Calvin and Hobbes stationary folded in legal envelope was our chat communication; the ‘send’ command was fulfilled by handing said package to the recipient. No verbal exchange occurred other than our verbiage scattered on the paper. Although the writing was cryptic, puzzles were our way of flirting, and this truncated message did not throw me off. I knew that “be sexy dinosaur or draw me a picture” was a relationship-altering decision and was distraught as both options seemed equally nice.  “Make of it what you will” — or not (Enger).

1. Sweet friends becoming fans of ‘Prayer’ on FB should realize the accompanying image is actually of a woman hunched over a toilet. Could be praying, I guess? The quote beneath the pic made me cackle wickedly: “Have you ever fell so deep into a pit, or were in need of something so bad, and the situation seemed impossible, until you got down on your knees and prayed?”

My mind was in the toilet, sorry. But eating more fiber might help.

Not discounting prayer, just the tacky Facebookness.

2. Speaking of FB, I recant my rant about the sign-toting religious bigot on campus. Griping in ignorance about another’s apparent griping is not constructive.

3. Tunes heard of late: Capricho Arabe (Tarrega) and Mazurka-Choro (Villa Lobos). Both are guitar works played by my friend Nathan Holterman ’til they wither in the majesty of his nylon strings and pickle jar-vanquishing hands. Nathan could earn a living wage busking. Bystanders would stand enamored by the hypnotizing finger dance, completely disoriented deciding how much to give, then give up and dump wallet and all.

Another grand musician is the illustrious Esther Prentice. She writes, fingers, and sings her own music; the latest being a tribute to Blazer player Joel Przybilla. Her voice makes me want to plant my head in her lap indefinitely. (Have you ever had a friend whose presence is toner to the soul?) Busking with E. amidst December consumers in Pioneer Square, we gained $3.40, thirteen frozen fingers, and two cups of coffee in two hours. Next week, she went alone and earned eight times as much, minus the frostbite.

4. At the 41st Brigade mobilization ceremony today, Governor Kulongoski declined his “cherished” tradition of shaking each soldier’s hand and giving them a private word of encouragement, nodding towards a table of Bath & Bodyworks hand sanitizer instead. He said that in WWI, more soldiers died from the flu pandemic than from battle, and then weakly offered that the thousand soldiers standing at parade rest could decrease their mortality rate by keeping their hands clean. The heart-sore winced, and laughed (he wasn’t joking!). The Veterans of Foreign Wars motorcycle brigade was a strong presence — they escorted the troops to and from Memorial Coliseum and remained at attention outside the Coliseum entrance throughout the ceremony. Their wordless support had ten times the power of the gas load of words accomplished by Gov. Kulongoski, Sen. Pres. Courtney, Sen. Wyden, Sen. Merkley, Rep. Wu, and Mayor Adams.

5. As wine bastion France disquietly sets out to raise their legal drinking age (16–>18), Dr. Bakalinsky (FST 273 – “Wine in the Western World”) is lecturing about temperance and non-temperance cultures. Nearly a century past US prohibition, as a temperance culture, alcohol is stigmatized.  As a nation, we drink far more distilled spirits, hard liquor, and beer than non-temperate nations such as France and Italy, and though the non-t. nations drink more alcohol overall (mainly wine), they have fewer instances of coronary heart disease. We, on the other hand, have  a higher percentage of Al-Anon groups (and alcohol-related crime?). It seems that a frowning social attitude is excuse for excess. Here’s an older article published by an Oxford Journal about the trend. [Nothing new, y/n? I hope to have more info and cold hard data in a future post.]

6. Rimsky-Korsakoffee House is nifty — creaky furniture, dessert named after Rasputin, a facetious, wiry woman with a spray of white hair playing Debussy and saucy tango on the grand (pause to turn page, pause to reread music), a nymphy waitress, and cream straight from the porcelain penguin’s mouth. Add to the mix Jeff and I, and a month’s void of needed conversation, and three hours fly.

