I ran errands today, a seemingly odious task, or would be if a) it was sometime other than winter, b) was actually winter but it felt like august, or c) I didn’t live in Fallbrook. I absolutely adore Fallbrook. I lived through the awkward years of people in Carlsbad having no idea where Fallbrook was (15 minutes away) and of going to school in Temecula and hearing the shoe joke [“So I was driving in Fallbrook last weekend, and I saw a guy with one shoe on standing on the side of the road. I pulled over and asked him if he lost a shoe, he said, ‘Nope, I found one.’”] almost every week. But Fallbrook is a damn nice place to live.
As I ran errands today bundled in a scarf and gloves because the weather is actually very very blustery, and the sky looks like its bulging with rain and going to rip open like a cheap paper towel, soaking the proverbial kitchen counter. On a side note, weather in San Diego is fantastic. You would think the world is ending. You turn on the news here, and there’s a huge red flashing banner with “Storm Watch: 2006” blazoned across it. Lots of reporters, everywhere. For rain. It’s great. Businesses are actually closing.
But really, California has 4 seasons. While they may not be as extreme as say, Vermont, they are still there. Beautiful blooming springs, hot unbearable summers, crisp autumns, blustery winters. I wore a scarf today, and not out of defiance or “oh but it looks so cute.”
So Fallbrook. I’m driving down Mission Road with my mom and brother. We are off to grocery shop at Major Market. And Fallbrook just looks beautiful. There are people with shopping bags everywhere, and those ghetto tinsel candles are on every street lamp, and there’s lights in the bank windows, and the Boy Scout Christmas tree lot is up. We drive by all these places I grew up around, Wayside Café, The Mission Theater, The Lace Apron, La Caseta, ect…so we’re driving, and I let out a cry. Where Hank’s Hardware used to be is now…Joe’s Hardware. I make my mom pull over and I run in and ask what happened to Hank. Apparently he retired. I didn’t know what to say, so I told “call me Joe” that his inflatable Santa outside looked like he had drank too much gin and passed out, and that he wasn’t really promoting family values like Hank did, and that he should probably put him back up. And with that I left.
We went to Leilani’s for lunch. Right when I walked in, Leilani made a fuss and started making my favorite teriyaki chicken and made me sit down and tell her about college, in which she tried to get me to try her new coconut crème cake. Everyone who walked in said “Merry Christmas!” in a way that came from their belly, full-hearted and rich with feeling. When people say “Merry Christmas” in Fallbrook, they mean it, just like they mean “Have a nice day!” And there is something to be said for Leilani’s teriyaki chicken. No, no. There is a lot to be said for Leilani’s teriyaki chicken. After placing an order to be catered for a party this weekend, I ran into a very large man’s belly, and after bouncing off, he said exuberantly, “Merry Christmas!”
We spent two hours in Major Market, getting everything for baking and cooking for the season. It was amazingly fun. Every aisle we ran into someone from the church, someone from the school, someone from an old soccer or basketball team. And each time we bump into someone…”Merry Christmas!” Cheese aisle…”Merry Christmas!” Meat counter…”Merry Christmas!” Produce area…”Merry Christmas!” Standing in line…”Merry Christmas!” ”Merry Christmas!” ”Merry Christmas!” We may not have a movie theater or a mall, but we’ve certainly got cheer. Avocado crates of it. Take that, LA. And…everywhere else. That’s all.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Putting the ass kicking back in Douglass
Being that I am an English major and a firm supporter of American Literature, especially minority and women's lit, i feel the need to educate. This passage is from Frederick Douglass's Narrative of the Life, a truely trmendous autobiography, if you ever get around to reading it. This is his take on Christianity. i found the logistics of it to be so startlingly similar to mine that I had to share.
I find, since reading over the foregoing Narrative, that I have, in several instances, spoken in such a tone and manner, respecting religion, as may possibly lead those unacquainted with my religious views to suppose me an opponent of all religion. To remove the liability of such misapprehension, I deem it proper to append the following brief explanation. What I have said respecting and against religion, I mean strictly to apply to the "slave holding religion" of this land, and with no possible reference to Christianity proper; for, between the Christianity of this land, and the Christianity of Christ, I recognize the widest possible difference--so wide, that to receive the one as good, pure, and holy, is of necessity to reject the other as bad, corrupt, and wicked. To be the friend of the one, is of necessity to be the enemy of the other.
I love the pure, peaceable, and impartial Christianity of Christ: I therefore hate the corrupt, slave holding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land. Indeed, I can see no reason, but the most deceitful one, for calling the religion of this land Christianity. I look upon it as the climax of all misnomers, the boldest of all frauds, and the grossest of all libels. Never was there a clearer case of "stealing the livery of the court of heaven to serve the devil in." I am filled with unutterable loathing when I contemplate the religious pomp and show, together with the horrible inconsistencies, which every where surround me. We have men-stealers for ministers, women whippers for missionaries, and cradle-plunderers for church members.
The man who wields the blood clotted cowskin during the week fills the pulpit on Sunday, and claims to be a minister of the meek and lowly Jesus. The man who robs me of my earnings at the end of each week meets me as a class-leader on Sunday morning, to show me the way of life, and the path of salvation. He who sells my sister, for purposes of prostitution, stands forth as the pious advocate of purity. He who proclaims it a religious duty to read the Bible denies me the right of learning to read the name of the God who made me. He who is the religious advocate of marriage robs whole millions of its sacred influence, and leaves them to the ravages of wholesale pollution. The warm defender of the sacredness of the family relation is the same that scatters whole families,--sundering husbands and wives, parents and children, sisters and brothers,--leaving the hut vacant, and the hearth desolate. We see the thief preaching against theft, and the adulterer against adultery. We have men sold to build churches, women sold to support the gospel, and babes sold to purchase Bibles for the POOR HEATHEN! ALL FOR THE GLORY OF GOD AND THE GOOD OF SOULS!
