.
4. Slogging through the mud at The Blues Festival to see B.B. King perform.
5. Eating a picnic at Ravinia: jazz, dessert wine, and good company.
6. Building sand castles with Bryce and Angelica at the beach.
7. Dashing into the lake with friends at 10 o'clock at night while wearing American flag swim trunks as a few friends shot fireworks over our heads.
8. Wearing sun dresses whenever I want.
9. Dancing to soul music at a Wicker Park bar.
10. Smelling summer when I wake up in the morning.
There are still quite a few things on my summer list, most of which I hope to fulfill, although it seems to be rushing past me at a far greater clip than I anticipated.
Friday, June 20, 2008
delinquent
All the promises of more posts have come to naught. I have written so little lately that I have positively refused to log onto my own blog. The morose reality of the shoddiness of my most recent entry, along with its month-old stale status as the post that is displayed first, made the blog rather unpleasant to me. Exhaustion may be labeled as the culprit for the miserable, even non-existent, flow of creativity from my generally active brain. Because the busyness of my life isn't showing convincing signs of letting up any time soon, I've even thought about closing this down for a while. Not that this would particularly bother anyone, other than myself: I have a sneaking hunch that one or two people log onto this site a couple of times a day and make it look like it gets more hits than it really does. I've decided against the lame-ass option of quitting, however, and opted for more manageable, briefer posts. Several times I've begun lengthy entries, only to complete a page and a half and be down for the count--or, rather, initially up, as I must first climb up into my loft bed before collapsing. Short and sloppy will likely be the order of the blog for the next few months. Better than nothing, right?
As you may have surmised, I like finding pleasure, even spiritual significance, in the small things in life--the more common, the more everyday, the better. I like to look for understated moments and events that somehow reflect larger truths, realities, or characteristics of human nature. This is everything from watching a young guy hail a cab downtown for an old woman with a cane, to discussing racism with a black ex-con on the Red Line. When I was witnessing or partaking of these situations, I removed myself, if only briefly, for a few seconds to view it from the broader scope of humanity, even spirituality. Sometimes this causes a sentimentality that is most unbecoming, even cliche, especially for a blog, but I gotta bring it to ya'll real, know what I'm sayin'? Now, I don't usually experience these kinds of moments in structured institutions--give me the train or the street any day. But today, while spending my usual time with Bryce and Angelica, I experienced one of these moments in a museum, of all places.
Within the genetics exhibit of The Museum of Science and Industry (last surviving building of the 1893 Chicago World's Fair) there are two incubators. One for fluffy yellow chicks, the other for unhatched eggs and soggy, exhausted hatchlings. Apparently it takes about 5 hours for a chick to peck its way out of its shell, after which time they generally lay around for a couple more, resting and marvelling at the new things around them. Bryce, Jelly, and I somehow managed to visit the incubators at the 4 hour, 40 minute mark for one of the eggs. At first, we could see chips of the shell slowly flaking away every few minutes. The bird would peck for 2 or 3 seconds, then rest, peck, and rest. As a steady ring of shell was gradually pecked away, the chick moved more and more. At 4 hours and 50 minutes, it was time to go. It's an hour back from the museum, we had to go...Bryce and Jelly needed dinner; I needed the same, and a nap. But their little faces were plastered against the glass. Bryce had his hands over his ears so that he wouldn't be distracted by the large crowd of people gathering behind us. We had front row seats to the show, not everyone did. They weren't speaking, just watching. When Bryce forgot to keep his hands over his ears, he would turn around, and each time I would say, "Bryce, don't take your eyes off of him. You could miss it." But it was time to go. How was I to know that we were at 4 hours and 50 minutes? It could be another hour, for all I knew. But I sensed that this was some kind of a spiritual moment, as strange as that sounds. I eat chickens. The damn things hatch all the time. Lots of them. And yet we were all watching with bated breath. And when the top of the shell began to show signs of opening to reveal the chick, not just a beak or some feathers poking through egg lining, there were little gasps of wonder from the people around us. We three stayed mostly silent. When the chick broke out fully, we watched for a few minutes more while it lay on its back, panting and sweaty. But one of the hatched chicks in the corner had gotten hurt somehow and was bleeding. Angelica asked about it and I tried to explain, although I wasn't really sure how it had happened myself. She said she didn't want to look at it, so I put my hand over the glass through which she could see the bleeding, half-dead chick; she turned away to watch the newest one of the bunch.
