Happily addicted to the web . . . .

(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.

nomadic misadventures

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.

Ice-cream is my enemy, sparrows are my friends

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.

Dead Things

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.