"Eleven Addresses to the Lord"
by John Berryman
Sole watchman of the flying stars, guard me
against my flicker of impulse lust: teach me
to see them as sisters & daughters. Sustain
my grand endeavours: husbandship & crafting.
Forsake me not when my wild hours come;
grant me sleep nightly, grace soften my dreams;
achieve in me patience till the thing be done,
a careful view of my achievement come.
Make me from time to time the gift of the shoulder.
When all hurt nerves whine shut away the whiskey.
Empty my heart toward Thee.
Let me pace without fear the common path of death.
Cross am I sometimes with my little daughter:
fill her eyes with tears: Forgive me, Lord.
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
'Eleven Addresses to the Lord' by John Berryman, from Love and Fame. © Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1971. Reprinted with permission"
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Ole and Lena
"When Ole and Lena were young and in love they would got to their favorite spot to park. One night while parked, hugging and kissing Ole asks Lena, 'Lena how would you like to go in the back?'
'No,' she replies. So they hug and kiss some more. Again, Ole asks Lena to go in the back. Once again, Lena says, 'no'. After some more hugging and kissing, Ole asks Lena to go in the back. Lena replies, 'Ole, why are you always asking me to go in the back, I want to stay in the front with you!'"
'No,' she replies. So they hug and kiss some more. Again, Ole asks Lena to go in the back. Once again, Lena says, 'no'. After some more hugging and kissing, Ole asks Lena to go in the back. Lena replies, 'Ole, why are you always asking me to go in the back, I want to stay in the front with you!'"
Chance Meeting
Chance Meeting
by Susan Browne
I know him, that man
walking- toward me up the crowded street
of the city, I have lived with him
seven years now, I know his fast stride,
his windy wheatfield hair, his hands thrust
deep in his jacket pockets, hands
that have known my body, touched
its softest part, caused its quick shudders
and slow releasings, I have seen his face
above my face, his mouth smiling, moaning
his eyes closed and opened, I have studied
his eyes, the brown turning gold at the centers,
I have silently watched him lying beside me
in the early morning, I know his loneliness,
like mine, human and sad,
but different, too, his private pain
and pleasure I can never enter even as he comes
closer, past trees and cars, trash and flowers,
steam rising from the manhole covers,
gutters running with rain, he lifts his head,
he sees me, we are strangers again,
and a rending music of desire and loss —
I don't know him — courses through me,
and we kiss and say, It's good to see you,
as if we haven't seen each other in years
when it was just a few hours ago,
and we are shy, then, not knowing
what to say next.
'Chance Meeting' by Susan Browne, from Buddha's Dogs. © Four Way Books, 2004. Reprinted with permission."
by Susan Browne
I know him, that man
walking- toward me up the crowded street
of the city, I have lived with him
seven years now, I know his fast stride,
his windy wheatfield hair, his hands thrust
deep in his jacket pockets, hands
that have known my body, touched
its softest part, caused its quick shudders
and slow releasings, I have seen his face
above my face, his mouth smiling, moaning
his eyes closed and opened, I have studied
his eyes, the brown turning gold at the centers,
I have silently watched him lying beside me
in the early morning, I know his loneliness,
like mine, human and sad,
but different, too, his private pain
and pleasure I can never enter even as he comes
closer, past trees and cars, trash and flowers,
steam rising from the manhole covers,
gutters running with rain, he lifts his head,
he sees me, we are strangers again,
and a rending music of desire and loss —
I don't know him — courses through me,
and we kiss and say, It's good to see you,
as if we haven't seen each other in years
when it was just a few hours ago,
and we are shy, then, not knowing
what to say next.
'Chance Meeting' by Susan Browne, from Buddha's Dogs. © Four Way Books, 2004. Reprinted with permission."
Sunday, December 27, 2009
O Best of All Nights, Return and Return Again
O Best of All Nights, Return and Return Again
by James Laughlin
How she let her long hair down over her shoulders, making a
love cave around her face. Return and return again.
How when the lamplight was lowered she pressed against
him, twining her fingers in his. Return and return again.
How their legs swam together like dolphins and their toes
played like little tunnies. Return and return again.
How she sat beside him cross-legged, telling him stories of
her childhood. Return and return again.
How she closed her eyes when his were open, how they
breathed together, breathing each other. Return and return again.
How they fell into slumber, their bodies curled together like
two spoons. Return and return again.
How they went together to Otherwhere, the fairest land they
had ever seen. Return and return again.
Friday, December 25, 2009
December
December
by Gary Johnson
A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here—and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels singing overhead? Hark.
"December" by Gary Johnson. Used with permission of the poet
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
My Favorite Christmas Song
Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord!
Then ever, ever praise we, His power and glory ever more proclaim!
O Holy Night...
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord!
Then ever, ever praise we, His power and glory ever more proclaim!
O Holy Night...
Monday, December 21, 2009
Things I Know
"Things I Know
by Joyce Sutphen
I know how the cow's head turns
to gaze at the child in the hay aisle;
I know the way the straw shines
under the one bare light in the barn.
How a chicken pecks gravel into silt
and how the warm egg rests beneath
the feathers—I know that too, and
what to say, watching the rain slide
in silver chains over the machine
shed's roof. I know how one pail
of water calls to another and how
it sloshes and spills when I walk
from the milk-house to the barn.
I know how the barn fills and
then empties, how I scatter lime
on the walk, how I sweep it up.
In the silo, I know the rung under
my foot; on the tractor, I know
the clutch and the throttle; I slip
through the fence and into the woods,
where I know everything: trunk
by branch by leaf into sky."
by Joyce Sutphen
I know how the cow's head turns
to gaze at the child in the hay aisle;
I know the way the straw shines
under the one bare light in the barn.
How a chicken pecks gravel into silt
and how the warm egg rests beneath
the feathers—I know that too, and
what to say, watching the rain slide
in silver chains over the machine
shed's roof. I know how one pail
of water calls to another and how
it sloshes and spills when I walk
from the milk-house to the barn.
I know how the barn fills and
then empties, how I scatter lime
on the walk, how I sweep it up.
In the silo, I know the rung under
my foot; on the tractor, I know
the clutch and the throttle; I slip
through the fence and into the woods,
where I know everything: trunk
by branch by leaf into sky."
The Loneliest Job in the World
"The Loneliest Job in the World
by Tony Hoagland
As soon as you begin to ask the question, Who loves me?,
you are completely screwed, because
the next question is How Much?,
and then it is hundreds of hours later,
and you are still hunched over
your flowcharts and abacus,
trying to decide if you have gotten enough.
This is the loneliest job in the world:
to be an accountant of the heart.
It is late at night. You are by yourself,
and all around you, you can hear
the sounds of people moving
in and out of love,
pushing the turnstiles, putting
their coins in the slots,
paying the price which is asked,
which constantly changes.
No one knows why.
'The Loneliest Job in the World' by Tony Hoagland, from Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty. © Graywolf Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission"
by Tony Hoagland
As soon as you begin to ask the question, Who loves me?,
you are completely screwed, because
the next question is How Much?,
and then it is hundreds of hours later,
and you are still hunched over
your flowcharts and abacus,
trying to decide if you have gotten enough.
This is the loneliest job in the world:
to be an accountant of the heart.
It is late at night. You are by yourself,
and all around you, you can hear
the sounds of people moving
in and out of love,
pushing the turnstiles, putting
their coins in the slots,
paying the price which is asked,
which constantly changes.
No one knows why.
'The Loneliest Job in the World' by Tony Hoagland, from Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty. © Graywolf Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission"
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Starwood
The Temptations.The first concert I went to. I was five years old and it was at Starwood (wow, remember Starwood?!). Herman's Hermits opened for them. I'm tempted to say that they just came out and played "Henry the Eighth I Am" six or seven times in a row-but I also know that it's not true. But it would make the story so much funnier...
So Herman's Hermits opened up for them and all they did was play "Henry the Eighth I Am" six or seven times in a row and then said good night. I guess they realized that as a one hit wonder the audience was only interested in their repetitive hit being played repetitively. That concert started a long time love of live music for me. Hearing "Ain't Too Proud To Beg" over the speakers was like hearing a friend tell a familiar story-one that I had heard before and knew the ending to. The sense of community in the audience was something I had never experienced before-not even at church. People were giving each other high fives and laughing and dancing with perfect strangers.
Ten years later, my dad took me back to see The Temptations and The Four Tops played with them this time. It was just as magical a decade later, even in that weird cynical stage that most 15 year olds pass through-it was awesome.
Starwood. I still remember when they announced that they were going to close Starwood. It was Valentine's Day 2007. Lightning 100 broke the news to me on my way to my patho-physiology class at Vanderbilt. I cried in the car and intermittently throughout the day. It was the saddest Valentine's Day I've ever had. Which is saying a lot because I've never had a good Valentine's Day.
I miss Starwood ever single summer. I miss Starwood in such a specific way that I think most people reserve for missing a lost lover. I miss the curve of the lawn and the way that summer sky felt larger for some reason sitting on the lawn. I miss the elated senses that came with an encore. I miss feeling more beautiful than ever under the stage's overflowing lights. I miss going to sleep after a show and being exhausted from joy. I miss waking the next morning with little tingles in my stomach reliving songs and hard to reach notes. Every July it feels like Dave Matthews Band season-like an anniversary celebrated alone. They played at Vanderbilt recently, but that just seems wrong to cage Dave Matthews Band indoors. They belong outside, playing uninhibited while their audience dances barefoot in an excited thunderstorm. At least that's how I'll always remember them.
Even now, even after two years of grieving and courting other venues and having multiple one night musical stands: I miss Starwood.
So Herman's Hermits opened up for them and all they did was play "Henry the Eighth I Am" six or seven times in a row and then said good night. I guess they realized that as a one hit wonder the audience was only interested in their repetitive hit being played repetitively. That concert started a long time love of live music for me. Hearing "Ain't Too Proud To Beg" over the speakers was like hearing a friend tell a familiar story-one that I had heard before and knew the ending to. The sense of community in the audience was something I had never experienced before-not even at church. People were giving each other high fives and laughing and dancing with perfect strangers.
Ten years later, my dad took me back to see The Temptations and The Four Tops played with them this time. It was just as magical a decade later, even in that weird cynical stage that most 15 year olds pass through-it was awesome.
Starwood. I still remember when they announced that they were going to close Starwood. It was Valentine's Day 2007. Lightning 100 broke the news to me on my way to my patho-physiology class at Vanderbilt. I cried in the car and intermittently throughout the day. It was the saddest Valentine's Day I've ever had. Which is saying a lot because I've never had a good Valentine's Day.