The slave auctioneer's bell and the church-going bell chime in with each other, and the bitter cries of the heart-broken slave are drowned in the religious shouts of his pious master. Revivals of religion and revivals in the slave-trade go hand in hand together. The slave prison and the church stand near each other. The clanking of fetters and the rattling of chains in the prison, and the pious psalm and solemn prayer in the church, may be heard at the same time. The dealers in the bodies and souls of men erect their stand in the presence of the pulpit, and they mutually help each other. The dealer gives his blood-stained gold to support the pulpit, and the pulpit, in return, covers his infernal business with the garb of Christianity. Here we have religion and robbery the allies of each other --devils dressed in angels' robes, and hell presenting the semblance of paradise. "Just God! and these are they,Who minister at thine altar, God of right!Men who their hands, with prayer and blessing, layOn Israel's ark of light. "What! preach, and kidnap men?Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?Talk of thy glorious liberty, and thenBolt hard the captive's door? "What! servants of thy own Merciful Son, who came to seek and saveThe homeless and the outcast, fettering downThe tasked and plundered slave! "Pilate and Herod friends!Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!Just God and holy! is that church which lendsStrength to the spoiler thine?"
The Christianity of America is a Christianity, of whose votaries it may be as truly said, as it was of the ancient scribes and Pharisees, "They bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulders, but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers. All their works they do for to be seen of men.--They love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues . . . and to be called of men, Rabbi, Rabbi.--But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men; for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in. Ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretense make long prayers; therefore ye shall receive the greater dam- nation. Ye compass sea and land to make one proselyte, and when he is made, ye make him twofold more the child of hell than yourselves.--Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint, and anise, and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith; these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.
Ye blind guides! Which strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel. Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter; but within, they are full of extortion and excess.-- Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity."
Dark and terrible as is this picture, I hold it to be strictly true of the overwhelming mass of professed Christians in America. They strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel. Could any thing be more true of our churches? They would be shocked at the proposition of fellowshipping a SHEEP-stealer; and at the same time they hug to their communion a MAN- stealer, and brand me with being an infidel, if I find fault with them for it. They attend with Pharisaical strictness to the outward forms of religion, and at the same time neglect the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith. They are al- ways ready to sacrifice, but seldom to show mercy. They are they who are represented as professing to love God whom they have not seen, whilst they hate their brother whom they have seen. They love the heathen on the other side of the globe. They can pray for him, pay money to have the Bible put into his hand, and missionaries to instruct him; while they despise and totally neglect the heathen at their own doors.
Such is, very briefly, my view of the religion of this land; and to avoid any misunderstanding, growing out of the use of general terms, I mean by the religion of this land, that which is revealed in the words, deeds, and actions, of those bodies, north and south, calling themselves Christian churches, and yet in union with slave holders. It is against religion, as presented by these bodies, that I have felt it my duty to testify.
I conclude these remarks by copying the following portrait of the religion of the south, (which is, by communion and fellowship, the religion of the north,) which I soberly affirm is "true to the life," and without caricature or the slightest exaggeration. It is said to have been drawn, several years before the present anti-slavery agitation began, by a northern Methodist preacher, who, while residing at the south, had an opportunity to see slave holding morals, manners, and piety, with his own eyes. "Shall I not visit for these things? saith the Lord. Shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this?"
I find, since reading over the foregoing Narrative, that I have, in several instances, spoken in such a tone and manner, respecting religion, as may possibly lead those unacquainted with my religious views to suppose me an opponent of all religion. To remove the liability of such misapprehension, I deem it proper to append the following brief explanation. What I have said respecting and against religion, I mean strictly to apply to the "slave holding religion" of this land, and with no possible reference to Christianity proper; for, between the Christianity of this land, and the Christianity of Christ, I recognize the widest possible difference--so wide, that to receive the one as good, pure, and holy, is of necessity to reject the other as bad, corrupt, and wicked. To be the friend of the one, is of necessity to be the enemy of the other.
I love the pure, peaceable, and impartial Christianity of Christ: I therefore hate the corrupt, slave holding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land. Indeed, I can see no reason, but the most deceitful one, for calling the religion of this land Christianity. I look upon it as the climax of all misnomers, the boldest of all frauds, and the grossest of all libels. Never was there a clearer case of "stealing the livery of the court of heaven to serve the devil in." I am filled with unutterable loathing when I contemplate the religious pomp and show, together with the horrible inconsistencies, which every where surround me. We have men-stealers for ministers, women whippers for missionaries, and cradle-plunderers for church members.
The man who wields the blood clotted cowskin during the week fills the pulpit on Sunday, and claims to be a minister of the meek and lowly Jesus. The man who robs me of my earnings at the end of each week meets me as a class-leader on Sunday morning, to show me the way of life, and the path of salvation. He who sells my sister, for purposes of prostitution, stands forth as the pious advocate of purity. He who proclaims it a religious duty to read the Bible denies me the right of learning to read the name of the God who made me. He who is the religious advocate of marriage robs whole millions of its sacred influence, and leaves them to the ravages of wholesale pollution. The warm defender of the sacredness of the family relation is the same that scatters whole families,--sundering husbands and wives, parents and children, sisters and brothers,--leaving the hut vacant, and the hearth desolate. We see the thief preaching against theft, and the adulterer against adultery. We have men sold to build churches, women sold to support the gospel, and babes sold to purchase Bibles for the POOR HEATHEN! ALL FOR THE GLORY OF GOD AND THE GOOD OF SOULS!
