Ilion

Happily addicted to the web . . . .

2008-12-12T22:51:00.011-05:00

(Or, In Which Helen Should Avoid Resolutions, Part II)

No, I didn't revise as much as I planned to last month. Anyone really surprised? I did. however, generate a few thousand words of new material, and I spend a considerable amount of time struggling with my novel's setting.

The story's set in a very specific City, which I know lots about; the problem is what world this City is in. Apparently the story gives off a futuristic vibe (which was part of my original idea); but it contains some magical/supernatural elements which prevent it from being the future of our world. Right now I'm thinking it's the future of a sort of parallel universe--our world + my particular brand of "magic." (Sort of like Watchmen, which is our world + "superheroes."*)

Anyway, some small amount of progress has been made by me. And no doubt (no doubt)** there would have been more, had I spent less time online. Hulu is simultaneously a delight and the bane of my existence . . . all those TV shows, available whenever you want them! Ack. But in five days or so my semester will essentially be over,*** and I'll be back home without wireless. Which will be good for my soul and my writing.

Before that happy day, however, I must survive two juries (piano and organ) . . . and actually I probably won't do any writing until after Christmas: I have two full services Christmas Eve and one Christmas morning. So not much chance for relaxation until Boxing Day, when I intend to sleep very late and do nothing useful all day.

Yet despite all this, I am happy. An elusive and fragile state, to be sure: I'm always hesitant use these words, lest the force of words destroy so ephemeral a feeling. But I played my Toccata in Convocation today, and it went splendidly. I haven't performed in a long while (church is a whole different creature), and it's so nice to know that I can still perform--and that I can even enjoy it. Also I spent half an hour outside this evening looking at the moon (which apparently was the closest and brightest full moon in fifteen years), and then came inside and drank hot chocolate whilst ordering Christmas presents.

I only wish it was colder. :-)

*With the important exception that my novel is not a cynical-yet-brilliant deconstruction of an entire genre. (Hopefully it will have a brilliant moment or two; but no cynical deconstruction, thanks!)

**Insert Alan-Rickman-as-Snape-voice here.

***Yes, I split that infinitive. Gleefully, I might add, and with malice aforethought. There is absolutely no reason to not split infinitives in English. (See what I did there?) The only reason it's "wrong" is because some stupid grammarians in the seventeenth century thought that English should be Latin. This is also the reason we aren't allowed to use double negatives--which Old English, and even sixteenth-century English, used freely. Thus we are deprived of a form of dramatic emphasis native to our tongue, and are not under no circumstances to never use it. Solely because some stupid dead guys thought every language should emulate Latin.

In Which the Black Dragon Comes South, and Havoc Ensues

2008-11-06T22:08:00.011-05:00

Actually, spanokopita and scarecrows ensued, but that doesn't sound nearly as impressive (though it does have a nice alliterative ring to it). And this post is not primarily about the Black Dragon. (So far, I'm not sure it's about much of anything, besides unnecessary parentheticals.) I just wanted to use that as a title of something, because I like the way it sounds. She did come south, though. This was a good and joyful thing, and is well-documented on facebook. Her visit was notable for many reasons, including the afore-mentioned spanokopita and scarecrows (as well as the unmentioned and decidedly unimpressive Macaroni-Masquerading-as-Exotic-Greek-Cuisine), and its only fault* (besides the macaroni) was its unavoidable brevity.

A few weeks later, I'm rejoicing in almost-autumn weather (the leaves have changed, finally, but I'm still wearing short sleeves), and trying to hatch plots to visit all my scattered friends: the Black Dragon's visit has reminded me how much I miss them. So far, these plots are insubstantial and hypothetical, but hopefully some of them will materialize. (I'm also trying to come up with a scenario which would allow me to be in Oxford and Santa Fe simultaneously. Pretty sure that's an exercise in fruitlessness . . . but right now it seems easier than choosing between an amazing three-week study-abroad opportunity and the Glen Workshop. Besides, it would be a fascinating cultural experience.)

I thought about trying NaNoWriMo this year; I have a new novel idea, which is mostly outlined. But unfortunately I sketched out a few scenes back in September, when the idea struck--which means I would have had to come up with another idea. So instead I'm resolving to spend November seriously revising the novel I finished** back in May.

Of course, I'm starting almost a week into November, which is not ideal--but I need some kind of deadline. The whole thing is kind of a tangled mess right now, and if I let it sit much longer I'll never be able to untangle it. I'm thinking I'll try for a minimum of 1,000 words a day . . . which would get me through 24,000 words by the end of the month. It's half the word-count for official NaNoWriMo (am I spelling that right?)--but revising/rewriting is an inherently slower process than the intitial writing. (For me, anyway; others may write more slowly to begin with, and have less of a mess on their hands afterwards.)

Anyhow, that's the goal. I'll try to post on my progress; should help me stick to it, and also breathe some life back into this poor neglected blog of mine.

*(The visit's faults are not to be confused with my faults--the worst of which, at the moment, appears to be the overuse of parentheses. I find them terribly addictive.)

**I use this word pretty loosely (there's so much more to life than words . . .)

Numbers, novels, and organ-playing nomads

2008-08-21T22:03:00.006-04:00

Behold, many months have passed, and the moon hath waxed and grown thin, and summer hath come and departed*--and here much blogging!

In other words, I just realized how long it's been, and figured I should do something about it. Only trouble is, a lot's happened since I last blogged--guess I should start with the present, and work backwards.

Classes started today. Yes, I'm beginning my . . . how many is it now? . . . my thirteenth straight semester of college. My seventh straight year. However you want to look at it.

But--and this is a significant but--I'm only a part-time student this semester. I'm also living in Rivertown, which means a 10-minute drive to classes (instead of 45 minutes). Huge blessing--the commute was draining, and I'm not sure I could've kept it up another year. Of course, I now have an hour commute to my job . . . . it's 15 minutes from home, but in the opposite direction from Rivertown. It's a church job, though, so I only have to be there on Wednesdays and weekends--which means a long drive twice a week instead of 5 times. So I'm still semi-nomadic, but I'm expecting less stress.

Plus, I love the job. It's not perfect (what is?)--and there are a lot of things I wish I knew more about (conducting, for instance). But I'm learning a lot just being there--about music and people and churches and committees--and I know enough about music that I can teach them some things, and hopefully prepare them to carry on without me. (I'll graduate in a couple of years, and will need to move on. Probably to grad school. (Not even going to count those years right now . . . I don't want to think about it.))

Also, I've got a recital coming up--the projected date is February. Suite by a French Baroque guy named Clerembault; three Bach chorale preludes (including "Wachet auf"); and a couple of 20th-century pieces (also French). This means I actually have to practice, regularly and intensively; but it should be fun, too.

I kind of hate practicing. It's like writing: really hard to make yourself sit down and do it--but once you can play the piece (or once the scene starts working), there's nothing better in the world. The trouble is, there are lots of days when you can't play the piece, or your setting is hopelessly confusing, and you realize you have to ditch a good ten pages of your novel and come up with a completely new way to get your protagonist where she needs to be for the climax to work.

But it's worth it. So I'll be busy practicing, and revising, and maybe by February I'll have a readable novel to go along with my recital.

In other news, I just finished listening to David Byrne and Brian Eno's new album "Everything That Happens Will Happen Today." It's good stuff--and it's mostly responsible for this blog post, so I figured I should mention it. Plus, free streaming. Always a good.

Oh, and I'll try to post again before February. Lots of good summer stuff happened, and should be recorded for posterity. Or, you know, whoever actually reads this thing.

*At least, it's departed somewhere. Presumably. In these southern regions, it'll stick around another month at least.

song of the day

2008-06-30T12:22:00.002-04:00

I thought that we’d be
Further along by now
I can’t remember how
We stumbled to this place . . .

I wanna do better
I wanna try harder
I wanna believe
Down to the letter

Jesus and Mary
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness

I don’t mean to laugh outloud
I’m trying to come clean
Trying to shed my doubt
Maybe I should just keep
My big mouth shut . . .

So tell me your troubles
Let your pain rain down
I know my job I’ve been around
I invest in the mess
I’m a low cost dumping ground

Trouble is I’m so exhausted
The plot, you see, I think I’ve lost it
I need the grace to find what can’t be found

I wanna do better
I wanna try harder
I wanna believe
Down to the letter

Jesus and Mary
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness

-- Linford Detweiler (Over the Rhine)

This is a Novel

2008-06-09T16:46:00.004-04:00

And I wrote it.

Kind of an exciting thing to say. I mean, I've known I wanted to write books at least since I was ten (maybe longer); and while I've completed some long projects before (a novella in high school, a screenplay in college), I've never completed a full-length novel before. I wrote the last bit early one morning last week (right before having a wisdom tooth surgically removed, with local anaesthesia. Not an experience I want to repeat).

But this accomplishment is almost as daunting as it is exciting. Because when I say "this is a novel," I really mean "this is 200-odd pages of rough draft, and it still needs lots of time and attention before it's presentable." And, honestly, the thought of revising something this long is rather overwhelming . . . which is probably why I've barely looked at it since I finished it.

But hey, it's a novel.

And I wrote it.

But where shall I begin? And what should I presume?

2008-05-16T17:01:00.004-04:00

Those are the questions we must ask.

At the moment I'm dutifully asking them, as I sit in my local Panera, staring at the 44,772 words of novel on my computer screen, and the seven pages of scribbled notes that are supposed to help me finish with it. At the moment, they aren't helping in the least. (A writer's life is terribly hard.)

This is actually the first time I've been to this Panera. It's not as nice as the one near the Small and Peculiar College, where I went several times, and I find myself missing SPC as a result. (Not the classes, you understand, but the excursions.)

Spring classes here ended almost two weeks ago--which means I'm through with both theory and skills forever. (Those of you who are, or have been, music majors will understand. Those of you who aren't or haven't been, think Latin.) I celebrated by eating cheap sushi and going to see a disturbing Romanian film. It was great fun. (Yes, I'm aware that I have strange notions of fun.)

Since school ended, I've been watching season 3 of Lost at Glim's instigation (I had given up on it after season 2, but I've been reconverted), sleeping, and trying to work on my novel. (Life is much less crazy when you have one part-time job, instead of two part-time jobs and full-time college.) I've also been keeping up with Battlestar Galactica. Season 4 is off to a good start: last week's episode was brilliant, and I can't wait for more.

In the meantime, my novel languishes . . . . and if I ignore it any longer, I'm afraid it might do something drastic.

And indeed there will be time . . . . . . time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Mea cula, mea culpa . . .

2008-04-20T00:02:00.005-04:00

mea maxima culpa.

Not at all sure I have the right Latin there, but you get the idea. I've read many books the last couple of months, and haven't posted a single word about any of them. Resolutions and my blog? Very bad combination, seemingly.

But I've been tagged with a book-ish tagging thing, so I figured I should post.

"The Rules:
Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. (No cheating!)
Find Page 123.
Find the first 5 sentences.
Post the next 3 sentences.
Tag 5 people."

I first saw this at work when I had no books whatsoever . . . so I came home, sat down at my computer, and discovered that I had two books equally close to me. No, actually there are three . . . so here you go:

what made him shudder in his veins: He begged for mony to free his friend from the dungeons of Charles of Anjou, where he was awaiting execution. Oderisi allueds to Dante's own exile, when Dante, proud as he is, will likewise be required to do what mortifies him--to subsist upon the generosity of others. (Dante's Purgatory, trans. by Anthony Esolen.)*

We three. We're free. How many sappers die? (Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)

There was therefore a ready audience for anyone who cared to speak out against what was happening. Reputedly Luther spoke out on 31 October 1517, celebrated in later days in German-speaking lands** as Reformation Day. That day, he may or may not have publicly advertised his intention of setting up an academic disputation on the subject of indulgences by tacking to the Castle Church doors in Wittenberg a copy of ninety-five statements or theses to be disputed--much is uncertain in the anecdotes about these tumultuous years, and not even the doors themselves can bear witness, having been destroyed in a fire in 1760. (Diarmaid McCulloch, The Reformation)

And, with that having done by me, I hereby tag everyone who commented on my last post. Assuming, of course, that they actually visit my blog again after my ridiculously protracted silence. I probably would have given up on me by now. :-)

In other news, I have a church service to play for in the morning--after which I must begin work on an atonal composition, based on either a 12-tone row or an all-combinatorial hexachord. Since my notions of both things are still rather fuzzy--and the composition is due next week (!)--this could be an interesting undertaking. I shall try to post again soonishly.

(Oh, and I've only finished one of the three books . . . I'm only 59 pages into The Reformation and even less on the Purgatory. Novels are so distracting! Especially when they have yellow covers.***)

*The page ends here--hence the lack of the requisite third sentence.

**Also at certain English- and Latin-speaking colleges.

***That was a theatrical reference, for those of you who weren't homeschooled.

I read . . . .therefore I fail audits.

2008-02-15T17:02:00.005-05:00

I'm always resolving to blog more often--but somehow nothing ever seems to come of these resolutions. Part of the problem, I think, is that lately I feel like I don't have much to say. My schedule is busy and not conducive to thought, and my mind seems to run in the same tired patterns.

I'm sure there are people somewhere in Rivertown who care about the making and analyzing of stories, or about faith and culture in general. But so far I haven't them (and, believe me, I've tried). Without conversation, without people who agree and disagree with my ideas, I feel like I don't have any ideas. Perhaps I don't.

I suppose the sensible solution would be virtual conversation--using my blog and other online resources to engage in the conversations I'm not having in person. But much as I appreciate the internet, I often find online interactions stultifying: it's too easy to absorb things passively, too difficult to achieve a sense of real engagement. The internet usually leaves me feeling more detached than I did before.

So I'll keep trying. I'll keep talking to random people in libraries and braving cocktail parties where I don't know anyone, keep trying to talk to people after church. (My current church is much friendlier than some I've attended, and that definitely helps. Though not being able to receive Communion doesn't.)

In the meantime, I read constantly, read more than I've read since high school. In the last couple of weeks, it's been Thomas Merton, Richard John Neuhaus, Rosemary Sutcliffe, and Robin McKinley--plus the first chapter of a massive tome on the history of the Reformation. Most days I'm more interested in my current book than in my homework, which occasionally goes rather badly as a result. But only occasionally. Academic brinkmanship usually serves me well.

I have a paper due tomorrow. If I didn't, this blog post probably wouldn't exist (indeed, I expect I originally created this blog itself as a means of postponing a homework assignment). But, while I'm procrastinating, I think I'm going to resolve, again, to post more often. Only this time, I'm going to resolve to post about every book I read. That will (at the least) force me to think and analyze a bit more thoroughly; and perhaps it will also lead to some interesting conversations. It's worth trying, anyway (and much more fun than either homework or cocktail parties).

Bilbo's Labyrinth?

2008-01-28T10:02:00.000-05:00

The two Hobbit movies haven't been written yet, but they're close to getting a director: Guillermo del Toro. (Thanks to filmchat for the link.)

On the plus side, the guy's apparently visually creative and good with the monsters--which bodes well for the spiders and, of course, for Smaug. (The spiders I might not watch. A good dragon on the big screen, though? That's worth nine dollars.)

But I have to say, I'm a little worried about the whole thing. I hate the idea of the second movie--a link between The Hobbit and The Fellowship of the Ring, which will be only loosely based on Tolkien's writings and (unless the writers are very careful) could create all sorts of continuity problems. I haven't seen any of del Toro's movies, so I'm not really sure what to think. (I may have to watch Pan's Labyrinth now. . .) By all accounts he's a gifted director, but he seems to have a penchant for darkness and disturbingness. Not ideal for The Hobbit, which is much lighter in tone than The Lord of the Rings--a children's adventure story rather than a prose epic.