I miss Starwood ever single summer. I miss Starwood in such a specific way that I think most people reserve for missing a lost lover. I miss the curve of the lawn and the way that summer sky felt larger for some reason sitting on the lawn. I miss the elated senses that came with an encore. I miss feeling more beautiful than ever under the stage's overflowing lights. I miss going to sleep after a show and being exhausted from joy. I miss waking the next morning with little tingles in my stomach reliving songs and hard to reach notes. Every July it feels like Dave Matthews Band season-like an anniversary celebrated alone. They played at Vanderbilt recently, but that just seems wrong to cage Dave Matthews Band indoors. They belong outside, playing uninhibited while their audience dances barefoot in an excited thunderstorm. At least that's how I'll always remember them.
Even now, even after two years of grieving and courting other venues and having multiple one night musical stands: I miss Starwood.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Office: The Great 'Whomever' Debate
This is, in my opinion, the greatest scene in The Office. It made me want to become an English teacher just so that I could use it in my classroom. Be sure to look out for Michael's aside about Oscar not being a 'native' speaker. Classic.
Powerthirst
I feel like this represents every commercial for anything I've ever seen. Marketing is so bizarre.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRuNxHqwazshttp://
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRuNxHqwazshttp://
Monday, December 7, 2009
"After Psalm 137"
"After Psalm 137"
by Anne Porter
We're still in Babylon but
We do not weep
Why should we weep?
We have forgotten
How to weep
We've sold our harps
And bought ourselves machines
That do our singing for us
And who remembers now
The songs we sang in Zion?
We have got used to exile
We hardly notice
Our captivity
For some of us
There are such comforts here
Such luxuries
Even a guard
To keep the beggars
From annoying us
Jerusalem
We have forgotten you.
'After Psalm 137' by Anne Porter, from Living Things Collected Poems. © Zoland Books, 2006. Reprinted with permission"
Lovely.
by Anne Porter
We're still in Babylon but
We do not weep
Why should we weep?
We have forgotten
How to weep
We've sold our harps
And bought ourselves machines
That do our singing for us
And who remembers now
The songs we sang in Zion?
We have got used to exile
We hardly notice
Our captivity
For some of us
There are such comforts here
Such luxuries
Even a guard
To keep the beggars
From annoying us
Jerusalem
We have forgotten you.
'After Psalm 137' by Anne Porter, from Living Things Collected Poems. © Zoland Books, 2006. Reprinted with permission"
Lovely.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Marriage
A Marriage
by Barry Spacks
Clear nowof our long struggle
I can hear your voice,
its strength
the sweet coldnessof river water.
And I can see you
And I can see you
as in the photograph
with your father and sister,
tall pretty girl,
pigtailed and freckled,
led, misled,until you doubted
led, misled,until you doubted
your beauty, body,
that you were one among us,
a person, like any other.
And, given distance,
And, given distance,
I think of you
becoming smaller,
but cheerful, the way
the old are
with short white hair
with short white hair
and an easiness
you'd never know before,
and me, incredibly,not there.
"A Marriage" by Barry Spacks, from Spacks Street: New and Selected Poems. © The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
Thursday, December 3, 2009
'The Office' PSA
The cast from the office did some spoof PSAs. I really like the one about how the Fugitive is a good movie to watch on cable.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiXo78XPdKU&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiXo78XPdKU&feature=related
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Chico Marx "Beer Barrel Polka"
Wouldn't it be great if the actors today were this talented?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6V-l_WJb3s
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6V-l_WJb3s
"A November Sunrise"
"A November Sunrise
by Anne Porter
Wild geese are flocking and calling in pure golden air,
Glory like that which painters long ago
Spread as a background for some little hermit
Beside his cave, giving his cloak away,
Or for some martyr stretching out
On her expected rack.
A few black cedars grow nearby
And there's a donkey grazing.
Small craftsmen, steeped in anonymity like bees,
Gilded their wooden panels, leaving fame to chance,
Like the maker of this wing-flooded golden sky,
Who forgives all our ignorance
Both of his nature and of his very name,
Freely accepting our one heedless glance."
Beautiful.
by Anne Porter
Wild geese are flocking and calling in pure golden air,
Glory like that which painters long ago
Spread as a background for some little hermit
Beside his cave, giving his cloak away,
Or for some martyr stretching out
On her expected rack.
A few black cedars grow nearby
And there's a donkey grazing.
Small craftsmen, steeped in anonymity like bees,
Gilded their wooden panels, leaving fame to chance,
Like the maker of this wing-flooded golden sky,
Who forgives all our ignorance
Both of his nature and of his very name,
Freely accepting our one heedless glance."
Beautiful.
Wilco, Hate It Here Lyrics
Wilco, Hate It Here Lyrics: "I try to stay busy
I do the dishes, I mow the lawn
I try to keep myself occupied
Even though I know you’re not coming home
I try to keep the house nice and neat
I make my bed I change the sheets
I even learned how to use the washing machine
But keeping things clean doesn’t change anything
What am I gonna do when I run out of shirts to fold?
What am I gonna do when I run out of lawn to mow?
What am I gonna do if you never come home?
Tell me, what am I gonna do?
I hate it
I hate it here
When you’re gone
I caught myself thinking
I caught myself thinking once again
Have to try to keep my mind out of this
Try not to pretend
I’ll check the phone
I’ll check the mail
I’ll check the phone again and I call your mom
She says you’re not there and I should take care
I hate it here
When you’re gone
I hate it
I hate it here
When you’re gone
I try to stay busy
I take out the trash, I sweep the floor
Try to keep myself occupied
Cause I know you don’t live here anymore"
I think this might be Wilco's best song. At least, I like it.
I do the dishes, I mow the lawn
I try to keep myself occupied
Even though I know you’re not coming home
I try to keep the house nice and neat
I make my bed I change the sheets
I even learned how to use the washing machine
But keeping things clean doesn’t change anything
What am I gonna do when I run out of shirts to fold?
What am I gonna do when I run out of lawn to mow?
What am I gonna do if you never come home?
Tell me, what am I gonna do?
I hate it
I hate it here
When you’re gone
I caught myself thinking
I caught myself thinking once again
Have to try to keep my mind out of this
Try not to pretend
I’ll check the phone
I’ll check the mail
I’ll check the phone again and I call your mom
She says you’re not there and I should take care
I hate it here
When you’re gone
I hate it
I hate it here
When you’re gone
I try to stay busy
I take out the trash, I sweep the floor
Try to keep myself occupied
Cause I know you don’t live here anymore"
I think this might be Wilco's best song. At least, I like it.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Guatemala
Going to Guatemala the 13th to the 20th of March for a medical mission trip. We'll be working in Clinica Ezell doing eye and orthopaedic surgeries.
Pretty excited.
Pretty excited.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor | What the Dark-Eyed Angel Knows by Eleanor Lerman
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor What the Dark-Eyed Angel Knows by Eleanor Lerman: "What the Dark-Eyed Angel Knows
by Eleanor Lerman
A man is begging on his knees in the subway. Six-thirty
in the morning and already we are being presented with
moral choices as we rocket along the old rails, through the
old tunnels between Queens and Manhattan. Soon angels
will come crashing through the ceiling, wailing in the voices
of the castrati: Won't you give this pauper bread or money?
And a monster hurricane is coming: we all heard about it
on the radio at dawn. By nightfall, drowned hogs will be
floating like poisoned soap bubbles on the tributaries
of every Southern river. Children will be orphaned and
the infrastructure of whole cities will be overturned. No one
on the East Coast will be able to make a phone call and we
will be boiling our water for days. And of course there are
the serial killers. And the Crips and the Bloods. And the
arguments about bilingual education. And the fact that all
the clothing made by slave labor overseas is not only the
product of an evil system but maybe worse, never even fits
so why is it that all I can think of (and will think of through
the torrential rains to come and the howling night) is
you, sighing so deeply in the darkness, you and the smell
of you and the windswept curve of your cheek? If this
train ever stops, I will ask that dark-eyed angel, the one
who hasn't spoken yet. He looks like he might know"
Heard this today on Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac. Just really liked it.
by Eleanor Lerman
A man is begging on his knees in the subway. Six-thirty
in the morning and already we are being presented with
moral choices as we rocket along the old rails, through the
old tunnels between Queens and Manhattan. Soon angels
will come crashing through the ceiling, wailing in the voices
of the castrati: Won't you give this pauper bread or money?
And a monster hurricane is coming: we all heard about it
on the radio at dawn. By nightfall, drowned hogs will be
floating like poisoned soap bubbles on the tributaries
of every Southern river. Children will be orphaned and
the infrastructure of whole cities will be overturned. No one
on the East Coast will be able to make a phone call and we
will be boiling our water for days. And of course there are
the serial killers. And the Crips and the Bloods. And the
arguments about bilingual education. And the fact that all
the clothing made by slave labor overseas is not only the
product of an evil system but maybe worse, never even fits
so why is it that all I can think of (and will think of through
the torrential rains to come and the howling night) is
you, sighing so deeply in the darkness, you and the smell
of you and the windswept curve of your cheek? If this
train ever stops, I will ask that dark-eyed angel, the one
who hasn't spoken yet. He looks like he might know"
Heard this today on Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac. Just really liked it.
Monday, November 23, 2009
A Grown Up Day
Today was one of those days when I realized that I am in fact, an adult. This may not sound like any sort of revelation, but there is such a stark contrast in my day to day activities that sometimes I forget. While I've spent today calling my home owner's insurance agent, taking Hubbell to the vet, getting the heater serviced, addressing Christmas cards and having a leak fixed in my condo, it almost isn't enough responsibility to balance out yesterday-which was spent hiking in the woods with the puppy, eating waffles in bed and watching an entire season of '30 Rock' in a pair of sweat pants.
Being a grown up is a lot harder than it looks.
Being a grown up is a lot harder than it looks.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi1569390873/
http://www.imdb.com/rg/VIDEO_PLAY/LINK//video/screenplay/vi1569390873/
"(Pointing to a homeless man on the streets) That image makes me think of a conversation I had the other day with a woman. She was a fastidious Judaic type woman in very sexual slacks. We were talking about the grid plan. I made the comment of how the grid plan emanates out of our weaknesses. This system of avenues and 90 degree angles. To me the grid plan is puritan and homogenizing in a city where there is no homogenization available. There is only total existence, total cacophony, total flowing of human ethnicities, tribes and beings and awareness and cruising.
She looked at me and said that she couldn't imagine it any other way. She said that everyone liked the grid plan. (coughs) And of course the question then is 'who is everyone?' I mean, whoever that is under the white comforter (pointing to the homeless man) cuddled up with 34th street and Broadway, uh, existing on the concrete of this city, hungry and disheveled and struggling to crawl their way onto this island with all their imagined rages and hellishness and self orchestrated purgatories- what do they think about the grid plan? Probably much more on my plain of thinking is let's just blow up the grid plan and rewrite the streets to be more of a self portraiture about our personal struggles than a wet dream of a real estate broker from the 1870's.
