See Beth write. Funny, funny Beth.

When you feel like you have some amount of wisdom to impart to the world, you write non-fiction.  Biographies, self-help books, documentaries.  When you feel like you have some amount of wisdom to impart to the world but you don't feel like airing all of your business, you write novels.  Though, novelists still can not escape the way the schema upon which they have built and experience their lives creeps into their pen.

Since I was 11, I remember a particular quote.  Always.  It comes from Whoopi Goldberg in the role of a lounge singer disguised as a nun.  She relates the story of famous poet, Rainer Maria Rilke who had a fellow write to him and ask, "I want to be a writer.  Please read my stuff" to which Rilke replied, "Don't ask me about writing.  If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing. . .then you're a writer."

So here I am at 2:06am, tired of reading (unheard of!) but not sleepy enough for rest.

Because I want to write.  I don't even know what.  I have nothing to say.  No great concepts or ideas or turns of phrase.  I consume books like fire and enjoy every moment.  But I also feel inadequate of developing anything as grandiose or memorable as the page-turners I stick to like a barnacle.  And because I refuse to be a hack, I abhor the thought of coming out with anything that's been done before.  And yet, there is nothing left.

And so, in succumbing to the fact that I am forever destined to write my thoughts both freely and for free, I suppose it would be fun to take a closer look at one of my most recent reads.

Enchantment by Orson Scott Card

Let me begin by declaring my true and chaste love for Orson Scott Card.  This man is quite possibly a real living genius.  Though I know he always spends a few pages of each of his books thanking those who help him weed his way through the writing process, all props must go to this guy for the wondrous complexity he is able to weave into his storytelling.  He writes amazing characters.  Who are different from one another in more than name and title.  And while he is a science fiction writer, he lends me new eyes and ears to what that genre is really all about.  Not spaceships and aliens.  Not lame and unrealized uses of holo-decks and lasers.  And definitely not an excuse to fill a few hundred pages with explosions, promiscuity and the promise of imagined new and foreign worlds at the expense of plot and deep thematic elements.

I am working my way through each and every one of Card's novels.  I had an opportunity to purchase his humongous book of short stories for the mere price of $8.00 at Powell's in Portland but, blast if I didn't just put it back on the shelf and move on.  I sing a lament of regret.  I have read (almost, I think, maybe, I don't know, there's always one or two that crop up out of nowhere) all of the Ender series.  I loved, loved, loved the Shadow series and was thrilled to have Bean back in my life again.  Although, of the Ender books, Speaker for the Dead will be my absolute favorite forever and ever, Amen.

I've enjoyed a few stand-alones like Pastwatch:  The Redemption of Christopher Columbus and The Worthing Saga, both excellent and full of political intrigue and frightening glimpses into the human condition, past, present and future.  I adored the Alvin Maker series.  If that became a mini-series that religiously followed the books to the letter, I would probably swallow my own tongue.  I wish I had a 'knack'.  That series merits its own attention at a later date.

Enchantment was very different from his previous novels.  Contemporary fantasy rather than science fiction.  Not what I was expecting but then. . .I never know what to expect from this guy.  Except greatness.  Of which I've never been disappointed.  Enchantment was literally enchanting.  Leave it to Card to take a fairy tale and make it both as grim as we all know they originally were but rooted in realism, in a world where magic makes sense. You don't doubt it because to doubt would be unnatural.  No one else but this guy could make such smooth transitions from the modern, sensical world to an ancient one that centuries of history have gotten wrong.  I found myself believing every word with far more conviction than anything I've found in a history book.

Why?  Because it's just so human.  And so real.  Card knows people.  As individuals.  Not lump sums.  He knows how they work.  How they play.  How they think.  How they interact.  How they alter their own realities.  I challenge anyone to find a one-dimensional character in any of his books.  Even if they have one line.  Even if they have no lines.  A nameless, mute soldier, one of thousands of others, is a real human being in his tales because of the way he shapes up a situation, the way he paints the scene, you can't help but believe this young man has a life.  Things that happened to him before that chapter that are not written and things that will happen to him afterwards that are not spoken about.  He is a man among other men and other women and he's alive.

I must admit that I am not the most politically savvy person around. . .so I do get somewhat lost amid the bureaucratic business that so often accompanies Card's literature.  I learn though.  It forces me to be a part of the proceedings.  I start to care.  If only a politician in the real world could do so much for me.

Card's love stories are real love stories.  Heartbreakers.  His 'damsels in distress' are more often than not real heroes in some way or another.  I've read a lot of books with what I can only imagine the authors believe are strong females.  But, word to the wise, just because a woman is aware of and seemingly in charge of her sexuality does not make her a contender for heroine of the century.  When a woman jumps into bed with a guy right away, even if a big deal is made about how it's HER choice, it still does not make her the ideal in my eyes.  She's not using her sexuality.  The authors are.  And I am not impressed.  Card's women are built tough.  Mothers and homemakers are quiet fighters but fighters nonetheless.  They are pure martyrs, not always with their lives but with their freedoms, their relationships, their well-being.  Y'know. . .what REAL strong women are.