But at least the Lord of the Rings people won't be writing this one. I love the trilogy, and always will; but it has some serious weaknesses on the writing side--and the characterization of Gimli is particularly bad. With different writers, there's a chance the Dwarves in the Hobbit will get to be more than awkward comic relief.

And since Peter Jackson is involved, we'll probably get to see more of Ian McKellen's Gandalf. Which is definitely a good thing.

Verily, I muddleth along . . .

2008-01-25T18:23:00.000-05:00

But in the midst of my muddling, here are a few things that make me happy:

Gregory Wolfe meditates on the necessity of beauty;

Thomas the Georgian continues his strange saga;

someone very difficult to please (but in a good way!) loves my favorite TV show;

and, lastly and delightfully, it's Friday! Which means I get to go home now, and not be nomadic again until Monday.

Goodbye!

nomadic misadventures

2008-01-18T18:05:00.001-05:00

This is the story of my insane week. But to properly appreciate it, you need a little backstory . . .

Over Christmas break two different churches offered me organ jobs. One of them I refused (it didn't pay enough to be worth the time), and the other I tentatively accepted . . . but then it was unoffered (their organist changed her mind about retiring).

So when my employer at my receptionist job offered more hours, I took them. This put me at 19 hours/week, plus 13 hours of classes, plus a 1 1/2 hour commute every day. Which pretty much means I have no life, because whenever I'm not at work, in class, or driving to one of the above, I'm practicing.

Anyway, this Wednesday I woke up feeling awful, and ended up skipping work and my first class. After a little extra sleep I decided I could make it to my other two classes, so I braved the finally-seasonable weather (nasty rain with a little ice mixed in), and drove to class.

Some things are better unbraved.

I ended up with a flat tire and a bent wheel. And I missed my class.

Then I got an email informing me that my scholarship was in danger--because I had failed to fulfill a requirement that no one had told me about. I did make it to my last class of the day; but since this is the class where the professor doesn't care if you skip, and routinely leaves the classroom after 5 minutes to get coffee, it was kind of a waste of time.

I made it home without further incident . . . finished my homework . . . brushed my teeth . . .

. . . and realized I had a random wisdom tooth coming in.

Yeah, not a happy day. Thursday, though, I got a call from the church that had unoffered me the job. Apparently their organist changed her mind (again!), and is actually retiring. So I agreed to play a week from Sunday, and then sit down and discuss things with them. Then the other church called, wanting to talk to me about my concerns and see if we could negotiate a salary.

Only trouble is, I don't have time to take either job now, because of the aforementioned crazy schedule. (When I was considering it back during break, I thought I'd be working maybe 10 hours/week.) I could drop a class, but that would make me a part-time student, and my scholarship would disappear. Permanently. To keep the scholarship, though, I have to join an ensemble--which I also don't have time to do, because of the same crazy schedule.

So the long weekend? Very much my friend right now. And I'm really hoping one of the organ jobs works out, because dropping a class and making more money is looking like the best of my possible worlds. Might even let me move to Rivertown, and end my days as a nomad . . . which would simplify my life exponentially.

Hugs to all my faithful readers . . . I miss you. Lots.

Epiphany song

2008-01-07T21:59:00.000-05:00

A stable lamp is lighted
Whose glow shall wake the sky;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
And straw like gold shall shine;
A barn shall harbor heaven,
A stall become a shrine.

This child through David's city
Shall ride in triumph by;
The palm shall strew its branches,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
Though heavy, dull, and dumb,
And lie within the roadway
To pave his kingdom come.

Yet he shall be forsaken,
And yielded up to die;
The sky shall groan and darken,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
For stony hearts of men:
God's blood upon the spearhead,
God's love refused again.

But now, as at the ending,
The low is lifted high;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
In praises of the Child
By whose descent among us
The worlds are reconciled.

Richard Wilbur

Skiving (but without snackboxes)

2007-11-30T11:41:00.000-05:00

The lovely thing about Georgia is that you can eat lunch outside on the last day of November.

And the lovely thing about state universities? You can be a terrible student without any risk of losing your scholarship.

Okay, maybe "terrible" is too strong. But I'm quite definitely a bad student--and my professors all seem to think I'm a very good one.

On a typical Thursday, I get up around 8, get dressed, throw together a quick lunch (yogurt, banana, Kashi bar), and drive to Linguisitcs. Despite my good intentions, I'm usually 5-10 minutes late.

I like linguistics reasonably well. Unfortunately, though, the professor is rather boring, and most of the students are perpetually clueless. So I do my homework in class. This usually takes no more than 10 minutes, despite the fact that I never read the textbook. Then I do my theory homework, which is due later that day (all the while keeping half an ear open in case he calls on me, and glancing up at strategic intervals with an interested expression).

Theory homework completed, I check my cell phone. Still half an hour left. I pull out my faithful red notebook and start sketching out the next scene of my novel. I have to be careful, though: when I write dialogue, I have a tendency to start mouthing the words and making appropriate facial expressions. The writing makes me look attentive; but facial contortions look suspicious--and while prof is a bit absent-minded, he doesn't lecture with his eyes closed.

After linguistics, I drive 15 minutes to the music building. Here I have "Skills"--50 minutes of sight-singing, rhythm-counting, dictation-taking frustration. I actually do some work for this class, but it never seems to help.

Then it's lunch & email-checking in the Mac lab, and on to theory--good subject, bad prof. Well, he's not bad exactly--but about the second week of the semester I realized that his brain processes theory very differently than mine does. So I simply don't listen in class, and figure things out when I'm doing homework in Linguistics.

The homework isn't due until 5:00, technically; but I always turn it in at the end of class. This allows me to get some organ practice in before work--which mostly involves sitting behind a desk from 5-8:30. Just long enough to read a short novel. Then it's 45 minutes home, and I have just time to finish the novel or watch a TV episode before bed. (This semester I've been watching Bones, Heroes, Boomtown, and Wonderfalls.)

This is the pattern of my Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not a bad pattern, really, though it's a bit too nomadic for my state. A couple of weeks ago, though, I changed it.

The worst part of my nomadic lifestyle is that it often prevents me from seeing movies. I had already missed at least 2 that I was excited about, and on Wednesday I realized that another movie I was interested (The Darjeeling Limited) in would be gone on Friday. Also, I was half a week into a really nasty cold.

So when I woke up Thursday morning, feeling horrible, and thought about my linguistics class, I rolled over and went back to sleep. By the time I woke up again, linguistics was half over, and if I ate breakfast I wouldn't have time to make Skills.

I ate breakfast.

Then I drove downtown, and sat in the windowless Mac lab trying to care about my theory homework--until it suddenly struck me that I could skp Theory, too, and go to the afternoon showing of The Darjeeling Limited.

It was a perfect fall day: deep blue skies above crazily colored trees--bright yellow, rich gold, crimson, purple-red, and orange; and the wind was just cold and strong enough to make you want adventure.

It was the wind's fault, really. I cast off my last vestige of good-studenthood, and went to the movie.

Oddly enough, it was the perfect movie for the mood I was in. Best part of my week. Well, except for the epiphanic church-playing and the Magic Tea. And the blind date wasn't too bad, either. But those are whole other stories. :-)

The Golden Controversy

2007-11-14T19:00:00.000-05:00

For the past couple of years, I've found it ironic that conservative Christians complained so much about Harry Potter while remaining oblivious to His Dark Materials, a popular young adult fantasy trilogy. Harry Potter's portrayal of magic is innocuous; His Dark Materials, on the other hand, is deliberately subversive--and its main target is Christianity.

Now that the trilogy's being filmed, of course, all that has changed. Christian groups are organizing boycotts, Hanna Rosin is writing articles . . . . and the director, is desperately trying to convince people to watch his movie.

The really ironic part? The studio apparently insisted on diluting (or deleting) all the religious references in the first book, in an effort to pacify Christians. The Christians weren't fooled, though--so all they've done is upset the fans and the atheists. Hence the poor director's desperation. (He hasn't said he's desperate, but when you keep protesting that "Nobody's seen the movie!"--well, you sound a little desperate.)

Rosin's article does a good job outlining the concerns of both sides. It also has a good summary of the trilogy's major plot points, if you want to get an idea of the storyline without reading the books (otherwise--spoiler warning!). It also has some fascinating quotes by the author, Philip Pullman, and the director, Chris Weitz.

The trilogy's title comes from Paradise Lost, and the story revolves around the idea of the Fall. This much is clear in the first book, The Golden Compass (or The Northern Lights, if you're British. American publishers seem to like changing titles, for some reason). But it's not until the second book, The Subtle Knife, that you realize where the story is going. In The Amber Spyglass (the final book), the ideology starts to take precedence over the story, which becomes increasingly slow, dull, and frustrating as a result. The long-delayed climax is, well, anti-climactic. (Though it has nothing against the weather. :-)

It would be nice if I could simply dismiss the books, but it's not quite that simple. The Golden Compass is among the best of recent fantasy novels. It has rich and complex characters, a fully-developed and fascinating parallel universe, and a well-constructed, exciting plot . . . all building to a climax that is shocking and beautiful, and leaves you eager for more.

Sadly, the more doesn't measure up . . . the second book, while good, doesn't work quite as well; and the third, as I said, is kind of a mess. Not only because it gets hijacked by its own "message," but because it's argument against Christianity is fallacious (the famous "straw man," in fact). Basically, he sees the Fall as represented the change from innocence to experience, from childhood to adulthood. In the book--and in his own explanation of the book--this is defined in sexual terms:

“This is exactly what happens in the Garden of Eden,” Pullman told me. “They become aware of sexuality, of the power the body has to attract attention from someone else. This is not only natural, but a wonderful thing! To be celebrated! Why the Christian Church has spent 2,000 years condemning this glorious moment, well, that’s a mystery. I want to confront that, I suppose, by telling a story that this so-called original sin is anything but. It’s the thing that makes us fully human.

A complete misreading of the Genesis story, obviously . . . and not the way any branch of orthodox Christianity has ever interpreted it. (It's hardly surprising that Pullman also misreads Lewis--calling Narnia "morally loathsome . . . ugly and poisonous," apparently because he thinks it advocates eternal childhood and denigrates sexuality.)

And that's hardly all; we've also got a rebellion against "the Authority," who turns out to be a senile angel who's pretended to be the Creator in order to control people. (There isn't a Creator. Life comes from Dust . . . but that's another post.) Our youthful protagonists end up killing him. Accidentally; he's glad to die, though. Turns out death is a happy thing, where we dissolve into molecules that float off and become part of the grass and the trees and the sky, and we'd rather have that than a purely spiritual afterlife.

So, given all this, how does one respond to the movie? I'm kind of looking forward to it, honestly. It looks like the filmmakers have done a brilliant job translating Pullman's world to the screen, and like I said, The Golden Compass is a really good story.

For anyone with children or young siblings, though, I'd advise caution. Weitz has explained that he hopes this one is a big hit so he can make the next two without watering them down--and, given the nature of the stories, I don't see how they could be made at all without the religious (or anti-religious) ideas taking center stage. It would be easy to get excited about the first movie, and not realize until later where it was gong . . . which could be a problem with children who aren't old enough to understand the issues.

For older fantasy fans, though, I'd recommend the first book. And the movie? Well, I haven't seen it yet. :-)

There's "woo!" and there's serious "hoo!"

2007-11-01T12:31:00.000-04:00

Joss Whedon has a deal for a new TV show!!

With Eliza Dushku in the lead role!!

Yes, this occasion merits double exclamation points!!

But . . . there's also "uh-oh" and "why now?".

'Cause the Hollywood writer's strike is going to delay it.

(See Whedonesque for more details.)

Quiet music should be played loud

2007-10-24T20:07:00.000-04:00

I can't believe it's been a week already . . . it doesn't feel like that long. But, for those of you who are interested (you know who you are), here's what they sang:

I Don't Wanna Waste Your Time--There's a warmth and spontaneity in this music that welcomes you and draws you in. Karin sways to the music, relaxed, unselfconscious. "I've got a different scar for every song," she sings," And blood still left to bleed/But I don't wanna waste your time/Wiht music you don't need." She's gorgeous, by the way; in a black v-neck top with a light patterned skirt, she could be a model for an artsy boutique. But it's her voice--with its passion and urgency, its aching longing and unfettered joy--that makes you sit still and breathless, that brings tears to your eyes. "When it comes to wanting what's real/There's no such thing as greed." The tears are escaping my eyes now--partly because the music is real, partly because they've given me preciesly the songs I've need, so many times. Partly, too, because these words serve as an affirmation of desire--an admontion not to give on on the things I most long for, the things it sometimes seems foolish to desire.

I Radio Heaven--Not my favorite, but hearing it live gives me a new appreciation for it. At the keyboard, Linford looks happy and completely at home. It takes me back to teh first time I heard them play: he had a grand piano then, and I loved his playing before I was sure I liked Karin's singing. (But Jeffrey Overstreet kept raving about Good Dog, Bad Dog, so I bought it--which makes this whole crazy pilgrimage his fault. :-) But keyboard or grand, Linford's playing is equally expressive and beautiful.

Long Lost Brother--Makes me cry again. This has been my song the past several weeks, but it's from an older album, so I didn't expect to hear it. It feels like they're singing it just for me . . . A gift unexpected and un"The trouble is, I'm so exhausted/The plot, you see, I think I've lost it/I need the grace to find what can't be found . . ." By this point, I'm realizing that however good their albums are--and don't get me wrong, they're fantastic--Over the Rhine is even better live.

I'm On a Roll--Karin introduced this one: "We did melancholy on Drunkard's Prayer, and felt like we really got that down. So it was time for something more perky." Not my favorite of theirs (you know me, I'm all about the melancholy), but it's great fun. And have I mentioned that her voice is amazing?

Entertaining Thoughts--Another song from the new CD. Lighthearted, yes; but if you've followed their music at all, if you their story, you know this joy didn't come easily. And happy songs are (almost) as needful as melancholy ones. :-)

Let's Spend the Day in Bed--Linford did the introduction, talking about how they'd been touring since June and he felt like he could spent four days in bed. ("We think that's really funny," Karin said with him.) Then he started talking about how they loved touring, because music was one of the few communal things left in our country, one of the few things that brought people together. Then he paused for a second, and said, "But that has nothing to do with the song. That was a tangent."

What I'll Remember Most--Again, one that I absolutely love, but didn't expect to hear. (The saddest songs are the happiest, the hardest truths are the easiest . . .)

The Trumpet Child--Beautiful. Linford said it's been described as a "jazz hymn," and they think that fits pretty well. He also explained how the song was inspired in part by his earliest memory: he was sitting on his mother's lap at an tent revival, and there was someone on stage playing a trumpet. "The music was coming from up on the stage, and I was in the audience. And I was not okay with that."

Who'm I Kiddn' but Me--probably my least favorite of the songs they sang, at least in the recorded version. But at the end they went off on a long instrumental improv, which was fabulous. Linford went crazy on the piano, then dropped out, and the drummer went crazier on the drums, all by himself, for several minutes. Brilliant stuff.

Trouble

Latter Days--Another of my favorites: the song that made me fall in love with them to begin with, and that helped me through my worst semester at TFC. This one just piano and voice, the drummer and bass/guitar guy getting a break.

North Pole Man--One of two I hadn't heard before, from their Christmas album.

Goodbye Charles--Another from the Christmas album--just instrumental this time.

Ohio

Orphan Girl (Gillian Welch)

I clapped madly, along with everyone else; but I wasn't sure if they'd come back for an encore. After all, the other rules of classical music didn't apply here . . .

. . . but that one, happily, did. They came back out and sang "Hush Now," followed by "If a Song Could Be President"--which got a huge audience reaction--and went straight into "Don't Wait for Tom." Again, not one of my favorites--but lots of fun live, and a great way to end the evening.