A note to the awkward among us: Desserts are delicious, and the peculiarities lining the tables, walls, ceiling, bathtub (!), et al make this SE PDX cove a forgiving “get to know you” place. Conversation, if dull in a bland room, will pick up pace in the whimsical E. poe/L. carroll cross environment — there’s so much to see! If all else fails, and you find out they’re a complete herbivore who despises kittens, conversation, and frowns upon a sense of humor, you can play “I spy” with the room decor while they sniff their Boring Mango Sorbet.

banging on a kettle drum
an army’s gone
the war was won
we can talk for hours
or even not at all
Pale Young Gentlemen, “Kettle Drum (I Left a Note)”

I’m a nocturnal beast. At 2 am, my eyelids aren’t quite heavy enough to induce sleep. No problem; I’ll write, or explore unknown regions of The Web, or bake something, or maybe accomplish some homework until my eyelids signal that it is time to lay me down. So far, this strategy has been efficient, but I’m realizing that something needs to change.

Nocturnal beast, meet Spring Term schedule: chemistry lab – 9 am, biology lab – 8 am, and work, all other days – 8:30 am, all for which alertness is key. Some of you workforce veterans have no pity for my disorientation–”Bah, when I was in school, classes started at 6:30 am! And I owned no shoes” — but your mocking response doesn’t ease the challenge of changing the sleeping patterns of a bat. My Circadian rhythm is syncopated.

If all else fails, try not to look too guilty — really, you didn’t do it. 

If all else fails, be prepared to recite the complete Declaration of Independence in a French accent. For goodness’ sake, who will argue with that?

If all else fails, go to Costco with a brother called Jeff to shop for glasses and eat food samples doled out by hardy seniors, proceed to Home Depot to buy storage containers absent from Costco, sniff lumber, admire paint chips, and pet carpet samples, then get a hair cut, converse about the Korean War, Ernie Pyle, death, imagination, childhood, girls/boys, hard cider, et al, and then help bake cookies, help make soap, help make dinner, help bake bread.

You and Art

Your exact errors make a music
that nobody hears.
Your straying feet find the great dance,
walking alone.
And you live on a world where stumbling
always leads home.

Year after year fits over your face—
when there was youth, your talent
was youth;
later, you find your way by touch
where moss redeems the stone;

and you discover where music begins
before it makes any sound,
far in the mountains where canyons go
still as the always-falling, ever-new flakes of snow.

—William Stafford, You Must Revise Your Life

———————————————————————

“Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask? Do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked? Do you think you can slip away a little before midnight in order to avoid this? Or are you not terrified by it? I have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself. [...] In every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. But he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.”

- Soren Kierkegaard, Either/Or, vol. II

———————————————————————

Am I allowed to soapbox after this great writing? It’s a rant, sure, but I hope a valid one… Stop hiding yourself! Don’t be embarassed by your imperfection! Be seen without make-up plastered to your face, and hair groomed neatly, clothes carefully planned. Don’t be utterly devastated and hide your failures — we need to know that you are indeed human. Vulnerability is inviting, while a facade of perfection implies that you lack nothing, and therefore don’t need others. We’d rather hear an awkward, yet heartfelt musical performance, than listen to the perfect silence of your facade. We’d love to know the you outside that secure fortress of mascara. We want to know that you’ve had ugly arguments, that you’re terrible at tennis, and have a ghastly mess of a room. Do you honestly think that you are valued for flawlessness? We rejoice in your Bs, valedictorian. Keep it real.

He is my dearest brother. I want to describe him here– do some character study, talk about childhood games, and find myself surprisingly emotional. He is strong, and oh so brave (he’s defended me in reckless predicaments more than I can mention). His verbal mileage exceeds mine to the umpteenth degree. In a single, sixteen mile car ride, he will take three breaths between paragraphs. I love listening. He’s stubborn, too, like me, and we’ll argue for an hour over a petty matter, until one of us tires and consults Wikipedia. Though the boy:girl sibling ratio is low (1:5), he’s man enough for seven, and still girl enough to watch Pride and Prejudice and channel Betty Crocker on occasion. (Well, that movie required some bribery.)