The slave auctioneer's bell and the church-going bell chime in with each other, and the bitter cries of the heart-broken slave are drowned in the religious shouts of his pious master. Revivals of religion and revivals in the slave-trade go hand in hand together. The slave prison and the church stand near each other. The clanking of fetters and the rattling of chains in the prison, and the pious psalm and solemn prayer in the church, may be heard at the same time. The dealers in the bodies and souls of men erect their stand in the presence of the pulpit, and they mutually help each other. The dealer gives his blood-stained gold to support the pulpit, and the pulpit, in return, covers his infernal business with the garb of Christianity. Here we have religion and robbery the allies of each other --devils dressed in angels' robes, and hell presenting the semblance of paradise. "Just God! and these are they,Who minister at thine altar, God of right!Men who their hands, with prayer and blessing, layOn Israel's ark of light. "What! preach, and kidnap men?Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?Talk of thy glorious liberty, and thenBolt hard the captive's door? "What! servants of thy own Merciful Son, who came to seek and saveThe homeless and the outcast, fettering downThe tasked and plundered slave! "Pilate and Herod friends!Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!Just God and holy! is that church which lendsStrength to the spoiler thine?"
The Christianity of America is a Christianity, of whose votaries it may be as truly said, as it was of the ancient scribes and Pharisees, "They bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulders, but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers. All their works they do for to be seen of men.--They love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues . . . and to be called of men, Rabbi, Rabbi.--But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men; for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in. Ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretense make long prayers; therefore ye shall receive the greater dam- nation. Ye compass sea and land to make one proselyte, and when he is made, ye make him twofold more the child of hell than yourselves.--Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint, and anise, and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith; these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.
Ye blind guides! Which strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel. Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter; but within, they are full of extortion and excess.-- Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity."
Dark and terrible as is this picture, I hold it to be strictly true of the overwhelming mass of professed Christians in America. They strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel. Could any thing be more true of our churches? They would be shocked at the proposition of fellowshipping a SHEEP-stealer; and at the same time they hug to their communion a MAN- stealer, and brand me with being an infidel, if I find fault with them for it. They attend with Pharisaical strictness to the outward forms of religion, and at the same time neglect the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith. They are al- ways ready to sacrifice, but seldom to show mercy. They are they who are represented as professing to love God whom they have not seen, whilst they hate their brother whom they have seen. They love the heathen on the other side of the globe. They can pray for him, pay money to have the Bible put into his hand, and missionaries to instruct him; while they despise and totally neglect the heathen at their own doors.
Such is, very briefly, my view of the religion of this land; and to avoid any misunderstanding, growing out of the use of general terms, I mean by the religion of this land, that which is revealed in the words, deeds, and actions, of those bodies, north and south, calling themselves Christian churches, and yet in union with slave holders. It is against religion, as presented by these bodies, that I have felt it my duty to testify.
I conclude these remarks by copying the following portrait of the religion of the south, (which is, by communion and fellowship, the religion of the north,) which I soberly affirm is "true to the life," and without caricature or the slightest exaggeration. It is said to have been drawn, several years before the present anti-slavery agitation began, by a northern Methodist preacher, who, while residing at the south, had an opportunity to see slave holding morals, manners, and piety, with his own eyes. "Shall I not visit for these things? saith the Lord. Shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this?"
Monday, December 04, 2006
My Christmas Playlist
Because there is really nothing festive about a second story library study room, except for the stylish leaf-and-triangle motif on one of the chairs.
1. "Step Into Christmas," Elton John
2. "Santa Clause is Comin' to Town," Bruce Springsteen
3. "Christmas Time is Here," Vince Guaraldi Trio
4. "A Holly, Jolly Christmas," Burl Ives
5. "Merry Christmas Darling," The Carpenters
6. "(It Must Have Been Ol') Santa Clause," Harry Connick Jr.
7. "River," Joni Mitchell
8. "Spotlight on Christmas," Rufus Wainwright
9. "All I Want For Christmas Is You," Olivia Olson
10. "Little Saint Nick," The Beach Boys
11. "Happy Christmas (The War Is Over)" John Lennon and Yoko Ono
12. "Deck the Halls," Mannheim Steamroller
13. "December Will Be Magic Again," Kate Bush
14. "Feliz Navidad," El Vez
15. "Celebrate Me Home," Kenny Loggins (shut up, it's good)
16. "I'm Beginning to See the Light," Count Baise & Joe Williams
17. "O Holy Night," Jewel
18. "Baby, It's Cold Outside," Johnny Mercer & Margaret Whiting
19. "Ave Maria," Celine Dion (again, shut it)
20. "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm," Billie Holiday
21. "The Christmas Song," Nat King Cole
1. "Step Into Christmas," Elton John
2. "Santa Clause is Comin' to Town," Bruce Springsteen
3. "Christmas Time is Here," Vince Guaraldi Trio
4. "A Holly, Jolly Christmas," Burl Ives
5. "Merry Christmas Darling," The Carpenters
6. "(It Must Have Been Ol') Santa Clause," Harry Connick Jr.
7. "River," Joni Mitchell
8. "Spotlight on Christmas," Rufus Wainwright
9. "All I Want For Christmas Is You," Olivia Olson
10. "Little Saint Nick," The Beach Boys
11. "Happy Christmas (The War Is Over)" John Lennon and Yoko Ono
12. "Deck the Halls," Mannheim Steamroller
13. "December Will Be Magic Again," Kate Bush
14. "Feliz Navidad," El Vez
15. "Celebrate Me Home," Kenny Loggins (shut up, it's good)
16. "I'm Beginning to See the Light," Count Baise & Joe Williams
17. "O Holy Night," Jewel
18. "Baby, It's Cold Outside," Johnny Mercer & Margaret Whiting
19. "Ave Maria," Celine Dion (again, shut it)
20. "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm," Billie Holiday
21. "The Christmas Song," Nat King Cole
Monday, November 27, 2006
Pope's Thoughts on God and Man....good stuff, read it.
So while I was waiting for WebReg to stop being such a douche, I started reading Alexander Pope's "An Essay on Man." The first epistle is a bit slow, but it's got some Milton-esque qualities I find most agreeable. It had this great passage at the end of the first epistle carrying over into the second, so I copied it down. Enjoy!