The list of things I've never done . . . .

2007-10-24T19:10:00.000-04:00

. . . . is pretty long. But I've just struck something off it.

I have now driven 100 miles (one way, in the rain) to hear my favorite band play in a tavern.

And, given the chance, I'd do it again. (Though next time I will coerce someone* into going with me. But don't worry, it will be good coercion--forcing her to be free, and all that.)

I left Rivertown early, hoping to beat rush hour traffic. It worked quite well, leaving me with three hours to kill before the show. I spent most of the first browsing in the bookstore downstairs. Then I went up and had a cosmopolitan, ate supper, and waited for the music room to open. (Next time I'll eat supper first . . . my stomach was emptier than I thought, and the cosmopolitan, though tasty, made me slightly woozy. Which was interesting.)

The evening began with a performance by Rosie Thomas, a singer-songwriter from Seattle. (I found amusing, since the *last* time I was in a tavern listening to music, I was in Seattle, and all the performers were from Alabama and Georgia.) She sang well, and I liked her songs, but didn't love them.

Ater about 45 minutes of Rosie Thomas & co., and 30 minutes or so of nothing, Over the Rhine finally appeared. I was rather impatient by this point. (As a denizen of the classical-music world, I read "Over the Rhine at 8:00," and I expect Over the Rhine to be on stage doing something impressive by 8:05. In the world of bars and taverns, of course, it actually means:

Someone will start performing around 8:15, but it won't be the person you're paying to see. The real show might start around 9:00. Or 9:30. We don't know. Just have fun waiting.)

I'm a firm believer in fun waiting. But I had driven 2 hours to be there, recklessly skipping my daily organ practice; I had a 2-hour drive home; my food had been more expensive and less filling than I could have wished; and, besides all this, I was squished onto a sort of carpeted step with one-too-many strangers and nothing to lean my back against. (When the website talked about reserving tables, I didn't realize it meant "reserve a table or you're stuck on an uncomfortable stair-thing." There were also lots of seats at the bar, but they filled up really fast, and I didn't get one.)

So, anyway, I was tired, and starting to wonder if this whole thing had been a bad idea.

And then the opening measures of The Trumpet Child played over the speakers, and they came out onstage (to wild applause). Linford continued the introduction on the piano, Karin started singing--and there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be.

The song list follows, with commentary, for those of you** who wanted to be there and couldn't. But it's going to follow in a separate post, 'cause this is getting longish. :-)

*Yes, Glim, that means you.
**Actually, you all wanted to be there. Most of you just didn't know it--and presumably still don't. :-P

possible worlds?

2007-10-17T18:45:00.000-04:00

Behold the random and pointless quiz-thing, wherein you can enter the exact same name repeatedly and get different (but equally mystifying) results each time:

If You Were Born in 2893...

Your Name Would Be: Umoro Yuu

And You Would Be: A Prophet

If You Were Born in 2893

If You Were Born in 2893...

Your Name Would Be: Uaro Ayn

And You Would Be: A Time Traveler

If You Were Born in 2893

If You Were Born in 2893...

Your Name Would Be: Ara Iara

And You Would Be: The Destroyer of Earth

If You Were Born in 2893

(If I get a choice, I think I prefer Uaro Ayn. Terrible name, but time travel would be fun. Also she has that nifty glowy thing--probably not a lightsaber, since it's not cutting her fingers off, but it looks cool anyway.)

Pointless? Yes, very.

More fun than practicing for a rhythm audit? Also yes (though not particularly very).

The Dark is Confusing

2007-09-25T17:24:00.000-04:00

Because he who walketh in the darkness knoweth not where he goeth.

(For a little while) Walk while you have the light/See, you can see the light/Go, lest the doom of darkness be on you . . .

Sorry. That was a random flashback to a children's choir song from back in the day. Very Joplinesque, but with KJV words, which ended up sounding kind of dumb. At the time we thought it was evil, but that's another story . . .

. . . though this one is about darkness and evil. About The Dark is Rising, to be precise--a series with a lot that's good, a significant bit that's bad, and too much that's confusing. (Some of this will be mildly spoilery, so if you're planning to read the books soon you might want to come back later. But I'll try to avoid major plot details.)

The Good

Susan Cooper writes well; her use of British mythology is fascinating; and The Dark is Rising (book 2 in the series) works well as an introduction to a fantasy world. The conflict between Will's two identities--as an eleven-year-old boy with a family he loves, and as an immortal Old One who must help save the world--provides dramatic interest. The Grey King is even better; it has the tighter plot and better character development than the other books, and is most successful in weaving Arthurian myth into the plot.

The Bad

Like the Harry Potter books, these books take place in our world, imagining a magical reality under its surface which only a chosen few can understand. Unlike the Potter books, though, they do ask whether this magical reality is compatible with the religions found in the real world. The answer, given by Will to his family's priest, is that the conflict between Light and Dark predates Christianity. A Christian church holds some of the power of the Light, apparently; but this power does not come from God. Significantly, it's Will's ancient Sign, not the cross, which holds the Dark at bay.

This comes up again at the end of the series, when Will's mentor Merrriman (Merlin) charges the children to work for good in the world. Now that the conflict between Dark and Light is over, and the Dark has been driven from the world, they're on their own:

"For Drake is no longer in his hammock, children, nor is Arthur somewhere sleeping, and you may not lie idly expecting the second coming of anybody now, because the world is yours and it is up to you. Now especially since man has the strength to destroy this world, it is the responsibility of man to keep it alive, in all its beauty and marvellous joy."

My other objection is more philosophical. When ordinary people discover something about the conflict between the Light and the Dark, the Old Ones make them forget. Sometimes it's because they feel the person can't handle the knowledge, and is better off not knowing; sometimes, it's because *they* can't handle the person knowing. When Will's brother Paul starts to realize who Will really is, Will erases the entire conversation from Paul memory--because he can't stand the way Paul is looking at him.

The implicit assumption is that the Old Ones have the right to control other people's minds--and, consequently, that the Old Ones are inherently superior to ordinary people. Which I find morally, theologically, and philosophically troubling. (The same thing, of course, occurs in Harry Potter, and I find it problematic there as well; it bothered me more in these books, though, because it's more prominent.)

The Confusing

There's a lot that's good about the series, but unfortunately there's also a lot that simply doesn't add up. For one thing, it feels disjointed as a series. (The first book is about three siblings who aren't Old Ones, and who don't figure in the second book at all. Everyone comes together in the third book, but then the three siblings disappear entirely for the fourth book; and then we finally get everyone in the fifth book.)

For another, there's time travel. The Old Ones can travel through time and space at will; but they're constantly saying things like "We have to find the Thing of Power in two days, or it will be too late" or "I missed the one moment when I could have done x, and now it's too late."

Thing is, they can travel through time. So all they have to do is go back in time to the one moment when he can do x, and everything's fabulous. But they never seem to think of that.

The set-ups and payoffs also leave something to be desired. The set-ups consist mostly of cryptic prophetic poetry; and the payoffs seem somewhat arbitrary, since they haven't been established apart from the cryptic poetry. The final book was particularly disappointing--most of the payoffs I expected and wanted, based on earlier books, simply weren't there.

Conclusion

As a series, it leaves a lot to be desired--the whole is pretty much just the sum of its parts, and the sum is kind of a weird fraction. But some of the parts are really good; and even with its faults it's much superior to a lot that passes for fantasy these days. "The Grey King" is a good story in its own right (and one of the very few modern-Arthurian stories that really works). So, there you have it. Happy reading, or not-reading; and if you have read the books, I'm curious what you thought of them.

I'm alive!

2007-09-13T18:51:00.000-04:00

(Despite all blog-evidence to the contrary.)

Nothing terribly exciting to report, though. Except that I did willfully, intentionally, and with malice aforethought skip a class this morning. But I had a good reason. Well, sort of . . .

One of my required music classes is Skills, and every couple of weeks there's an audit (a mini-test on rhythm or sight-singing). And I had a singing audit today, but as I spent most of my weekend studying for a music history test Monday (and the rest reading The Dark is Rising), I couldn't work on my singing stuff in advance. So I was going to do it Tuesday and Wednesday . . .

But then Tuesday I had Legacy for a couple of hours (which *never* happens), and Wednesday I forgot. Until I got home, and realized I hadn't opened Ottman (the sight-singing book) once all week.

So this morning I willfully, intentionally, etc. skipped Linguistics to practice for my audit. (Which wasn't so bad, since the Linguistics professor gives meandering disorganized lectures, and the class feels interminable.) And the audit went fine (I only had to do half, which helped; the Skills professor always saves the audit till the *end* of class, and then gives second and third chances to all the kids who crash and burn because they've practiced less than *I* have. Resulting in half the audit left for next time.)

So there you go: story of my week. Oh, except I left out the part where I thought I hadn't studied enough for the music history test, and was genuinely worried, and then it was easy. Multiple choice and stuff. Kind of disappointing, really.

The Dark is Rising was interesting, though, so I didn't waste the whole weekend. (I probably spent more time on it than on music history, actually . . .) It's a series of five books, and the title of the second book is also the title of the series. I read three of them Saturday and Sunday, and am finishing up the last one (sort of a prequel) now.

I've been vaguely meaning to read them for years--young adult fantasy classics, Newberry Awards, that sort of thing. I actually picked one up at the library maybe ten years ago, and read a couple of pages. I was fascinated, but had a vague impression that they were probaby "bad," so I never read them.

But the impression of that scene lingered . . . I remembered that the main character was British (possibly Welsh); that there was some sort of epic mysterious conflict between good and evil; and that there was a magical book which the kid could read, despite it being in an ancient lost language, because he was destined to help in this epic conflict. And there was a general atmosphere of grandeur and mystery.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I saw the movie trailer. The kid, Will, was American; there was no sign of a magical book anywhere; and there were lots of silly-looking effects and random super-powers. (Will has telekinesis. "Cool," he says to his mentor. "Can I fly?").

Yeah, not what I remembered. So I thought maybe my two pages had given me an inaccurate idea of the book, or the intervening ten years had muddled my memory . . or that someone had done a worthy book a terrible disservice. Wouldn't be the first time.

So I read the books. And it turns out my two pages ten years ago gave me a better idea of the story's tone than anything in the trailer. Of course, trailers can be misleading . . . but a bit of poking around online suggests that the people behind this movie didn't bother to read the whole first book, much less the whole series--much less get in touch with its living author. And they don't mind saying so. Apparently they're quite happy to be making "Potteragon of the Rings and the Lost Signs," and don't care that they're destroying a high-fantasy quest with its own atmosphere, a unique and unusual brand of magic, and the gravitas of the oldest Celtic and Arthurian myths just around every corner.

The books aren't perfect (more on that later), but they've got a lot going for them (especially "the Dark is Rising" and "The Grey King").

And for Susan Cooper's sake, I sincerely hope the movie doesn't make enough for sequels.

Pro Potterum

2007-07-18T10:39:00.000-04:00

I wrote this a couple of months ago, for an aunt who objects to Harry Potter. It's partially in response to an article she sent me, by Doug Phillips of Vision Forum, which argued that not only HP but any story containing magical/supernatural abilities used by good characters was evil. But it also outlines my own understanding of literature, especially fantasy literature, and why it's good and valuable.

**************************************

As it happens, I disagree not only with Doug Phillips’ position on the Harry Potter books, but also with his entire philosophy of literature. So instead of responding point-by-point to his article—which I’m afraid would only confuse the issue, since we’re starting with such different assumptions—I’m going to outline the way I approach literature in general. Once I’ve done that, I can explain why I think the Harry Potter books are worthwhile.

The first question we need to ask is whether stories are valuable in themselves, or whether they’re valuable only as vehicles for moral or spiritual messages. Or, to put it another way: does God care about literature?

It’s abundantly evident that beauty is important to God—and by beauty, I mean not only that which is pretty or attractive, but anything which is well-crafted and intricately detailed. Creation itself “pours forth speech,” telling us what kind of God created it. He chose to create a world full of extravagant beauty: a world with flowers and stars, sunsets and oceans. He also filled the world with careful, detailed craftsmanship: the complexity of photosynthesis in a single blade of grass, the tiny scales that make patterns on butterfly wings, the small-but-wise ant.

The importance of beauty is evident not only in general revelation, but also in special revelation. For instance, God instructs Moses in the proper design for the High Priest’s robes, explaining that the purpose of these garments is “for glory and for beauty.” In the Psalms, the prophets, and the Song of Songs, He chooses to speak to His people through some of the most beautiful and carefully-crafted poetry ever written.

He also chooses to reveal Himself through narrative. The concept of story—of a beginning and middle which lead to a satisfying end—is woven into the fabric of the world. We interpret both our own lives, and the entire sweep of history, in terms of story. And the Bible itself is not only full of stories (from the story of creation to the parables to parts of John’s Revelation)—but the entire Bible is the story of God’s love for the people He created.

All of this leads me to the conclusion not only that stories matter, but also that excellent craftsmanship matters. We want to create because we are made in the image of a Creator-God; and when our creations reflect the beauty, the detail, the craftsmanship that He put into creation, they glorify Him.

Thus, I disagree strongly with Doug Phillips’ statement that plot details or excellent writing are irrelevant. I also disagree with his suggestion that stories are reducible to their “message.” Many evangelical Christians think of stories this way; but if we read stories only to find a “message,” which can be extracted and stated separately from the story, why should we read stories at all? Why not simply start with the message, and save time?

In the best stories, the message and story are the same thing. Take the best story of all: Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection. In a sense, you could say the “message” of this story is God’s love for us, and of course you’re right—but how do we know what His love means? Through His actions; through His words; through His life and through His death. The message is inseparable from the story, and you can’t talk about one very long, or very meaningfully, without talking about the other.

When we look at fiction, we find much the same thing. The best works of fiction usually don’t have a simple, straightforward message. Instead, they challenge us, raising questions about ourselves, about God, about the world. They help us to see things we would otherwise overlook, and question things we take for granted; they help us see the world through other eyes, enriching the way we look around us. They don’t always provide answers, but they help us to ask the right questions.

One of my favorite novels of all time, Crime and Punishment, tells the story of a murderer. Rather than offering the obvious “message” that murder is wrong (which we all knew to begin with), it asks us to identify with the murderer—thus making us aware of the depths of sin within ourselves, and our need for redemption—and also reminding us that redemption is possible for everyone, even those who we think are beyond hope.

And that’s only a small fraction of the layers of meaning in the story. To do it any sort of justice, I would have to read you the novel.

This complexity is one of the things which makes fiction so powerful: it engages our intellects, emotions and imaginations; it incarnates truth and beauty . . . and, sometimes, it incarnates falsehood. And because stories are powerful, dismissing anything—Harry Potter or The Da Vinci Code or anything else—as harmless because it is “just a story” is mistaking the entire nature of fiction.

On that point, at least, Doug Phillips and I agree: “it’s just a story” is not an adequate or helpful defense of any work of fiction.

Given all this, then, how should we approach fictional works that involve magic?

First, we need to ask what Scriptural prohibitions of witchcraft are forbidding. As I understand it, these passages are forbidding wrong and dangerous interactions with the spiritual world: calling on demons, or trying to obtain powers properly reserved to God.

Second, we have to ask whether this prohibition applies to most magical stories. Generally speaking—and there are exceptions—magical stories posit imaginary universes with different physical laws. For instance, there are many magical stories where people can fly—with the aid of magic carpets, fairy dust, etc. This is, for whatever reason, a fairly common human desire (nearly everyone I know dreamed about flying as a child).

Is this sort of thing wrong? It seems to me that it’s comparable to scientists finding ways to do things that seem physically impossible—again, like flying. When a writer imaginatively changes the physical laws of the universe, they’re able to write fun stories and create fascinating scenarios that couldn’t take place in a “realistic” story—and there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as they don’t alter the moral law of the universe.