Card's women are assertive and even aggressive when need be, but they aren't written that way to assume some sort of masculine acquirement.  It is not as if to say, "Hey, look ladies!  You don't have to burn your bras anymore, here are some girls you can really look up to.  Oops, I mean women."  Case in point:  his Women of Genesis series.  His women are soldiers who are afraid but persevere.  And even better, his men are allowed to be afraid.  Not because they are weak like many novel writers decide - the sniveling lawyer that rains on everybody's parade but can't stand his ground when he has to tell the truth or the corrupt cop who stomps around like he owns the place but hightails it at the first sign of real danger.  Card's men have weaknesses.  Even the hero.  Because human men have weaknesses.  They don't always do the right thing.  And not because they're bumbling idiots who can't do anything right without a woman around to tell him so.  They are not stereotypes or deux ex machinas for what NOT to do or be.  They aren't warnings.  They're just people.  In a world.  Where things happen.  Good and bad.

In a nutshell, Enchantment is about a boy named Ivan (or Vanya) who is born in Ukraine where he finds a mysterious meadow full of eerily moving leaves and a sleeping maiden in the center.  He is afraid and runs away from it, then travels with his family to America where, as a grad student, he returns to his homeland for research.  He finds the meadow again, does not run this time, and is suddenly transported back to the 9th century with this maiden who turns out to be a princess in a Russian version of Sleeping Beauty.

It is described as mixing magic and modernity but you might be surprised in what century each is found.  Although this book was quite different from Card's usual foray into science fiction, I still enjoyed it.  I read a few reviews that said it wasn't magical or whimsical enough.  Well.  Then they completely missed the point.  I don't read Card for whimsy.  I do not read his books that deal with magic and trickery for whimsy.  Nothing about Card is quaint or comical.  People complained about the second Narnia movie for this very same reason.  Not as magical as the first.  Get on the boat, people.  The second book is all politics.  It is intrigue and deception.  It is war!  Not every piece of entertainment about magic is going to give you scampering fairies and happy little gnomes.  Sometimes the fairies hate the gnomes.

Every one of Card's books deals with either magic, spaceships, alien creatures, acts of daring-do, adventures on the high-seas, and a LOT of religion but none of his books are actually about any of that.  Those are tools. Merely implements to drive the real stories forward.  What his stories are about are people.  When I read Card, I don't get caught up in the environment or the fact that he's got little kids floating around in space or people who can move through time.  What I do get caught up in are stories about families, about duty, about the selfish desires of the heart and the noble decisions of great minds.  About children with both incredibly destructive and altruistic talents.  And what happens when you put them in the same room.  I get caught up in notions of faith.  Of love.  Of having more than one right choice, or sometimes, none at all.

Although, I will say. . .after having read a Card book, I'm ready for some Where's Waldo.

You make me happy when skies are grey

I find joy in spring.  I haven't been a big fan of snow ever since I was too old to wear a snowsuit.  Since before I felt the PTSD associated with skidding on the ice inside of a ton of steel.  I love the rain.  I love the splashes of color as flowers begin to awaken.  I absolutely adore the color green.  In all its many shades.  Yes, Mum.  Even that horrific neon lime green.  I'm a green equal opportunist.  In fact, I'm a color equal opportunist.  Except purple.  I'm not really into purple.

I think I might have been born with the armpits of a perpetual 14-year old boy standing in front of the girl he likes because I hate summer.  Sure, as a youngling, I couldn't wait for "no school, yes pool" but I've grown out of it even to the point of being one of those people who goes to the beach to read.  Maybe it's the impending doom of getting older.  Much like you begin to come to terms with mortality, the same can be said with humility.  Or maybe I'm just boring.  Or maybe I just really, really, really hate being hot.

I opt for the milder seasons.  Fall is my favorite.  I like leaves far better than flowers.  As a child, I wanted to be one of those maidens who lived off in the middle of the forest in a house covered in ivy.  Until I realized that it compromises the structural integrity of the home and the forest is a haven for creepy-crawlies.  Man, ignorance really was bliss.

The first day of spring was March 20th.  It was 50 degrees, windy and it rained.  This is, after all, the Pacific Northwest.  The sun shone, however, and it was a brilliant sign of good things to come.  I know every one else seems to be done with the precipitation but I welcome it.  Why?  Because I got these rad waterproof boots for Christmas that I didn't use much for snow since I found a million reasons to stay inside when it did.

I love these boots.  Totally worth every penny.  I could do without the fur but I will not complain about them because they are as close to perfect as they could get for my use.

I also just bought a new Fossil hobo bag at Ross.  Quite the deal, I must say.  To the tune of a savings of $100, in fact.  Thank you Ross.  I will be dressing for less.

I've never been much for purses.  I wish I had that little pouch Hermione uses in Deathly Hallows.  That would be spectacular.  Sure would make flying easier.  Well, easier in the baggage department anyway.  I would still have to suffer my complete inability to react normally to air pressure.  Imploding brains on approach and descent are kind of my forte.