We are forced to walk within these right angles-doesn't she find it infuriating? By being so completely lesioned to the grid plan, with this idiom of 'I can't imagine changing the grid plan', uh, she's really aligning herself with this civilization, she's saying 'I can't even imagine altering this civilization', she's aligning herself with this meek and maligning morality that rules our lives- she can't imagine standing on a chair in the middle of the room and changing perspective, can't imagine changing my mind on anything, in the end can't imagine having her own identity that contradicts other identities. And when she says to me that saying everyone likes the grid plan, isn't she excluding me from everyone? Who doesn't like the grid plan? It's so functional. You can take a right, a right, a red light, a green light...it's so symmetrical. By liking the grid plan, you're saying you're going to relive all the mistakes my parents made, I'm going to identify and suffer through all the sorrows my mother did, I will propagate and raise dysfunctional children like they raised, I will spread neurosis throughout the landscape and do my best to recreate myself and my damages for the next generation..."
And such is the tone of the 1998 black and white documentary The Cruise following Timothy "Speed" Levitch, a tour guide of the Manahatten Gray Line double decker bus system. Timothy explains his relationship with New York City in the same way one would describe their relationship with a woman, or as he puts it "an angry vindictive woman". Originally joining the Gray Line tour bus system to meet women and get laid, he says that his purpose have become more pure and now he enjoys paying homage to New York, calling her a flower and hoping that she in return loves him as well.
His manners are flamboyant and his speech is one of a beat poet, voice reminiscant of Ira Glass from This American Life. The cameras follow him as he crashes from couch to couch, living out of a duffel bag. One shot shows him picking up an assignment at the Gray Line offices and the internal struggle he faces as he ulitimately refuses that assignment because it starts at a certain area and degrades his entire tribute to the city. In his observations about civilization, he concludes that "one of the greatest downfalls of civilization is the this need to work, to be employed. If I could do away with one thing in civilization it would be that. Well, it would first be my acne, but then that".
The relationship between the Gray Line tour company and himself is stressed. With the installment of mandatory uniforms for tour guides from "the regime", he huffs that "they are basically saying that their new policy is that Timothy "Speed" Levitch is not going to get laid by women he meets on the cruise". He describes it as an "anti-cruise", it is the attempt to imprison us on every level that we exist.
This hour and a half trip through the streets of New York City and the mind of Timothy "Speed" Levitch will certainly allow you to see the grid line and maybe a few other elements of life in a new life.
"(Pointing to a homeless man on the streets) That image makes me think of a conversation I had the other day with a woman. She was a fastidious Judaic type woman in very sexual slacks. We were talking about the grid plan. I made the comment of how the grid plan emanates out of our weaknesses. This system of avenues and 90 degree angles. To me the grid plan is puritan and homogenizing in a city where there is no homogenization available. There is only total existence, total cacophony, total flowing of human ethnicities, tribes and beings and awareness and cruising.
She looked at me and said that she couldn't imagine it any other way. She said that everyone liked the grid plan. (coughs) And of course the question then is 'who is everyone?' I mean, whoever that is under the white comforter (pointing to the homeless man) cuddled up with 34th street and Broadway, uh, existing on the concrete of this city, hungry and disheveled and struggling to crawl their way onto this island with all their imagined rages and hellishness and self orchestrated purgatories- what do they think about the grid plan? Probably much more on my plain of thinking is let's just blow up the grid plan and rewrite the streets to be more of a self portraiture about our personal struggles than a wet dream of a real estate broker from the 1870's.
We are forced to walk within these right angles-doesn't she find it infuriating? By being so completely lesioned to the grid plan, with this idiom of 'I can't imagine changing the grid plan', uh, she's really aligning herself with this civilization, she's saying 'I can't even imagine altering this civilization', she's aligning herself with this meek and maligning morality that rules our lives- she can't imagine standing on a chair in the middle of the room and changing perspective, can't imagine changing my mind on anything, in the end can't imagine having her own identity that contradicts other identities. And when she says to me that saying everyone likes the grid plan, isn't she excluding me from everyone? Who doesn't like the grid plan? It's so functional. You can take a right, a right, a red light, a green light...it's so symmetrical. By liking the grid plan, you're saying you're going to relive all the mistakes my parents made, I'm going to identify and suffer through all the sorrows my mother did, I will propagate and raise dysfunctional children like they raised, I will spread neurosis throughout the landscape and do my best to recreate myself and my damages for the next generation..."
And such is the tone of the 1998 black and white documentary The Cruise following Timothy "Speed" Levitch, a tour guide of the Manahatten Gray Line double decker bus system. Timothy explains his relationship with New York City in the same way one would describe their relationship with a woman, or as he puts it "an angry vindictive woman". Originally joining the Gray Line tour bus system to meet women and get laid, he says that his purpose have become more pure and now he enjoys paying homage to New York, calling her a flower and hoping that she in return loves him as well.
His manners are flamboyant and his speech is one of a beat poet, voice reminiscant of Ira Glass from This American Life. The cameras follow him as he crashes from couch to couch, living out of a duffel bag. One shot shows him picking up an assignment at the Gray Line offices and the internal struggle he faces as he ulitimately refuses that assignment because it starts at a certain area and degrades his entire tribute to the city. In his observations about civilization, he concludes that "one of the greatest downfalls of civilization is the this need to work, to be employed. If I could do away with one thing in civilization it would be that. Well, it would first be my acne, but then that".
The relationship between the Gray Line tour company and himself is stressed. With the installment of mandatory uniforms for tour guides from "the regime", he huffs that "they are basically saying that their new policy is that Timothy "Speed" Levitch is not going to get laid by women he meets on the cruise". He describes it as an "anti-cruise", it is the attempt to imprison us on every level that we exist.
This hour and a half trip through the streets of New York City and the mind of Timothy "Speed" Levitch will certainly allow you to see the grid line and maybe a few other elements of life in a new life.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
China's Lost Girls
This afternoon I watched a National Geographic documentary entitled "China's Lost Girls". It follows families from the United States as they go to China to adopt baby girls from the orphanages. As many of you know, China is very strict about their population control. Families are permitted one child per family-if they choose to keep a second child, it can cost them a fine of thousands of dollars.
Due to traditional cultural beliefs that men are more valuable than females, many parents will not "waste" their one child option on a girl. This results in abortions and abandonment of the baby girls. The orphanages are bursting at the seems with little girls needing homes.
They follow a handful of American parents going to pick up their daughters. These parents have never met these babies and many of them have been waiting for a year to see them. The adoption day comes and all the families are waiting in a common area for their daughters to be brought out. The jubilation can almost be felt through the television screen. It's like everyone is experiencing labor at one time.
One of the mothers goes to the park where her daughter had been found ten years earlier. With the help of an interpreter, she hangs a sign in the park that reads: "this little girl (picture is included) was found in this park on the 7th of November 1999. She is happy and healthy and living in the United States". As the sign is being hung, immediately a crowd gathers around them. People are asking questions about her adoption and about the little girl. One man gets emotional and states that he feels great shame about his country that they would not take care of this little girl.
In an effort to discourage parents from aborting babies based on their gender, it is now illegal for doctors to tell parents the gender of their baby. They have female doctors that are hired to go door to door to educate people on the value of women in Chinese society.
An unforeseen consequence of limiting females in the society is that now men greatly out number the females. Many women are kidnapped and sold to men of marrying age. The film interviews a woman rescued from her kidnapped marriage-she talks about being raped daily to produce an heir. And the vicious cycle would start over: her pressure to bear a male.
Another penalty that completely shocked me is the childhood obesity epidemic. The vast majority of children in China are only children and spoiled to an unhealthy extent-literally. The film goes to one of China's fat clinics where children are participating in mandatory acupuncture and aerobics classes.
It's not surprising that these parents would want to provide well for their child. So many of China's generations grew up in poverty and starvation, the pendulum clearly has swung too far.
One of the best books I've ever read is Wild Swans. This non-fiction piece tells the story of three generations of women growing up in China as their country leaves its traditional roots behind for Communism. It is the perfect complimentary book to this documentary.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Denver: Day 2
After crashing at my friend Megan's for the evening and enjoying the most scrumptious pumpkin spice biscuits the next morning, we ventured off to Colorado Springs for a little Garden of the Gods. We were immensely blessed with GORGEOUS weather. God is so good to us in so many ways.
While we were there, Sarah was trying to show me how it was possible to get from Point A to Point B without using the traditional "crawling over the rock" technique. She squeezed through a hole in the rock and the picture from the back still makes me laugh. A lot.
That evening we met up with our friend, Major, from Nashville and painted the town red. Or fuschia, depending on which part of the town you were looking at. To read about our long evening out, this is the link to his blog "Creative Liberty" and he does an excellent job of describing it:
Denver: Day 1
Recently Southwest posted flights to Denver for $79 each way. And in this economy, clearly the best option is to purchase said tickets for a girls' trip away. So my friends Renee and Sarah and I headed West for some fresh air-leaving responsibility in Nashville to be recovered at another time.
When we landed, we rented a car and the car rental representative, Will, showed us around the car. Aside from the "janky" license plate, it looked to be in good condition. While we were inspecting the vehicle, I asked Will if he was looking too or if we were the only ones. Will slyly looked at me before saying, "are you suggesting my eyes are wandering?" Classy. Before we left, Will suggested a good place for us to eat close to there. Clearly Will had eaten there recently since the evidence of his meal was all over his face in the form of crusted spaghetti sauce. As we parted ways, he made sure that we had multiple ways to get in touch with him: mobile number, email, business line, etc. Some how we lost all of those contact options before we even left the parking lot...
From the airport, we headed to Ft. Collins to go to the New Belgium Brewery. As we were attempting to parallel park, another car took our place. This driver was not as versed in the ways of parallel parking as our captain Sarah was-we felt it was necessary to show him her skills by parking as close as physically possible to his front bumper. We also felt that he left an offensive amount of space between his car and the one behind him. This is clearly measured by Sarah and Renee lying behind his car.
The New Belgium Brewery was the closest equivalent to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory for adults that I've ever experienced. Their motto of "follow your folly" was exhibited by slides, ping pong tables and hulla hoops. We spent a bit too much time at the brewery (mainly hulla hooping) before hitting up a playground on the way home.
11 mins & 2 sec was our recordOf note: may I advice everyone that following up a brewery tour with a merrygoround is never a good idea? All of us came dangerously close to leaving a little piece of ourselves on that playground in Fort Collins.
After coming to the conclusion that the merrygoround wasn't the ideal game of choice, our attentions were drawn to the swings where we competed in what is arguably the greatest swing jumping Ft. Collins has ever seen.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
72 hours of delirium...
When I share stories about my job as a night nurse, I often have people exclaim,"I could never do your job". And they're right. If God did not specifically call you into this profession, there would be no way to endure the demands of nursing. I know I couldn't. There isn't enough money in President Obama's stimulus packages to entice me to do my job with any dignity. Luckily for my patients, I don't work to serve President Obama or any other man. It is God's love alone that flows through to those people in the beds.
In my short career as a nurse I have been stalked, bit, slapped, and spat at. We had a patient on our floor recently who would harbor his own fecal matter and then fling it at any medical personnel that came in the room. Outside of his door there was a cart filled with plastic gowns, gloves, masks and face shields. Anyone entering the room had to gear up as if they were hunting for chemical warfare. This is not your regular clientele.