This, I think, is a vital distinction. There are certain moral laws, which are inherent and unalterable, laws which God wove into the fabric of the universe, and which are reflected not only in the Ten Commandments, but also in the laws of nearly all societies throughout history. Humans know, without having to be told, that murder, adultery, theft, and so forth, are wrong; and we know that there is a God whom we should worship.

So as soon as a literary work starts questioning or undermining the moral law, there’s cause for concern—and, in many cases, we may be better off not reading it.

It’s worth noting, though, that in my experience you’re more likely to come across this in “serious” novels for adults than in magical stories for children. In most fantasy stories I’ve read, the authors aren’t posing questions about moral law. They’re asking things like—what if people could move objects with their minds? What if people could use magic, instead of technology to make housekeeping more convenient and transportation faster? There’s nothing inherently wrong with these questions—particularly when the stories are in line with moral law.

Thus, finally, we come to the Harry Potter books. Given everything I’ve said so far, I think three questions are all we really need to ask about them.

First, does the magic in the Harry Potter books involve demons or other spiritual forces?

No; it’s limited to imaginatively changing the physical laws of the universe, and doesn’t involve anything remotely resembling demonic activity.

Second, do the Harry Potter books contain literary beauty?

Yes; their excellent craftsmanship is evident in careful plotting, realistic characterization, a wide vocabulary, and knowledge of great literature. And last, but by no means least, they’re fun to read.

Third, do these stories ask important questions, reflect truth about unalterable moral laws, or give insight into what it means to be human?

Yes to all. Despite their fantastic setting, the stories deal very realistically with death and grief. Themes of courage, loyalty, forgiveness, and self-sacrifice run throughout the series. The lines between good and evil are clear and distinct, and evil is portrayed as utterly unattractive, gradually destroying the very humanity of the evildoer (a very Lewis-ish idea, incidentally).

Of course, there are other questions about Harry Potter, particularly from a parents’ perspective; and I do think Christian parents should read the books and discuss them with their children. But I think the ideas I’ve discussed are adequate to explain why the books are not only appropriate, but valuable reading for Christian adults and older children.

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So there you are: my attempt at playing patrona to the boy-who-lived. Unfortunately, my aunt wasn't convinced . . . I think I"ll let my mom try next.

assorted wacky quizzes

2007-07-12T00:22:00.000-04:00

Look! I'm almost half a geek!

49% Geek

. . . so if I marry someone slightly-more-than-half-a-geek, does that make us a whole geek? Purely academic question, of course. The quiz gets points for including a "Firefly" question (albeit a very easy one).

Also, I'm corrupting the youth. My blog is unsuitable for anyone under 17:

Why? 'Cause I've used the word "death" ten times, "dead" nine times, "pain" four times, "murder" thrice, "kill" twice, and "limbs" once. Weird criteria, but it's still better than the infamous "curse boxes": it didn't mention the word "God" :-). Though I'll admit I'm confused about why limbs are bad . . .

For anyone who was worried, my scientific knowledge is demonstrably at the eight-grade level . . . .

. . . and, what's more,

51%

These aren't "Buffy" or "Alias" zombies, though . . . any flicker of altruism, attempt to help loved ones, or cooperation with other people decreases your chance of success. I think I'll stick with the "Buffy" kind: they're slow, they're stupid, and we always defeat them and save the day.

Oh, and according the "personal self-scoring temperament test" (discovered via Sylvanus' blog), I have a melancholy temperament.

That means I have the same temperament as Hamlet. And that makes me cool, no matter how many zombies kill me. :-)

Ice-cream is my enemy, sparrows are my friends

2007-07-11T22:53:00.000-04:00

What? you exclaim. How can that be? I thought you *liked* ice-cream!

I did. That was before I spent several consecutive weeks scooping it for hordes of inconsiderate tourists. Also before I had to dig through large freezers to find a 3-gallon container of a particular flavor of icecream; before I had to lift a 9 lb., 10 oz. jar of maraschino cherries; before I drank too many leftover milkshakes at work; and before said dipping-of-ice-cream resulted in a minor hand injury.

In other news, things are not looking bright on the job horizon. I have something almost-lined-up for the fall, but it's long evening hours at minimum wage. Not ideal. And while it will keep me in school this semester, there won't be much left over to put toward *next* semester . . . .

In happier news, the world is full of books. And surprising numbers of these books, of all sorts and varieties, colors and qualities, are available free of charge through libraries. (Known in French-speaking lands as "Bibliotheques," a word which has a more distinguished ring to it.) This is particularly happy news when you're a poor starving college student, who is starting to hate the *smell* of icecream, as well as what it does to one's extremities--but I digress.

A couple of months ago, I discovered that our small-town library has a surprisingly good selection of sci-fi/fantasy books, which I've enjoyed exploring. So far I've tried Heinlein (*not* impressed, despite his reputed brilliance), Ursula LeGuin (fascinating), "The Sparrow" (disturbing), and a couple of others. My favorite so far, though, is Madeleine L'Engle's "The Arm of the Starfish," which Rosalind recommended to me years ago. Not sure why it's taken me this long . . . though I didn't like "Swiftly Tilting Planet" much, and that made me hesitant to try L'Engle.

This one, though, is really good--and makes an interesting thematic contrast to "The Sparrow," an acclaimed sci-fi novel by Mary Doria Russell (another book I've been meaning to read for the past couple of years).

[Note: if you haven't read "Starfish," go read it. It's only 243 pages--won't take you long. "The Sparrow" I leave to your discretion . . . it gave me (mild) nightmares. But I am going to talk about plot details of both, especially "Sparrow," so be forewarned.]

"The Sparrow" opens by introducing us to a Jesuit priest who is the only survivor from the first voyage to an inhabited planet. He has returned in disgrace, accused of horrible crimes, maimed, and unable or unwilling to discuss his experiences with anyone, including his Jesuit superiors. The story progresses along two timelines. In the present, his superiors try to find out the truth of what happened. In the past, we go back to the beginning and learn how the voyage came about, and what happened on the planet. The two storylines finally converge near the end, as the priest finally "confesses" the last details of his story to his superiors, and we learn that he is a victim, not a perpetrator, of crimes.

What makes the novel interesting is the priest's spiritual struggle. Someone who has always struggled to feel the presence of God, he felt God called him to this distant planet--and in the early days there, when everything was going well, he felt closer to God than he ever had before. The meaning of the title finally becomes clear near the end of the novel, when he comments on God's omniscience. Perhaps not a sparrow can fall without him knowing--but that's no comfort to the sparrow. It still falls.

Looking back, we realize that the entire novel is about this struggle, about the desire to love a God who is silent and inactive in the midst of our suffering.

Curiously, Russell does not dwell on the suffering of Christ, despite the fact that most of her characters are Jesuits. It is alluded to, but not discussed as one would expect, since this is a central aspect of their faith. (Russell herself is a convert to Judaism, as she explains in an afterward.)

"The Arm of the Starfish" alludes to the same passage of Scripture, but from a different angle. Early in the novel, the protagonist, Adam, is thrown into a confusing situation, and has to make a decision about whom to trust. He is drawn to people on both sides, and neither side will explain enough for him to understand his position. At this point, one of the characters says to him:

"I chose the difficult side, the unsafe side, the side that guarantees me not one thing besides danger and hard work."

"Then why did you choose it?" Adam demanded . . . .

"Why? I'm not sure I did. It seemed to choose me, unlikely material though I may be. And it's the side that--that cares about people like Polyhymnia O'Keefe [a child who was kidnapped] . . . It's the fall of the sparrow I care about, Adam. But who is the sparrow? We run into problems there, too."

Much later in the novel, after Adam has chosen his side, he has to make another difficult decision--whether or not to help someone who has betrayed him and harmed people he loves. In making this decision, he finds an answer to the earlier question:

"If you're going to care about the fall of the sparrow," he says, "you can't pick and choose who's going to be the sparrow. It's everybody, and you're stuck with it."

In context, this page of the book made me cry . . . but even out of context, I find it challenging.

Rather than contradicting each other, though, I think the two books complement each other. Here's the passage in question (or see Luke 12: 6-7 for a parallel):

"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of mroe value than many sparrows." (Matt. 10: 29-31)

Russell focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with God--and on the tension between "fear not," and the reality that God allows (or perhaps causes) the sparrows to fall. L'Engle focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with others--if God has such passionate concern for the world that he cares even about falling sparrows,

Russell brings out the subtle implications of the verse--we're being compared to the sparrows, and the sparrows do fall to the ground. What we're promised is *not* safety from all harm; we're simply promised that nothing will happen to us apart from the Father.

L'Engle also brings out something less than obvious--what the passage implies about our obligations to others. If God's mercy encompasses even sparrows, who are we to offer mercy only to some?

Both insights ultimately point us back toward the cross. The answer to Russell's question is that God himself chose to become one of the "sparrows"--and in light of this truth, Adam's conclusion is still more striking. For the person we choose to help (or not), to save (or not to save) from falling, might be Christ himself.

So everyone is the sparrow--and that includes old friends you don't know how to talk to, annoying customers, people whose opinions frustrate you, people whose personalities clash with yours. You're can't dismiss any of them as uninteresting, uninformed, unfriendly, unlikable, unkind, unworthy of your time.

Not even inconsiderate tourists who want icecream.

of cows, communists, and oddly-named pies

2007-07-02T01:22:00.000-04:00

or Old News, which I meant to Post Some Time Ago, but which I Hope will still be of Interest to my Gentle Readers (if indeed any still Remain after my late lengthy Silence)

********************************************

May 24th-28th, 2007

Movies in theaters make me happy. I went to see Spiderman 3 a few weeks ago; it was enjoyable, but not as good as the last two. The story felt crowded, with too many characters and plots, and the character development left something to be desired. (I was particularly annoyed with a moment late in the film, when a major revelation is made in a way that feels contrived and retcon-y.) But despite the flaws, it's still a good movie in the best superhero franchise to date (and *far* better than a certain deplorable movie from last summer.)

But my favorite summer movies so far aren't blockbusters, and may not be coming to theaters near you. They're about communists and pies, respectively, and are very much worth checking out, if you can.

Last week, I caught the German film The Lives of Others on its last night in Rivertown. We only have one theater that shows foreign films, and each film is only there for a week--which has regrettably caused me to miss several films I wanted to see (like last year's "The Science of Sleep"). "

The Lives of Others is a film about life in Communist East Berlin, told through the eyes a secret-police agent who is whole-heartedly committed to the regime--and through the eyes of the the playwright and actress he spies on. The two artists have made compromise upon small compromise to live in peace, to avoid the silence imposed on their bolder (or more foolish) friends . . . and yet, though they don't know it, they're still suspected.

As the writer struggles with his compromises, the Stasi agent hides in the attic, a patient spider in a technological web, waiting for the one treasonous word that will damn his victims. Yet he's gradually drawn in to the drama he's witnessing, gradually comes to care about the people he's spying on--and, without understanding his own motivation, begins his own series of compromises. He ignores a small detail here, changes a small detail there, hiding suspicious things from his superiors, but assuring himself that he'll catch them in the end.

The turning point, for both the writer and the spy, comes after the writer learns of a friend's death. He hangs up the phone in silence, and turns to the piano, playing to honor his friend's memory, to mourn for him, to protest the regime that destroyed him, to seek comfort in his own grief and confusion. There are no tears. But as he plays, thinking he's alone in his flat, the spy sits in the attic, listening . . . and is so moved by the beauty of the music that he weeps.

(Unfortunately, this is a movie for older viewers only . . . if it weren't for a few scenes, this would be an excellent movie for older children, making Communism something more than a word in a textbook.)

Yesterday, I went to see the independent film "Waitress," an intelligent, funny, and surprisingly moving film that transcends the chick-flick genre. Written and directed by Adrienne Shelly, it tells the story of a woman trapped in a terrible, emotionally abusive marriage who discovers that she's pregnant. I know--it sounds like a dark, depressing drama. But it's not. While it never makes light of the abuse, the story is told with a deft, light touch, an array of delightfully quirky characters, and lots of pie.

Jenna, the eponymous waitress, has a knack for making unusual pies, which she names after events in her life. There's "Falling in Love" pie (made for her friend Dawn before a date); "I Don't Want Earl's Baby" pie (invented after her positive pregnancy test); and "I Can't Have No Affair Because it's Wrong and Earl Will Kill Me" pie. This last she invents after realizing that her gynecologist is attracted to her--and that it's mutual. The doctor, incidentally, is played by Nathan Fillion. (Yes, that strongly influenced my decision to see the movie; but it's well worth seeing for its own sake. Our favorite ship captain is just an added bonus . . . whipped cream on the pie, extra chocolate in the filling, sugar and a cherry on top. Or, um, something.)

Anyway, I'll stop there; but you should go see it, if you can, or rent it later. And then you should eat pie. Because pie is good.

Oh--I almost forgot the cows!

For those of you who may or may not know, I've been looking for a job for quite a while, and have successfully acquired one. I'm now working at the Purple Cow, a sandwich-icrecream-coffee place in Chipley, about 15 minutes from home. Its name gives me great delight.

************************************************

Herewith endeth the Old News . . . there may possibly be Newer News sometime in the near future. (If so, it will most likely involve starfish, sparrows, affairs, and books-I-want-to-like-but-can't.)

Peter Jackson's next trilogy . . .

2007-05-16T23:00:00.000-04:00

in collaboration with Steven Spielberg . . .

The Adventures of Tintin!

Variety has the full story. It unfortunately does not say which three books will be adapted, but does have some interesting details on the format:

Jackson's New Zealand-based WETA Digital, the f/x house behind "The Lord of the Rings" franchise, produced a 20-minute test reel bringing to life the characters created by [Georges] Remi, who wrote under the pen name of Herge. "Herge's characters have been reborn as living beings, expressing emotion and a soul which goes far beyond anything we've seen to date with computer animated characters," Spielberg said.

"We want Tintin's adventures to have the reality of a live-action film, and yet Peter and I felt that shooting them in a traditional live-action format would simply not honor the distinctive look of the characters and world that Herge created," Spielberg continued.

(Thanks to Looking Closer for the link.)

In other news, my seven-year-old sister is reading Greek myths. Some of them she likes; others she considers morbid (her word, not mine). And she's just posed a question which I'm sure how to answer:

Why did Circe turn Odysseus' men into pigs?

snapshots

2007-05-12T22:49:00.000-04:00

i'm sitting on my bed, by a filmy-curtained window. earlier, summer rain fell on the roof, and the moon will look in later tonight.

finals scribbled, juries played--not my best playing on some pieces, but good enough. classes well-passed, despite the 5 novels i read during finals week. tomorrow, the last service i have to sing at Trinity.

on the desk, a big purple candle burns, lit for the first time this evening. i've had it since Seattle, two summers ago now. i'm not sure why i've saved it this long. an open document holds 1,336 words of a new story. and i have a job interview monday.

"stawberry road" begins on itunes: "pain is sharper/when i suspect that true love runs/looking for us like a lion in our dreams."

i'm not sure why i'm here, or where i'm going--sometimes it feels like nowhere much, and the only thing i feel sure of is that i'm not who i want to be, or where i want to be. but tonight it's okay.

i can't explain, exactly. but something happened about ago, a very small something--and i realized, with a simple clarity, that while faith is a risk, in some ways, it's one i want. one i choose. (the water will hold you, if you dare.)

i have so many memories, so many places i want to go back to; but i know i can't. i live, as i have always lived, in an "Ilion"--a city on the brink of destruction, a city that will, sooner or later, fail and fall. and i can choose to live in ruins, becoming a ghost, or to "fare foreward"--and that's risk too. there's safety in ruins.