Being a girly girl is not.  I've made strides in the past decade but I still have a hard time embracing my female-hood.  In other words, purses are awkward.  But come spring and summer, I can no longer wear my most favorite of wardrobe choices, The Jacket, and stuff the pockets with all of my needed belongings.  Which usually only consist of my cell, a tube of Carmex, my teeny tiny wallet-fold and my keys, which I've recently and thankfully pared down.  I can not believe how many keys I have.  Even more unbelievably, I actually need and use them all.  As for toting this junk around, I used to employ the jeans backpocket route...but that did not last long.  After you lose a few things to the toilet, you learn.  Not always as quickly as you should.  But you learn.

I think this new bag is my style.  It's not shiny.  It's not made of fake crocodile or snake skin.  It doesn't have a deluge of glittering buckles.  It's not tiny and it's not huge.  It doesn't have someone else's name all over it.  And lucky me, it came with a key.  Just what I need.

Though spring has sprung, the foliage around my place has yet to show me such.  There's quite a bit of green but not much of any other color.  And more than enough naked twigs.  The silver lining is a friend (thanks Andrea!!) gave me some beautiful pink tulips that definitely spruce up my apartment and make me hopeful for the influence to spread outside.  Though, Adam's not really happy about this spring spreading business.  Thank goodness for over-the-counter Allegra.

It's been rather dark and drizzly over the past few days, so my poor flowers weren't getting much sun.  I tied them up to keep them from drooping as I don't have a taller vase.  Hopefully, they'll band together (hehe) and  make it a few more days.  The sun's trying to peek out and give us a smile but those clouds aren't having it.  One of my little blooms got decapitated, the circumstances of which are unimportant.

It's okay, though.  I made do.

Here's to April showers bringing May flowers.  But no more keys.

Let's Paul Harvey this sucker!

...continued from previous post...
. . . . . . . . . . .

I have no option than to continue my trek home.  I'm moving dangerously close to speeding as I am beyond comfort.  My only need is to get home, run around the yard screaming, "Get it off!  Get it off!  Get it ooooffff!!!"  I must have looked somewhat cartoonish as my face scrunched up in what could only be construed as "ultimate pig face."  I'm not so lily-livered, however, that I might, here and now, die of terror and require a closed clasket funeral for the sake of the guests.

I begin to wonder what people might say about me. How many would show up? What would I be dressed in? I really hope it's not that stupid denim dress that always rides up an—OH HOLY CRAP, HE'S RIGHT THERE!!!!

I am abruptly dragged back to the reality in a severely halting manner. The little guy has climbed. . .ugh. . .meandered in that eerie and unsettling way that they do. . .down the left side of the steering wheel. That's where my hands are. He's a quick one, that rascal, he is!

Here is where I left the Earth and became something altogether much stranger and different. I somehow mustered the audacity to bring my left hand away from where it was holding on, white-knuckled to the wheel, as far away from the left side as is possible without crashing and burning. I must guide this malignant brute to the floor where I can safely squish him.

Haha! Hahahahaha! I did it. I actually did it.

I thought I had administered enough weight to smack him to the floor. But. . .crap. Where is he? Where IS he!?!?!?!?! My eyes swiftly scan. I am hopeful. Fearful, as the time ticks by. Red light. Ok, ok, stay red. Stay red for awhile as I've got some hunting to do. Roving, roving, rov—THERE HE IS! He's dangling from his fat, ugly rump, swinging and obviously laughing at me. I can hear his high-pitched chittering and see him rubbing his little spider feet together.

I swat again! I feel the soft yet disconcerting body graze my fingers. I haven't shuddered like that since dorm life.

He's DOWN!

STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! And PIVOT!

He has fallen. I am solemn.

The little devil has become a permanent jewel of victory in battle on my driver's side carpet. One with the fibers but remembered always for having way too many legs. He is there as a symbol. To the others. A warning, if you will.

I had been full of great fear during this trial. But it is to those with the greatest fear and the most to lose who are able to achieve success by never backing down. They are the ever watchful ones, th—alright, so I killed one of God's most helpful creatures. But I swear, he was going to eat me.

The End.

Arachnophobia Part II

...continued from previous post...


He's staring me down like he's got something to prove. As if I'm not much more than a prize to be won. Do I submit? Do I fret? I'm driving down the road. I can't do anything for fear of the repercussions. But I can't do nothing! There is nowhere to safely pull over in a jiffy so as to rid myself of this demon.

He moved like literal lightning. Just as quickly as I'd noticed him again, although it felt as if it had been days since I first discovered he had not disappeared back into the realms of the outer darkness from whence he came.

He took off straight across the dashboard towards the passenger side. I could almost hear his little gingerbread-man-like voice, “Catch me if you can!” Ok, spidey. You and me now. You and me. Keep moving. That's right, keep moving. Head towards. . .over there. . .away from me.

It's as if he heard my thoughts. He paused. Like he was pondering his next move. Daring to defy my mind appeals for safety. He turned. At a 90 degree angle. BACK towards ME!

I mentally apologized sincerely for my discourteousness to him. The lady doth protest he should come any closer for fear that my life would flash before my eyes and I would realize I hadn't done anything interesting with it.

He stopped. Our eyes met and I felt immediately outnumbered. It was like two creatures who had never met before yet knew they were meant to be mortal enemies from conception. Only until one would eventually destroy the other. The whole neither can live while both survive kind of nonsense.

