Thought on a Freedom Friday

There is something about Friday's that makes them always seem so much more casual, relaxed, friendly even. No matter how hard you work you can hear, issuing from the secret depth of your soul, that little voice of optimism singing "the weekend, the weekend, the weekend is here!" But today is not just a Friday, it is the Friday between classes and exams, and I have turned in most of my papers (the major ones, thank goodness), taken my first exam, and can now look forward to a light day of work today and a late morning tomorrow. On top of this, the air is clear, though nippy, and the clouds are doing wonderful wispy things in the sky. Oh, and did I mention it's December and Yuletide spirits always make me feel creative?

A while ago my brother and I had a conversation about science fiction and fantasy. We were trying to figure out where comic books fell, and ended up having to define the two categories first. This is a debate that I'm hoping to get into again sometime, for I'm still not absolutely sure of my position. But I am convinced that, even though Superheroes like Spiderman use science to gain their powers and make their gadgets, comic books function as fantasy. This conviction does not come from any sort of ridiculing of the science found within their colorful pages, but from the focus on the hero and the hero's place in the world. Fantasy, after all, usually revolves around some sort of unlikely hero who is good and just, and able, surprisingly enough, to conquer the powerful evil that threatens his world. Harry Potter certainly fulfills this, as do Frodo and Garion and so many other protagonist that have been inked into this world. Fantasy loves to see the struggle between good and evil, and it loves to let good win out.

Science fiction has always seem colder and more calculating. It should, I suppose, for it is not about the individual as much as it is about society. Keeping in mind that this is a unpolished generalization, think of the great classics. Asimov's I Robot, for instance, which questions how man would respond to artificial intelligence. The series, too, provides a plot that seems almost like a canvas on which to display different ways of living so that we can better discover how we should live. Even Ender's Game, which has a hero of sorts, is presented more as a social experiment than an excuse to talk about anti-gravity and aliens. It is how Ender's government reacts to certain events, how Ender's siblings use politics to manipulate the nation's leaders, even how a person, perhaps you or me or a super smart child, might react if they were taken up into space to learn war.

Anyway, like I said, I haven't really thought through it all yet, but I read a book over Thanksgiving that brought the conversation to my mind. It was the second imager book, and I was enjoying the complexity of the world the author had created, and thinking how much more I knew about this fictional world's politics than my own, when it struck me. Imager is science fiction. Even though it is set in a different universe, and not on an Earth a thousand years from now, or some alien home world only recently discovered; even though the bad guys use poison and guns to attack the good guys, and people travel on wooden ships and trains; even though it's main character is certainly a hero, one with magical powers no less; despite all these things, it is Science Fiction. It is Science fiction because it is about societies. It's not about good conquering evil, it's about how things are tied together and what would happen if they were tied a little differently. The former is why science fiction is called science fiction and not social fiction (jeepers, that sounds frightful doesn't it?) – the "how things work" attitude of science is directly transfered to people. The latter is the "what if" of scifi – what if people were telepathic? or if the government could track us? or what if there was a world somewhere where some people had strange powers but most didn't? Wouldn't the people with these powers need to find a balance between respect and fear with the rest of the world? Wouldn't they have to be careful in how they effected politics?

Living Arts

Don't you just love this season? The air is delightfully brisk, as if it were alive, and the sky, when unadorned with clouds, is crisp and clear. And, best of all, everywhere you look there are signs of Christmas.

About three weeks ago I wasn't thinking about Christmas at all. I was thinking of papers and thanksgiving, but only in a back-of-the-mind sort of way. What really filled my every thought was theatre. Specifically the Barter Theater. I have been developing a love of theatre ever since I went to New York and saw The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway. There's something intoxicating about live performance. Since then I've been able to enjoy some well done college productions. In fact, the night before I left for Abingdon VA, where the Barter Theatre is located, I was able to enjoy Jane Eyre: A Musical. Having just completed reading the novel the week before, I found this adaptation amusing in some parts, but nonetheless spectacular.