I read a study during nursing school that said when a nurse gets off from her third night shift in a row, her mental status is that of someone inebriated. At first I scoffed when I read that, but after falling asleep at red lights on the way home, I completely agree. Some of the girls were comparing exhaustion stories one night at work: going to bed without showering, going to bed with blood on their scrubs, not letting the dog out before bed knowing full well the mess they'd face when they woke up, sleeping through their wedding anniversaries... Little comes between the bed and a night shift nurse leaving their third shift. But one story surfaced that just had to be shared.
My friend Amanda is one of the most calm and rational people I know. Very little gets her "riled up", in fact, I have never seen her get upset over a patient in all the time we've worked together. And she had the poop patient. But one morning, as she was leaving her third night, she walked out to the parking garage and discovered a man sleeping in the back seat of her car. Now, under normal circumstances, a twenty five year old female finding a strange man that has broken into her car and is sleeping in the back seat would probably be scared or call for help.
And Amanda usually would. But as she said, "I don't know what came over me. I was just so tired and delirious that when I saw him in my car, standing in the way of me getting to go home, I just got very, very angry. So I walked up to the car and hit the window really hard to wake him up. When he woke up and looked at me startled, I screamed, 'get the fuck out of my car!' The guy got scared and I kept yelling at him to get out of my car and he got out and ran away and I chased him a bit. On the drive home, it occurred to me how stupidly dangerous that was. I felt like an animal out of control."
And this, ladies and gentleman, is one of the fine health care professionals tending to your loved ones. In a state of pure delirium...
In my short career as a nurse I have been stalked, bit, slapped, and spat at. We had a patient on our floor recently who would harbor his own fecal matter and then fling it at any medical personnel that came in the room. Outside of his door there was a cart filled with plastic gowns, gloves, masks and face shields. Anyone entering the room had to gear up as if they were hunting for chemical warfare. This is not your regular clientele.
I read a study during nursing school that said when a nurse gets off from her third night shift in a row, her mental status is that of someone inebriated. At first I scoffed when I read that, but after falling asleep at red lights on the way home, I completely agree. Some of the girls were comparing exhaustion stories one night at work: going to bed without showering, going to bed with blood on their scrubs, not letting the dog out before bed knowing full well the mess they'd face when they woke up, sleeping through their wedding anniversaries... Little comes between the bed and a night shift nurse leaving their third shift. But one story surfaced that just had to be shared.
My friend Amanda is one of the most calm and rational people I know. Very little gets her "riled up", in fact, I have never seen her get upset over a patient in all the time we've worked together. And she had the poop patient. But one morning, as she was leaving her third night, she walked out to the parking garage and discovered a man sleeping in the back seat of her car. Now, under normal circumstances, a twenty five year old female finding a strange man that has broken into her car and is sleeping in the back seat would probably be scared or call for help.
And Amanda usually would. But as she said, "I don't know what came over me. I was just so tired and delirious that when I saw him in my car, standing in the way of me getting to go home, I just got very, very angry. So I walked up to the car and hit the window really hard to wake him up. When he woke up and looked at me startled, I screamed, 'get the fuck out of my car!' The guy got scared and I kept yelling at him to get out of my car and he got out and ran away and I chased him a bit. On the drive home, it occurred to me how stupidly dangerous that was. I felt like an animal out of control."
And this, ladies and gentleman, is one of the fine health care professionals tending to your loved ones. In a state of pure delirium...
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The need for a sweater amongst other things...
"Can you sense the Creator, world?
Seek him above the starry canopy.
Above the stars He must dwell."
Unable to justify watching yet another episode of Planet Earth while my nine weeks old puppy chewed everything in my condo as a display of rebellion, I left the birds of paradise to themselves and searched for the leash. Hubbell, the driving force behind this walk, is overcome with delight in his victory and mercifully leaves my converse sneakers in expectations of bigger and better things. The black trash bag on the kitchen floor catches my eye and I am disgruntled with the idea of taking out the trash again. Hubbell begins to chew on my cowboy boots indicating the urgency for departure, so we're off. The trash will wait.
As we walk down the corridor of the complex, Hubbell relieves himself on the sidewalk, enforcing the idea that I have absolutely no idea how to house break a puppy. We do the customary greetings of the neighbors behind their glass doors: "Yes, it's a beautiful day", "No, I can't believe Senator Kennedy died", "Yes, Hubbell is bigger than the last time you saw him" and so on, and so forth. In actuality, I lied. I can believe Senator Kennedy died. Working in the health care field has given me an insight most people may not have and it is this: a lot of people die at age 77. It's more common than my neighbors realize.
After Hubbell and I dispense pleasantries, we embark on our stroll. Breaching from the protective canal of the condo, I am greeted by the whispers of fall. Immediately I realize that my choice of a strapless apron dress was no longer appropriate for the imminent season change. Whether it was out of laziness or stubbornness, I don't know but I didn't retreat for a sweater and carried on as Hubbell danced at my feet. I feel slightly maternal as I watch him jump up and down clumsily, remembering when I brought him home from the pound last week. His motor skills demanded some fine tuning-his gait easily confused for that of a drunkard's when we had first met. Fall's approach is being proclaimed as I see small brown and yellow leaves on the egg shell colored pavement. Hubbell is in pure ecstasy as he has recently developed a strange fascination for leaves. Going to the park after the leaves fall is going to blow his mind. I can't wait.
Every now and then the sun wins out against the shade and it seductively warms the skin on my back and neck. I turn towards it to in hopes of greeting it with my vulnerably exposed chest and face, but it lingers no more. Hubbell has tangled himself in his leash and distracts me from the foreboding breeze. And for the first time, it occurs to me that the season is going to change. Summer is going to end and fall will begin. Maybe it stems from my love of a new school semester or the time I spent in Northern Ireland, but this particular seasonal change will always give hope for new beginnings.
Hope has been the sustenance of my soul the past three months. The inscription of "one hope" on my right wrist becomes prominent in my sight for a moment and I allow the book of Ephesians, chapter four to mechanically recite through my mind. ...just as you were called to one hope... the commandment to not crumble underneath the weight of grief gives the power needed to set my eyes on Christ's promises. I think of the hope of life restored, and how I feel like I've been waiting in the twilight the last few months. What I hope for is for the dawn to come and my joy to return. To relish once again in the joy of my salvation, the thing I've battling for these long days.
The period of meditation is interrupted as Hubbell sees a neighborhood dog he had befriended a few days earlier. He joyously runs to greet his friend only to be received with a snarl and a bite to the face. He retreats to my feet and sits on my cowboy boots looking to me for affirmation. I can't help but think for a split second what a great sepia toned photo that would make. The neighbor apologizes for her dog's outbreak, saying that she doesn't know why her dog doesn't like Hubbell anymore. I resonate with my dog's pain for a moment before she looks at Hubbell and says, "don't worry, Hubbell. It's all part of growing up." At first I thought she was giving me the sage advice and then checked back into reality to say, "oh, no worries, he's fine". Hubbell by this time has escaped to the door and is scratching to get back to shelter.
We walk in and I give attention to my hunger for the first time. Immediately I crave a Green Teaser from 9 Fruits. Realizing that it is 20 miles away and they're closed, I admit defeat and prowl through the refrigerator. When nothing jumps out at me from the fridge, I begin to convince myself that I could probably just make a Green Teaser at home. Then I recall a recent failure with some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and decide to avoid another kitchen humiliation. Baby carrots and hummus instantly are the most appealing candidate and I settle into the couch with Hubbell at my feet. Sigur Ros' Hvarf-Heim is crying in the background as I respond to unanswered emails. Hubbell gnaws on a carrot I experimentally gave him with the result being my dog will eat carrots. I laugh a little out loud and thank God for sending me such a precious creature to let me love. Still working on the carrot, I pick up Hubbell and kiss the top of his head. And for the first time in a long time, I feel joy. Not circumstantial happiness, but joy. I know that the dawn is going to come and that in His sovereignty, Christ is lovingly growing me up. Hubbell's carrot falls to the floor and he looks at me with his soft and eyes and I say to him,"it's ok, Hubbell Bear. It's all part of growing up".
Saturday, August 29, 2009
*Snow White and the Seven Lieutenants* Brooks Brother Stock * Cousin Marcus *Aunt Virginia*
My brother is a proud graduate of the United States Military Academy. West Point. The name is often said in reverence. Robert E. Lee and Eisenhower walked those hallowed halls. And now a new generation is coming through. A new generation is now representing its tradition of honor and duty.
Through his term at West Point, we became very close to his cadet friends. Getting to know them shed a new light on the military for me. I no longer view them as somber, intimidating beings. No visions of Greek mythological warriors are conjured. More Disney like visions comes to mind. At first I envisioned Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. But now I see it more accurately: it’s Snow White and the Seven Lieutenants. There would first be Dopey. Dopey was my brother’s roommate for two years. Tall, good looking, cocky, Dopey reigned from Sin City itself and he was their prince. He drank too much, smoked too much, and cursed too much, yet there was a delightful playfulness to him. Some might call it immaturity, but it was contagious nonetheless.
Being raised in Las Vegas, Dopey never claimed to be well versed in the ways of the wilderness. This was often a topic point of taunting for my brother since he had been raised in the backwoods of Tennessee; some form of Davy Crockett’s blood flowed through his veins. Staring out his window on a cold February day, he spotted a groundhog. Deciding to educate his roommate, he called Dopey to the window.
“Look out there, teach you something about wildlife.”
Dopey struts over to the window, scans the horizon before exclaiming:
“Oh my god a baby bear!”
If the story had ended here, it would have been worth a chuckle. But there are more lieutenants left in this story. One of these is Cuddly. Cuddly was raised in the Bronx in a large Italian family, including a godfather. A godfather who could make offers people couldn’t refuse. Cuddly was a foot shorter than Dopey and built like a fire hydrant. And Cuddly loved hugs. Over a long fall weekend Cuddly joined Dopey in our home. While our family teased and jested with Dopey about his baby bear comment, Cuddly immortalized the story. During our lighthearted mocking, Cuddly pondered,
“I just want to know what that groundhog was doing there anyways. Isn’t he supposed to be building a dam somewhere?”
The sound of absolute disbelief was deafening. Realizing the disturbance of common knowledge in the room, Cuddly leaned to Dopey and whispered:
“I think we’re surrounded.”
Unfortunately Dopey could not last as the brother’s roommate. The smell emanating from their room drew the attention of their superiors who decided that they were compromising the very sanitation of the floor. Possibly the sanitation of the whole Army. Weapons of mass destruction were fermenting under their bed. Germ warfare was growing under their sink. Dopey was moved and my brother received a new roommate: Drunky. Now Drunky, Dopey and Cuddly were all very close friends with a strong unifying bond: alcohol. Lots of alcohol. My brother had been used to a drunken roommate after rooming with Dopey, but Drunky was a slightly different drunk. Drunky was a sleep-peerer.