I was switching between our deathly, uncertain glares and keeping my eyes on the stretch of road ahead of me. A stretch that seemed both impossibly long and quite possibly shorter that I desired. He chose just the moment when my eyes and attention were focused on my path to begin his descent down the dashboard. This dude has a serious hidden agenda. He's so quietly and spiderly making his way closer, trying to find a way back to somewhere familiar and then makes a headway straight for my legs.

It doesn't make sense. Or it makes too much sense. I can see the gleam of hatred in his eye. Revenge. Revenge for my earlier failed murderous attempt. He's doing this on purpose. And loving every minute of it.  How many of his friends have I mercilessly flushed over the years?  Oh, the arachnidanity!!!

I might have peed my pants. Here I am, with only a year's worth of driving experience under the seat of my pants and I'm having to balance my “avoid traffic and other such road mishaps” and my “I refuse to lose sight of this hell-fiend” mentalities.  So he makes his way to the end of the dashboard right above the steering wheel. Mental check. Steering wheel is black. Second mental check. Critter is also black.  And I think he's stopped moving.  This guy is wearing an urban ghillie suit.

I've lost him............................ *dread*

To be continued. . .

Try this one on for size, David Arquette!

It's not as clear to me as it was when it initially happened.  To be honest, a part of me wants to forget.  But a larger part of me knows that. . . .I can't.  I won't.  I definitely shouldn't.  The following events took place 6 years ago in the chilling, thrilling month of November.

And so. . .is begins like this.

Adam is driving. We pull onto the road from the driveway at home. We are on our way down to the college. Just about to pass by his old stomping grounds, Camelot Elementary when I see it.

A fingernail-sized. . .

Fat. . .

Fuzzy. . .

SPIDER!!!!

With short stumpy, stupid legs!

He's crawling his way across the dashboard.

My instinct is to freak my freaking freak and then experience paralysis. Maybe he won't notice me. Yeah. Me. The giant human. The one with the terror-stricken look on her face. Right across from it, the horrible, horrible thing. “Spppiiiiideeeeeer,” I begin in a whisper that gradually builds louder as I near the end, enunciating the hard “r.”

Adam enjoys the presence of an arachnid as much as I so there's not much I can expect from his side of the car, never mind the fact that he is busy with his eyes on the road. Or should be. We pull over (if this were a movie like the 2^nd or 3^rd Bourne installments, this is where the camera would start getting reeeeally shaky) and I speedily and efficiently drop the jockeybox door and shove my hand in to grab a fistful of napkins; completely oversized for their future use as the very first case of total destruction of matter.

Hesitation. What if there's that horrifying and unwelcome crunch? That's why you have the entire toilet paper roll wrapped around your hand, you dolt! Get him!!! There is a method to my madness. AND to HIS! HE'S HEADED FOR THE WINDOW!!!!!!!1111one

So I have to react. And quickly!

THUD!

I'm holding the napkin up against the window, the veins on my arm pulsing. I look like the road map seated 5 inches to my left. Adam steps out of the car to assess the damage.

There's a discouraging wince on my face as if I've just tried a lemon for the first time. Will Adam return that wince? And, in-so-doing, reveal to me that the spider's bloody carcass is NOT inside the napkin I'm pressing against the windshield with so much might as to almost break through the glass?

His expression is unreadable. He walks around. I roll down the window.

“He's not there, Beth.”

“WHAT!?!?!? *hyperventilates* HE'S! *gasp* NOT! *gasp* THERE!”

How could he not be there? I replay the entire scene in my mind. What did I do wrong? What could I have done differently? What did I miss? Where was the error made? I. . .I got him. I specifically remember getting him. I mean. . .I even felt the crunch.

Didn't I?

Adam returns to the driver's seat. And I proceed to wig out the entire rest of the trip down to the campus. I feel like I'm sitting on an anthill. My heart's new permanent home is my throat and I want to literally jump out of my own crawling skin, leaving it behind much like a spIDER CAN. AAAAAAAAH!!!!!

It gets worse. I can't leave the car for good yet. Adam's staying at school while I return home. In the car. Otherwise known as the Daddy Longlegs Daycare facility. I will admit that the frightening episode earlier had at least relaxed to just a wistful yet terrifying memory. It was slightly subdued by my sudden realization that, after all things considered, it is just a spider. Sure. We didn't get him. This time. But even if he's still somewhere inside or on the car or currently laying eggs in my ear, I can take him. Ah yes, little friend. I await the return of my little eight-legged nemesis with almost a touch of anticipation.

Read anticipation as blatant and paralyzing fear. I am not fooling anyone, least of all myself.

I am in the car now. Driving back home. Alone. I am struck by the sudden need for a burger and fries. Chock it up to my racing heart rate and the possibility that my anxiety just burned off all of my calories but I am super hungry. Ooh, a stop at Sharp's Burger Ranch. No big deal, it's on my way. If I was looking for a burger, I need look no further than the Ranch, go go, go to the Ranch.

If there was even an inkling of remembrance for that dreadful brute, it was immediately forfeited to the scrumptious feast I then gorged myself upon. Extra pickles please. I'm feeling fancy free. Not a care in the world.