But what about Barter? The Barter theatre has a really cool history, which my group and I found out on our tour. It was started by actor Robert Porterfield during the Great Depression. Since there was no money in New York, the usual home for stage folk, and more food than money in the country, the enterprising Portefield came down with a bunch of his friends and they proceeded to barter their acting skills. Thirty-five cents worth of food would buy you a ticket, and people from all over would come with their pails of milk, corn, and baby pigs. Now days the Barter theatre takes paper money and credit, but not livestock. They also have two stages, a gift shop, and an old collapsed tunnel in their basement that is supposed to be haunted.

We got to see three shows while we were there: Frankenstein, Tom Sawyer, and Heaven Sent. I had read Frankenstein back in October, and Heaven Sent was an adaptation of Silas Marner, which I read during the summer, but to my continual embarrassment I have yet to read Tom Sawyer. That didn't effect the performance though, the plays were all amazing in different ways, though my group like Heaven Sent best of all.

Frankenstein had some impressive child actors. At one point the monster throws a little boy off the rocky mountain prop onto a thick, blue fall mat, marked with a huge white X. It's a height of about sixteen feet, and the cushion is, of course, hidden from the audience. I had seen it on our tour backstage, but oh! The thrill that went through my heart when I saw that child slice through the air. Another cool aspect of this show was the stage. There were numerous tracks on the floor so that different props, like doors and beds, could slide on and off stage easily.

Tom Sawyer had so much energy. It was preformed by six adults, but it featured over ten characters, a troublesome bit of math on paper but not at all a problem for Barter. Most of their plays feature few actors playing several parts. Tom Sawyer was performed on the second "stage," though this was more like a floor, with the seats rising up around it. I rather wish I could have gone with my younger siblings, I think they would have enjoyed the wonderful creativity of it.

Heaven Sent, though, that was the cream of the crop. It was almost a musical, but not really. Set in Kentucky during the Great Depression, and therefore filled with the smartest period clothing (there are aspects of that era's style that I just love to pieces). It featured the most adorable little girl, and an equally endearing crotchety old man. It kept us in smiles, while sometimes wandering close to tears, and I wouldn't mind watching it again.

The whole trip was enjoyable. Abingdon is a beautiful little town, amid equally beautiful rolling green hills. If you're you're ever traveling through Virginia and find yourself with an extra day or two do yourself a favor and check it out. Everyone's better with a little theatre.

Which puts me in mind of a book......

Of the last three Saturdays it has rained, to some extent, on two of them, which definitely makes me think of this story I once read. I can't quite remember if it was a L.M. Montgomery story or a Kate Douglas Wiggin story, but I suspect the latter. At least, I seem to remember it was the latter. At any rate, the fact that it usually rains on a Saturday, when added to the belief on the side of the weather men that it would rain whether it was a weekend or not, makes that one bright, if chilly, Saturday all that much more amazing – especially since there was a parade.

I might as well tell you now that I was in it, and that the float I helped out with belonged to the Victorian Society, and having said that there is nothing really left to add but that I was colder than I wished but warmer than I expected. I was in costume, of course, and my family surly will remember how much effort my dear mother put into the dream dress that I wore. A decidedly summer dress, for a most uncannily fall-like day. But all in all the parade was fun, I loved being in it: throwing candy at children, watching the looks on the girls' faces as they were presented with carnations, listening to the fiddle being played right beside me. And it was just as much fun preparing, with paints and papers, hot chocolate and tea, and wonderful examples of creativity springing forth from every quarter. I never knew so many crafty people to gather in one place, but there we were.

Maybe I will one day look back on this time and wonder at myself for passing over these monumental events with such a careless form of acknowledgment, but really, if I was to be every day journalizing the occurrences that leave a deep impression on my mind I would never leave off writing. Last night one of the girls in our little apartment chased a spider out of her room. It was the largest spider I have ever seen outside of a pet shop. It's body must've been bigger than a quarter, and it was so furry and quick. Ugh! I hate feeling squeamish a over a little thing like a bug, but this was no little bug. It was monstrous. A mutant, equally likely either to give us extraordinary powers or kill us with it's venom. It was too disgusting to capture on film, and too sneaky to let out of my sight while I looked for my camera. But believe this fish tale of mine, it was a whopper.