Drunky was a contradiction within him. Ranked twelfth in the class, he was upheld as a brilliant mind. He had the mind of MENSA member and the bladder of a Clydesdale horse. My brother watched in wonder over the next few semesters as his roomie would stumble in wasted and pass out on his bed. While my brother poured over his books studying, Drunky would sleep. Finally, nature would beckon Drunky. He would rise from his nest in a daze and then stammer in the dark for a moment. After being readjusted to being vertical, Drunky would then proceed to urinate, usually on his bed. And then he would climb right back into his toilet chamber of choice for an evening of wet sleep. Drunky did not limit himself to the bed. There were times when it was his closet. The hat he needed for formation the next morning. His backpack, anything within two feet had at sometime been peed on by Drunky.
To truly appreciate the characters in my brother’s life would require knowing my brother. He would be Grumpy. Serious, accomplished, well spoken, my brother would have made Patton proud. He studies hard, works hard. And he scares the hell out of little children.
His entire life exudes excellence. Especially his wardrobe; after watching Grumpy dress for the past few years, I have decided to buy a large amount of stock in Brooks Brothers. He owns all their sweaters. And he owns duplicates of the same sweaters in order to have “back ups”. This is a man with a plan about sweaters. I know very few guys who own ties. I know less that own more than one. I witnessed Grumpy buy thirteen at one trip. Because you never know when you might have to wear thirteen suits at one time. But to be fair, he wears them. When home for breaks, I would slump down the stairs in my sweats to find him gussied up in a sweater with a collared shirt and tie.
“Big plans today, brother?”
“No.”
While Grumpy’s wardrobe may be plentiful, his conversation skills with his sister are not.
“Well you look all dressed up.”
“Just getting my day started.”
“You look like a professor.”
“Not all of us are comfortable attiring our lives in sweats, Katie.”
Granted, I knew better than to provoke him. But while his conversation skills with me are limited, my utmost desire to harass him is not. I am what my grandmother calls a "ridge runner".
I have found that I happen to be one of the few who enjoys the danger of provoking Grumpy. There’s a fine line between being civil and being verbally torn to shreds. Running along that ridge, feeling the thrill of doom is something very few people toy with. My little cousins not being among them.
Our grandparents were blessed to have eleven grandchildren spread very far apart in age. My cousins are at least ten years younger than me, so it feels more of an aunt/niece relationship. And they adore me. If I were their aunt, I would be that cool aunt that everyone loves. Upon arriving at family gatherings, they sprint to the car to greet me. Their hearts are full of hope of the joys that are to come. But they must restrain themselves. Cousin Marcus has exited the SUV. As Cousin Marcus approaches, a dark cloud falls across their faces. Their running stops. There are no more smiles on their faces. They fall into rank and stare hopelessly at their shoes as he approaches. In complete unison they sing,
“Hi, Cousin Marcus.”
He inspects his platoon. Examining them head to untied shoelaces toe. Once the scrutiny is complete he answers them, “children” and walks on. After the shadow of the angel of death has passed, they run into my arms for comfort. They have survived another passing. The lamb’s blood on the doorpost was sufficient once again.
While Grumpy is not good with children, or even decent, adults love him. One in particular: Crazy Aunt Virginia. Crazy Aunt Virginia was Dopey’s aunt. Being that my brother and Dopey had played out the odd couple scenario to a tee, our families enjoyed each other’s company. So naturally, they invited our family to their family reunion. Dopey’s family hails from New Jersey. A large, Irish Catholic family that is loud and usually not sober. And Crazy Aunt Virginia is one of the matriarchs.
My sister was sitting on the outskirts of the reunion. Seeing as how it wasn’t actually our family reunion, I could understand her discomfort. Someone needed to break the ice. Enter Crazy Aunt Virginia. I don’t know how much she had had to drink at this point, but I like to think none. It makes me happier to believe she always lacks so much tact. She walked right up to the table, extended her hand and declared, “I’m Crazy Aunt Virginia, how the hell are you?”
We are delicate Southern Belles, sweet little flowers that have been nurtured with cotillion and pruned with social grace. We thought this was hilarious.
She stared at my sister before she decided to impart wisdom in her thick New Jersey accent, “you look just like your brother, you poor thing. Never shave your head.”
About this time, Grumpy comes to make his greetings to Crazy Aunt Virginia. She latched on to him before informing us, “This is your brother, Will. I’m going to go kick his ass on the dance floor.”
And that she did. That you did, Crazy Aunt Virginia.
Through his term at West Point, we became very close to his cadet friends. Getting to know them shed a new light on the military for me. I no longer view them as somber, intimidating beings. No visions of Greek mythological warriors are conjured. More Disney like visions comes to mind. At first I envisioned Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. But now I see it more accurately: it’s Snow White and the Seven Lieutenants. There would first be Dopey. Dopey was my brother’s roommate for two years. Tall, good looking, cocky, Dopey reigned from Sin City itself and he was their prince. He drank too much, smoked too much, and cursed too much, yet there was a delightful playfulness to him. Some might call it immaturity, but it was contagious nonetheless.
Being raised in Las Vegas, Dopey never claimed to be well versed in the ways of the wilderness. This was often a topic point of taunting for my brother since he had been raised in the backwoods of Tennessee; some form of Davy Crockett’s blood flowed through his veins. Staring out his window on a cold February day, he spotted a groundhog. Deciding to educate his roommate, he called Dopey to the window.
“Look out there, teach you something about wildlife.”
Dopey struts over to the window, scans the horizon before exclaiming:
“Oh my god a baby bear!”
If the story had ended here, it would have been worth a chuckle. But there are more lieutenants left in this story. One of these is Cuddly. Cuddly was raised in the Bronx in a large Italian family, including a godfather. A godfather who could make offers people couldn’t refuse. Cuddly was a foot shorter than Dopey and built like a fire hydrant. And Cuddly loved hugs. Over a long fall weekend Cuddly joined Dopey in our home. While our family teased and jested with Dopey about his baby bear comment, Cuddly immortalized the story. During our lighthearted mocking, Cuddly pondered,
“I just want to know what that groundhog was doing there anyways. Isn’t he supposed to be building a dam somewhere?”
The sound of absolute disbelief was deafening. Realizing the disturbance of common knowledge in the room, Cuddly leaned to Dopey and whispered:
“I think we’re surrounded.”
Unfortunately Dopey could not last as the brother’s roommate. The smell emanating from their room drew the attention of their superiors who decided that they were compromising the very sanitation of the floor. Possibly the sanitation of the whole Army. Weapons of mass destruction were fermenting under their bed. Germ warfare was growing under their sink. Dopey was moved and my brother received a new roommate: Drunky. Now Drunky, Dopey and Cuddly were all very close friends with a strong unifying bond: alcohol. Lots of alcohol. My brother had been used to a drunken roommate after rooming with Dopey, but Drunky was a slightly different drunk. Drunky was a sleep-peerer.
Drunky was a contradiction within him. Ranked twelfth in the class, he was upheld as a brilliant mind. He had the mind of MENSA member and the bladder of a Clydesdale horse. My brother watched in wonder over the next few semesters as his roomie would stumble in wasted and pass out on his bed. While my brother poured over his books studying, Drunky would sleep. Finally, nature would beckon Drunky. He would rise from his nest in a daze and then stammer in the dark for a moment. After being readjusted to being vertical, Drunky would then proceed to urinate, usually on his bed. And then he would climb right back into his toilet chamber of choice for an evening of wet sleep. Drunky did not limit himself to the bed. There were times when it was his closet. The hat he needed for formation the next morning. His backpack, anything within two feet had at sometime been peed on by Drunky.
To truly appreciate the characters in my brother’s life would require knowing my brother. He would be Grumpy. Serious, accomplished, well spoken, my brother would have made Patton proud. He studies hard, works hard. And he scares the hell out of little children.
His entire life exudes excellence. Especially his wardrobe; after watching Grumpy dress for the past few years, I have decided to buy a large amount of stock in Brooks Brothers. He owns all their sweaters. And he owns duplicates of the same sweaters in order to have “back ups”. This is a man with a plan about sweaters. I know very few guys who own ties. I know less that own more than one. I witnessed Grumpy buy thirteen at one trip. Because you never know when you might have to wear thirteen suits at one time. But to be fair, he wears them. When home for breaks, I would slump down the stairs in my sweats to find him gussied up in a sweater with a collared shirt and tie.
“Big plans today, brother?”
“No.”
While Grumpy’s wardrobe may be plentiful, his conversation skills with his sister are not.
“Well you look all dressed up.”
“Just getting my day started.”
“You look like a professor.”
“Not all of us are comfortable attiring our lives in sweats, Katie.”
Granted, I knew better than to provoke him. But while his conversation skills with me are limited, my utmost desire to harass him is not. I am what my grandmother calls a "ridge runner".
I have found that I happen to be one of the few who enjoys the danger of provoking Grumpy. There’s a fine line between being civil and being verbally torn to shreds. Running along that ridge, feeling the thrill of doom is something very few people toy with. My little cousins not being among them.
Our grandparents were blessed to have eleven grandchildren spread very far apart in age. My cousins are at least ten years younger than me, so it feels more of an aunt/niece relationship. And they adore me. If I were their aunt, I would be that cool aunt that everyone loves. Upon arriving at family gatherings, they sprint to the car to greet me. Their hearts are full of hope of the joys that are to come. But they must restrain themselves. Cousin Marcus has exited the SUV. As Cousin Marcus approaches, a dark cloud falls across their faces. Their running stops. There are no more smiles on their faces. They fall into rank and stare hopelessly at their shoes as he approaches. In complete unison they sing,
“Hi, Cousin Marcus.”
He inspects his platoon. Examining them head to untied shoelaces toe. Once the scrutiny is complete he answers them, “children” and walks on. After the shadow of the angel of death has passed, they run into my arms for comfort. They have survived another passing. The lamb’s blood on the doorpost was sufficient once again.
While Grumpy is not good with children, or even decent, adults love him. One in particular: Crazy Aunt Virginia. Crazy Aunt Virginia was Dopey’s aunt. Being that my brother and Dopey had played out the odd couple scenario to a tee, our families enjoyed each other’s company. So naturally, they invited our family to their family reunion. Dopey’s family hails from New Jersey. A large, Irish Catholic family that is loud and usually not sober. And Crazy Aunt Virginia is one of the matriarchs.
My sister was sitting on the outskirts of the reunion. Seeing as how it wasn’t actually our family reunion, I could understand her discomfort. Someone needed to break the ice. Enter Crazy Aunt Virginia. I don’t know how much she had had to drink at this point, but I like to think none. It makes me happier to believe she always lacks so much tact. She walked right up to the table, extended her hand and declared, “I’m Crazy Aunt Virginia, how the hell are you?”
We are delicate Southern Belles, sweet little flowers that have been nurtured with cotillion and pruned with social grace. We thought this was hilarious.