"Cease then, nor order imperfection name,
our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree
of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Submit in this, or any other sphere,
secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
safe in the hand of one disposing Power,
or in the natal, or in the mortal hour.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
all chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
all discord, harmony not understood;
all partial evil, universal good;
and, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite
one truth is clear: Whatever IS, is RIGHT."
Isn't that rad? that one is all about God. The next one is about man.
"Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
the proper study of mankind is Man.
Placed on an isthmus of a middle state,
a being darkly wise, and rudely great:
with too much knowledge for the skeptic side,
with too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
he hangs between, in doubt to act, or rest,
in doubt to deem himself a god or beast,
in doubt his mind or body to prefer,
born but to die, and reasoning but to err,
alike in ignorance, his reason such,
whether he thinks too little, or to much:
chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
still by himself abused, or disabused;
created half to rise, and half to fall,
great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!"
awsome view of the funtionality of mankind. brilliant. i love words.
"Cease then, nor order imperfection name,
our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree
of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Submit in this, or any other sphere,
secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
safe in the hand of one disposing Power,
or in the natal, or in the mortal hour.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
all chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
all discord, harmony not understood;
all partial evil, universal good;
and, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite
one truth is clear: Whatever IS, is RIGHT."
Isn't that rad? that one is all about God. The next one is about man.
"Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
the proper study of mankind is Man.
Placed on an isthmus of a middle state,
a being darkly wise, and rudely great:
with too much knowledge for the skeptic side,
with too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
he hangs between, in doubt to act, or rest,
in doubt to deem himself a god or beast,
in doubt his mind or body to prefer,
born but to die, and reasoning but to err,
alike in ignorance, his reason such,
whether he thinks too little, or to much:
chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
still by himself abused, or disabused;
created half to rise, and half to fall,
great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!"
awsome view of the funtionality of mankind. brilliant. i love words.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Good things I'm listening to.
I highly recommend the following playlist.
1. Forever My Friend: Ray LaMontagne
2. Hotel Song: Regina Spektor
3. Messes of Men: mewithoutYou
4. Bold as Love: John Mayer
5. She: Elvis Costello
6. Soul Meets Body: Death Cab for Cutie
7. Grey Gardens: Rufus Wainwright
8. Faith in Angels: Peter Mayer
9. Beautiful World: Colin Hay
10. America: Simon and Garfunkle
11. Stay (Faraway, So Close): U2
12. 30th Century Man: Scott Walker
13. This Side: Nickle Creek
14. Wonderful for You: The Polyphonic Spree
15. Crystal Ball: Keane
16. Crush: Dave Matthews Band
17. Subterranean Homesick Blues: Bob Dylan
18. Desire: Ryan Adams
20. The Wrong Idea: Chris Thile
21. Breathe In: Frou Frou
22. Rebel Rebel: David Bowie
23. Modern Way: Kaiser Chiefs
24. Not the Doctor: Alanis Morissette
25. Across the Universe: The Beatles
26. Everything in it's Right Place: Radiohead
27. Pretty Vacant: The Sex Pistols
28. One by One: The Shins
29. How Do You Do: Shakira
30. Hold on Hope: Guided by Voices
31. Fuzzy: The Incredible Moses Leroy
32. Fighting for my Love: Nil Lara
33. Fix You: Coldplay
and that's all I have for tonight. Ah, bella luna...
1. Forever My Friend: Ray LaMontagne
2. Hotel Song: Regina Spektor
3. Messes of Men: mewithoutYou
4. Bold as Love: John Mayer
5. She: Elvis Costello
6. Soul Meets Body: Death Cab for Cutie
7. Grey Gardens: Rufus Wainwright
8. Faith in Angels: Peter Mayer
9. Beautiful World: Colin Hay
10. America: Simon and Garfunkle
11. Stay (Faraway, So Close): U2
12. 30th Century Man: Scott Walker
13. This Side: Nickle Creek
14. Wonderful for You: The Polyphonic Spree
15. Crystal Ball: Keane
16. Crush: Dave Matthews Band
17. Subterranean Homesick Blues: Bob Dylan
18. Desire: Ryan Adams
20. The Wrong Idea: Chris Thile
21. Breathe In: Frou Frou
22. Rebel Rebel: David Bowie
23. Modern Way: Kaiser Chiefs
24. Not the Doctor: Alanis Morissette
25. Across the Universe: The Beatles
26. Everything in it's Right Place: Radiohead
27. Pretty Vacant: The Sex Pistols
28. One by One: The Shins
29. How Do You Do: Shakira
30. Hold on Hope: Guided by Voices
31. Fuzzy: The Incredible Moses Leroy
32. Fighting for my Love: Nil Lara
33. Fix You: Coldplay
and that's all I have for tonight. Ah, bella luna...
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
My Bubbular
So I'm sitting here in sweats, writing pull questions, being a super good Torrey student, you know, and i scroll over and check Bubbs. for those of you who don't attend the fine insitiution of higher learning that is Biola, Bubbs is our Biola email system which performs many functions, one of them not being helping the student to keep on track. So i check my email and my hall and group's chatter and sign off.
Now when you sign off of Bubbs, a little gray box with your account statistics and two fingers touching each other in a very Michoangelo way. It is really quite useful, telling you the time and date (Wed, Oct 11, 2006 6:23:26 PM) how long you were connected for (2 seconds), how much time remaining you have for the day on it (3 hours 50 minutes 25 seconds) and lastly, how much time you have used in total. To my horror, it read:
4 days 45 minutes.