"call it romance or nostalgia/the hunger behind our memories/we've buried it in code/things we've wanted, when we get them/are never enough/but they lead us to the road"

and if faring foreward doesn't exactly let you go back, it sometimes comes close--or at least lets you understand where you were, what gifts you were given. you so rarely understand at the time . . . only in fragments, in flashes.

"you censor longing and organize beauty/because you're afraid/you want it more than oxygen or light"

you're afraid, because beauty too is a risk. the flashes of understanding are a risk, showing you what you will lose. but i think when we accept the risks, when we open ourselves to the dangers of faith, of beauty, of loss--when we fling out our arms to the cold wind and welcome it, letting it blow through us--then we're free to fare foreward. free to meet love, to run to the lion in our dreams . . . . accepting the pain that goes with love, with beauty, with all that is worth having.

and after all, the safety of ruins is an illusion: it's the ghost who loses the city completely. ("it's not suffering we fear, but loss.") it's only when you fare forward, when you accept the loss, that you can hold something of the lost city.

and tonight, for whatever reason, it seems possible to accept the memories, the lost cities, and the risks, and to fare forward--trusting that beauty will save the world.

Dead Things

2007-04-30T23:14:00.000-04:00

1. My voice. Still.

2. Drive—the new TV show starring Nathan Fillion. Who kills a show after three episodes? Oh, right, the same people who killed the last show starring Nathan Fillion. And this time, there aren’t even enough episodes for a shiny DVD set.

3. Joan of Arcadia. Finished the second season recently, and am still bemoaning its untimely cancellation. The reason? Apparently the average-viewer-age was 50, and they wanted to appeal to a younger demographic. (Stupid American youth-driven society.) And I, sadly, didn’t even discover it till it was over.

4. Firefly, of course. And Angel, and Buffy . . . no, wait. Buffy’s alive (again). And there’s a new comic out Thursday. Good timing, too—it’ll be a nice reward after me two finals that day. A nice *small* reward, anyway. The one problem with comic books is that they last about 30 seconds.

5. My academic motivation. But we knew that.

Not-dead-things:

1. Science fiction! Thanks in large part to—

Battlestar Galactica. Three seasons in, the creative team behind this show still doesn’t disappoint. Even their few mistakes (the occasional sub-part episode or annoying subplot) are forgivable in light of their unflagging creativity and their commitment to what the story needs rather than what the fans want. Also, when it comes to raising-the-stakes? *Nobody* does it better than these folks. Nobody. And they just got renewed for a 22-episode fourth season! Woo and hoo.

Also much thanks to Lois McMaster Bujold and her Miles Vorkosigan series. Character-driven sci-fi, carefully plotted, with elements of spy-stories, mystery, and space opera . . . not to mention complex and believable social and political structures *and* genuine scientific knowledge—well, it’s not easy to find. Or to write. Plus they’re just fun. I’ve read most of the series now (including three in the past 2 ½ days), and they’re highly recommended. For, um, older persons.

2. Tolkien. Christopher Tolkien, that is. He’s just published a novel-length version of the Turin story, edited together from the many incomplete versions left by his father. Which leads to the question: who should direct that almost-inevitable movie adaptation? And who should be cast as Turin-Turambar-Mormegil?

Dying things:

1. Veronica Mars. The first of season three’s final five episodes airs tomorrow night. According to internet rumor, these five episodes are most likely the end of the show as we know it. Next year it will be (a) cancelled, or (b) revamped to the point of unrecognizability. And, well, season 3 has been rapidly declining anyway.

2. This semester. (Calloo, callay! We chortles in our joy.)

3. My bank account. 1 ½ hours in daily commute time, and 2.79 is a good price for gas.

Undead things:

1. 12-tone music. Seriously—go listen to it.

3. Vampires. Obviously. (Unless we’re talking about I Am Legend, ‘cause in that some of them are alive. It’s all scientific and weird and depressing, though, so let’s talk about something else) . . . .

2. . . . like the practice organ upstairs. It lurks in a windowless practice room, waiting to numb the senses and dismay the heart with hideous screeches and dead Gs. In fact, that’s probably the reason why organ majors are so scarce—it kills them. I should be safe, though: I never go in there.

Yea verily and forsooth . . .

2007-04-11T00:14:00.000-04:00

. . . my voice is dead.

Not *dead* dead, in the strewing-graves-with-flowers-farewell-sweet-maid-i-loved-her-more-than-you kind of way. More in the really-bad-cold-probably-shouldn't-talk way. Except I didn't have a cold, I had Episcopal Holy Week.

I love Holy Week--loved the services and even most of the music--but my voice was already tired, and couldn't take all the extra singing. And I'm afraid I won't recover before Sunday, which is *really* depressing to contemplate, because our chorale concert is Sunday, and we're doing lots of brilliant pieces. Latin-motet-stuff, arranged-by-Jackson-Berkey stuff, and really-cool-spiritual-with-drums stuff. And it makes me happy, and I want to sing it all, and I'm afraid I won't be able to without my voice *really* dying. Which would be bad.

In other news, I really shouldn't be here because I'm supposed to be finishing a first draft of a paper that's due tomorrow, and I should also be sleeping so I can get up in time to practice for my rhythm audit tomorrow (because my grade in that class could use some help). My lack of motivation is disturbing. Or at least my lack-of-being-disturbed by my lack of motivation is disturbing. Or something.

(I mean, you think you're apathetic as a junior. Then you become a senior and discover whole new levels of apathy and irresponsibility. Then you graduate, and start a fifth year of college at a new school with a new major that will take you another 3 years or so to complete . . . . and it's so far beyond apathy that it's a whole new thing. It's like uber-apathy. Grades and studying become wholly meaningless concepts, and you're constantly on the verge of quitting and driving to Alaska. Which is insane, because you like your snow in extreme moderation.)

The one bad thing about Holy Week (besides my voice being all dead and stuff), was our Easter anthem (which we sang twice and failed-to-sing once). It starts out okay--he arose, he burst the bars of death, etc.--but then, without warning, it spins off into incredibly bad theology cloaked in even worse poetry:

"Then first Humanity triumphant passed the crystal ports of light
And seized Eternal Youth."

And this is why I don't flee to Alaska. Because if I can become an organist-choirmaster-person, I can ensure that at least one church in the world is spared this sort of drivel. And that, in its own small way, will make the world a better place.

Besides, getting paid to play the organ in a church with liturgy and footwashing is just *cool.* 'Specially since the organist doesn't have to sing, and therefore has a not-dead voice. Which also falls under the "cool" heading in my book.

And with that thought, I'm going to actually take a stab at my paper. (Yes, I split that infinitive intentionally and with malice aforethought. Consider yourselves mocked, ye vague and ineffable grammar police!) All those of you who are not grammar police and who are blessed with voices and without papers should sing happy songs and go to bed early; and all those of you without voices and with papers . . . well, let me know anytime you decide to run away, 'cause I'll come. Particularly if you're paying for the gas.

poem of the week

2007-04-02T14:48:00.000-04:00

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having--
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
--it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving--
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
--alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living--
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
--it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

--e e cummings

fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium . . .

2007-03-26T20:00:00.000-04:00

About a week ago I dreamed I was back at the College. I don’t remember what happened, exactly, just that I felt detached, aloof, like an anonymous ghost casually dropping by its old haunts, then drifting on its aimless way.

I heard about the professors yesterday—and my ghostly detachment is real enough that I didn’t feel it until this afternoon. Whereupon I came home, drank tea, and watched "Joan of Arcadia"--all of which helped me de-stress. And now I'm listening to Over the Rhine and writing, because that helps me make sense of the world, or at least make sense of how I feel. ("This is not the first time something ends in just tears.")

A college, particularly a small one, is made of people; and when the people have changed, is it in any important way, the same college? It’s like the metaphysical ship problem: you have a wooden ship (let’s cal her the Pegasus). Over time, some of her planks wear out, start getting leaky, or warp, or whatever ship-boards do, so you replace them. Eventually, if she’s a lucky ship and doesn’t sink, the entire ship will be replaced.

Is it the same ship? At what point did it change?

When I was a freshman, the College had maybe 12 full time faculty members. A year after graduation, all but four have left or are leaving. That’s 2/3 of the faculty gone, in 5 years. Is it the same college?

It’s a question we all answer differently, I think; and that’s not a bad thing. For me, though, all the professors who influenced the way I think, the way I write—the ones who changed my noetic structure, or taught me fun words like “epiphenomenalism,” or had me over for supper—they’re all gone.

And apparently the way they think about the world, the way I think about the world—the way of approaching life, and art, and philosophy, that I thought was the foundation for the College’s existence—isn’t, or wasn’t, or won’t be anymore. So for me, this feels like goodbye—like a confirmation that last spring meant what I thought it did:

My college, the one I loved (and occasionally hated); the one where I suffered, and struggled, and stayed up all night writing papers; the one where I ran around the lake in the rain, and argued over books in the dining hall; the one where I found out who I am, and who I’m not, and had friends and professors who changed me, mostly for good—that college is gone.

And if I ever do make it back, I’ll be a ghost.

(. . . fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium et ingens
gloria Teucrorum . . .)

quizzes of the day

2007-02-28T16:32:00.000-05:00

(borrowed from my brother the sonnet)

A cywydd llosgyrnog; I'm one.
"A what?" Well, quite. There'd be no fun
In being understood; I
Thrive upon obliquity.
Don't comprehend or follow me,
For mystery's my ally.

What Poetry Form Are You?

Oh, and I'm still on my favorite sci-fi ship . . . .

You scored as Serenity (Firefly). You like to live your own way and donâ€™t enjoy when anyone but a friend tries to tell you should do different. Now if only the Reavers would quit trying to skin you.

Serenity (Firefly)

81%

Babylon 5 (Babylon 5)

75%

Galactica (Battlestar: Galactica)

69%

SG-1 (Stargate)

63%

Deep Space Nine (Star Trek)

50%

Millennium Falcon (Star Wars)

50%

Nebuchadnezzar (The Matrix)

50%

Moya (Farscape)

50%

Andromeda Ascendant (Andromeda)

38%

Enterprise D (Star Trek)

38%

Bebop (Cowboy Bebop)

38%

FBI's X-Files Division (The X-Files)

25%

Your Ultimate Sci-Fi Profile II: which sci-fi crew would you best fit in? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com

Thoughts of Others

2007-02-21T12:14:00.000-05:00

Why not Thoughts of Me, you ask? Because Me doesn't feel very thoughtful at the moment. Also because Me should be eating lunch and practicing. But if you want to read something thoughtful, check out Custardly's reflections on the virtue of tolerance and the Retired Superhero's perspective on suffering in stories.

And just for good measure . . . take a look at "Modern Culture and Christian Renewal", an essay by a Dominican priest republished in the most recent issue of Image. Written about 40 years ago, it sounds as thought it could have been written yesterday, and I'm tempted to quote about half the essay. I'll limit myself to 2--no, make that 3--of my favorite paragraphs.

Among other things, Father Vann offers insights into how the creation of art is an essential part of man's nature and of his role in caring for creation:

To [man's] ontological status as midpoint between the worlds of matter and of spirit there corresponds a mediating function: to incarnate—to give material expression to—spiritual reality and to spiritualize or humanize material reality. It is not only animals, it is nature as a whole that has to be domesticated. Ars perfecit naturam.

Working these transformations requires reflection, stillness, receptivity. The world today is shadowed by political fears and troubles and by economic anxieties and stresses that tend to blind us to the deeper psychological crises through which mankind is passing. And perhaps the greatest of those crises can be expressed by saying that generally speaking the human psyche is forgetting to contemplate. Man must be contemplative before he can hope with success to be active; he must receive and assimilate reality before attempting to give it out again. The artists, of course, know this, the poets and painters and sculptors and musicians: the beauty they create is a beauty they have first received.

Later, he gives a clear and cogent explanation of the deep theological problems with the way many Christians approach art. (Now that I think of it, some of this probably ties in with the Superhero's thoughts. But I'll leave the connection-making to y'all, since it's almost time for my next class.)

Again and again a great book or film or painting will be denounced as immoral while the mawkish, the moronic, the aesthetically meretricious will be extolled because its message is regarded as edifying or at least safe. In the end those who are docile to this sort of guidance acquire an affinity not with what is good and real but what is bad and false, not with genuineness and integrity but with the debased and ignoble. And the element of falsity in particular needs to be stressed . . . the sentimentalized picture of religion in general is a distortion and falsification of the very stuff of religion. Grace builds on and in nature; it is no service to religion, and no part of prudence, to turn potentially mature human beings into morons, and we cannot claim to serve and worship truth if we acquiesce in or encourage the distortion or falsification of truth.

Go to bed, goblin, do

2007-02-04T00:28:00.000-05:00

This is me being studious.

Sort of.

And this is Oswald, who wanted a picture by himself. He's holding my most recent art project, which he likes because it has Scholarly Quotes on it. (No, it wasn't for a class.) Rupert's hiding in the background, being grumpy. He doesn't like staying up late. Neither do I, really, so we are all going to bed now. Goodnight!

Alas, poor Yorick . . .

2007-02-03T12:24:00.000-05:00

Sorry, not a happy post. More of a Serious post.

See, when I say "Yorick," I mean Joss. And the fans. And a certain Amazonian-princess-girl, who I'm guessing is now doomed to a stupid movie. (Female superheros and the big screen? Never ends well.)

Here's the story, from Mr. Whedon himself:

"You (hopefully) heard it here first: I'm no longer slated to make Wonder Woman. What? But how? My chest... so tight! Okay, stay calm and I'll explain as best I can. It's pretty complicated, so bear with me. I had a take on the film that, well, nobody liked. Hey, not that complicated.

"Let me stress first that everybody at the studio and Silver Pictures were cool and professional. We just saw different movies, and at the price range this kind of movie hangs in, that's never gonna work. Non-sympatico. It happens all the time. I don't think any of us expected it to this time, but it did."

So there you have it. (For more details, see Whedonesque.com. I'd link, but for some reason that remains mysterious to my non-technological soul, blogger links & Safari don't seem compatible.)

(Oh, and just for the record . . . when I say "Serious," I mean Stubby Boardman. Yeah, he was going to play Wonder Woman.)

life, the spatio-temporal realm, and macgamut

2007-02-02T12:55:00.000-05:00

life is stressful, mainly because there is too much space and not enough time in the universe (as opposed to the world, parts of which are both non-spatial and non-temporal, and thus very confusing to ponder). too much space results in a 45-minute commute (one way) to the building that devours all of my time--which wouldn't be a problem if there was more time to begin with. but there isn't.

and then there's macgamut, a fiendish computer program which makes me wish that computers had never been invented. why is it fiendish? because it expects me to be able to hear two chords played rapidly on a computerish sound that supposedly resembles a piano, and tell it:
- what notes it just played, in the soprano and bass voices, IN THE CORRECT OCTAVES,
- and what chords said notes represent
moreover, it expects me to do this 8 out of 10 times within the next 4 hours in order to get a passing grade in a certain class.

thus far i have been unable to get more than 1/10 correct. why, you ask? because what it wants me to do is pretty much impossible. i'd have trouble hearing that (with that degree of accuracy) on a real live instrument. now, if it would just let me give it roman numerals, i might survive. but as it is . . . . ugh.

and the worst part? yeah, we're back to time. if it weren't for this pernicious little program, i could be using this time to practice organ (which is supposedly why i'm here in the first place)--or to practice sight-singing, which would actually help me learn what this class is supposed to be teaching me. but do i have time to practice sight-singing? of course not. because i'm going to spend my entire afternoon on macgamut, and still probably fail the blasted level.

sorry, that wasn't supposed to come out quite so rant-ish. i'll try to post more cheerful postings later. at the moment, however, i am going to seek lunch.

and lunch today includes chocolate--so at least one thing in the universe as it should be.