She stared at my sister before she decided to impart wisdom in her thick New Jersey accent, “you look just like your brother, you poor thing. Never shave your head.”
About this time, Grumpy comes to make his greetings to Crazy Aunt Virginia. She latched on to him before informing us, “This is your brother, Will. I’m going to go kick his ass on the dance floor.”
And that she did. That you did, Crazy Aunt Virginia.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
*Leadership 9-1-1*Jumping hotline*
Nursing school covers a broad spectrum of subjects. Although nurses are held responsible for the physiology of their patients, it must be handled in a gentle manner as well. The undergraduate program requires extensive sciences and psychology classes to meet these demands. But to make sure we are giving our clients holistic care, we must take our leadership classes as well.
For eight hours a week, we sit through seminars on the power of being a leader in nursing. How to be the most professional nurse we can be. Making sure we recognize our leadership possibilities was placed in higher priority than other subjects. Subjects such as pharmacology for example.
Besides despising being forced into boredom and laden with busy work, I question the applicability of this information. At exactly what point is this going to help save a life? When in my entire career am I going to have a patient code and a physician bark at me, “quick, what are three ways you can be an example to your fellow employees?” Where in reviving a patient do my personality space requirements better his survival rates? Obviously I have a lot to learn about nursing.
Fortunately I have professors dedicated to walking me through this journey, or jumping through it when necessary.
Using some of their better judgment, the administrators decided that having a three-hour lecture on mental health first thing in the morning was best for everyone. There is definitely no better time to talk about suicide than at eight a.m.
Luckily they had the right lady for the job. Professor Cat Lady. Professor Cat Lady must not be confused with the Dog Lady. The Dog Lady is like a dark void in the universe, sucking all the patience and joy out of those who come in contact with her. Professor Cat Lady is a soft glow of light, emitting warmth and trust.
Professor Cat Lady was walking us through the reasons for suicide, the signs preceding suicide and the methods of suicide. After two hours of this monotony, we started jotting down personal notes on the methods. Her next power point slide spoke of jumping as a method. She looked around the room and mistook our boredom for confusion.
“Oh, this doesn’t mean jumping as in hopping” she explained to these senior students. “More like jumping from something high.”
Just to make sure that we were completely clear on this point, she began bouncing up and down saying, “see, this won’t kill someone.”
Believing that there must have been a language barrier of sorts she proceeded to bounce around the room chanting, “suicide attempt, suicide attempt, suicide attempt.” She then approached the podium and faced her audience silently. Assuming that we were in fact idiots she wanted to assure us, “that didn’t actually kill me.” The administration has entrusted my professional future into her hands.
For eight hours a week, we sit through seminars on the power of being a leader in nursing. How to be the most professional nurse we can be. Making sure we recognize our leadership possibilities was placed in higher priority than other subjects. Subjects such as pharmacology for example.
Besides despising being forced into boredom and laden with busy work, I question the applicability of this information. At exactly what point is this going to help save a life? When in my entire career am I going to have a patient code and a physician bark at me, “quick, what are three ways you can be an example to your fellow employees?” Where in reviving a patient do my personality space requirements better his survival rates? Obviously I have a lot to learn about nursing.
Fortunately I have professors dedicated to walking me through this journey, or jumping through it when necessary.
Using some of their better judgment, the administrators decided that having a three-hour lecture on mental health first thing in the morning was best for everyone. There is definitely no better time to talk about suicide than at eight a.m.
Luckily they had the right lady for the job. Professor Cat Lady. Professor Cat Lady must not be confused with the Dog Lady. The Dog Lady is like a dark void in the universe, sucking all the patience and joy out of those who come in contact with her. Professor Cat Lady is a soft glow of light, emitting warmth and trust.
Professor Cat Lady was walking us through the reasons for suicide, the signs preceding suicide and the methods of suicide. After two hours of this monotony, we started jotting down personal notes on the methods. Her next power point slide spoke of jumping as a method. She looked around the room and mistook our boredom for confusion.
“Oh, this doesn’t mean jumping as in hopping” she explained to these senior students. “More like jumping from something high.”
Just to make sure that we were completely clear on this point, she began bouncing up and down saying, “see, this won’t kill someone.”
Believing that there must have been a language barrier of sorts she proceeded to bounce around the room chanting, “suicide attempt, suicide attempt, suicide attempt.” She then approached the podium and faced her audience silently. Assuming that we were in fact idiots she wanted to assure us, “that didn’t actually kill me.” The administration has entrusted my professional future into her hands.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
*Odysseus: Registered Nurse *Hogwarts Mental Health Institution *Disciplining the Mind * Trick or Treat with Reality *Psychiatric resort*
All epic heroes must go through a rigorous journey. They must be faced with daunting obstacles and meet ruthless brutes. Their lives will be filled with sights and sounds never experienced by the mere mortals that we are.
I am an epic hero. Like Odysseus before me I have battled the fiendish evils of nursing school. I have met biochemistry and I have survived. And as Odysseus explored the strange worlds of the sirens, I too fraternize with the secret societies of this world. I go to clinical rotations.
My service in the psychiatric hospital has left me with great respect for the brave psychiatrists in this world. Every morning, these mental warriors take their sanity into their own hands as they descend into an unseen world of mystery and magic. It’s like Hogwarts with straight jackets.
I find myself less impressed with the Harry Potter movies after my time in the psychiatric hospital. Imitation is not as remarkable once you have experienced the reality. Wizards? Unit G. Flying furniture? Equipped with restraints. Suspicious doors filled with wonder? Only the staff has keys. Harry Potters? Rooms 146, 138, 210 and 183. Psychics? Units C and I. Mysterious voices? Always. Potions? Every morning at eight and then again at two. Throw in a broomstick and a physician named Dumbledore and J.K. Rowling would have been sued for plagiarism.
One has to question the judgment of those living across the street from this facility. Or the one next door to it. Or the facility next to that. I had always heard the hackneyed phrase in real estate, “location, location, location.” I did not realize that this translated “mental institution, mental institution, mental institution”, for there are in fact three mental institutions within two hundred yards of these apartment complexes. So obviously the view isn’t great. The neighbors are not very sociable. I’m starting to think that they are being overcharged, no matter what they are paying.
Maybe there are some benefits to living across from a mental hospital. Maybe these are parents who really needed help disciplining their children.
“Eat your vegetables or you’re going across the road.”
“If you don’t stop bouncing off the walls I’ll send you to a place with padded walls.”
“You sass me again and I’ll commit you.”
I wonder if they ever took the opportunity to celebrate holidays with their reclusive neighbors. Especially Halloween. The residents of these hospitals must look forward to it every year. For once a year, everyone sees his or her delusions. Imagine the bonding as they pass their hallucinations from door to door. It must be a real time of gloating to the psychiatrist.
“Dr. Dumbledore, I would like to introduce you to the pirate that I’ve been telling you about.”
“Nurse Voldemort, have you met this pink rabbit? See, despite your medications and poisons she came back.”
“Oh hello doctor! I have a question, do you see the giant fairy over there? Me too. All the time.”
Although when one considers the traditions of Halloween, I often wonder how the hospitals are not crowded. Where exactly is the line drawn? It’s OK to dress up as mystical creature and bother people at their homes for candy and food. But it’s not OK to see mystical creatures and bother people on the streets for food? So who is splitting hairs and sending people to the mental institutes?
Between the group therapies and the bologna sandwich parties, I find myself actually somewhat envious. How wonderful would it be to cut loose and just enjoy life uninhibited? No social rules whatsoever. All attire, speech, ideas are totally free from regulation.
Now, don’t misunderstand me, I do not wish to be committed. I just wish there was a happy in between. Maybe like a psychiatric resort. Check in for a weekend. Enjoy the serenity of Christmas songs played during breakfast. Play your tennis with some obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Release some energy during a group therapy. Claim to be carrying Michael Jackson’s baby. Cheat during Bingo. Take some Xanax with your French Toast. No judgment, no rules. Just check your sanity at the door.
I am an epic hero. Like Odysseus before me I have battled the fiendish evils of nursing school. I have met biochemistry and I have survived. And as Odysseus explored the strange worlds of the sirens, I too fraternize with the secret societies of this world. I go to clinical rotations.
My service in the psychiatric hospital has left me with great respect for the brave psychiatrists in this world. Every morning, these mental warriors take their sanity into their own hands as they descend into an unseen world of mystery and magic. It’s like Hogwarts with straight jackets.
I find myself less impressed with the Harry Potter movies after my time in the psychiatric hospital. Imitation is not as remarkable once you have experienced the reality. Wizards? Unit G. Flying furniture? Equipped with restraints. Suspicious doors filled with wonder? Only the staff has keys. Harry Potters? Rooms 146, 138, 210 and 183. Psychics? Units C and I. Mysterious voices? Always. Potions? Every morning at eight and then again at two. Throw in a broomstick and a physician named Dumbledore and J.K. Rowling would have been sued for plagiarism.
One has to question the judgment of those living across the street from this facility. Or the one next door to it. Or the facility next to that. I had always heard the hackneyed phrase in real estate, “location, location, location.” I did not realize that this translated “mental institution, mental institution, mental institution”, for there are in fact three mental institutions within two hundred yards of these apartment complexes. So obviously the view isn’t great. The neighbors are not very sociable. I’m starting to think that they are being overcharged, no matter what they are paying.
Maybe there are some benefits to living across from a mental hospital. Maybe these are parents who really needed help disciplining their children.
“Eat your vegetables or you’re going across the road.”
“If you don’t stop bouncing off the walls I’ll send you to a place with padded walls.”
“You sass me again and I’ll commit you.”
I wonder if they ever took the opportunity to celebrate holidays with their reclusive neighbors. Especially Halloween. The residents of these hospitals must look forward to it every year. For once a year, everyone sees his or her delusions. Imagine the bonding as they pass their hallucinations from door to door. It must be a real time of gloating to the psychiatrist.
“Dr. Dumbledore, I would like to introduce you to the pirate that I’ve been telling you about.”
“Nurse Voldemort, have you met this pink rabbit? See, despite your medications and poisons she came back.”
“Oh hello doctor! I have a question, do you see the giant fairy over there? Me too. All the time.”
Although when one considers the traditions of Halloween, I often wonder how the hospitals are not crowded. Where exactly is the line drawn? It’s OK to dress up as mystical creature and bother people at their homes for candy and food. But it’s not OK to see mystical creatures and bother people on the streets for food? So who is splitting hairs and sending people to the mental institutes?
Between the group therapies and the bologna sandwich parties, I find myself actually somewhat envious. How wonderful would it be to cut loose and just enjoy life uninhibited? No social rules whatsoever. All attire, speech, ideas are totally free from regulation.