Hello,

It was one of those nights when the sins of the city seemed to have blacked out the sun, reminding us that we humans really were brothers, with more in common than is often remembered. The low, warm lights of the club soaked over us as we drank at the bar, but they weren't able to penetrate the smoke that drifted from the ladies long cigarettes, or discover the color of eyes from behind allusive black veils. So the lights glistened off the brass instruments of the band as it played on undaunted by the gloomy faces of it's listeners, or the deadness of the world outside. Caroming off the piano, and glancing off the sax, the lights threw their dying beams on the soft, yellow equipment behind the bar. The enamel surfaces seemed to be beckoning alluringly as they caught the light on their curves, throwing blemish into shadow and adding mystery to an otherwise clear cut form. As the bar maid turned away from one such appliance, bearing once more a round of drinks to keep the night at bay, the band struck up another tune to mingle with our sighs and so turn misery into music.

I have wanted to post this for a long time, but then I was busy with a work that was too delicious to complain about, and then – after a crazy three weeks of Fielding's Tom Jones, Mansfield Park, Richard II, and Hamlet – when I finally got a break – nothing. I took part in Perfect, Peaceful, Blissful Nothing. And now, Tom Jones finished, break over, and new book begun, it is finally time to let you see the beauty that has come into my life.

It makes me think of sunshine, or butter, or jazz music. I could fill this whole page with pictures of it, but sadly, even here, I have business. First up, and it's been bugging me for a while, when I mentioned Pamela I had forgotten the word for a book written as a series of letters. That words is, of course, epistle. But that's old news, you want updates, you want story. Well, how's this?

They're my second pair of Jaywalkers, the first being still in progress. I finished them during The Return of the King, which I watched, marathon style, last Friday. Like I said, on my break I did nothing. These sock were fun to knit, very cheerful, very full of whimsy, and giggles, and precious things. I had fun trying out different kinds of edgings for the cuffs. Which one do you like better?

Another great reason for finally posting is Saturday. On Saturday I'm going to be taking part in a parade. It's a small parade, but it is still something completely out of my sphere of experience, so I'm hoping to cement it into fact by describing the event to you later. Preparations for it started Monday, and are on going. I'm in charge of decorating the cardboard Teacups and I'm having so much fun with them I'm starting to wonder if I could make a living just decorating cardboard shapes. I think that would pretty much be heaven.

In other, actual news, I have started learning the deep mysteries of Dreamweaver. I love to think that, one day, it will be useful to know, but until then I'm just having tons of fun. Photoshop is more entertaining, I could sit and play in it all day long, but Dreamweaver provides a goal, a point, a frame to paint within. My friends are probably tired of me sending them random "postcards" inspired by the default images on my classes' PCs, but one day, when I'm using those same skill to put together a website of my own, they will understand that all has not been in vain.

At least, that's what I'd like to think.

Dorks and delights....

Something else I love.......

             I've been feeling  quite dorky lately, if I may use that as a serious term and not a childish insult (If I mayn't then I guess I'll have to be content with whatever connotations are connected with that word. I don't think there really is a good synonym for it). First of all I have to tell you that I have managed to stain almost every single shirt I own. Not dusty patches of flour that can just be washed off either, but marks of all sizes and colors, with unknown origins, completely resistant to water and detergent. If anyone knows the best way of getting stains out of clothes I would much appreciate their advise. It has been said before, but one really can endure almost anything as long as they are well dressed. 