They were quiet for a minute or two after we walked away, which is saying something for children whose energy is infinite and penchant for chattering just as bad. Angelica informed that she had never seen anything like it before. I said the same, although I meant it in a different way. I suppose it does seem a bit strange to feature the birth of a farm animal in the midst of a place with more technology, metal, and plastic than you could possibly see in a day; perhaps stranger still is the fact that none of us could keep our eyes off of this perfectly natural, organic process, or even politely mask our wonder.
As you may have surmised, I like finding pleasure, even spiritual significance, in the small things in life--the more common, the more everyday, the better. I like to look for understated moments and events that somehow reflect larger truths, realities, or characteristics of human nature. This is everything from watching a young guy hail a cab downtown for an old woman with a cane, to discussing racism with a black ex-con on the Red Line. When I was witnessing or partaking of these situations, I removed myself, if only briefly, for a few seconds to view it from the broader scope of humanity, even spirituality. Sometimes this causes a sentimentality that is most unbecoming, even cliche, especially for a blog, but I gotta bring it to ya'll real, know what I'm sayin'? Now, I don't usually experience these kinds of moments in structured institutions--give me the train or the street any day. But today, while spending my usual time with Bryce and Angelica, I experienced one of these moments in a museum, of all places.
Within the genetics exhibit of The Museum of Science and Industry (last surviving building of the 1893 Chicago World's Fair) there are two incubators. One for fluffy yellow chicks, the other for unhatched eggs and soggy, exhausted hatchlings. Apparently it takes about 5 hours for a chick to peck its way out of its shell, after which time they generally lay around for a couple more, resting and marvelling at the new things around them. Bryce, Jelly, and I somehow managed to visit the incubators at the 4 hour, 40 minute mark for one of the eggs. At first, we could see chips of the shell slowly flaking away every few minutes. The bird would peck for 2 or 3 seconds, then rest, peck, and rest. As a steady ring of shell was gradually pecked away, the chick moved more and more. At 4 hours and 50 minutes, it was time to go. It's an hour back from the museum, we had to go...Bryce and Jelly needed dinner; I needed the same, and a nap. But their little faces were plastered against the glass. Bryce had his hands over his ears so that he wouldn't be distracted by the large crowd of people gathering behind us. We had front row seats to the show, not everyone did. They weren't speaking, just watching. When Bryce forgot to keep his hands over his ears, he would turn around, and each time I would say, "Bryce, don't take your eyes off of him. You could miss it." But it was time to go. How was I to know that we were at 4 hours and 50 minutes? It could be another hour, for all I knew. But I sensed that this was some kind of a spiritual moment, as strange as that sounds. I eat chickens. The damn things hatch all the time. Lots of them. And yet we were all watching with bated breath. And when the top of the shell began to show signs of opening to reveal the chick, not just a beak or some feathers poking through egg lining, there were little gasps of wonder from the people around us. We three stayed mostly silent. When the chick broke out fully, we watched for a few minutes more while it lay on its back, panting and sweaty. But one of the hatched chicks in the corner had gotten hurt somehow and was bleeding. Angelica asked about it and I tried to explain, although I wasn't really sure how it had happened myself. She said she didn't want to look at it, so I put my hand over the glass through which she could see the bleeding, half-dead chick; she turned away to watch the newest one of the bunch.