Growing up, he dictated most games of pretend: we were WWII soldiers, complete with old army cast offs from Grandpa and the surplus store. When he and I grew tired of vanquishing Nazi forces from our foxhole or submarine, we’d turn on each other with threats of court marshalling. Deviously, I discovered that if I threw a fit, I could get my way in most games — feign injury and life would be sweet. Still, such behavior was aggravating, and games where my trickiness displayed itself quickly decayed into a mash of attitudes and abrupt arguments. When he was in a sulky state, I would tease him sometimes–many times, shamefully–yet on sunny occasions, all I had to do was pretend to be a jolly superhero lion (“Binjee Banjee Lion”), or a crazed creature named Pan Pipe in order to cheer him. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs during childhood was summited when I made Jeff laugh.

The past two weeks have been lived nocturnally, in addition to normal day-time appearances. Classes and work by day, and homework and Facebook (shame, shame) by night. Sleep, I hardly knew ya. Monday night, I slept three hours from 5 – 8 am, drank strong coffee that made the roof of my mouth pulsate, and stayed up until 2 am Tuesday, compiling a report on areal photosynthetic yield’s dependence on intercrop distances for bio, and the-en,  slept a few hours before charging off to a semifailed trig quiz. (The equations in trig are looking more and more like a “Where’s Waldo?” picture as the term progresses. Angle Theta does not wear a red-and-white striped sweater, though, and it’s most inconvenient.) Each twenty-four hour day is full, and so quiet moments are relished slowly, yet with an eye on the time.

Almost a year ago, life was similar, but perhaps more intense. Accompanying the chamber choir, tutoring micro, taking fifteen credits of relatively involved classes, while working seventeen hours a week, and by night, taking care of Grandma during a scary illness– I’d rather repeat the experience, yet it was incredibly valuable. She had such a good attitude through that horrible two-month spell– apologetic when she summoned at night, needing me to call 9-1-1. The peace covering her was impressive. Though she struggled to breathe, fought for strength to stand, could hardly keep food in and could hardly keep pain (back, shoulders, arms, legs, feet, stomach, head, what?) at bay, she always seemed concerned that I had enough to eat, enough sleep. I hid my sleep habits to keep worries away, and stayed up at her computer until three, four, or five o’clock in the morning, writing speeches that were to be spoken five hours later.

That time was difficult. In reflection, it’s taught me much, but primarily this: when Christ says “My peace I give you…” He means it with every ounce of sincerity. Waking from a short night’s sleep, I remember being upset at the start of another long day. My lungs and diaphragm hurt (a lack of sleep phenom?) and Grandma was having a challenging morning. “My peace I give to you; I do not give as the world gives” (John 14:27). The words wafted to mind like a deep and gentle sigh. It’s true. Not as the world gives. Not as I can comprehend. He works in wonderful ways. Grandma has reveled in the peaceful mystery for years, and tears up when I remind her of the time we both experienced it.

When I woke today at half-past nine, the cloudlight trickling through the blinds, finches arguing for birdfeeder time outside the window, that familiar carpety smell, and a human voice (mature alto timbre) greeting the morning had to remind me, yet again, that I was not in Corvallis, I was not almost late to chemistry lecture, and I did not have to be in a hurry. Homework and finals skulked in the background, but this moment was for savoring. Walker wheels skidded across linoleum, and whisps of “Madame Butterfly” flew into the room. Breathe deep. Time stands still when there’s maple toast on the table.

aftermath
yellow air black forms
brittle substance
everything
———————-still
call to any who’ll listen

words drop stillborn at blackened feet
life as we know
———————-dead
tomorrow severed
a branch askew pruned ready for burning

Eloi, Eloi…
huddling knees to lips maintain a wisp of
trembling whisper confirm a state of
…lama sabachthani?