Good Lord. I have spent 4 days of my life on Bubbs. As i whimpered this statisitic to my roommate, she snorted and told me hers was up to a couple of weeks and to stop being so dramatic. But seriously. 4 days and 45 minutes! Thats 4 days and 45 minutes that i was SITTING in a mass produced plastic desk chair STARING at a mass produced screen. Thats 4 days and 45 minutes just sitting. That's 4 days and 45 minutes I wasn't living. This may seem trite right now in the prime of my life, but a day will come when I'm on my deathbed surrounded by a slew of kids and pets and grandkids and stuff and i'm going to wish more than anything I had those damn 4 days and 45 minutes back.
Now when you sign off of Bubbs, a little gray box with your account statistics and two fingers touching each other in a very Michoangelo way. It is really quite useful, telling you the time and date (Wed, Oct 11, 2006 6:23:26 PM) how long you were connected for (2 seconds), how much time remaining you have for the day on it (3 hours 50 minutes 25 seconds) and lastly, how much time you have used in total. To my horror, it read:
4 days 45 minutes.
Good Lord. I have spent 4 days of my life on Bubbs. As i whimpered this statisitic to my roommate, she snorted and told me hers was up to a couple of weeks and to stop being so dramatic. But seriously. 4 days and 45 minutes! Thats 4 days and 45 minutes that i was SITTING in a mass produced plastic desk chair STARING at a mass produced screen. Thats 4 days and 45 minutes just sitting. That's 4 days and 45 minutes I wasn't living. This may seem trite right now in the prime of my life, but a day will come when I'm on my deathbed surrounded by a slew of kids and pets and grandkids and stuff and i'm going to wish more than anything I had those damn 4 days and 45 minutes back.
Monday, September 25, 2006
R.I.P the Blowtorch
Last night in the Hope kitchens, me and my dear friends gathered around the wobbly round table to feast on birthday brownies with pink frosting, with my dear roommate's name written in loopy pink frosting. We were laughing hysterically and passing around a bottle of sparkling cider in our nice clothes, chugging it like sweet wine. We had lit the candy-stripe candles with my trusty dusty Blowtorch lighter, flamaing out as if we were making creme brulee, or more accuretly, welding something. It was a good night.
Yet when i returned to the room and attempted to illiegally light my spiced cider votive candle to celebrate fall, it was apparent that it could spew flames no more.
And so we lament your passing, Blowtorch lighter, I will miss you every day when i have to strike a match 5 times before it lights, or have to use--gasp!--a Zippo lighter like a skinhead trucker. I will miss the good old days of Freshman year, with Witch Parties and Roxana lighting my hair on fire for fun. You have been with me through the best of times, and the worst of times. You have lit sole candles on the lonliest nights, and on the happiest of occasions. You have litterally, brightened my life.
And so as I ceremoniously toss you into the big blue dumpster behind Hope, i will wipe a tear away from my soft pink cheek, and thrun my thoughts to the day that we will be reunited in heaven, me, dancing around Jesus, and you, lighting the candles that will float around on little white puffy clouds so we can see where to kick the divine ball when playing Godly Soccer at night with St. Paul and C.S Lewis.
Rest in Peace.
Yet when i returned to the room and attempted to illiegally light my spiced cider votive candle to celebrate fall, it was apparent that it could spew flames no more.
And so we lament your passing, Blowtorch lighter, I will miss you every day when i have to strike a match 5 times before it lights, or have to use--gasp!--a Zippo lighter like a skinhead trucker. I will miss the good old days of Freshman year, with Witch Parties and Roxana lighting my hair on fire for fun. You have been with me through the best of times, and the worst of times. You have lit sole candles on the lonliest nights, and on the happiest of occasions. You have litterally, brightened my life.
And so as I ceremoniously toss you into the big blue dumpster behind Hope, i will wipe a tear away from my soft pink cheek, and thrun my thoughts to the day that we will be reunited in heaven, me, dancing around Jesus, and you, lighting the candles that will float around on little white puffy clouds so we can see where to kick the divine ball when playing Godly Soccer at night with St. Paul and C.S Lewis.
Rest in Peace.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Mean Girls are not just a creation of Tina Fey
Here's what I discovered on this glorious, gloomy friday. I am physically incapable of being blatantly mean. I know this sounds like I'm just stroking my ego or something, but it's a serious problem.
You see, I was walking back from session and i realize that this girl who used to live on the floor last year was behind me. She hated me. She had absolutly no reason. But she did. She would hang out in our room all the time and just snarl at me and make fun of me. Pretty much, she is agreeably the most unbelieveable bitchy person I have ever met, and I have met alot of bitchy people.
Well.
So she is sauntering behind me, and I'm ready to slide my card to open the doors to Hope. I do so. Then a devious thought entered my head. What if i just let the door shut in her face, so she would have to slide her ID card to get in. It's retarded, but i hold the door open for everyone, so this little tidbit was particularly appealing. It was for all the times she glared at me at the sinks, ignored me when i would say hello to her, for all the times she let the door shut in my face and i would hear her laughing on the other side.
So the moment draws closer. She is about 10 steps behind me. I am prepared to walk without care into the lobby and let the door fall behind me, but in a moment of weakness, the edge of my finger caught the rim as i held the door for the girl who routinely belittled my existance.
In the Disney version of this story, the girl would turn to me, smile, and say thank you. We would strike up a conversation and become best friends and she would help me pick out my wedding china and possibly become my kid's godmother. Sadly, life is not Disney, to my great dissapointment, and she shoved past me.
This caused me to wonder why people are mean in the first place. You gain no pleasure out of it. You don't impress people with it or gain any more friends. You just make people feel bad and make yourself look like an ass.
So then I walked back to my room with my head down like Charlie Brown after being turned down by the little red-haired girl, except that my situation is nothing like that. I was hurt. I had rrached out, in a small, meager way, and was shot to the mud on the grounds of me just trying to be a good person. But I am not discouraged.
And so I dedicate this not-very-well-thought-out blog to this aformentioned girl. Get over yourself. That is all.