They were quiet for a minute or two after we walked away, which is saying something for children whose energy is infinite and penchant for chattering just as bad. Angelica informed that she had never seen anything like it before. I said the same, although I meant it in a different way. I suppose it does seem a bit strange to feature the birth of a farm animal in the midst of a place with more technology, metal, and plastic than you could possibly see in a day; perhaps stranger still is the fact that none of us could keep our eyes off of this perfectly natural, organic process, or even politely mask our wonder.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
More stories
I observed/experienced some rather strange things today on the 7:58 Purple Line to the Loop. Most mornings I am only too happy to get on the train. I'm already listening to either Justin Timberlake or the London Philharmonic Orchestra (no joke), so I typically feel good about settling down to people-watch, eat my yogurt, and listen to music. Today I was tired though. I barely got through the train doors before they closed, stumbled over to my seat, flopped down quite noisily, and began to quiet myself down again. The morning is often punctuated by intense periods of stress, followed by stretches of boredom. I was just drifting off to sleep when a man on the train came up behind me and hit me in the head with his paper. OK. I guess that's hyperbole. He brushed me with his paper, but he very obviously awoke me. I wanted to be all like "Don't be brushin' me wit yo newspaper at 8 o'clock in the mornin'. Ain't you got no sense?" (He was white, so I felt that this might have taken him aback.) Fortunately, I was able to let it go and fall back asleep.
At Fullerton, however, I was roused once again, this time by the sound of yelling. The train was packed already, and the large crowd waiting on the platform at that stop didn't help matters. I guess a man and woman from said crowd were both attempting to claim the same tiny, one-person space left in the front of my car. The man made it, and the woman didn't. I don't exactly know what happened to make it so. The woman wasn't giving up, however. Passengers could hear the train doors trying to close, over and over, as the woman yelled at the man, accusing him of pushing her out of the way. Instead of being gracious, the man took an attitude and tone of superiority, refused to allow her into the train, and yelled, "Hey look, call the police. Don't make accusations." Other passengers exonerated him once the doors closed and the train moved on. All the white people unite together to defend the man's right to speak to the loud black woman in such a way. But the people seated around me were quiet; from my perspective, the tensions were racially charged, both the woman against the man, and vice versa. I doubt either of them intended them to be so, or even realized it, but I'm surmising that the woman was feeling a sense of oppression, and the man, a realization of power, superiority over, as if they were tapping into parts and lines that have been written for them previously in our country's long and complex history of racial tensions. But I'm going much too far in my narrative. I was only intending to describe the encounter. Onto something a bit lighter:
Because I wasn't really able to sleep after the commotion, I pulled out of copy of StreetWise from my bag and began perusing it. As I looked up, I saw a young guy looking at me from across the train. And then, he winked at me. I became rather embarrassed and immediately became fixated on my paper. How rude, I thought. How awkward, I thought. What is the point of doing that? I wondered. A few minutes later, I looked again, only to discover that said winking man actually had some kind of facial tic that looked like a genuine wink. I almost burst out laughing, wished that he was close enough so that I could share the joke. "Tsk, tsk" to my own vanity, I say.
At Fullerton, however, I was roused once again, this time by the sound of yelling. The train was packed already, and the large crowd waiting on the platform at that stop didn't help matters. I guess a man and woman from said crowd were both attempting to claim the same tiny, one-person space left in the front of my car. The man made it, and the woman didn't. I don't exactly know what happened to make it so. The woman wasn't giving up, however. Passengers could hear the train doors trying to close, over and over, as the woman yelled at the man, accusing him of pushing her out of the way. Instead of being gracious, the man took an attitude and tone of superiority, refused to allow her into the train, and yelled, "Hey look, call the police. Don't make accusations." Other passengers exonerated him once the doors closed and the train moved on. All the white people unite together to defend the man's right to speak to the loud black woman in such a way. But the people seated around me were quiet; from my perspective, the tensions were racially charged, both the woman against the man, and vice versa. I doubt either of them intended them to be so, or even realized it, but I'm surmising that the woman was feeling a sense of oppression, and the man, a realization of power, superiority over, as if they were tapping into parts and lines that have been written for them previously in our country's long and complex history of racial tensions. But I'm going much too far in my narrative. I was only intending to describe the encounter. Onto something a bit lighter:
Because I wasn't really able to sleep after the commotion, I pulled out of copy of StreetWise from my bag and began perusing it. As I looked up, I saw a young guy looking at me from across the train. And then, he winked at me. I became rather embarrassed and immediately became fixated on my paper. How rude, I thought. How awkward, I thought. What is the point of doing that? I wondered. A few minutes later, I looked again, only to discover that said winking man actually had some kind of facial tic that looked like a genuine wink. I almost burst out laughing, wished that he was close enough so that I could share the joke. "Tsk, tsk" to my own vanity, I say.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
untitled
I have determined that this post will be the locale for very brief revelations/observations/events from my everday life. Enjoy/Loathe:
-After a particularly shitty day, a little bit of gospel music goes a long way.