Now, don’t misunderstand me, I do not wish to be committed. I just wish there was a happy in between. Maybe like a psychiatric resort. Check in for a weekend. Enjoy the serenity of Christmas songs played during breakfast. Play your tennis with some obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Release some energy during a group therapy. Claim to be carrying Michael Jackson’s baby. Cheat during Bingo. Take some Xanax with your French Toast. No judgment, no rules. Just check your sanity at the door.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The road to Jesus * Spiritual ESPN * Rooming in a volcano *
Getting to the small Church of Christ university was not in the original game plan either. There was a hip liberal arts school up North that I dreamt of everyday during high school literature. It was progressive, artistic, and expensive and it scared the hell out of my strong conservative parents. It was the paradise I sought.
On the road to this paradise, I was sidetracked by a quick pit stop in Northern Ireland that lasted a year. It’s amazing where we get led throughout our lives and I was taken to a ministry house in a religion torn country to work with the local youth. But my hip, progressive art college would not hold my scholarships for a year; in stepped a local college in my hometown of Nashville with plenty of scholarships. My pit stop was now a detour, a detour to religious awareness.
Prior to attending this university, I was naïve. I assumed that all denominations were all on the same team and Jesus was the captain. As it turns out, the denominations are in some sort of recreational league and Jesus is the prize. Unfortunately, there were no referees present for the past few centuries and some foul play has occurred. If I had been paying more attention to the spiritual ESPN, I probably would have known this.
Spiritual EPSN. There is a notion that has been overlooked for far too long. Such a missed opportunity for commentators, replacing Terry Bradshaw with John Wesley and Sir Thomas Moore.
Wesley, “And here goes the Archbishop Albert for the sale of indulgence and, wait. What’s this? It’s Martin Luther with the interception!”
Moore, “That Luther is really up and coming these days. He has been really strong on the Reformation lately, real key player. I can see him being MVP this year for sure.”
Wesley, “Oh, well there’s no doubt about that, Tommy. But you can’t underestimate Archbishop Albert in this game, he’s a dominating figure with real experience. Keep in mind, Luther is a rookie!”
Moore, “I hear you, Jack, I hear you. But wait! Oh my goodness! He is nailing the thesis to the door! He’s nailing the thesis to the door! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Wesley, “Protestants win! Protestants win! Protestants win the pennant!!!!”
And the crowd goes wild! Ahhh!
Obviously it couldn’t run on basic cable, but it would have been helpful nonetheless.
Rooming with seven other girls in a dorm suite is about as logical as living at the base of an active volcano. While the rent is probably more than reasonable, the fact of impending disaster does not justify it. Enter freshman year of college.
Being the only non-Church of Christ girl in our suite and having missed being briefed by spiritual ESPN, I was rudely brought to reality.
Enter roommate. While discussing our general background, she discovered the fact that my church used instruments. This caused the dorm to go into an uproar. Everyone was on emergency conversion mode. I could not understand the distress of not being Church of Christ. So I asked.
“What is the difference between Church of Christ and say, Presbyterian?”
They were in conference for a moment before gently informing me, “no real difference, just that Church of Christ will go to Heaven and everyone else will go to Hell.”
Now, I’ve never actually been engulfed by a rushing wave of hot magma, but I imagine that it is somewhat more enjoyable than my living arrangement for the rest of the year. As always, this is Adam and Eve’s fault somehow. Roommates must have happened as a consequence of sin entering the world.
On the road to this paradise, I was sidetracked by a quick pit stop in Northern Ireland that lasted a year. It’s amazing where we get led throughout our lives and I was taken to a ministry house in a religion torn country to work with the local youth. But my hip, progressive art college would not hold my scholarships for a year; in stepped a local college in my hometown of Nashville with plenty of scholarships. My pit stop was now a detour, a detour to religious awareness.
Prior to attending this university, I was naïve. I assumed that all denominations were all on the same team and Jesus was the captain. As it turns out, the denominations are in some sort of recreational league and Jesus is the prize. Unfortunately, there were no referees present for the past few centuries and some foul play has occurred. If I had been paying more attention to the spiritual ESPN, I probably would have known this.
Spiritual EPSN. There is a notion that has been overlooked for far too long. Such a missed opportunity for commentators, replacing Terry Bradshaw with John Wesley and Sir Thomas Moore.
Wesley, “And here goes the Archbishop Albert for the sale of indulgence and, wait. What’s this? It’s Martin Luther with the interception!”
Moore, “That Luther is really up and coming these days. He has been really strong on the Reformation lately, real key player. I can see him being MVP this year for sure.”
Wesley, “Oh, well there’s no doubt about that, Tommy. But you can’t underestimate Archbishop Albert in this game, he’s a dominating figure with real experience. Keep in mind, Luther is a rookie!”
Moore, “I hear you, Jack, I hear you. But wait! Oh my goodness! He is nailing the thesis to the door! He’s nailing the thesis to the door! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Wesley, “Protestants win! Protestants win! Protestants win the pennant!!!!”
And the crowd goes wild! Ahhh!
Obviously it couldn’t run on basic cable, but it would have been helpful nonetheless.
Rooming with seven other girls in a dorm suite is about as logical as living at the base of an active volcano. While the rent is probably more than reasonable, the fact of impending disaster does not justify it. Enter freshman year of college.
Being the only non-Church of Christ girl in our suite and having missed being briefed by spiritual ESPN, I was rudely brought to reality.
Enter roommate. While discussing our general background, she discovered the fact that my church used instruments. This caused the dorm to go into an uproar. Everyone was on emergency conversion mode. I could not understand the distress of not being Church of Christ. So I asked.
“What is the difference between Church of Christ and say, Presbyterian?”
They were in conference for a moment before gently informing me, “no real difference, just that Church of Christ will go to Heaven and everyone else will go to Hell.”
Now, I’ve never actually been engulfed by a rushing wave of hot magma, but I imagine that it is somewhat more enjoyable than my living arrangement for the rest of the year. As always, this is Adam and Eve’s fault somehow. Roommates must have happened as a consequence of sin entering the world.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
25 Randon Things
1. I have never parallel parked a car.
2. I once went to Slovakia by accident on my way to Austria.
3. I have to check my car door 3 times to make sure it's locked and closed before I can leave it.
4. I used to love Hanson's music...I still do.
5. I didn't get my first kiss until I was 21.
6. The biggest "impulse" buy I ever made was my town home.
7. I didn't submit my life to the Lord until I was almost 17 and am still learning to submit daily.
8. I sleep with the fan on year round and am very particular about having plenty of space on my side of the bed: I'm thinking my future husband might need to get his own bed.
9. I love New York City in the winter-but don't care for it in the summer.
10. I delight in giving gifts to other people but am typically very poor in receiving compliments-not sure how that works.
11. I'm the most adventurous homebody you'll ever meet. I don't want to go 4 miles downtown to a club but can't wait to get 1,000 miles away to some forgotten jungle/beach. I am just as content to work a puzzle at home as I am to go white-water rafting.
12. My name is Katherine Elizabeth but I like to be called Katie Beth. Or KB. Or KBG. Except by family, I like my family to call me Katie or Cousin Katie. When people other than family call me Katie I feel slightly violated.
13. I am not a feminist in any sense of the word.
14. I once cried reading a Peanuts strip because they were so mean to Charlie Brown.
15. Some of the most satisfying moments of my life have been at the end of a hard run/soccer game/etc. in the intense heat-I absolutely love feeling physically spent and sweaty at the end of a challenge succeeded.
16. I hate, hate, text language. I will never use: lol, u, r, wtf, or any other poor excuse for proper English.
17. My cousin once told me I am a conservative hippie-I'd have to agree.
18. I love to sleep. To quote "The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood": "I crave sleep. I can taste it, taste sleep and that it was as delicious as a BLT on fresh French bread."
19. I write in all of my books.
20. My house is always cluttered and I like it that way-I'm more content in organized chaos.
21. My poor memory has been one of my greatest struggles of all time. If you've ever seen my left hand, you know how hard it is for me to remember things. Comprehending organic chemistry was easier than being able to remember it by the next semester. Because of this great deficit, I am often referred to as "Dorrie" from Finding Nemo. Feel free to laugh about it, I agree fully.
22. The best salad I've ever had was at Jepetto's in Salt Lake City. And they have an one handed guitar player there who was amazing.
23. I am happiest when our family gets together in the protected aura of the old farm-our mighty clan gathers from Nashville to South Carolina and raises a beautiful racket that absolutely delights the heart and sets the spirit free. As much as I love to roam, my rogue heart will always long for Cookeville, TN and the tender memories experienced there. The sweetest laughs and most refreshing cries I have ever expended have been on that sacred land, whether it was in the context of meals that lasted too long, Rook games, Lonesome Dove nights, Naughty Santa with the infamous knife, back yard football or late, late night talks.
24. I love road trips-doesn't matter to where, I just love them.
25. I sleep next to a Starry Night. Not under one, but next to it.
2. I once went to Slovakia by accident on my way to Austria.
3. I have to check my car door 3 times to make sure it's locked and closed before I can leave it.
4. I used to love Hanson's music...I still do.
5. I didn't get my first kiss until I was 21.
6. The biggest "impulse" buy I ever made was my town home.
7. I didn't submit my life to the Lord until I was almost 17 and am still learning to submit daily.
8. I sleep with the fan on year round and am very particular about having plenty of space on my side of the bed: I'm thinking my future husband might need to get his own bed.
9. I love New York City in the winter-but don't care for it in the summer.
10. I delight in giving gifts to other people but am typically very poor in receiving compliments-not sure how that works.
11. I'm the most adventurous homebody you'll ever meet. I don't want to go 4 miles downtown to a club but can't wait to get 1,000 miles away to some forgotten jungle/beach. I am just as content to work a puzzle at home as I am to go white-water rafting.
12. My name is Katherine Elizabeth but I like to be called Katie Beth. Or KB. Or KBG. Except by family, I like my family to call me Katie or Cousin Katie. When people other than family call me Katie I feel slightly violated.
13. I am not a feminist in any sense of the word.
14. I once cried reading a Peanuts strip because they were so mean to Charlie Brown.
15. Some of the most satisfying moments of my life have been at the end of a hard run/soccer game/etc. in the intense heat-I absolutely love feeling physically spent and sweaty at the end of a challenge succeeded.
16. I hate, hate, text language. I will never use: lol, u, r, wtf, or any other poor excuse for proper English.
17. My cousin once told me I am a conservative hippie-I'd have to agree.
18. I love to sleep. To quote "The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood": "I crave sleep. I can taste it, taste sleep and that it was as delicious as a BLT on fresh French bread."
19. I write in all of my books.
20. My house is always cluttered and I like it that way-I'm more content in organized chaos.
21. My poor memory has been one of my greatest struggles of all time. If you've ever seen my left hand, you know how hard it is for me to remember things. Comprehending organic chemistry was easier than being able to remember it by the next semester. Because of this great deficit, I am often referred to as "Dorrie" from Finding Nemo. Feel free to laugh about it, I agree fully.
22. The best salad I've ever had was at Jepetto's in Salt Lake City. And they have an one handed guitar player there who was amazing.