I unlock my car. Get comfortable. Click it or ticket. And I'm off.

Not more than 2 minutes later, I am whizzing away from a stoplight and I happen to catch some movement. Upon the dashboard. Memory triggered. Horrific events. Within that very car.

HE'S BACK!

To be continued. . .

Crazy little thing called love

Nothing like a wedding to stir up the solid foundation of an introvert.  I didn't even particularly enjoy my own but that's probably due to a number of reasons.

1.  I couldn't dress myself.
2.  Don't even mention the bathroom.
3.  My dad took over the music to the tune of every lame wedding song imaginable.
4.  I had to slow dance in front of people.
5.  The food became a strict eat-with-your-eyes-only situation.

I'm not sure when the Hey-hey-look-at-me-look-guys-look-at-me-HEY-GUYS-GUYS-LOOK-AT-ME-GUYS persona was replaced with a mousy wallflower but I tend to blend in with my surroundings whenever I can.  Snapshot from yesterday evening as I leaned against a wall splashed with candles, minding my own sweet boring business when one of the bridesmaids grabs my hand and drags me out onto the dance floor.

It is 1,000 degrees.  I am only just hovering on the edge of Chinese foot binding with new 4 inch heels.  Plus. . .I'm not really so crazily in love with dancing that I can just jump in with a band of strange, sweaty, drunk contortionists.

I am not a big fan of the dancing circle of girls - as if to say to the world, "We're ladies and we don't need no man.  We just need to DANCE!"  The entire time is spent making odd duck-face lip protrusions and shouting, "WHAT?" back and forth until one loses their voice or makes up some lame cover and excuses herself from the entourage for a brief respite.  There's also that awkward moment when the synthesized kick-drum gives out to easy listening and all the single ladies (all the single ladies) are left eyeing the floor for anything with a 5 o'clock shadow.

All kidding aside, the reception was fantastic.  Good friends, delicious buffet of grilled cold veggies and yummy towers of bursting fruit, some weird cheeses (some of which clearly tasted like what I imagine a foot must), and an impromptu lesson on the origins of the Jordan almond.

The wedding itself was absolutely beautiful.  The setting was this old Catholic church in Seattle - gorgeous red-bricks, probably hand-laid one-by-one.  It was definitely the least ornate Catholic church I've ever seen in person.  It was humble and full of history.  And absolutely perfect.  Thank goodness the sun decided to come out and play after what could only have been the beginnings of another possible ark assembly.  The grand way that the rays shone through the stained glass windows and down upon the altar where the bride and groom stood - it was radiant, to say the least.  Couldn't have asked for better weather.

I have been to a few Catholic weddings and some scattered masses.  No disrespect to those of Catholic persuasion but I have often felt like a complete outsider, not privileged enough to know all the lines of a play everyone else has been practicing for centuries.  I think it's fair to assume that, with a gathering of mixed-faith peoples, one should feel comfortable enough to abstain from the Catholic habits and traditions because A. one should not have to perform any acts that either mean nothing or at least not the same thing as the way they are intended in that instance and B. one would think it is disrespectful to those who DO find special meaning in it if someone does so haphazardly or without full intent.

Suffice it to say - there was no kneeling, chanting, or repeating of prayers from this girl.  Even if my protestant background familiarized me with quite a bit of what I saw last night.

The Father presiding gave an incredibly charming talk about love.  I was in the presence of a charismatic man who was using that God-given charisma for good and righteousness.  And not just a touch of humour.  He spoke of 4 kinds of love, using the Greek roots in order to make some rather poignant notes.  A great refresher course for those of us who have been married for a few years now.  Adam and I are fast approaching the 7-year itch this summer.

1.  Eros - The passionate, romantic love.

2.  Storge - The constant, affectionate love.

3.  Philia - The love of friendship.

4.  Agape - The love of God.

Of course, Eros goes without saying.  That is the love the Father, in his I-promise-to-be-brief address likened to Saturday night love.  Storge is Monday morning love.  A-har-de-har-har.

Both are needed for a successful, long-lasting and fulfilling marriage.  Storge, or affection, is often lumped together with Eros, or desire, but it is something entirely different.  Eros is necessary but it is also derived from the natural man.  Affection is quiet love.  It is fondness.  It is the love that makes us want to sacrifice our time, our money, ourselves to make someone other than ourselves happy.  Affection comes in many forms - flowers, a kind and loving note, a hug when the recipient most needs it, sweet words, help with a task, etc, etc, on and on and on.  Many of these actions can be performed devoid of affection but it is affection that makes them worthy of being called storge.  Storge is the "just because" love.

Philia, or friendship, connotes loyalty and familiarity.  Desire and affection can sometimes, unfortunately, be a one-way street.  But philia must be mutual.  Its definition is dependent on reciprocity.  Aristotle has said that one's friend is another one's self.  When two persons are joined as one in marriage, this is what occurs.

The Father was clever enough to mention that, when becoming one in union, it is important to retain oneself and one's character.  I like that reminder.  The goal of becoming one is not to become the same person.  But to, in many ways, become one in purpose.  A husband and wife should be working from the same objectives even if they are eventually reached in different manners.  The idea is to reach together, grow together, build together.  And to do so as friends.