-I now feel comfortable labeling myself as a writer, a pianist, and a singer. This is a relatively new development. Prior to two or three months ago I would say, "I sing sometimes," or "I like writing things down," or "I used to take piano lessons and I still enjoy sitting down to the instrument." Label it as negligible semantics, but I feel that this transition is significant.
-Although I rarely crossed words with boys, other than male professors, in college, and almost NEVER in the library, two men have now given me their numbers in two different libraries. I might as well keep a running tally.
-Last week I started keeping lists of places I want to visit in the city--these are mostly restaurants, clubs, and boutiques, but I'm open to suggestions for museums, etc. Top on my list right now: Kingston Mines and Fifty/50. There aren't enough weekends in the year.
-I sang two songs from Les Miserables at a piano bar this past weekend. I'm quite shy about singing, but I actually had a good time doing it.
-Between contacting CSO donors and observing on the train, I'm beginning to mentally chart the progression from college boy to committed professional man. It starts with the clothes, the large watch, continues with the adoption of an assuming air, self-assured voice, and concludes with a month long pass on the Metra and frightening hoarding of time, typically expressed by gesture, facial expression, or verbal protest, "I'm a very busy man. I'm always very busy." If a man is so unfortunate as to reach this last level, all around him, indeed, even his family, feel guilty for stealing even five minutes of his golden, precious time. As much as I don't mind men with style, I wish I could tell some of them to return the Italian leather shoes, wrist bling, and Jack Spade bags...give it to charity and learn to waste your time.
-After a particularly shitty day, a little bit of gospel music goes a long way.
-I now feel comfortable labeling myself as a writer, a pianist, and a singer. This is a relatively new development. Prior to two or three months ago I would say, "I sing sometimes," or "I like writing things down," or "I used to take piano lessons and I still enjoy sitting down to the instrument." Label it as negligible semantics, but I feel that this transition is significant.
-Although I rarely crossed words with boys, other than male professors, in college, and almost NEVER in the library, two men have now given me their numbers in two different libraries. I might as well keep a running tally.
-Last week I started keeping lists of places I want to visit in the city--these are mostly restaurants, clubs, and boutiques, but I'm open to suggestions for museums, etc. Top on my list right now: Kingston Mines and Fifty/50. There aren't enough weekends in the year.
-I sang two songs from Les Miserables at a piano bar this past weekend. I'm quite shy about singing, but I actually had a good time doing it.
-Between contacting CSO donors and observing on the train, I'm beginning to mentally chart the progression from college boy to committed professional man. It starts with the clothes, the large watch, continues with the adoption of an assuming air, self-assured voice, and concludes with a month long pass on the Metra and frightening hoarding of time, typically expressed by gesture, facial expression, or verbal protest, "I'm a very busy man. I'm always very busy." If a man is so unfortunate as to reach this last level, all around him, indeed, even his family, feel guilty for stealing even five minutes of his golden, precious time. As much as I don't mind men with style, I wish I could tell some of them to return the Italian leather shoes, wrist bling, and Jack Spade bags...give it to charity and learn to waste your time.
poetry training
While walking around at Looptopia, I told my friend Brian that I no longer write poetry, as evidenced by the absence of the proliferation of any lines of verse from my brain for at least a year. It's funny how things come back to you when you don't seek them out. I hope that truth applies to other areas of life.
Written on the train across from a man with a guitar and a black parole anklet
Underneath our sundry and subconscious
efforts at suppression--
the clean, pressed clothes over lithe body--
the soft, relaxed mouth and brow--
the familiar laugh offered freely in conversation--
underneath these resigned--but focused, even friendly--efforts,
there is the omnipresent kernel of loneliness,
the seed that showers, overwhelms the body
and the soul with its spores
at moments when we...when I, least expect.