                        Of course, being well dressed means next to nothing when you find yourself sprawled on the sidewalk with your bike around your ankles. I love my bike, it is beautiful. It is blue. It lets me fly, filling my soul with bubbles of laughter. But sometimes I think it is trying to kill me. Perhaps that's what it was thinking when it toppled over yesterday, causing my juice bottle to fall out and spill all over the white cement. At the moment I was almost convinced that it was going to get its wish, I was pretty embarrassed. The worst part about where I live is that there are so many nice people. So the moment I fell there were a half a dozen "are you all rights?"At such times, one must pick themselves up and gently right their horrid vehicle, and all while smiling and nodding and shaking their head ruefully and saying "only my pride" and such nonsense. I now have a really pretty patch of pink skin that gradually becomes red before fanning out in a blueish purple mist. 

         But enough about me. I promised to give my opinion of Moll Flanders, now that it's been properly discussed, but I'm afraid my judgement stays the same. She was not reformed enough in my opinion to serve as a proper warning, which is what she was supposed to be. I've moved on to Pamela, which I liked exceedingly well until page 251, when the girl lost practically all worth in my eyes. There are still two hundred pages to go in her defense, but I hardly think they will be able to absolve her of this one huge blot of stupidity.  

             It's interesting to be reading these first novels, written in 1722 and 1740 respectively, while also reading Pride and Prejudice, which was published in 1813. The whole feel of them is completely different, as was, no doubt, their intended audience. It's fun to be able to toss one's head knowingly and chalk it all up to society's changing perspective of the novel. Did you know, they were originally coarse in both quality and content and therefore regarded as scandalous? How far we've come from that, and yet how many ways it still holds true. At any rate, these 18th century books are doing strange things to my English, as you can probably tell. But even that is fun, in it's own right.    

Doing what I love

"What a foolish thing he was doing, walking like this under an open sky, with a beautiful man child for any evil spirit passing by to see!... and he said in a loud voice, 'What a pity our child is a female whom no one could want and covered with smallpox as well!..'"        

– Pearl Buck, The Good Earth

You know those people who love to work because their work is what they love? That is, what they get to call work happens to be, for them, a passion. I never thought I'd be one of those people, well, not in a while. When I was six I naturally assumed it, I knew without a doubt I'd be a librarian. And now I find myself actually living like this, being required to do what I love. What is it I'm doing? In a word: reading. 

              I finished Moll Flanders on Sunday, I'll reserve judgement for after the group discussion, but I don't think Defoe quite managed what he set out to do. It is mean spirited of me, but I'd have rather she died a penitent in Newgate than live to lie another day. I start Pamela on Wednesdayuntil then I'm reading Pride and Prejudice. Yes, I have read it a million times already, but this time I have to read it. Woe is me, I've been ordered to read an Austen. I'm also reading Macbeth and various poems (Free Verse, none of which are to my fancy, so I'll spare you the names). That's all for mandatory reading.

                  On Thursday a beautiful package arrived at the post office. I picked it up and opened it with restless hands eager to stroke the spine that they knew was enclosed. Ah, the smell of books – especially books with end papers, gilded

 edges, and leather covers – can simply not be surpassed by earth, chocolate, or even bread. The book's contents are as much worth mentiong as its aroma. It is The Good Earth, by Pearl Buck, on loan to me from my grandfather,  and it is about Wang Lung and his family. Wang Lung is a chinese peasant who works hard for his food, understands the value of land, and worries, when he gets too happy, that the spirits will punsih him. The facts of his life, even the few everyday ones, are so different from anything that I have ever known that the book cannot help to be diverting, though there is no intense plot (of course, Moll Flanders didn't have much of a plot either). 

               To top off my week from paradise, I've actually cast-on for the second sock and have already knit to the heel. This is the fastest I've ever knit a sock, not to mention the closets cast-off/ cast-on time for a pair. But even this pales to dinner on Friday: quiche and apple pie toped with vanilla ice cream, all made with a friend in the spirit of anything-goes.  

                  

Last Bit of Reading.....

Before I forget entirely, let me draw your attention to two books that I was thankfully able to read before my summer ended. Both were recommended on different blogs (and no, I can't remember which ones they were).