The 'Verses Collide . . .

2007-01-18T16:20:00.000-05:00

. . . and shiny happy fireworks ensue.

Not only is Tim Minear--longtime writer on "Angel," co-exec-producer of "Firefly," and writer of 2 of the most brilliant episodes of said shows ("Lullaby" and "Out of Gas")--

Not only is Tim Minear creating a new TV show, "Drive," which will air in March--

Not only has he cast Nathan Fillion, my favorite sci-fi captain *ever,* in the lead role--

Not only has he cast Amy Acker--

But he has cast Amy Acker as Nathan Fillion's wife.

Yep, that's right. Fred married Mal.

I am ridiculously pleased.

If I was the Oscars . . . .

2007-01-16T19:52:00.000-05:00

. . . . I'd ask my sister-in-law to design my dress.

Then I'd give Best Picture to Alfonso Cuaron's Children of Men.

I watched it Saturday, and ever since I've been trying, and failing, to describe it adequately. I could tell you that it begins as a bleak dystopia, a story about a man without hope in a world gone mad with despair.

I could tell you that it's the most genuinely suspenseful action movie I've seen all year (complete with a "car chase" unlike any other I've seen, and action grounded in the weaknesses and limitations of ordinary characters).

I could tell you that it captures, with heartbreaking clarity, the paradoxical closeness of life and death, hope and despair--that it gives you a new and vivid awareness of the sacredness of human life.

But I still don't feel like I've told you much about it. The movie is, quite simply, perfect. And perfect is not a word I use lightly.) Every detail is right; everything--from the score to the cinematography to the graffiti on the city walls--is there for a purpose, adding s to the reality of the movie's imaginary world, and perfectly serving the story's needs.

The story is--well, I don't want to overuse the word "perfect," but given the chance, I wouldn't change a thing. If I'm the Oscars, a Best Adapted Screenplay award is also in order . . . and maybe a couple of acting awards, too.

In the most recent issue of Image, Alice McDermott says: "Great literature allows you to forget your own mind and enter into the life of another human being, to recognize our common humanity and hear their inner voice, to glimpse their soul." Great acting does much the same thing: when I read that sentence earlier, the first thing that came to mind was Clive Owen in Children of Men. He doesn't simply pretend to be Theo; he allows us to enter into Theo's life, to recognize the humanity we share with him--and to glimpse his soul.

The other actors are outstanding as well--Chiwetel Eijofor and Michael Caine have memorable supporting roles (Caine is simply marvelous), while Julianne Moore and Claire-Hope Ashitey portray women who are both heroic and vulnerable, and deeply individual. In fact, early every character in the movie (even the very minor characters) is a fully realized person--evidence of exceptional writing.

It is a dark movie, in many ways, and certainly not for everyone. But there are moments of laughter, even joy, which are as jolting and unexpected as the tragedies. And nothing, neither laughter nor tears, is cheap or manipulative: this is honest storytelling, willing to explore the depths of both joy and suffering, willing to look steadily at life in all its horror without losing sight of its unbearable beauty.

Of course, I'm not the Oscars, and my sister-in-law doesn't have time to make me dresses. So I'll console myself by wearing my very spiffy Firefly-dragon-necklace, and throwing popcorn at the TV screen when the Academy displays its inevitable prejudice against sci-fi, and gives top honors to the usual suspects.

In the meantime, anyone* who hasn't seen Children of Men should make every effort, reasonable or un, to go see it.

*This recommendation does not apply to Black Dragons, or to any creature profoundly disturbed by blood, explosions, childbirth, and/or words-beginning-with-F.

i. don't. like. spiders.

2007-01-13T21:58:00.000-05:00

Especially when they're taking up an entire movie screen. *shudder* Yes, we went to see "Charlotte's Web" last week for Anna's birthday. Anna took her stuffed spider, Miss Striped Tigerita. They both loved the movie. I, contrarywise, pulled a Tiffany and spent at least half the movie hiding behind my purse.

The rest of the birthday, however, was loads of fun. There were castles . . . .

. . . . and crazy people . . .

. . . . not to mention the cake.

In other news, I feel compelled to follow the examples of movie crticis everywhere and list my favorite movies of 2006. This compulsion stems, in large part, from the movie I saw today--which is probably one of the best movies I've seen. Ever.

In fact, it's so good that it deserves a blog post all to itself. So I'm going to forego the list for now, and try to figure out how to describe it without saying too much. Because those of you who would like it need to go see it--now--and I don't want to say anything that would detract from your experience.

So, yeah . . . more soon. :-)

God Rest Ye Merry, Hippogriffs

2006-12-24T23:08:00.000-05:00

Quiet, steady rainfall on the roof; flames curling around oak logs in the fireplace; meandering conversation.

Freshly baked chocolate-chip-cookies (with milk); laughter and random movie quotes; four candles lighting the room for singing; "Of the Father's Love Begotten" followed immediately by "Jingle Bells."

Blue wrapping paper with friendly penguins; struggles with wrapping round packages; electric organs and small but valiant choirs; talking to trees.

Anxious cry of a lost grey kitten; guilt at disappointing people; missed phone calls and unmailed letters.

Small things. Yet it's among these small things that we encounter beauty, among them that we see grace. He came down from heaven not to make the small things unimportant, but to live as we live, in the midst of the mundane and the quotidian. To show us the importance of a glass of water, or half a cloak; to show us that the sacred is not separate from, not opposed to, the ordinary.

I wish for you all God's merry rest, today and all days. May we learn to see the sacred in the ordinary, and to rejoice in all that He has done and all that He will yet do, together with kittens and trees, mountains and hippogriffs, the company of the saints and the hosts of heaven.

"Tidings of comfort and joy . . . ."

Cecilia the Cow

2006-12-10T22:30:00.000-05:00

I had two finals last week. This was one of them.

Listening reports . . . .

2006-12-01T00:53:00.000-05:00

are not fun. Especially when you suddenly realize that they're due tomorrow (well, it was tomorrow when I realized it--now it's today), instead of a week from tomorrow (today) like you thought.

Birthdays, on the other hand, are lots of fun. Especially when you go see *The Nutcracker* and realize that this seemingly-innocuous children's tale is full of late-19th-century imperialism.

Toy soldiers killing mice? Victory of European soldiers over indigeous population.

Drosselmeier? The Europeans' view of God. Oh, come on, it's obvious--he gives Clara the eponymous Nutcracker, the noble warrior who defeats the "evil" indigenous population!

The second act--do I really need to explain the message sent by people from almost every non-European society performing stereotypical cultural dances before enthroned European children?

And Clara, of course, represents Queen Victoria (among other things).

And speaking of fun things, daggers are also fun.

Especially when you have black leather coats to go with them.

Yeah, I do a bit of slaying in my spare time.

And on that happy note, I shall save my more-or-less-completed listening report to my flash drive, all ready to be printed at school later today, and fall into bed.

the "Hobbit" movie . . .

2006-11-20T12:05:00.000-05:00

. . . will *not* be directed by Peter Jackson.

Possibly a good thing, but rather a depressing reason. In an ideal world, lawsuits would have nothing to do with decisions about art.

Oh, and regarding the "two movie" thing, apparently the studio is planning a single Hobbit movie, followed by a second movie "drawn from footnotes and source material connecting The Hobbit with The Lord of the Rings."

Feel free to speculate on the appalling possibilities this opens up . . . .

Winter of Discontent (& Assorted Happy Items)

2006-11-20T11:13:00.000-05:00

Well, winter of Feisal's discontent, anyway. I had to take him to Danny's *yet again* last week, because he randomly decided I hadn't fastened my seatbelt or taken my parking break when I had, in fact, done both, and wouldn't listen to anything I said. So I drove 45 minutes home with "October Project" turned up very loud, trying to drown out the annoying warning-ding. (Yes, he actually kept dinging for the full 45 minutes.)

Turns out these problems are fairly minor, but his intake manifold (whatever that is) needs replacing. So I'm taking another $300 out of my rapidly vanishing savings,and trying to figure out how I can come up with the money for a new(er) car. In the meantime, I'm feeling quite incongruous--the white minivan *really* doesn't go with my long black leather coat.

The moral of the story? Don't name your car after a character from an epic desert tragedy. Even if he's played by Alec Guinness.

In happier news, I have an organ job as of almost 2 months ago. This adds to the feelings of incongruity, though, since I'm officially Methodist and practically Episcopal (with vague Catholic leanings), and am currently playing for a Baptist church. Add to this the leadership's feeling that the organ is a quiet supportive instrument, and you have serious incongruity going on. (My take on the organ? Even when it's whispering, it's a dragon whispering. And on big triumphant hymns, there should be serious roaring.)

In other happy news, I'm continuing my evil ways and corrupting youth right and left. :-) I've lent season 1 of "Lost" to some young homeschooled persons from our Bible study (their parents don't mind), and have gotten both Glim & K. hooked on "Harry Potter." Naturally, K.'s racing through them like a reading fiend.

The only problem is, when I told my mom they were fine for her to read, I was thinking in terms of magic--I had forgotten how much language & romance occurs in the last couple of books. I have no objections to these elements, personally, but she's still a bit young for that sort of thing--so now I have to decide whether to make her stop after book 4. Vae mihi! :-/

To all of our surprise, our youngest sister objects strongly to the "Harry Potter" books. She's started insisting to all of us (at least once a day): "Harry Potter is evil."

Not sure where she picked that up, but she seems thoroughly convinced and won't listen to my explanations. A few minutes after this declaration, though, she starts asking me when she'll be old enough to read them, and saying it's not fair that she can't read them yet. I think she's feeling a bit left out, particularly since we watched the first movie last night, and she couldn't join us.

Speaking of watching things, "Veronica Mars" has just been picked up for a full season! :-D Well, technically an *almost*-full season: 20 episodes instead of 22. Still, it's an encouraging sign--and thanks to my wonderful cousins and their mastery of complex technology, I actually get to *watch* the whole season! I have chorale on Tues. nights while it's showing, you see, so my cousins record it for me . . . in addition to feeding me supper, since I don't have time to drive home between my last class and chorale. They're my heroes. :-)

Moreoverly, in early December I'm planning to attend a friend's wedding & see all the Dragons, and hopefully lots of other friends (assuming Feisal's alive and able to get me there, that is . . . which I'm hoping isn't too big an assumption). And one of my fellow Protonotary-Dragons is coming home with me for a couple of days. It should be marvelous fun, and I can't wait to introduce her to my OGR. And on that happy note, I must leave you . . . . I have hundreds of notes of piano music that I ought to be practicing, and they'll be very *un*happy ntoes if I neglect them.

Have a pleasant and pie-full week!

(No, I'm not forgetting the turkey, but it's mostly symbolic... the pie's the thing!)

Bad-magic-hates-the-world-ticking-time-bomb guy

2006-11-16T01:16:00.000-05:00

Yeah, that's right. I'm . . .

Ripper

You scored 59% Slayerness, 51% Broodyness, 68% Demonology, and 54% Power!

For all you pecluiar anti-Buffy-types out there, this means I'm a college-age, er, bloke who is highly intelligent--but also reckless, irresponsible, and prone to messing with powerful dark magic. My areas of expertise are demonology and rock music, and I probably have my own band (I am, of course, the lead singer). I also beat up the occasional p0liceman in the course of shoplifting, and have most likely stolen a car or two.

Who would have guessed? ;-)

(Oh, and I should probably mention that the picture doesn't look a bit like me. My roguish charm is muted (to say the least) and the clothes are completely inaccurate.)

beauty will save the world

2006-10-31T12:28:00.000-05:00

song of the week: U2's "Beautiful Day."

it really is beautiful today, and has been the past several days . . . sky so blue it hurts, air crisp but not cold, red leaves flaming out among pines.

and of all things in the world that i don't understand, beauty is the top of the list--the strange, wild ache of it, that makes you full and empty at the same time. how is it that you can feel most satisfied while filled with boundless longing?

last week a pianist named Jon Kimura Parker came to perform here, and his playing was like that. he played a Schubert fantasy that took my breath away--i almost wanted him to stop just so i could breathe, but i didn't want the piece to end. i came away feeling a joyful hollowing, like all the heaviness in me had been lifted away, and i was light enough to fly.

"Beauty will save the world," Dostoyevsky wrote--an enigmatic sentence, profoundly puzzling. Image, being Image, has adopted it as a slogan of sorts, a proclamation of why they are.

a few weeks ago, two opera singers came to perform. i couldn't afford the concert (even at student rates), but i went to the master class the afternoon before. "Music will save you," one of them said, in answer to a question i have forgotten. She went on (and i paraphrase loosely): "There have been times in my life when people have failed me, when relationships have fallen apart, when I have been given terrible advice about the business aspects of my career. You will have times like this, when everything fails you--but music will never fail you. Music will save you."

at first i thought she was wrong, that she expected more of music than it could ever give . . . but there are many kinds of salvation, many paths of grace. our minds, our hearts, our souls, our imaginations--all need saving, all rebel against ugliness, all seek glimpses of the world as it was meant to be--all struggle with the problem of evil, and stare bewildered at the mystery of beauty.

where legislation and diplomacy fail, where war brings destruction and despair, where grief and abandonment overwhelm--beauty remains to quietly break our hearts, and give us hope.

2006-10-24T15:08:00.000-04:00

Requiem aeternum dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetuum luceat eis.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe deprecationem nostram.
Agnus Dei, qui sedes ad dexteram Patris, dona nobis pacem.

Requiem aeternum dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetuum luceat eis.

"the real question"

2006-10-12T14:31:00.000-04:00

I ran across a link to this article by Mark Shea on Jeffrey Overstreet's blog, and thought it was worth sharing.

Shea, an editor of CatholicExchange.com, opens with a reference to Mel Gibson's anti-Semitic rant back in July. Unlike most people who've discussed the incident, though, he goes on to thoughtfully explore the underlying theological question: "whether we are truly ourselves when we are sinful." Shea suggests that most Christians would answer "yes"--and that this answer is profoundly (and dangerously) wrong:

We believe that the fall is identical with nature, and therefore believe that when you see a man in sin, you see him as he “really” is. Goodness is the mask, corruption is his true nature . . .
The reality is quite contrary. Sin is the mask. It is not what names us but what makes us anonymous.
Sin, because of the fall, is normal. But sin is never natural.
It does not constitute who we are, it destroys who we are. It is only when the human person takes his place as the redeemed creature God made him that we begin to truly see his face and know his name.

More here.

Armadillos and the Man

2006-09-24T22:08:00.000-04:00

About the bad day . . . I suppose I owe y'all some explanation for that post. It's a longish story, but I'll try keep it short and move on to other topics.

The Tale begins with a bad week (Sept. 4-8). When I say bad, I mean that on Wednesday I wrecked one of my mom's cars, and on Friday, as I was driving along at 70 mph, *my* car's steering wheel decided to stop functioning. This second mishap cost me $355 which I really didn't have. (For those wondering: the wreck involved Backing Up and a Tree; 70 mph was the speed limit; and both cars are now fine.)

As if all this wasn't enough, I was rather stressed about school. Or, more specifically, about practicing. You see, I was assigned 3 voice students to accompany on piano, at a rate of $15/week/student. This was a good thing, in that I needed money and enjoy accompanying. Unfortunately, the accompaniments were more difficult than I expected, and were taking *tons* of my practice time--with the result that I wasn't practicing organ nearly enough. Plus it's difficult to find an organ to practice on when I *do* have time--The Organ of Glorious Renown is in a concert hall which is used for a zillion other things, so it's hard to get in there to practice, and the college's practice organ is Evil. Seriously. (Ask anyone you like: it's a widely-known fact.)