As I look out the window, cross the street, say goodbye
to the neighbor children, I suddenly see
my cool confidence for what it is--a non-chalant--
breezy--excusing--but ever desperate attempt to paper over
what lurks beneath--a suspicion, an ache, a metaphysical
knowledge that this has all been done before,
that something is missing--a striking clue,
a lovingly constructed piece, a simple and sweet experience
that would allow a rich, soothing wholeness, like red
wine drenching the throat, and heart, and brain.
Even though I sit on the train alone,
I see young women like myself
whose arms are caressed, and ears kissed
with devoted professions by the kind man
beside them. And even then (always even, but, yet),
behind the eyes, there is a lack, an undefinable, still apparent
gap between the moment and what I imagine completeness to be.
How shall I strip away such oblivion, both for myself
and others...if I were to uncover this sad solitude,
expose it always for what it is, would it go
away, or only proliferate with silent, square-jawed vengeance?
And yet--and yet--if I smooth earth over its jagged seed, forget
its presence altogether, I am afraid that,
on an unforeseen and ordinary day, some brown tendril of vine
will thread its way up my ankle until I am overtaken,
rendered powerless to it, forced to surrender myself
to its constant, obvious, and painful presence.
Or shall I place it in a jar by the door, with proper homage
paid to Lennon's Ms. Rigby, and give it air
and light on occasion, turn it over in my hand,
examine its miniscule crests and crevices
until I feel that I know it thoroughly--
until I feel that I can put away
the furrowing, stinging pit--nauseous--when I choose.
Monday, May 5, 2008
library adventures
Life is becoming increasingly hectic, which requires me to up my intentionality in regard to blogging. I cannot simply allow it to happen when it will. I schedule it, place it upon my list, and log onto public library computers fo an hour with the express purpose of hammering something out. In case you need an extra hint, the latter item on that list of three happens to be the activity of which I am currently partaking. Here is the issue, however: I generally prefer themed, semi-focused writing, so I cannot simply slap all my thoughts down. So I'm selecting the topics that will produce the most volume of writing first, then moving onto the others second. Coming soon: experiences at Looptopia, thoughts on Chicago, an exposition on my personal development, and maybe even some thoughts on love, a topic upon which I am sorely underqualified to discuss. But discuss it, I shall. For today though, I will only venture to extend my commiserations on my ever-deepening relationships with libraries. My iPod is playing Enya, I am focused, I am coffeed, and I am ready to go.
My facebook status currently reads: "Elizabeth Tatum now owns three library cards...absolute perfection." I thought of typing "absolut perfection" instead to draw parallels between the drowsy loveliness of drinking some form of alcohol and the pleasure of libraries. But that is an unnecessary segue. And no, to answer your burning question, my status does not lie. I have a card for a library in Pennsylvania, one for a great branch in a northern suburb of Chicago, and, as of today, a white and green beauty which allows me access into any library in the Chicago Public system. The only response to this new development is a slow closing of the eyes and a contented sigh. How am I, Elizabeth Tatum, so fortunate as to be bestowed with the freedom to explore, rifle through, watch, and check out literally millions of media items of all kind? This, I cannot answer.
A friend of mine, whose penchant to party is about a 9 of 10 on a penchant to party scale, wrote to me, informing me that owning three library cards screams, "Mz. Frizzle is my role model." I wrote back reminding him of the fact that, only two weeks earlier, I was dancing in a club to hip-hop music after consuming one, and only one, alcoholic beverage. I didn't even need the drink. I can break it down any ol' time I want. I responded to his wall post with the following comment: "I am no Mz. Frizzle. And if I am, I am the freaky Mz. Frizzle." I only relate this interaction to you to quell the fears that are no doubt welling up in you over my frighteningly close resemblance to all librarian stereotypes. Whatever.