The first one I read was The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie which was very cleverly written mystery, with a delightfully morbid sense of humor, if you like that sort of thing. In fact, I was a little afraid at first because the opening sentence describes the tweleve year old protagonist's wall paper by comparing it to dried blood. And the girl herself, Flavia, of all things, is rather scary. Her passion is poisons, and her craft is chemistry. Therefore there are lots of chemical mentionings throughout the novel, (references to herbs, referring to minerals in latin, and that sort of thing). Her family is also a little offsetting. There's no happy family here, but one complex tangle of solitude and grudges. It made me feel rather sad, though I suppose it made for a more interesting read. All in all the book was perfect for summer, with everything from murder to bicycle rides. I'll be interested to see if the promised sequels to this book can live up to it.

The second book has a title so long that I'm going to have to look it up, I just call it the Potato Peel Pie book, but that won't do here. It's full name is The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, which will make sense to the reader about ten or fifteen letters in. Yes, that's right, this is a book of letters. Ever sense I read Daddy Long Legs (by Jane Webster) and Letters From Camp (by Kate Kilse), I have been in love with letter novels*. Is there a term for them? There must be somewhere. Anyway, this book take places right after the end of WWII, but the reader gets the chance to hear many different accounts of what happened during WWII. While most of the recollections are from people who were on the island of Guernsey when it was occupied by the Germans, some of them are from survivors of labor camps. Some of the stories will leave you feeling ever so small. This made an edifying read, if I may use that word in this context. By the last third of the book, though, most of the "history" aspect disappears. If you've managed to get that far you won't mind the lighter turn it takes, you will be so interested in what happens to the characters you won't be able to put it down anyway.

But there were somethings that I didn't like about it. The main character struck me as a person I wouldn't get along with, I can't really explain why, unless it's that I'm narrowed minded and stodgy, while she is opened minded and uninhibited. More concretely, there was no end notes that said "yes these things really happened" or "while these exact things didn't happen, very similar events did occur. " I really like that in historical fiction, it makes me feel better about using novels as a basis for facts. In the end though, all my words mean very little. The only way to know if a book is really any good is to go out and read it for yourself.

*Also, one of my favorite books as a teen was Ella Enchanted, which had a section of letters between the main characters. Kate Kilse, though, will always be the measure I use to evaluate all such books.

The Great Annual Review of Summer Accomplishments

"Who reflects too much will accomplish little"

– Schiller, Wilhelm Tell, III, i (qtd. in Bartlett's) 

        Oooh, my first ever loaf of bread!

I have left my family's house again, and in leaving have had to admit how much I've left unaccomplished. I had such plans of pleated wrap skirts, neatly sewed; Cute cardigans, and colorful shrugs; Books devoured and carefully recorded... And amidst all this I was to keep a careful schedule with you, oh unseen reader.

                 I did do some things though, let's see I made an apron. It took one day to cut and sew, and only ten minuets to learn that you should not practice making button holes on an item intended for wear. The button hole debacle, combined with the ribbon fraying  fiasco, extended an otherwise short project, into the netherlands of eventually. I did finish it though, and I rather like it. I used one of my mom's aprons as a guide, but added criss-crossing straps (One of the missionaries had an apron with these kinds of straps and I adored wearing it, even if it meant doing dishes). 

                      At the start of the summer Theo and I started our fist cardigans. She's knitting Hey Teach, and I'm knitting February Lady. See my little progress bars on the side? It's the Je Ne Sais Quoi bar, the one that is only 15% complete. I'm really winging the pattern, since I'm using a lightweight linen yarn instead of the recommend wool, so I keep having to try it on to make sure I'm on the right course. Though this sounds simple, it involves finding loose string and transferring half a million little stitches onto it, and then back off it when I'm done. If I could just get over my dislike of this process I could reach the lace portion of the sweater in no time.

Another First Button Hole

            While avoiding the Lady, I finished another lonely sock, and made a Knit Picks order. City Tweed (in Plum Wine and Habanero), Comfy (in Cypress),  Imagination (Damsel and Frog Prince), and  Wool of Andes (in Pewter). 