You see, I was walking back from session and i realize that this girl who used to live on the floor last year was behind me. She hated me. She had absolutly no reason. But she did. She would hang out in our room all the time and just snarl at me and make fun of me. Pretty much, she is agreeably the most unbelieveable bitchy person I have ever met, and I have met alot of bitchy people.
Well.
So she is sauntering behind me, and I'm ready to slide my card to open the doors to Hope. I do so. Then a devious thought entered my head. What if i just let the door shut in her face, so she would have to slide her ID card to get in. It's retarded, but i hold the door open for everyone, so this little tidbit was particularly appealing. It was for all the times she glared at me at the sinks, ignored me when i would say hello to her, for all the times she let the door shut in my face and i would hear her laughing on the other side.
So the moment draws closer. She is about 10 steps behind me. I am prepared to walk without care into the lobby and let the door fall behind me, but in a moment of weakness, the edge of my finger caught the rim as i held the door for the girl who routinely belittled my existance.
In the Disney version of this story, the girl would turn to me, smile, and say thank you. We would strike up a conversation and become best friends and she would help me pick out my wedding china and possibly become my kid's godmother. Sadly, life is not Disney, to my great dissapointment, and she shoved past me.
This caused me to wonder why people are mean in the first place. You gain no pleasure out of it. You don't impress people with it or gain any more friends. You just make people feel bad and make yourself look like an ass.
So then I walked back to my room with my head down like Charlie Brown after being turned down by the little red-haired girl, except that my situation is nothing like that. I was hurt. I had rrached out, in a small, meager way, and was shot to the mud on the grounds of me just trying to be a good person. But I am not discouraged.
And so I dedicate this not-very-well-thought-out blog to this aformentioned girl. Get over yourself. That is all.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The funniest thing that's happened to me so far today
Okay. So Roxana and Frances and I were spooning on the futon with it's beige mat deal sliding with every move watching Titanic, as we had bveen planning for two weeks as Fran had never seen it. It was an emotional, gratifying experience. It was however, sidetracked when Sydney, my ever loving roommate walked in, whining about how she wished she had an excuse to get out of session today, and asked if i would get her sick. Immediatly after this, a full water bottle hit her square in the ear with the force of four lumberjacks. It was, of course, thrown by Fran, who got caught up in the moment and felt the need to lend a hand. Upon questioning her on why she felt it was necessary, after pausing the movie and laughing hysterically for about seven minutes and perhaps crying a little in the process, she said she had no idea why she did it. Remorse soon followed. So Sydney went to a Llizo session with an aching ear she can't really hear out of, and we held each other on the futon and wished that we had boyfriends and that they looked like Jack Dawson, except not dead.
That's really about it. I guess you had to be there.
That's really about it. I guess you had to be there.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Cheerio...bah.
So tonight I went over to the Reynold's and sat on the edge of their warm pool letting my feet dangle, watching me and my friend's faces projected on the side of the wall. I nibbled crumpets with strawberry preserves and sipped my piping hot earl gray. We played classical music and laughed as we reminisced about the sensational time we all had in England beginning of the summer. We made fun of Miss Shubert and sang "Jerusalem" and planned the next battle between Jason and Fatigati. And for a fleeting moment it was like we were all back there.
Just as soon as it started, the party was over and I found myself clutching my ID card standing outside the lower campus gate wishing that more than anything, despite the fact that I was starving, sick, wearing dirty clothes, walking dozens of miles a day and sleeping less than 4 hours a night, that I could just go back for one day.
It's kind of pathetic, but you would too if you romped around the English countryside for a good portion of the summer and how found yourself contained within 4 walls with your nose in Thomas Aquinas for 7 hours.
Just as soon as it started, the party was over and I found myself clutching my ID card standing outside the lower campus gate wishing that more than anything, despite the fact that I was starving, sick, wearing dirty clothes, walking dozens of miles a day and sleeping less than 4 hours a night, that I could just go back for one day.
It's kind of pathetic, but you would too if you romped around the English countryside for a good portion of the summer and how found yourself contained within 4 walls with your nose in Thomas Aquinas for 7 hours.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Tne Golden Spoon Story
Today while Roxana and I were trying to find the Golden Spoon on Birch Street we saw this guy on a bike get hit by a car. Life is short. That's all I have to say.
The guy lived, but that's besides the point.
The guy lived, but that's besides the point.
My Empty Room
My doting roommate left me for the weekend to take care of myself while she watches her skin fry in Palm Springs and learns how to converse with middle school children, something I have personally never achieved. It’s outrageous really how little I accomplish on my own. I am rather convinced as of this current time that were I not bunking with a hyper-anal film major who has more things to do at any given time of the day than hairs on her head, that I would in all probability sit at my sullied desk watching Arrested Development re-runs and touch up my toenails for the five-trillionth time. Which I do anyways, irregardless if she’s in the room or not, but when her presence is here, I usually get something hurled at me when I slack off, sadly quite often. Books and shoes, generally. The books are killer, especially the hardback ones. Thank God we finished Plato last year, I might have an aneurysm.
Now, while the societal prospects on Biola’s campus are infinite, sometimes the Holly Homemaker gene kicks in and there is absolutely nothing I desire more than to stand over one of the six communal bathroom sinks with a glistening pool of soapy suds before me overflowing onto the power-washed tile. I am the type of person who pays the extra 30 cents to have my dish soap smell like lavender rather than the lemony perversion of Pine Sol. I am not snobby. I just would like to remember my dishwashing experience as one that was enriching rather than dreadfully mundane. Sadly, I have not at this point fashioned a proficient and engaging way to dispose of the garbage, which is why there are currently three pleasantly plump trash bags seated pitifully by the door.