Agape is a word I've heard lots of in my Mom's church.  This is the love most closely associated with the love of God.  Agape is the kind of love we should give one another because it is the same assured and unmitigated love that God has for us.  He did, after all, command us to love one another.  Agape is the love we should have, not only because of who someone is, but often in spite of who they are.

Warts and all, agape is unconditional.  It is acceptance.  It is important to remember in times of crisis or stress.  And in an increasingly stressful and unstable world, it is imperative to know that agape is real and within reach.  In fact, it is the duty of those who understand it to live it, to express it, to spread it around like wildfire!

I love that the Father addressed not only the bride and groom but the rest of the congregation, whether married, divorced, single - We must shout to the world, and do so loudly.  Not with our voices.  But with our actions of love.  Let us display what love is like, how love changes everything.

It is not the gooey-eyed, rose-tinted-glasses, everything is new and exciting love that makes a relationship last. Though I find myself realizing, with each day that passes, the change of that initial sappy hullabaloo into something deeper, something that transcends physicality or prevalence, it's astonishingly delightful to stop falling in love and just be in it.

Cause I got one hand in my pocket

Far from wanting to turn this into a fashion blog, every once in awhile I have to concede the incontrovertible truth that I am a female.  Who does, indeed, enjoy shopping at its most basest of forms.  I don't live for it.  I don't necessarily enjoy the decision-making process that so often accompanies a tight budget.  But I have found myself a bit down when I have to leave a store empty-handed.  I experience elation in the dressing room when something works out just so.

With the advent of online shopping, the world of marketable goods has become quite a fun adventure for me.  Much more fun than window shopping.  Online, I can peruse at my leisure without a salesperson asking me if I've found everything alright.  While I appreciate the nod, even though it's their explicit job to ask and not because they care, I assure these people that, had I been having trouble finding anything, I would happily have approached them myself.  In my head, anyway.  I would never dare utter such things out loud.

Online, I can multi-task.  I'm not stuck in a store wearing a winter coat that feels like a Tauntaun sleeping bag.  And I know where the bathrooms are.  I also rarely fall victim to that nastiest of all shopping bugs - the impulse buy.  One can take all the measurements one can - nothing beats good old-fashioned trying-it-on.  With clothes and shoes, it's rather difficult to purchase without seeing the real thing pre-investment.

Every once in awhile, a situation arises in which I must make the gamble but, usually (if it's not books) online shopping is reserved for pure research.  Just recently, I needed to procure an outfit for a wedding.  Found the dress.  That was an ordeal to say the least.  Poor Adam.  But, as always, modest dresses are hard to come by.  Well.  Modest dresses that look like they were assembled in this century.  If it's got long sleeves, it's also got a plunging neckline.  If it's got a covered bust, it's got a draping back.  If it's safe up top, it is not, to bend over.

So, I needed some sort of shrug or sweater to guard me from literally cold shoulders.  I found one.  But the colors weren't really what I was looking for.  Mirth was to be had when I arrived home, having purchased the lesser of evil colors, and discovered that the store had other colors in stock available to order.  Merriment!  Okay.  I know what size fits best so I don't have to worry about that.  Are there reviews?  Sometimes.

Ah, the elusive review.  What can one say?  Obviously, a whole lot of nothing.  I give fair due credit to those people who know exactly what to say and how to say it on an online item review.  But nobody cares where you wore it.  Nobody cares who you gave it to and whether they thanked you or not.  All I want to know is if it fits true to size.  Does it run big or small?  Will it stand up to wash and wear?  Is it a good quality for the price?  Is it as was expected?  Will the color be the same when it arrives at my doorstep?

It wasn't.

But. . .that's okay.  Because I found myself extra delighted that it was even better.  It fits.  The color looks great.  I'm happy with my purchase, albeit a little ticked that I was no longer able to track the package once it left the hands of UPS and entered the USPS system.  But it's here now and a sales representative who will contact me within 48 hours has 36 left to get back to me about a complaint that is already resolved. :)

In other fashion news (ugh, I feel ridiculous even saying that) I'm very much looking forward to the reintroduction of the fanny pack.  But. . .let's refrain from calling it that.  Waist pouch.  Side purse.  Even saddle bag is more acceptable.  As a lover of pockets and a girl who just can't get used to the idea of a big ol' purse, I am in love with the idea of a hands-free easily-accessible pocket that is not part of my pants.

I want these:

Although, I'd probably settle for something like this:

And I can't listen to that cd anymore

You know how certain music can remind you of specific times in your life? It can be both awesome and devastatingly unfortunate. Sometimes, circumstances are not in favor of your ever enjoying that song again. Smells have the same effect. Washing my hands with Vanilla Sugar handsoap induces a heart-dropping fear. I don't even know why. When I hear Built to Spill's “Big Dipper,” I feel cold and somber but with a hint of sunshine on the horizon.

I've decided that every song I hung my hat on from 1998-2004 sums up an era that, while never-to-be-forgotten-and-never-should-be, lends me fantastic and prevalent reminders of times both meaningful and heartbreaking.  It's as if each song, CD, and radio edit creates a timeline by which I recall my past.