So, this was not a happy week. But I kept telling myself things would improve once it was over, and I talked to Mr. G about my practicing difficulties, and came up with a plan in which I could get all my practicing done. Then, on Monday the 11th, I drove to school (without mishap!), had a reasonably good organ lesson, and went to the library to check email. Whereupon I discovered an email from one of the voice professors saying that my piano skills were in such disrepair that I couldn't continue accompanying her students.

I was pretty much devastated--because (a) I was exhausted and depressed from the previous week, (b) my perfectionist self hates failing at anything for any reason, (c) I had been killing myself over those blasted accompaniments for nothing, and (d) this meant I was losing 2/3 of my budget, and could mean I would have serious trouble paying for gas every week (not to mention paying insurance and saving money to pay for next semester).

I spent the rest of the morning in a coffeeshop with a white chocolate latte. It helped, but I'm still trying to figure out job possibilities. (There's one possibility which would be perfect, and which wouldn't have happened if I hadn't lost the accompanying thing . . . . but right now I'm waiting to find out if it *is* going to happen.) Anyhow, I think I overreacted a bit at the time, and I'm fine now, and my practice schedule has gotten a lot better--so the world is a happier place. Mostly.

And now for Other Topics . . . . .

State universities are weird. They have Theater Dance classes in which you go to class and dance (yes, that would be the kind of dancing that involves both guys and music. Jazz music, to be precise). They also have College Democrats, who put up signs with cute little donkeys on them. And they have Art Appreciation classes (complete with the occasional picture of an unclad person), taught by professors who remind me of the textbook in "Dead Poets Society."

Please don't misunderstand me--I'm *not* saying I want Robin Williams to come make us jump off our desks. (The desks couldn't take it. They would die, and we'd be lucky to escape with broken limbs.) But the professor has kind of a dry, mechanical way of looking at art, which frustrates me. A lot.

At one point she showed us a Medieval painting that looked like a very interesting Annunciation, and simply commented that it "ultimately doesn't work" because linear perspective hadn't been discovered yet. I thought it *did* work, and wanted to know who painted it, and what it was, and what the odd style might tell us about the artist's world-picture. But she just went on to the next slide and pointed out its beautiful use of linear perspective.

Sorry, that was a long tangent . . . . State universities also have trombone students who host weekly parties where everyone gets drunk and stoned (in the sense which has nothing to do with capital punishment). They have music departments which have as many students, lots more full-time professors, and *tons* more classrooms than PHC had. And while the average conversation involves school and stress and insufficient sleep, De Toqueville and Cicero are never mentioned.

That's pretty much all the news in the life of me--except for my movie recommendations of the week. If you haven't seen "Millions," you should go rent it. I finally watched it a few weeks ago, and it's amazing--a funny, sad, whimsical, beautiful little movie about a child and about faith--and one of the best stories I can think of about either. (Not necessarily the best film *for* children, though--you might want to preview before watching w/ young siblings). If you feel like going to the theaters, "The Illusionist" is delightful. (It's one of those rare and priceless movies that all Dragons would enjoy . . . . which pretty much means the whole world would like it . . . :-)

Also, if you haven't been to a classical concert recently--you really should find one to go to. Until this past Thursday I had forgotten how incredibly powerful live classical music can be . . . . what it's like to listen to music that wants your full to attention, and to *experience* that music fully, rather than merely turning it on as background to something else. (Did I ever mention that I *love* music? :-)

And now, with long postings having been posted by me and read by you, I am going to move in a bedward direction.

Oh, wait, I forgot to tell you about the armadillos. There was only one, really. I was driving home last Sunday night, and went around a curve, and there he was, scuffling from the edge of the road into the beam of my headlights. Then he went *thunk* under my car.

First thing I ever hit in all my years as a driver--well, if you don't count the tree a few weeks ago, and the First Lieutenant a couple of Thanksgivings ago, and the . . . . . . . nevermind. The point is, Pippin, he died. (The armadillo, I mean, not the 1st Lt.) And despite my post title, there isn't really a Man at all. I lied about that.

Anyway, I really am going now. Goodbye!

i've been having a bad, bad day . . . . .

2006-09-11T13:07:00.000-04:00

. . . which i'll tell you about when i have more time. (and no, it doesn't involve parking tickets.)

while i'm posting, though, i should note that i failed to credit the songwriters in my last post . . . the song i quoted is by Karin Bergquist of Over the Rhine, one of my favorite bands of all time. my song-of-the-week is another of theirs:

walking out in the freezing rain

feeling nothing cause i've numbed the pain

i'm looking forward to looking back on this day--

since i'm stuck here for now, though, here's a bit of happy news: it appears that some studio PTBs have worked out their differences, and we may finally get to see an impressive Dragon on the big screen. which (assuming everything else is right) would make me exceedingly happy.

i'll try to post a longer post soon--one with actual news-in-the-life-of-me, and without Over the Rhine songs. until then, as Garrison Keillor says: be well, do good work, and stay in touch.

Disconnections

2006-08-16T23:59:00.000-04:00

Tonight is officially the last night of summer: tomorrow, at 1:30pm, I begin (or, I suppose, continue) my career as an organ major. It's been a . . . well, a peculiar summer; and I can't say I'm sorry it's over.

My summer job ended today. A good job, in some ways, but also a place where I felt disconnected. Though, really, I've felt that way everywhere. Home isn't quite my home anymore; but neither is Virginia. Both places have changed, and are changing, in ways I can't predict and don't understand. Some good, some bad, some . . . can't be quantified. And my new college--well, the organ feels like home; the rest doesn't.

Ten minutes before I left work the skies opened and the torrents fell. It had been pleasant that morning, so I was wearing white sandals and a short flowered skirt--and my umbrella was in the car. I waited, hoping it would slow a bit, before deciding it would probably go on all evening. So I took off my sandals (2-inch heels don't work for running), stuck them in my bag, and ran across the muddy gravelly yard to my car. As I drove home through the torrents, I found that I had reached the last track of my new CD . . . a quiet, achingly lovely song that somehow captured things I was feeling, things I had felt, things I had never quite found the right words for. (Perhaps because I was only looking for the words, and they aren't always enough: I wish I could post the music.)

it makes a difference
that i'm feeling this way
with plenty to think about
so little to say

except for this confession
that is poised on my lips
that i'm not letting go of God
i'm just losing my grip

and i want to know
i want to know
will it keep you guessing
when i go

what is a love
if the love's not my own
this is not my home
this is lonely
but never alone

Yet sometimes the loneliness is so overwhelming that you find it hard to believe, hard to hold on. When home is changing, when people you love are changing, or far away--when the closest thing you have to a church is a 12-hour drive from where you live--when you read blogs to keep up with friends, but give up on commenting on theirs (or updating yours) because it just makes them feel farther away. When you can't hold onto anything, or anyone you love: dead and living, past and present, all sliding through your grasp . . .

i just want to hold you
in my gaze for a while
so i can remember
every line around your smile

then i want to know
i want to know
will it make a difference
when i go

How do you hold on and let go at the same time? How do live in a City about to be destroyed, and love it? How do you go on from that City to another like it, and find the courage to love it, love its people, even more? How do you live between doomed City and the eternal one--how do you grasp the Eternal City when the one you see, the one you love, is fading?

How do you live in Ilion?

Existential Crises

2006-07-17T15:03:00.000-04:00

You Should Be a Film Writer

You don't just create compelling stories, you see them as clearly as a movie in your mind.
You have a knack for details and dialogue. You can really make a character come to life.
Chances are, you enjoy creating all types of stories. The joy is in the storytelling.
And nothing would please you more than millions of people seeing your story on the big screen!

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Clearly, I'm not supposed to be writing novels. I find this revelation disturbing, but I'm still waiting for the full-fledged existential crisis to hit. I'll let you know when it does.

In other news, I thoroughly enjoyed Pirates 2: it's been a long time since I saw a movie so unabashedly fun. (Not to mention rollicking . . . :-) Once it was over, though, I found myself questioning a particular character choice--

We interrupt this commentary for a Public Service Announcement:

Here Be Spoilers!

if you haven't yet seen the movie, read further at your own peril (which, as the Dark Foresters would say, is very great). We return now to your regularly scheduled over-analyzation of summer blockbusters, which were never intended to be deeply analyzed.

--namely, Jack Sparrow's callous betrayal of Will. My sister and fellow-over-analyzer, Efotlotras, objects to this as inconsistent with Jack's true character. (And my friend Penumbra of the aforementioned Dark Forest--who is definitely more the Pirates expert than I am--agrees.) I initially thought it was ok--the way I remembered it, Jack was a thoroughly self-centered character, and at this point he was trying to get out of eternal torment. After consideration, though, I found myself objecting to the betrayal for different reasons.

The whole point of Will's arc in the first movie was him coming to terms with his pirate heritage, and embracing the concept that he could be both a pirate and a good man. Jack Sparrow served as his mentor and example, helping him reach this conclusion (and discover his true pirate self). But for Jack to betray Will in the second movie completely destroys any illusion of his "goodness," suggesting that he really doesn't care about anyone but himself. So far, this strikes me as good storytelling and good sequel-writing: it forces Will to question his loyalty, his ideology, his whole way of life.

Trouble is, they don't go there. Will's existential crisis never happens--instead we get a delightfully wacky swordfight, and at the end of the movie he's willing to do anything to rescue Jack (who has apparently redeemed himself by staying on the Pearl to face the Kraken). The way I look at it, if you want to have a fun adventure movie sequel, don't set up your characters for an existential crisis; and if you're going to set him up for one, if you're going to do something that could subvert everything from the first movie, go all out.

After reading this interview, though, I'm starting to think the writers have more up their sleeve than I'm giving them credit for--they seem perfectly aware of the conflicts they've created, and I'll be interested to see how they deal with them in the final installment. (Thanks to Peter Chattaway for posting the interview.)

Oh, and while I'm posting links, here's an interesting article for my fellow Angel fans (all two of you :-). If you missed this on Whedonesque, it's a good read, and addresses one of my (many and strident) complaints about seasons 4 & 5. (If you're not a Buffy-Angel person, this won't make any sense; and if you haven't see all 12 seasons, beware major spoilers.)

And for our final crisis of the day (this makes 3, if you're wondering) . . . . my diploma appeared today, arriving just as World magazine finally acknowledged PHC's recent existential crisis. Ironic, to say the least.

(This arrival also came 2 days after I received my final grades for the semester. On the happy side, I finally had a 4.0 semester. On the less-than-happy, I discovered that my GPA entitled me to Magna & High rather Summa & Highest. Not a big deal, but you'd think they would get these things right the first time.)

While it's very satisfying to have a nice shiny diploma to look at, looking at Drs. Farris & Sanders' signatures also brought back all the conflicted feelings of the graduation ceremony; and the World article struck me as much too neutral (Not to mention behind the times: no new angle or new information. Everyone else was publishing this stuff a couple of months ago.) Though to be fair, they're very open about their ties to the school--

We interrupt this burgeoning rant for another Public Service Announcment:

If you are experiencing an existential crisis of your own, please do not contact the Radical Freudeggerian Feminists Against Interpretation. We are always happy not to help you.

And now, back to . . . oh well, looks like we missed the rant . . . .

In non-crisis-related news, I get off work at five (yes, I am allowed to blog-post at work), after which time I plan to practice organ and start seriously revising my novel.

Wait a sec--I'm not supposed to be a novelist.

Help!

wacky fun

2006-07-05T11:27:00.000-04:00

i like 4th of July celebrations.
especially when they have cakewalks with wacky hamburger cakes. :-)
(thanks to Cassiel for the photos)

Introductions, Memories, Red Herrings

2006-07-03T17:57:00.000-04:00

I have a new friend. He's elegant, sophisticated, attractive, and loves taking pictures of me:

. . . and my sisters:

His name is Cassiel. Yeah, it's a weird name, but I think it's perfect for a shiny new MacBook. :-)

We went to see Superman Returns yesterday. A somewhat momentous occasion, since it's the first time I was disappointed by a Bryan Singer movie. The pacing was good; it was visually impressive; and the score was excellent: grand, emotional, heroic, intense. But an emotional score can only do so much. I never connected with the characters, or felt their emotions, the way I wanted to. I wanted to love the movie. But the Spiderman movies, and Singer's own contributions to the X-Men franchise, have set the bar really high; and this Superman, despite perfect hair and apparently limitless superpowers, flew under it.

Oh, well. The Spiderman 3 teaser looks dark and brilliant, and Wonder Woman is coming; so there is some happy news in the world of superhero movies.

As a side note: I kept thinking I had seen Sam Huntington (Jimmy Olsen) before, but couldn't place him. So I IMDbed him when I got home--and discovered that I knew him from my newest favorite TV show: Veronica Mars.

We finished watching season 1 Thursday night. I'll try to avoid spoilers (in the hopes that at least one or two of you will go watch the show, instantly), but--it's amazing. It constantly surprised me, made me laugh, and pretty much broke my heart. Which is the highest praise I can give.

Show creator Rob Thomas borrowed a few pages from Joss Whedon's book (as well as casting him as a guest star in a season 2 episode), but there are plenty of other influences here, and Thomas & his writers are rather brilliant in their own right. The result is a show that reminds you of Buffy in some ways. It takes a male-dominated genre (detective/noir) and gives center stage to a blond girl who can outwit and out-quip just about anyone; places her in a high school where she's ostracized; and surrounds her with enemies, allies, and friends--none of whom are what you expect, and all of whom have layers. Lots of layers.

But the show also has its own distinctive feel and personality, along with sharp and clever dialogue, excellent acting, and enough hilarity to (almost) balance the pain. And it's extremely well-paced. There are plenty of mysteries-of-the-week (some brilliant, others less so), but each episode provides clues to the "big" mystery, which centers around the murder of Veronica's best friend, Lilly Kane, a year before the show begins. The plotting excellent, but it always remains character-driven--so much so that when Alyson Hannigan appeared in a guest starring role, the "yay! Willow!" moment didn't even happen. It was completely overshadowed by me crying (well, almost crying) for one of the regulars.

The writers use flashbacks and dream sequences to introduce Lilly's character to the viewers. But they really make the flashbacks feel like memories, capturing the sense that Veronica, and the other people close to Lilly, can't go a day without thinking about her. You feel, and understand, what Lilly meant to the people who loved her--what she still means to them--and how they lost not only Lilly, but part of themselves when she died. That's something most movies and shows get completely wrong. (And these writers don't take the easy way out, either: Lilly was a flawed person, and not always particualarly likeable.)

My only major complaint involved a red herring towards the end of the season. I knew it was a red herring, and was upset with Veronica for being fooled by it. But after rewatching a couple of things, I've changed my mind: it makes perfect sense; I would have been fooled too. Which makes a resulting development even more upsetting . . . . but, as my mentor once pointed out, that's a sign of good writing. (Her exact words, after a tragic event in my novel: "That's good! Upset your readers!")

I could go on raving, but I won't. I'll just mark August 22 on my calendar, and hope that someone feels like preordering season 2 for my birthday present. ;-)

Now that I've finished Veronica, I need to get back to my novel and my reading list. I haven't been doing too badly with the reading: I finally read Four Quartets my first week home--I just sat down in my bedroom and read the whole thing, aloud, without interruption, as the light outside slowly faded. It was incredible, though I'm pretty sure I only understood a third of it. I also finally read a Graham Greene novel--The Power and the Glory. I'll have to read it again to be sure, but I think it makes my absoltue favorites list. I don't know how to describe it, except that Greene makes you feel like you're there, and things are so bad for the protagonist that you feel guilty for eating chocolate while you read it. (And you should read it. Soon. :-) He also shifts perspectives effortlessly and effectively, in a way that reminds me of film.