I discovered the library in which I am now enjoying part-time residence because of a stop on the train. Yes, that's right. There is a stop on the CTA called "Library." Sometime I will get a picture next to it. This is not a front, people. I really like libraries. It is an absolutely impeccable boyfriend, or even friend, substitute. It is impossible to feel alone while at a library. Not only are there other patrons about you at all times, but there are spades of words, and pages, and volumes that communicate human wisdom, and stupidity, through the ages. Ah. But I continue to digress instead of actually communicating what I intended to:
About a week ago I alighted from the train at said Library stop, and made my way into the Harold Washington Library at State and VanBuren. It may not be architecturally astounding on the inside, but my mind and mouth were hushed by its nine levels, unending hallways of marble, and floors dedicated to literature and the performing arts. I didn't ask for any map. That is something the old Elizabeth would have done. Now I wander at random, not caring for time, or structure, or getting lost. After I discovered floor 7, home to literature and literary studies, I was about to descend to the ground floor, when I noticed that the 8th floor featured visual and performing arts. I found that not only do they have every piece of sheet music imaginable, they also house piano practice rooms and a chamber music room. The former are open at all times, and the latter has to be reserved with four people 24 hours in advance. I went into room B with an upright Baldwin and spent a good hour and a half singing along to my iPod, favorite Broadway ballads, and rediscovering some of my favorite works: a Waltz by Chopin, an Invention by Bach, a modern piece with an impressive sounding (but easy) cadenza, and a Sonata by Beethoven. As I walked out of the room, I was so happy I could hardly stand it. Does this ever happen to anyone else? The feeling that you should go run a marathon, without doing any training whatsoever? Perhaps I need to take some medication to calm down.
Actually though, I was sobered up by a few things on the way out of the library. While walking through one of the long marble hallways, I came across a clear bottle lying on the floor. I picked it up and saw the name of a famous vodka maker. If I was a lush, I would have opened it up to extract the last 0.5 ounces of liquid from it. As my general drink to time ratio is about a pint of beer to two hours, I didn't feel comfortable taking a swig, all hygenic objections aside. Also, as I emerged from the bathroom on the 8th floor, I saw a sign which made me laugh, and just as suddenly, feel rather strange as to the original cause of it. It said something like this: "Occupancy is limited to one person per stall. Violators will be fined." I get excited about libraries, but not that kind of excitement, people. Apparently having sex in library bathrooms is on the rise. Those of us who see it as abhorrent may be part of a shrinking minority.
But my stories are not even finished. Further proof of the library's status as a relational hotspot revealed itself as I sat by myself at a four person table, continuing my slow and painful reading of Shake Hands with the Devil, an account of the Rwandan genocide. Correct me if I'm wrong, but typically people enjoy being alone at libraries. Sitting by yourself at a table implies the desire to be undisturbed. However, some poor guy was blind to such obvious social cues and tried to pick me up. That's right. No guy has ever offered me his number, or asked for mine, until one day at the library. How depressing. He came over to me, slid me a piece of paper and said, "Here. I'd like to give you my number." I hardly looked up from my book and mumbled, "Um. OK." He curved his body down to look at my face and said, "What's your name?" I told him, again avoiding eye contact. He said, "Well, it doesn't really seem like you're interested." My response: "No, not really. Thanks anyway." To give the kid credit though, he had guts, and he even spoke with a library appropriate voice. Too bad. Too sad. I felt bad about my response to him about thirty seconds later and wanted to run after him to make reparations. But he would have taken any further interaction as positive feedback, which I did not want. I should have at least lauded Suitor x for being gutsy though. Oh well.
Now, this doesn't mean that I'm opposed to meeting boys in a library. I would probably just want to orchestrate it differently.
These library adventures may continue, I think. Currently, while writing this blog, I am fending off a crazy who has been following me around. So far this week, I have gotten attention from two drunk, mid-thirtyish construction workers on the train, and a crazy man at the library. Save me from myself. Maybe it has to do with the damn library. Maybe it has to do with a new phenomenon that involves scary men pursuing weird women who like hanging out at libraries. Well, if it does, I guess I'll just have to start carrying mace or beef up my arms or learn really intimidating sounding expletives...because I'm not giving it up.
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