Yum..... Yarn. Shouldn't yarn be enough of an accomplishment for anyone? 

Remembering

My memory can be pretty bad. Not about the trivial things, mind you, but about the things that really matter. Or the things I want to matter, which aren't always the same things. I know that, last year, I wanted to remember August sixth. But I probably wouldn't have if I hadn't been going through pictures of Japan. I'm trying to get my scrapbook put together (finally) and the first step is figuring out which of the 2,000 pictures I want to print out. I've narrowed it down to one hundred so far, I'm hoping to print out only twenty.

 If it means denial, then yes, I'm an optimist. 

I promised you a report on my family's trip to the Smithsonian, so here it is:

       If you are planning on going to the Smitsonian, and you are planning on taking small children, and you are not on some kind of mental medication, then let me now advise you to first consult a psychratrist. After you have been assured that your mental health is okay you should:

1. Double check your travel method. We left the house thinking we'd take the MARC train to Carrollton. We left the MARC train station disillusioned, and in our van. It turns out that it is cheaper to drive six people than ship them along in a train. The distance is pretty much the same, too.   
   
2. Take time. Little kids especially resist this rule, but older people have trouble with it too. "Three musems and one restraunt, and all in six hours? We have plenty of time."  Is what you might be thinking, but no. Plan at least two hours for each museum. And unless you plan on dining on location, make sure you give yourself plenty of time to eat too. 
3. Know what interest you. We went to the air and space museum first (which was so crowded it was hard to interest the non-readers) and, besides the imax presentation of Fly, didn't really know what to look at. We had a lot more fun at the natural history museum ( who else can't stop calling it the national history museum?), but we also had less time. The American history muesum was fun too, and reminds me of point number 4.

4. Know when things close. Though the musems stay open late, certain activites stop after 4:30. For instance, the American Museum's SparkLab, which is a hands on chemistry lab for children, was already shut down by the time we wandered over to it. Things may be less crowded after five, but remember that space comes with a price. 
5. Bring Your Happy Face. The best way to insure that your trip will go sour is to be sour. It's good to be structured during the planning stages but once you get there relax. 

If you haven't been (or haven't been in a while) you really should go. It's not only fun, it's informative. It also beats watching repeats on Hulu. 

P.S. Don't forget lesson number six. If your going to bring a camera, make sure you know how to work it. 

July, July, ,July

         There's a saying about bees in July, how they aren't worth a fly (whereas bees in June and May have actual value). On the other hand, a picture is always worth something, no matter what month it is taken in. 

          I actually picked this up (dead bee and all) and carried it inside to show it off. I don't particularly like bugs, and sometimes dead bugs are even creepier than live ones, but it was worth it. 

           I've finally read, for the very first time, The Old Man and the Sea. And three random novels  have also been duly devoured. I've three more books, plus the ones I put on hold, and then I'll go back to the guardian challenge. The three books are non-fiction, which sadly makes things go much slower at the beginning. But I think they'll be very interesting once I actually start them. I know I read way too much fiction, and from the juvenile section too, and I'm hoping I can mature my taste gradually over the next decade. Yes, I'm still idealistic enough to think taste can mature.

            Reading is so nice and relaxing, and I haven't been doing enough of it these past few years. I'm afraid I've become something of a couch potato. In fact, besides a few online obligations, I've had nothing to do all summer until a few weeks ago when I finally got a part time job. It's the best job imaginable. I get to hang out with two of the cutest boys you ever saw, while playing with an incredibly intelligent girl. They're triplets, and they're about sixteen months old. You can imagine how difficult it would be to raise three children all at the same time, but witnessing it makes all the difference. Even simple chores, like groccery shopping, become complicated. 

             I wanted to end this post with a picture of the carnival my family went to  a few weeks ago, but I think I'll show it to you next time instead. Oooh, I have a lot to catch you up on. I better get busy, huh?