While we are on the subject of all things domestic with a little What-I-Did-Today, I feel an obligation to mention that I am the happiest person alive when I’m grocery shopping. First of all, I have to do it alone or it doesn’t count. Second of all, I like baskets more than carts. I enjoy walking down every single aisle, even the motor parts and Spanish seasonings ones. I enjoy contrasting prices of milk, fat content of peanut butter, how many minutes it actually takes to microwave the pasta-in-a-bag, and what fruits are on sale. I like feeling which peaches are the firmest, smelling the $2.99 flowers (I actually bought some today. They’re the same color as sunsets in back of my house.), reading the headlines on the tabloids (apparently Angelina wants to get knocked up again and it’s really affecting her relationship with Brad…), seriously consider buying a cake (I always think about it and even pick one out, but I never purchase one.) and smiling at the cashier. Going grocery shopping is a Zen experience for me. No matter what it always makes me feel grown up. I can remember when I first got my driver’s license, the first thing I wanted to do was go grocery shopping for my mom. I never actually did, I went to the movies. But it was a nice idea.
So I come home from the grocery store, painful red lines on my hands from carrying the flat of spring water, put my milk on the fridge, set my new indoor/outdoor chrysanthemums on the already crowded windowsill, and take a look around me. I see dozens of schoolwork related projects around, stacks of books with post-it tabs sticking out indiscriminately, binders containing guidelines for an assortment of projects, and of course the mischievous sprite that is my planner, glaring at me from my desk. Come to me, it beckons. Come glance inside at the color coded goodness that are my dated pages. See how much you have sold your soul to your homework, it taunts. I stick in a drawer, and then pick yesterday’s underwear off the floor and entertain. After all, Man Hours only come around a few times a week, and I have a dear friend who needed convincing that Hope is far more agreeable than Stewart. We had a fair chat, I bid him adieu, and turn again to the room.
While I could still vaguely hear the stifled bleats of my spiraled planner, I honed one of my many secret borderline-maniacal skills: the art of being tidy. There are many different degrees of this lunacy, the more mild side being picking up clothes and actually putting them in my hamper—a feat—the more severe being on my hands and knees under my desk with the vacuum and some Clorox wipes. I’m afraid this latest attack tended to lean more to the severe.
It was then that I chose to indulge my feminine side, meaning I stripped down to my underwear, put on the most depressing and sappiest movies Syd and I collectively own, and had a good cleansing cry. People underestimate the power of a cleansing cry. It takes the edge off, much like a stiff drink, with the exception that this is perfectly holistic. So I sit in my little nest on the futon, pillows lumped far and wide, quilt swathed around me like a baby-blue cocoon, damp tissues littering the ground as I sniff and choke a little bit on my tears. Again, good cry. Especially when you haven’t cried for ages. It’s great because at first you’re weeping for the characters, then you realize it isn’t about the characters at all, in fact, you don’t know what it’s about at all, but it feels too healthy to stop. And then you do, and everything just seems cleaner. Not you of course, you look a fright what with the fact that your mascara has changed from a solid to a liquid and made its way down your neck in an unseemly fashion.
It is then time for tea. It’s a most comforting tradition for me to make tea. I like to stand in the middle of my room just stirring the teabag around, making sure the sugar dissolves. I sip and survey my domain. And what I see is good, because it is mine.
But there is something to be said about the home and a life of domesticity. While I may have set myself upon a track whose prize is a lofty position in a career that snugly suits me, I frequently wonder what it would be like to simply keep a home. What would it be like to throw out my apprehensions for the future and basically downsize my life to fit within four walls? As a feminist and career-oriented individual, I regret to inform you that it is relatively tempting. With a society so driven by those monsters of money and fame, a-two-for-one-make-a-buck world, where the road to success is extensive and tricky, with no guarantee of security, living off a husband’s paycheck where I spend the day concerning myself with the care of my family and home sounds, if not idyllic, at least cushy. I don’t actually believe that the life of a homemaker is effortless; I’m simply saying that I understand the appeal. Finding joy in routine and having a place to maintain and call your own, even if it is a pitiful little box you’re attempting to home-i-fy by means of convoluted coffee makers, translucent dish sets from Target, and lively throw pillows may actually be just as important as venturing out and making your mark. I didn’t mean this so be sappy and inspirational, I’m just obviously feeling domestic and I use this as a justification for not doing pull-questions and reading Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. So…there’s that. I’m going to clean out the fridge now, I think.
Now, while the societal prospects on Biola’s campus are infinite, sometimes the Holly Homemaker gene kicks in and there is absolutely nothing I desire more than to stand over one of the six communal bathroom sinks with a glistening pool of soapy suds before me overflowing onto the power-washed tile. I am the type of person who pays the extra 30 cents to have my dish soap smell like lavender rather than the lemony perversion of Pine Sol. I am not snobby. I just would like to remember my dishwashing experience as one that was enriching rather than dreadfully mundane. Sadly, I have not at this point fashioned a proficient and engaging way to dispose of the garbage, which is why there are currently three pleasantly plump trash bags seated pitifully by the door.
While we are on the subject of all things domestic with a little What-I-Did-Today, I feel an obligation to mention that I am the happiest person alive when I’m grocery shopping. First of all, I have to do it alone or it doesn’t count. Second of all, I like baskets more than carts. I enjoy walking down every single aisle, even the motor parts and Spanish seasonings ones. I enjoy contrasting prices of milk, fat content of peanut butter, how many minutes it actually takes to microwave the pasta-in-a-bag, and what fruits are on sale. I like feeling which peaches are the firmest, smelling the $2.99 flowers (I actually bought some today. They’re the same color as sunsets in back of my house.), reading the headlines on the tabloids (apparently Angelina wants to get knocked up again and it’s really affecting her relationship with Brad…), seriously consider buying a cake (I always think about it and even pick one out, but I never purchase one.) and smiling at the cashier. Going grocery shopping is a Zen experience for me. No matter what it always makes me feel grown up. I can remember when I first got my driver’s license, the first thing I wanted to do was go grocery shopping for my mom. I never actually did, I went to the movies. But it was a nice idea.