23. I am happiest when our family gets together in the protected aura of the old farm-our mighty clan gathers from Nashville to South Carolina and raises a beautiful racket that absolutely delights the heart and sets the spirit free. As much as I love to roam, my rogue heart will always long for Cookeville, TN and the tender memories experienced there. The sweetest laughs and most refreshing cries I have ever expended have been on that sacred land, whether it was in the context of meals that lasted too long, Rook games, Lonesome Dove nights, Naughty Santa with the infamous knife, back yard football or late, late night talks.
24. I love road trips-doesn't matter to where, I just love them.
25. I sleep next to a Starry Night. Not under one, but next to it.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A college journey * MacFarland as Mecca* Mutant Race *
To keep with the trend, let me just say that college isn’t what I expected either. I don’t know why I was envisioning four years of Ferris Buller’s day off. Or maybe embodying some sort of Saved by the Bell motif, but it didn’t quite happen.
Being the irrational dreamer at heart, I originally chose English as my career path. I was going to sit at trendy coffee shops and discuss controversial novels with guys that were tall, dark, and mysterious. Men that were secretly pursuing their love for music all the while masking their passionate love for me as we drank freshly brewed java. Within my delusions I dreamt of liberating oppressed people by buying exotic coffees that were sold by fair trade markets. Being an English major was going to fulfill all of my hopes and dreams, possibly even my wildest romantic fantasies. I was going to change the world through grammar.
The first year of college quickly broke my rose-tinted glasses. The guys weren’t dark and mysterious. They weren’t even tall. No wild musicians posing as a mild-mannered Clark Kents by day. Turned out I didn’t enjoy coffee. And the books weren’t controversial. In fact, we did not read the books as much as grammatically dissect them. For weeks upon weeks we discussed to the point of agony the proper use of participles and margin etiquette. Man’s punishment package in the garden of Eden now seems to include English grammar.
I had been pushed to the brink of my sanity by disjunctive pronouns and elliptical constructions. I fled the English department as if it were on fire, and a little disgusted with myself that I acknowledged my correct use of simile. Past the History department, past the Art department, I ran until I had reached the taboo region of campus: the Science department.
During my time as an English major, the Science department was always viewed as a Bermuda triangle of sorts. Every year young students went in, but were never seen again. Their disappearances, while saddening, could not be dwelt on. We had to learn from their mistakes and avoid taking anything that ended in “–ology”. This can be quite a challenge considering these are required classes for graduation and being the creative minds that we were, we became resourceful:
“Biology is against my religion. We are not allowed near anything dead, so dissections would be impossible.”
“My parents were divorced due to chemistry: the lack of it. The entire subject is so painful my therapist advices I avoid it for good mental health.”
“I’m on a terrorist watch list, I’m legally not allowed within one hundred meters of any lab with chemicals in it.”
Obviously all English majors are pathological liars, but the deans of the Science department were happy to excuse them. For it is no secret that Science majors think all English majors are idiots, thus beneath them. If survival of the fittest did in fact rule, the English majors would have died out sometime after Jane Austen.
But after my experience with hyperbole for the last few weeks, I was now staring at the Biology building as if it were my Mecca. This too is a challenge considering that it was a small Church of Christ school. I pushed open the heavy oak doors and entered a world without windows, a world without ventilation. To say that it smelled as if something had died would be untrue. To say that it smelled as if something had died, been cut up and preserved in formaldehyde would be accurate.
The receptionist leaned over her desk suspiciously. Obviously no one had entered that building of their own accord in years.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
Bracing myself, I approached slowly. There were always rumors floating in the outside world that the ones in this building had over time been morphing into some sort of super human race. A race of mutants that would one day emerge from the windowless fortress they dwelt in and descend upon the liberal arts department in order to breed. Because although they were thought to be inferior to the Science majors, they could not argue with the fact that the English and Art majors were mostly female.
With this knowledge in mind, I approached the guardian of the lair. I looked around, the bland walls, the plastic furniture, nothing trendy or chic. While this repelled me, it also convinced me that no one in this entire building would ever want me to discuss Shakespeare’s use of iambic pentameter again. This was the courage I needed to address the lab hag:
“I want to do something in this building now.”
She eyed me, cautiously. “Where did you come from?”
I took a step further into the shadows, closer to her, boldly stating, “From the English department.”
There was a hissing sound coming from her cave, she could not hide her disdain for my kind, my breed. But she had to weigh the fact that I was indeed a female, and it would most definitely be beneficial during the super mutants re-population of the Earth. After some hesitation, she sneered at me:
“Third floor.”
And thus, I became a Nursing major.
Being the irrational dreamer at heart, I originally chose English as my career path. I was going to sit at trendy coffee shops and discuss controversial novels with guys that were tall, dark, and mysterious. Men that were secretly pursuing their love for music all the while masking their passionate love for me as we drank freshly brewed java. Within my delusions I dreamt of liberating oppressed people by buying exotic coffees that were sold by fair trade markets. Being an English major was going to fulfill all of my hopes and dreams, possibly even my wildest romantic fantasies. I was going to change the world through grammar.
The first year of college quickly broke my rose-tinted glasses. The guys weren’t dark and mysterious. They weren’t even tall. No wild musicians posing as a mild-mannered Clark Kents by day. Turned out I didn’t enjoy coffee. And the books weren’t controversial. In fact, we did not read the books as much as grammatically dissect them. For weeks upon weeks we discussed to the point of agony the proper use of participles and margin etiquette. Man’s punishment package in the garden of Eden now seems to include English grammar.
I had been pushed to the brink of my sanity by disjunctive pronouns and elliptical constructions. I fled the English department as if it were on fire, and a little disgusted with myself that I acknowledged my correct use of simile. Past the History department, past the Art department, I ran until I had reached the taboo region of campus: the Science department.
During my time as an English major, the Science department was always viewed as a Bermuda triangle of sorts. Every year young students went in, but were never seen again. Their disappearances, while saddening, could not be dwelt on. We had to learn from their mistakes and avoid taking anything that ended in “–ology”. This can be quite a challenge considering these are required classes for graduation and being the creative minds that we were, we became resourceful:
“Biology is against my religion. We are not allowed near anything dead, so dissections would be impossible.”
“My parents were divorced due to chemistry: the lack of it. The entire subject is so painful my therapist advices I avoid it for good mental health.”
“I’m on a terrorist watch list, I’m legally not allowed within one hundred meters of any lab with chemicals in it.”
Obviously all English majors are pathological liars, but the deans of the Science department were happy to excuse them. For it is no secret that Science majors think all English majors are idiots, thus beneath them. If survival of the fittest did in fact rule, the English majors would have died out sometime after Jane Austen.
But after my experience with hyperbole for the last few weeks, I was now staring at the Biology building as if it were my Mecca. This too is a challenge considering that it was a small Church of Christ school. I pushed open the heavy oak doors and entered a world without windows, a world without ventilation. To say that it smelled as if something had died would be untrue. To say that it smelled as if something had died, been cut up and preserved in formaldehyde would be accurate.
The receptionist leaned over her desk suspiciously. Obviously no one had entered that building of their own accord in years.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
Bracing myself, I approached slowly. There were always rumors floating in the outside world that the ones in this building had over time been morphing into some sort of super human race. A race of mutants that would one day emerge from the windowless fortress they dwelt in and descend upon the liberal arts department in order to breed. Because although they were thought to be inferior to the Science majors, they could not argue with the fact that the English and Art majors were mostly female.
With this knowledge in mind, I approached the guardian of the lair. I looked around, the bland walls, the plastic furniture, nothing trendy or chic. While this repelled me, it also convinced me that no one in this entire building would ever want me to discuss Shakespeare’s use of iambic pentameter again. This was the courage I needed to address the lab hag:
“I want to do something in this building now.”
She eyed me, cautiously. “Where did you come from?”
I took a step further into the shadows, closer to her, boldly stating, “From the English department.”
There was a hissing sound coming from her cave, she could not hide her disdain for my kind, my breed. But she had to weigh the fact that I was indeed a female, and it would most definitely be beneficial during the super mutants re-population of the Earth. After some hesitation, she sneered at me:
“Third floor.”
And thus, I became a Nursing major.
An Introduction
It seems to me that life doesn’t turn out how we would have planned. Or how we would have guessed. How we would have feared? Maybe. But once we get to the point of realization that life has in fact “turned out”, some sort of erosion process has occurred. Upon this point, we not only come to accept our position in life, but we can hardly imagine desiring it any other way.
And during this journey, we begin to develop philosophies that shape us and those around us. Cookie-cutter phrases that help decide which path we take in life. One of these beliefs is that you cannot categorize people-there are no stereotypes. But I have come to embrace my category: I am mediocre. Even from a young age I knew that I was never the worst student in the class, nor was I the brightest. Even at my academic peak in the third grade, Melissa Harmon read more books in the library’s read-a-thon than I did. I still remember when she passed the test for “Swiss Family Robinson” and I didn’t. It was the closest I ever came to being number 1 in the class.
And so the pattern continued, I was never the fastest or the smartest or the funniest or the biggest troublemaker. I don’t lead a life where I can attach a lot of “-est” to my titles. And that’s OK. I hope that I have finally come to the place in my journey where I realize that although I’m not going to finish first, I’m still traveling on this adventure called life.
There’s a peace in having self-actualization. It’s comforting. The only experience I can compare it to be walking into an old cathedral. Embarking into the vestibules of these inspirational structures and realizing just in fact how small the part you have played in the universe. Hundreds of years and thousands of hands have gone into shaping something much bigger than you.
And in the serenity, there is a certain freedom. This is how I view my life at the moment: this freedom to be what I was created to be. To be my own cathedral, to leave something behind that will help others on their journey. Even if it is mediocre.
And during this journey, we begin to develop philosophies that shape us and those around us. Cookie-cutter phrases that help decide which path we take in life. One of these beliefs is that you cannot categorize people-there are no stereotypes. But I have come to embrace my category: I am mediocre. Even from a young age I knew that I was never the worst student in the class, nor was I the brightest. Even at my academic peak in the third grade, Melissa Harmon read more books in the library’s read-a-thon than I did. I still remember when she passed the test for “Swiss Family Robinson” and I didn’t. It was the closest I ever came to being number 1 in the class.
And so the pattern continued, I was never the fastest or the smartest or the funniest or the biggest troublemaker. I don’t lead a life where I can attach a lot of “-est” to my titles. And that’s OK. I hope that I have finally come to the place in my journey where I realize that although I’m not going to finish first, I’m still traveling on this adventure called life.
There’s a peace in having self-actualization. It’s comforting. The only experience I can compare it to be walking into an old cathedral. Embarking into the vestibules of these inspirational structures and realizing just in fact how small the part you have played in the universe. Hundreds of years and thousands of hands have gone into shaping something much bigger than you.
And in the serenity, there is a certain freedom. This is how I view my life at the moment: this freedom to be what I was created to be. To be my own cathedral, to leave something behind that will help others on their journey. Even if it is mediocre.
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