Self Infliction, or the Guardians Challenge

                Sometime ago, about two five weeks I'd guess, I stumbled upon a book blog and discovered the Guardian Challenge. The Guardian is a british paper that has published a list of 1000 novels which they think are the best of the best. The idea of the challenge is to read 10 novels from the list  (1%), with at least one book from each of the seven sections (comedy, family, love, state of the nation, sci-fi/fantasy, and crime). A day spent on the library's website and a short jaunt out to pick up my my holds and I was in business. My choices were pretty random, and I only checked out five to begin with, but I thought I'd review some of them for you just for fun (Photos courtesy of Amazon). 

A Room With A View by E.M. Forster

Set partly in Italy and Partly in the English countryside, this book really made me want to travel. It was enjoyable to read, with lots of description and digressions-which-were-not. That is, a lot of the book wasn't actual dialogue but a summary of dialogue written in a general way as if it were unimportant to the plot. Plot is an interesting word to use in accordance with this book because one didn't get the feeling that the book was about the plot. The first half seemed a commentary on the rules of propriety; though the author never says a word against the rules, the reader cannot help thinking some of them just make things worse. The second half was definitely more story-oriented, but it too makes the characters seem like a backdrop for something else. Some idea or philosophy that you can't quite put your finger on. I think this is why I didn't like this book. I mean, I liked reading it, but I didn't like it. I prefer a story, I suppose, and I couldn't shake the vague feeling that this book wasn't about the story. The characters were slightly alien to me too. Sometimes they did things that seemed completely out there. Their reactions to certain events made no sense to me. (Cecil thanking Lucy was particularly odd). I'd recommend this book, because it was enjoyable to read (I'll probably read it again. Eventually), but I wouldn't buy it. 

                               Silas Marner by George Eliot 

                    After reading the backcover of this book I realized I had seen a movie remake of it, with Steve Martin no less. I'd advise all people interested to read the book first and then watch the movie – The book needs all the suspense you can give it. Like Forster's book, this one's plot was pretty simple. When I say that I do not mean to say it was bad or to otherwise disparage its worth,  I'm merely trying to explain what it feels like reading it. Most of the "adult" books I've read have been from the sci-fi/fantasy genre and involve an intricate weaving of plot, setting, and characters. This book weaves those things together too, but the whole feel is simplicity. The historical setting, for instance, was understated and would have totally gone over my head if I had not been reading an edition which mentioned it over and over agin in the forward. 

              The book is only 176 pages long, but even so it has very few actual events and quite a lot of character-oriented introspection. There is a whole chapter of country dialogue, complete with accent and unique grammar structure, which has no effect on the plot. Even the men who are talking are little more than names, so that it is more an insight into village thought than into the minds of specific people in a specific village. Because there is not much dialogue, and even less action, I found it hard to care for most of the characters. For all that, the book was okay. Rather like oatmeal, neither overwhelmingly bad nor astoundingly good, but neutral with overtones grayness. But every now and then there would be a sentence that made me smile. I especially loved this one:

"In that moment the mother's love pleaded for painful consciousness rather than oblivion –  pleaded to be left in aching weariness, rather than to have the encircling arms benumbed so that they could not feel the dear burden."

(Dis)May

"Authors.... As much creatures of the reader's imagination as the characters in their books."

– Alan Bennett, The Uncommon Reader

I stare around me in equal parts delight and dismay. The first month of summer (as the school year has taught us to call it) has been and gone, with only memories too prove it existed. Here are my vital signs to prove I have been virtually active during this period of blog silence:

Favorite song on Pandora: Laura Gibson's "Hands in Pockets' – I love the lines "So goes another winter slowly/ Hands in the pocket of my coat." The whole song invokes the feeling of fortitude one must draw on to get oneself through the cold school days that seem to last so long. Now that it's summer I can enjoy the coolness of the melody even more.  

Recommended Blog: The Family Trunk Project – this is, at first glance, a knitting blog maintained by a designer. But the premise of the blog, as suggested in the title, is unique. The author is slowly designing a pieces of clothing for each of her parents, grandparents, etc. Reading how she translates her relatives' characteristics into knitting is interesting no matter how you look at it. But even if you couldn't care less for textiles, you should definitely Open The Family Trunk and take a peek at her history. One day, I am confident, she will inspire me to get acquainted with my own relatives. 