I remember listening to S.C.I.E.N.C.E. on the P.A.T. to and from CCAC and thinking to myself, "What is with all the gd acronyms, eh?" There was a boy who often waited at the same bus stop and I never did muscle up the courage to say anything to him. Just eye contact seemed to be a paralyzing thought.

I remember wondering if only Guster's “C'mon” had been released before high school and a select few people had been able to sing along, they'd have realized that every time they chose me (or didn't) from a lineup, it would become such a fading blip on my radar when I got out of there. Or so I thought.

I remember a boy who gave me new ears to the tune of Surfer Rosa, but couldn't quite reach in and give me his heart.

I remember being told that "Tiny Cities Made of Ashes" sounded like garbage, to which I replied with a click over to Garbage's “I Would Die for You” and he thought that was pretty witty. That kid had a sweet pet mouse.

I remember begging my dad to let me listen to Silverchair in the van. Crooning loudly, without a care because no matter how loud I sang, I was still drowned out by the originals.

I remember crying in the corner of a janitor's closet to Weezer's “Across the Sea” because I finally understood.

I remember an odd friendship that started with "nice hat" and Sonic Youth's “On the Strip”. . .followed by first beer. Jellybeans. Second beer. Third beer. Puking jellybeans. A breath mint and surprisingly trustworthy pals.

I remember when my town's entire population of 15-16 year olds went to the DMB concert at the I.C. Light Amphitheatre. . .and I stayed home and played Tomb Raider to Placebo's “Without You I Am Nothing.”

I remember trying to learn Oasis songs on my acoustic and slamming the thing down when anybody came within 8 feet of my door.

I remember that butterscotch street lamps mark my path.

I remember taking the midnight train to anywhere.

I remember the comedy is that it's serious.

I forget what my friends look like and they forget why they like me.

Some of these memories are happy ones.  Some are quite embarrassing.  Others remain neutral and lay dormant in my brain - there for reasons unspecified.  I often wonder if, music had had nothing to say about it, I would remember any of these moments.  If I hadn't had that awful and yet predictable breakdown in which all of those stupid love songs started to make sense.  Would I remember falling in love the same way?  If Hey Jude hadn't been playing when that rotten college girl thought I was spending too much time on the boys floor and started rumours of impropriety.  Would her face appear in my mind whenever that song comes on?  If I hadn't danced with my new husband to Louis Armstrong's "I Get Ideas" at my wedding.  Would I still be able to get ideas?


We're a strange breed, we humans.  Shaped by memory association.

It's too bad about that Vanilla Sugar.

*Drawing by Natalie Dee

No rest for the weary

In the lyrical words of Rob Thomas, "It's 3am.  I must be lonely."

Insomnia strikes again.  Just me and my turtle, Boo Radley, kicking it cold-style in our 60 degree apartment as Adam is floating in the warm embrace of that forever-out-of-reach-for-me sleeping at night thing.  So, Boo. . .Wonder Twins activate.  Form of chick-eating-a-cup-of-animal-crackers-wondering-why-blogger.com-is-so-laggy.

The title of my blog two posts ago inspired me to read Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne.  I've never actually read any of Verne's classics but I must say this was a good one to start with.  I did see the most recent moving picture rendition of Journey to the Center of the Earth.  Oh Brendan Fraser, you silly silly man.

I'm not sure if a Verne tale could ever really become a truly beloved and workable film.  Judging from 80 Days, Verne is almost a subtler 1800's precursor to Terry Pratchett or possibly Douglas Adams.  Eccentric, enigmatic characters embarking on seemingly nonsensical journeyings.  Encountering strange and uncertain obstacles in the form of people, places and things along the way.  The humour feels similar.  The wink to the reader is obvious and appreciated.  Nothing worse than an author who has to explain an explanation.  Well. . .there are quite a few worse things but we'll mow over that for the sake of my point.  Basically, these stories should stay within the bounds of the written word and the reader's fantastic imagination.

I find it peculiar that, though I'd never read the book before today, if someone were to have asked me what I knew about 80 Days prior to reading it, I would probably have made some immediate mention of that hot air balloon.

Of which, oddly enough. . .there is none.

There is even an illustration of such on the cover of the copy I read.  But none within.  Hm.

One other strange instance is the chapter entitled, "In which Passepartout undergoes, at a speed of twenty miles an hour, a course of Mormon history" which then goes on to indicate an Elder William Hitch who informs our Passepartout that Joe Smith was visited by Morom who was bequeathed the annals of a new religion from a Mormon prophet in Israel, the language therein being Egyptian.

What?

Okay, I'll chock up the inaccurate "Morom" to the unfortunate editor who must have mistaken an "ni" for an "m."  A simple error, to be sure.  Another simple error?  That any prophet in Israel before the establishment of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints would have been called Mormon.  Mormon (Moroni's father) was the name of a specific prophet who compiled all the writings of the various prophets and witnesses into what is now the published Book of Mormon.  Mormon was not a Mormon by faith.  Mormon is the once-derogatory term coined by those in the early days of the latter-day church who did not like us.  Now, it is the term by which many Latter-day Saints are comfortable being referred to.  Why allow a few angry naysayers act the thief with one of our prophets?  Take a hint, people-who-give-malicious-words-a-power-they-don't-deserve.