Right now I'm halfway through Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. As my mother said yesterday, it's the kind of book that makes you despair of ever being a writer: Dillard's writing is so incredibly beautiful, the range of things she quotes so broad and varied. I've been meaning to read it ever since Dr. Sillars read us the opening paragraphs in English Comp--I don't know why it took me this long. But I'll definitely read more of her.

And now I'm going to go do something productive . . . . like double-checking the release date for Veronica Mars: Season 2. :-) As Garrison Keillor says: Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Oh, a word of advice before you go: Beware of running with scissors, or any other pointy object. And beware of watching Primer between 2 and 3 in the morning. It wants a wakeful afternoon.

Pocohontas, Lockheed, & Veronica

2006-06-15T17:03:00.000-04:00

(or, Recent Viewings in the Life of Me)

My beloved Feisal decided to need considerable work right after I got home. On the positive side, I had graduation money to cover the costs; on the negative, that money was Glen-designated. So I'm not going this year after all. But I really can't complain: I had been ignoring Feisal's engine light for months, and no Glen results in more Dragon-time. Which is always a good thing, and nearly always results in, erm, memorable quotes.

I saw The Last Stand a couple of weeks ago. Honestly, I was quite disappointed. It wasn't wholly bad, but it had two plots (each of which could have been a fascinating movie on its own) and they didn't reinforce each other; each prevented the other from being developed fully. Also, every conversation in the movie felt rushed. But my biggest complaint is the way it threw away set-ups from the previous movie. The Rogue-Bobby storyline virtually ignored their story from X2; nothing came of Storm's comments to Nightcrawler about anger (or of Nightcrawler himself); and that beautiful visual set-up at the end (the Phoenix underwater) was also ignored. I haven't had a chance to go back & watch the end of X2 yet, but I'm pretty sure Xavier's statements about Jean's powers in The Last Stand directly contradicted his statements at the end of X2.

Which brings us to the Phoenix storyline . . . I will resist my urge to rant and only note two things. (1) I hated the effect they used when Phoenix killed someone. It looked like they dissolved into pixels. I wanted to get the full and horrifying sense that she was killing humans, not the sense that the effects department came up with something cool. (2) They made Phoenix--Phoenix!--a passive character. (She never acts, she only reacts). Idiots.

I won't even mention the Phoenix-force, or how Xavier hadn't messed with Jean's mind, or how Scott shouldn't have died, and if he was going to die it should have happened *on screen*--

Which brings me to another point. Two many deaths (or "cures"), and none of them had the emotional impact they should have had. (I'm with Jan Batchler: Xavier's death should have waited until the end of the 2nd act, if it was going to happen.)

I have plenty more thoughts, but I'll restrain myself. On a happier note, I read Joss Whedon's first 6 X-Men comics (the "Gifted" storyline). It does the cure-thing a lot better than the movie (incidentally, this series, or mini-series, or whatever the correct comic terminology is, inspired that part of the movie). And it has a Kitty Pryde who really *is* Kitty Pryde--complete with Colossus and the marvelous Lockheed. It also made me laugh more than once . . . something the movie failed to accomplish. If The Last Stand disappointed you, I heartily recommend this as an antidote.

Other Recent Viewings include The New World, which was joyous and heartbreaking by turns, and gloriously beautiful. It's one of those films that begs to be seen on the big screen . . . I'm deeply sorry that I didn't see it there. The acting, without exception, is excellent, the cinematography amazing, and Q'Orianka Kilcher (the girl who plays Pocohontas) delivers one of the best performances I've seen in a while. It's an enchanting, almost hypnotisingly beautiful film.

I've also finally purchased Veronica Mars season 1, which I've been wanting to see for ages. I've only see the pilot, but I'm liking it so far--sad but not sentimental, clever, tightly written and well-acted. And with lots of noir influence, which is always fun. :-)

And now I need to dash . . . hopefully the next post will not be so long delayed.

Willowmeads!

I'm Buffy!

2006-06-01T16:25:00.000-04:00

You Are Buffy the Vampire Slayer

"We saved the world. I say we have to party."

What Superheroine Are You?

Well, not really, but this highly amused me--especially since it was completely unententional. (And, just for the record, that's a misquote of a line from Prophecy Girl, the season 1 finale. The second sentence should read: "I say we party.")

In other news, for anyone who keeps up with this thing, my apologies for not posting in so long--our computer at home won't let me on blogger at present, and I haven't yet figured out how to circumvent its obtuseness. But I am alive, and well, and at home. :-)

I've just finished rereading What We Can't Not Know, and I liked it even better this time through. Budzizewski reminds me of Lewis: he's very thoughtful & extremely well-read (referencing everyone from Augustine & Aquinas to Wordsworth & Yeats), and he writes with great clarity & lucidity. And his discussion of natural law is insightful, challenging, and thought-provoking. If you haven't read it, you should.

Next on the summer reading list are (1) Ideas Have Consequences, one of the books I sort-of-read for Conservative Political Thought last semester, and (2) The Iliad (which I've still never read. I know, shame on me.) After those I want to finish reading through the books from CPT, delve into twentieth century literature, and explore the early church Fathers. If all goes according to plan, I should have plenty to post about. :-)

I plan to continue work on my book as soon as I get a computer (the last four years have completely destroyed my ability to write longhand), and I'm going to see X-Men this weekend--and that pretty much covers the news-in-the-life-of-me.

Much love to all Dragons & Dark Creatures, Friends & Relations--most of whom I should see soon, and the rest of whom I hope to hear from--

The Enchantress of Lyonesse

(once a Dark Creature in Lyonesse. . . .)

Finished . . . done for!

2006-05-16T00:53:00.000-04:00

. . . but in a happy way. :-)

The goal for monday night was to make it to page 90, and write 9 pages of literary analysis. Somewhere around 3:30, I had made it to page 86, and decided to go to bed and hope the last 4 pages happened during revision. I got the literary analyses finished & turned in tues. afternoon, and had wed. and thurs. to study for my 2 finals of the semester (both of which were on friday!).

Spent sat. rewriting a problematic chapter, then edited and consumed mini-crullers frantically all sun. afternoon (except for the hour i fell asleep), and into the night . . . . somewhere around 4:00 am I wrote a hasty new half-page, threw in a beginning of a chapter that I had written weeks before & hated--and hit the magical page count. And there are only about 4 1/2 pages in there that I detest, and quite a few that I'm happy with; so I came out pretty well, overall.

Woke about around 11:30 today (er, yesterday), and made it to the dining hall, massive stack of paper in hand, in time for lunch. As I walked past the lake & up the hill to the main building, holding my story, I felt like singing. Like I had finished, conquered, triumphed. So I put the paper in the AMP's box, and ate stirfry.

And so it ends:

90 pages
25, 119 words
29 classes
7 semesters

. . . and only 4 more days. Then strange black hats left over from the Middle Ages, imaginary bits of paper, tears and laughter and goodbyes. And this world, which has been my life, will be gone.

It's already going. I'm standing right in the middle, but already it's slipping away around me, and I can't stop it, can't hold on to it, can't even slow it down.

I'm finished. And I want to cry.

love song

2006-05-13T14:12:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about the situation here at TFC; and I may post some of those thoughts later, if they become clear and coherent enough for publication. In the meantime, however, I want to sing a love song for TFC.

I respect and admire many of the people leaving and many of the people staying, and the whole conflict continues to distress me greatly. So please understand that I am not singing this song as an expression of shallow optimism, or a facile assurance that everything will be "okay." Rather, I'm singing it because I love this school, and am grateful for it, despite its many faults; and because I love the people here (and the people not here) far too much to brush any of it away.

If you disturb a cloud, expecting rain to fall,
why not expect the rainbow too?
If you've loved a sunrise, or a sunset, mellow, pure,
happiness is surely worth the rain.

Reach out a hand, thumb through your dreams,
touch lightly all your memories.
If a heart has nothing to share, and finds no song to sing,
brush it all away like so much gold.

If you've planned some work, but lost the time to do,
don't curse the work or waste the skill;
if you've a good foundation, just the will to build again
makes quite a treasure of worn-out tools.

If you've sown some seeds, just to see them fly away,
harvest yet may have some fruit to bear;
if you've seen your life grow, when an old thought sprouts a smile,
plowing out the sad gives hope the field.

Reach out a hand, thumb through your dreams,
touch lightly all your memories.
If a heart has nothing to tell, and finds no song to sing,
brush it all away like so much gold.

If a heart has nothing to tell, and finds no song to sing,
take my guitar with your scattered gold.

Phil Wiley, "Gold"

8 to go

2006-05-08T22:04:00.000-04:00

with the 82nd page having been reached by me, my characters have escaped from the underworld.

this is a happy development. (well, sort of. the characters aren't exactly happy. but that's a long story.) now i just have to write 8 more pages, and 3 literary anayses, and i'll be done.

i. will. finish. tonight.

after all, sleep is expendable.

Coming soon to a DVD player near you . . . .

2006-05-04T13:30:00.000-04:00

Han shoots first.

I grinneth with happiness.

39 pages . . . .

2006-04-29T18:36:00.000-04:00

stand between me and graduation. By the end of the day, it should be 29. Suddenly this is starting to look possible.

There have been a lot of last things the past few weeks--some happy, some less so. Last play, last spring dance, last trialogue, last set of dqs. But even the sad ones have seemed oddly right--they've felt like a conclusion, rather than a mere being-over. The 3 1/2 years here have been good, and there many things, and more people, that I'll miss; but I'm ready for the end (the telos, the completion).

Now it's just a matter of getting through the last couple of weeks. One last paper for the Absent-minded Professor, 2 finals, 39 pages . . . .

then Graduation. Wow.

Paradise Lost

2006-04-20T15:14:00.000-04:00

Movie news of the day: Peter Chattaway reports that Scott Derrickson is going to direct Paradise Lost.

I'm excited. Unlike most people at TFC, I actually like Milton . . . and while the filming of epic poems is a difficult matter ("it isn't just one of your holiday games"), I'm optimistic about Derrickson's ability to pull it off. Known primarily for The Exorcism of Emily Rose, he's a thoughtful Christian filmmaker who has collaborated with Wim Wenders (2004's Land of Plenty), as well as being published in my favorite literary journal.

I have no idea how he's going to make this work--but I'm eager to find out.

The Dawning

2006-04-16T13:24:00.000-04:00

Awake sad heart, whom sorrow ever drowns;
Take up thine eyes, which feed on earth;
Unfold thy forehead gathered into frowns:
Thy Saviour comes, and with him mirth:
Awake, awake;
And with a thankful heart his comforts take.
But thou dost still lament, and mourn, and cry;
And feel his death, but not his victory.

Arise sad heart; if thou do not withstand,
Christ's resurrection thine may be:
Do not by hanging down break from the hand
Which as it riseth, raiseth thee:
Arise, arise;
And with his burial-linen dry thine eyes:
Christ left his grave-clothes, that we might, when grief
Draws tears, or blood, not want a handkerchief.

~George Herbert

Helplessness

2006-04-15T01:24:00.000-04:00

This Lent I’ve been rereading Richard John Neuhaus's Death on a Friday Afternoon. The book is an extended reflection on the Seven Last Words of Christ. In the 3rd chapter, Neuhaus writes about Christ’s words to Mary and John: “Woman, behold your son . . . behold your mother.” He writes, among other things, about Mary’s presence at the cross, her participation in his suffering: “Stabat mater dolorsa. At the cross her station keeping. There was nothing else to be done, except to be there. The presence of our helplessness is our gift to the helpless.”

The last sentence particularly struck me. Last week I read Connie Willis’ Doomsday Book. It's the story of a young girl, a history student at a future Oxford, who travels back in time to study the 14th century. Due to an error in calculations, she ends up in the wrong year—coming to know and love the people only to watch them die of the bubonic plague. Kivrin does everything she can to save them . . . and fails.

The book doesn’t skimp on the unpleasant details, and it doesn’t offer easy answers. The reader, along with Kivrin, becomes immersed in the lives of a Medieval family, hoping desperately that at least some of them will survive, will recover from the horrible illness. All her efforts seem utterly wasted, and for Kivrin and the reader alike the futility is almost unbearable.

Yet, without even realizing it, Kivrin makes a difference. Her unflinching love, her willingness to suffer with and for these people, keeps the village priest from despair, reassuring him that, in spite of all appearances, God has not abandoned them. He thinks Kivrin is a saint sent to them from Heaven. This revelation strikes one at first as a pitiable mistake, his faith false and foolish. After all, we know that Kivrin isn’t a saint sent from Heaven by God, but a history student sent from Oxford by a technician with the flu. A technician who made a mistake.

But--do we know that? Willis quietly suggests that we don't. God may have sent her all the same . . . allowing the mistake in calculations so that Kivrin (or Christ through Kivrin) could offer grace in the darkness of 1348. Not by performing a miracle, not by saving lives, but by suffering with them, by offering her helplessness as a gift.

“It is precisely in the darkness of abandonment that God’s power shines through our human weakness,” Neuhaus says. As it shone through Christ, when he experienced the most devastating human weakness, when he died on a Friday afternoon,—when he, in Neuhaus’s words, abandoned himself to God even as God abandoned him.

More than once, I’ve seen people withdraw from others who were suffering because they didn’t know what to do or how to help. More than once, I have been those people. And perhaps all they needed, perhaps all God wanted me to offer them, was my helplessness.

Welcome to Ilion

2006-04-13T22:27:00.000-04:00

i decided yesterday that i wanted a blog. i'm not entirely sure why--i've spent the last couple of years vaguely objecting to blogs as things that diminish the amount of time one spends talking to actual persons. At any rate, here i am--and here you are. As time passes, i hope to fill this empty virtual space with thoughts (virtual thoughts?) on books, film, music, and storytelling, thoughts on the lost City and the City hoped-for.

i'm glad you came, i hope you'll come back, and i look forward to talking to you through this strangely impersonal blog-thing. Welcome, friend, to Ilion.

Ilion

Happily addicted to the web . . . .

In Which the Black Dragon Comes South, and Havoc Ensues

Numbers, novels, and organ-playing nomads

song of the day

This is a Novel

But where shall I begin? And what should I presume?

Mea cula, mea culpa . . .

I read . . . .therefore I fail audits.

Bilbo's Labyrinth?

Verily, I muddleth along . . .

nomadic misadventures

Epiphany song

Skiving (but without snackboxes)

The Golden Controversy

There's "woo!" and there's *serious* "hoo!"

Quiet music should be played loud

The list of things I've never done . . . .

possible worlds?

The Dark is Confusing

I'm alive!

Pro Potterum

assorted wacky quizzes

Ice-cream is my enemy, sparrows are my friends

of cows, communists, and oddly-named pies

Peter Jackson's next trilogy . . .

snapshots

Dead Things

Yea verily and forsooth . . .

poem of the week

fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium . . .

quizzes of the day

Thoughts of Others

Go to bed, goblin, do

Alas, poor Yorick . . .

life, the spatio-temporal realm, and macgamut

The 'Verses Collide . . .

If I was the Oscars . . . .

i. don't. like. spiders.

God Rest Ye Merry, Hippogriffs

Cecilia the Cow

Listening reports . . . .

the "Hobbit" movie . . .

Winter of Discontent (& Assorted Happy Items)

Bad-magic-hates-the-world-ticking-time-bomb guy

beauty will save the world

"the real question"

Armadillos and the Man

i've been having a bad, bad day . . . . .

Disconnections

Existential Crises

wacky fun

Introductions, Memories, Red Herrings

Pocohontas, Lockheed, & Veronica

I'm Buffy!

Finished . . . done for!

love song

8 to go

Coming soon to a DVD player near you . . . .

39 pages . . . .

Paradise Lost

The Dawning

Helplessness

Welcome to Ilion

There's "woo!" and there's serious "hoo!"