So I come home from the grocery store, painful red lines on my hands from carrying the flat of spring water, put my milk on the fridge, set my new indoor/outdoor chrysanthemums on the already crowded windowsill, and take a look around me. I see dozens of schoolwork related projects around, stacks of books with post-it tabs sticking out indiscriminately, binders containing guidelines for an assortment of projects, and of course the mischievous sprite that is my planner, glaring at me from my desk. Come to me, it beckons. Come glance inside at the color coded goodness that are my dated pages. See how much you have sold your soul to your homework, it taunts. I stick in a drawer, and then pick yesterday’s underwear off the floor and entertain. After all, Man Hours only come around a few times a week, and I have a dear friend who needed convincing that Hope is far more agreeable than Stewart. We had a fair chat, I bid him adieu, and turn again to the room.
While I could still vaguely hear the stifled bleats of my spiraled planner, I honed one of my many secret borderline-maniacal skills: the art of being tidy. There are many different degrees of this lunacy, the more mild side being picking up clothes and actually putting them in my hamper—a feat—the more severe being on my hands and knees under my desk with the vacuum and some Clorox wipes. I’m afraid this latest attack tended to lean more to the severe.
It was then that I chose to indulge my feminine side, meaning I stripped down to my underwear, put on the most depressing and sappiest movies Syd and I collectively own, and had a good cleansing cry. People underestimate the power of a cleansing cry. It takes the edge off, much like a stiff drink, with the exception that this is perfectly holistic. So I sit in my little nest on the futon, pillows lumped far and wide, quilt swathed around me like a baby-blue cocoon, damp tissues littering the ground as I sniff and choke a little bit on my tears. Again, good cry. Especially when you haven’t cried for ages. It’s great because at first you’re weeping for the characters, then you realize it isn’t about the characters at all, in fact, you don’t know what it’s about at all, but it feels too healthy to stop. And then you do, and everything just seems cleaner. Not you of course, you look a fright what with the fact that your mascara has changed from a solid to a liquid and made its way down your neck in an unseemly fashion.
It is then time for tea. It’s a most comforting tradition for me to make tea. I like to stand in the middle of my room just stirring the teabag around, making sure the sugar dissolves. I sip and survey my domain. And what I see is good, because it is mine.
But there is something to be said about the home and a life of domesticity. While I may have set myself upon a track whose prize is a lofty position in a career that snugly suits me, I frequently wonder what it would be like to simply keep a home. What would it be like to throw out my apprehensions for the future and basically downsize my life to fit within four walls? As a feminist and career-oriented individual, I regret to inform you that it is relatively tempting. With a society so driven by those monsters of money and fame, a-two-for-one-make-a-buck world, where the road to success is extensive and tricky, with no guarantee of security, living off a husband’s paycheck where I spend the day concerning myself with the care of my family and home sounds, if not idyllic, at least cushy. I don’t actually believe that the life of a homemaker is effortless; I’m simply saying that I understand the appeal. Finding joy in routine and having a place to maintain and call your own, even if it is a pitiful little box you’re attempting to home-i-fy by means of convoluted coffee makers, translucent dish sets from Target, and lively throw pillows may actually be just as important as venturing out and making your mark. I didn’t mean this so be sappy and inspirational, I’m just obviously feeling domestic and I use this as a justification for not doing pull-questions and reading Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. So…there’s that. I’m going to clean out the fridge now, I think.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
I'm just not that into it...yet.
So obviously I don't have the whole "Look at me I have a blog" thing down yet...but in my defense I am a very busy and important person and have nay pages of Aquinas to read and practical social obligations so I'll do my freaking best, alright? Geez. But, um, don't leave. I'll give the masses what they want....writing, sometimes offensive, some quotes interspersed...maybe...but patience is an imprtant virtue that most of us haven't quite mastered yet so...yea.
Plus I'm kind of pissed off that it won't let me post the picture I want in there. Which is, needless to say, Rosie the Riveter.
Plus I'm kind of pissed off that it won't let me post the picture I want in there. Which is, needless to say, Rosie the Riveter.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Taylor Gets A Blog
So Taylor got a blog. Which is weird, as she was rather persisiant on resisting the impending tempation of the blogging world, partly due to personal ethics and respect for words she dosn't want co-opted and devalued, and partly because she is just that stubborn.
There are three reasons why she got a blog. Here they are.
Respectable Reason #1: She hates Myspace.
Respectable Reason #2: She wanted to write again.
Respectable Reason #3: She had the following conversation:
Respectable Person: "Hey Taylor, you should get a blog."
Taylor: "Um, okay."
So there's that. Hopefully I won't go all freaky obsessive but I do like to write...like, alot, so I can't promise much.
P.S. If you care, the name deal is from this British guy I know who instead of saying someone is crazy, he will say that they are as mad as a box of frogs. Why? He's British. I figure it's just like vernacular. But I think it's kind of campy, plus I know we all secretly want to open a box and find it full of frogs. That would just be cool. The URL is from a Joni Mitchell song. I highly reccommend Joni Mitchell to anyone who has any desire to feel thier feelings and be a proper, decent human being.
There are three reasons why she got a blog. Here they are.
Respectable Reason #1: She hates Myspace.
Respectable Reason #2: She wanted to write again.
Respectable Reason #3: She had the following conversation:
Respectable Person: "Hey Taylor, you should get a blog."
Taylor: "Um, okay."
So there's that. Hopefully I won't go all freaky obsessive but I do like to write...like, alot, so I can't promise much.
P.S. If you care, the name deal is from this British guy I know who instead of saying someone is crazy, he will say that they are as mad as a box of frogs. Why? He's British. I figure it's just like vernacular. But I think it's kind of campy, plus I know we all secretly want to open a box and find it full of frogs. That would just be cool. The URL is from a Joni Mitchell song. I highly reccommend Joni Mitchell to anyone who has any desire to feel thier feelings and be a proper, decent human being.
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