How could this possibly matter in a fictional tale of adventurous daring-do?  It probably wouldn't have around 10 years ago before I'd ever heard of a Mormon.  Not when their commercials which I would occasionally catch on tv were re-circuited through my brain as "not-cartoons-so-go-get-some-cheese-curls."  Whether we're talking religion, geography, science, whathaveyou - If an author blatantly and, without an ounce of satiric humour, gets something unforgiveably wrong, how can you trust him on the stuff you're more ignorant about?  It will be forever in question whether you can share what you've read as fact or embarassing misinformation.  And let's face it, no one ever wants to preface their illustrious knowledge with "I read in a book somewhere. . . . ." followed up with, ". . . . .so correct me if I'm wrong."

I thoroughly enjoyed the book, however, even at the expense of a perceptible cold shoulder salute to Mormonism.  Though the phrase, "Jolly good!" was never exactly uttered throughout the 108 pages, I found myself shouting that acclaim in my head.

A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

It's one thing to watch news videos of the recent devastation in Japan due to the 8.9 earthquake and subsequent tsunami in which cars and whole houses are being swept away like toys in a bathtub.

But I just saw some aerial footage of the wave as it quickly approached moving vehicles on roads in its path.  And it's the most frightening thing I've ever seen.  Because it's real.  I'm sitting here by myself, covering my mouth with my hands with tears streaming down my face, yelling, "Get out of there!  Go, it's coming!"  It sounds so ridiculous and comical and what kind of advice is that anyway?  Where are they gonna go?  Who outruns a tsunami wave?

There were people in those cars.  They were moving.  There were people in there.

I see the death toll rising.  Numbers.  Just numbers.  But those people on that video were moving one minute and then they were gone.  Now they're just numbers, too.

I substituted in a 2nd grade classroom on Thursday and we had some downtime so I read them Dr. Seuss's Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?  It means a whole lot more today than it did yesterday.

They make insane disaster specials about this kind of stuff.  The sort of thing you'll catch on TRUtv in the middle of a weekend afternoon.  Between the world's dumbest criminals and crazy cop shootouts.  I'm drawn to it out of morbid curiosity.  For goodness sake, I grew up wanting to chase storms for a living.  A small part of me still longs for that sense of danger but it's so different now.  So different.

It's weird when you come to grips with your mortality.  Scratch that, I haven't come to grips with it, I'm just vaguely aware of it.  No matter how much you try not to take anything for granted there is still always a part of you that believes nothing bad will happen to you so that when it does, you're shocked.

Having a husband and someone to care about as much as I do mine. . .allowing my thoughts to drift into dangerous what-ifs. . .it changes things, it does.  What if he has to stay late at work and then gets into an accident he would have avoided if he'd come home on time?  What if I tell him to come home on time and he gets into that accident anyway and would have avoided it if he'd worked late?  What if I decide not to go with him somewhere because I don't feel like it and he never comes back?

Of course, moms are really good at these what-ifs as well.

My mum texts me at 6 this morning:

"Fretting!  What's the situation?"

At this point, I have no idea what she's even talking about.  I'm just waking up, starting my day.  Like any other day.  Except today I've got a 2nd grade job to get to and I can't plop down and cry over the tv for the next 6 hours and text her updates.

All day, I tried to remember back to when I was in 2nd grade.  I guess my cares, worries and concerns were all pretty trivial, too.  I took some time to talk about the earthquake and the tsunami with my kids in the class.  Some of them knew what had happened and a few of them were just finding out from me.  I got out the map and showed them where Japan was and where we were and how far the wave was going to travel to get to us.  We talked about what causes earthquakes and why they happen.  We talked about tsunamis and did a little experiment with water to show how a few drops can be very different from a whole cup.  One little boy had a lot to share but kept calling it "the salami."  A smile's not a bad thing today.

I kind of just wanted to come home, though.  Find out what was happening, be a part of it.  It hurt a little to see how much these kids didn't care.  Not their fault.  It's too removed, too far away.  Not within their scope.  It's barely on my radar.  I'm only affected because I keep watching videos to remind myself that it's happened and happening.  Amazing youtube videos in which any Japanese amateur can film and upload their plight during this catastrophe.  Thank goodness.  It's more sensational, less sensationalistc.  It humanizes this whole thing.  And that's coupled with my more recent grasp of the fragility of our predicament here on this planet.  It truly does put things in perspective.  Or at least it will.  Until it's been a few days and we all go back to our regular lives and refer to it as that terrible, unfortunate thing that happened to someone else.

My heart goes out to all of those who have lost anyone in this tragedy, whether through death or because they are still missing.  And that's not just something to say.  An empty condolence.  My heart is surely breaking because this is just one of those things that sucks.  It just sucks.  What else can you say?  It's nobody's fault.  No one to blame.  No one did anything wrong.  It just happened.  And it sucks.

Because when things die back down and we start putting Japan back together again, there will still be hundreds of mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, grandparents, sisters, brothers, wives, husbands, friends wondering, "What if?"