Life don’t hide Your face
You tore the curtain to
meet
——————-me

A few pictures from harvest three Augusts ago. I’m nostalgic and missing Monitor today. Thinking about futurely things makes me anxious sometimes — if only I could be eleven years old, living in perpetual summer at the farm, life would be a joy. Or so my silly mind thinks… There is so much in store.  It’s too much to comprehend, really.

What to do, though, when in a funk? There are days where sitting under a musty rain cloud and hoping to be babied is about all I can handle. Numerous times through the Psalms and Prophets, poetic writers speak of hiding in the shadow of His wings. From this phrase, I realize it is okay to hide, to have funky feelings, and it’s natural to need comforting on occasion. The key element is taking these cloudy, homesick moments to the ever-loving Father. Realize that in Christ’s presence is the fullness of joy and rest on that truth. Knowing that Christ is in control, He knows what I need, and He has a plan for the future (too wide to fathom!) is marvelous. These photos were a cheery find today, and so are David’s words in Psalm 145:

The Lord is faithful to all His promises
and loving toward all He has made.
The Lord upholds all those who fall
and lifts up all who are bowed down.
The eyes of all look to You,
and You give them their food at the proper time.
You open your hand
and satisfy the desires of every living thing.

The Lord is righteous in all His ways
and loving toward all He has made.
The Lord is near to all who call on Him,
to all who call on Him in truth.
He fulfills the desires of those who fear Him;
he hears their cry and saves them.

1. Had a spark of a migraine today, from the culmination of a 39-hour sleepless period, two bike rides, one lab report, and one blissful, longer-than-expected evening walk, and more than ten hours of staring at rate law equations in utter dismay. It felt like something was trying to chew my head off — maybe, if a human had termites, this was what their dinnertime would feel like*? It went away quickly, heck, it was only around for about an hour. Still, an hour is enough to make me think about how others have habitual (chronic?) pains like this — I’m humbled and amazed by their ability to keep moving!

2. The weather has been beautiful, and makes homework much more manageable.

3. Said homework and said weather also spark need for excursions. Especially while reading biology homework, my brain is ascending a trail to find the sun rise,  making a spontaneous drive to the coast (making a stop in the Lincoln City BiMart for beef jerky), taking TriMet to  Central Library, or taking a conversation-steeped walk near Pallio’s while inhaling their coffee… ah. Material things. It’s easy to get distracted when I’m supposed to be studying for midterms. If only it were possible to be spontaneous and organized, then maybe I could accomplish homework and still be an excursionist.

4. Are spontaneity and organization opposites?

5. When at community college, random moments with friends were normal (is it oxymoronic to expect randomness?), yet grades maintained full health. Here at OSU, I’m not so sure. Academic life has been full enough, but life should be fuller than strict academia. (Strict? Bah!) Dance helps relieve the school overload, but again, it would be lovely to have conversational intimates nearby for whims of adventure, friendship, and cooking. Facebook-like conversation can only go so far. There is something to be said for objective human interaction. Ah well, each situation has something to be learned.

6. It’s Friday, and the house is silent. Time to breathe.

7. This is petty and self-indulgent. My imagination is teeming with ridiculous ideas begging to be released from their tight confines, but my mind is sleepy and my inhibitions too awake for such writing to occur. Bored  souls who read this post, looking for entertainment, just got a bit more bored**. Sorry, no time refunds here.

*Turrible analogy… bwahaha. See line: “Sorry, no time refunds here.”

**If you are hungry for healthy distraction, and haven’t done so already, check out Instructables. Keep an eye on the time, though — it’s easy to say you’ll just take a glance, only to emerge three hours later, knowing much more about building zip drives and bike lights from Altoids tins than you thought possible.