              I have also been making waves on the crafty front. I've made an apron (which still needs to be re-hemmed and buttoned) and I've received the yarn for the February Lady Sweater. I'm making it out of a beautiful french blue linen yarn know as Euroflax. If you are  familiar with this yarn and this pattern you may be wondering what I'm thinking. Do not fear, I'm prepared to make drastic changes to the pattern with the help of my calculator and ruler. But first my needles have to arrive. Theo has already started her summer cardigan project. It's not a race of course, but I'm going to have to knit fast to catch up. 

Hero.... or Hopeless

"Hold on," he said, stopping the car, "I'll have to open that door for you."

"Oh. It's child-locked." I said, simply, as I stared at the door, hoping it would reveal it's secrets.

"Well, kind of." He replied , opening the door for me to hop out of. "It's to keep people in  who don't want to come quietly." 

I nodded. It made sense for a police car. 

   I finally got my bike back today. It has been chained up for two weeks, but since I'm going home I kind of need it. There's no day like the last day to visit the local police station and see if they have a bike-chain snipper. I wish I could've gotten a picture of those babies. They were probably as long as my arm is from the shoulder to the fingers, and the head, the cutting part, was a little bigger than my hand. They were huge, and they cut through the plastic and braided metal of my chain easily enough. At least, it looked easy when the young policeman did it. 

           My next post will be from home concerning home (hopefully with pictures). I'l leave you with the knowledge that I have started a new sock project: pink and brown jaywalkers. 

Copeland

"Eat, Sleep, Repeat." 

That's not where I am. I saw it on the back of a car today and thought it was funny, but it's not where I am. I'm still in Focuscity. I've a lot, lot, lot to do, and very little mind to do it with. I'm moving! I'll be back here on this hill in a few months, but until then I'm going back to my parents home. I can't wait to take my baby sister in my arms and give her a great big squeeze. Then there will be the shocking flow of words form my other sister, and a calm steadiness from her older  brother. Or the flashy wit of his older brother, and the teenage confidence of the alpha brother. I'm looking forward to getting reacquainted with all of them, but I'll miss this place too. 

           I'll miss the way the sunset is painting the bottom of the clouds orange. And how even now, when I look over at the distant mountains, I can half believe there's a golden sea just behind them, complete with inlets and islands. The weather has been a little strange today, as it is most days here, but I say it all worked out for the best. 

The Heat Goes on.....

It has been hot since Friday. Hot and bright. Glaringly bright. The kind of brightness that gives you a smirk and goes "Hah, don't you wish you had your camera so you could capture the flowers, the clouds, the sunsets, the breath taking beauty of it all?" To scorn the glare and enjoy the sun I checked a volume of P.G. Wodehouse's Jeeves stories out of the library. They are petty little works, I suppose, with none of the lasting importance of Shakespeare or  Pope, but they are amusing. And they have had a impact on us, you know. Though it is dying out, there is still the "Ask Jeeves" search engine to be traced back to that perfect essence of a gentleman's man. There is charm in Wooster's absurd slang, in Jeeves obvious superiority, in the insecurity of their bachelorhood. There is also a quaint sort of charm in the utter stupidity of all the characters, excluding Jeeves of course. Jeeves is rather like Sherlock Holmes. Your first impulse is to sourly wish a woman into his life to show him what's what, but you come to your senses in time. Neither of these men could be themselves if they were not bachelors. Whatever makes a man go down that road, these two men have it in spades. Perhaps it is an unfortunately  accurate perception of their own superiority. 

But I must stop with books, this post is dedicated to the letter 'G' and so to 'G' I must turn. Grapes, graves, gowns, and games. The latter, I think, would make an excellent topic. I do love a good game. What is a good Game? 

1. It Engages the Player: this is why goldfish is not usually regarded as a fun game. There is neither strategy or action, just repetition. Unless you know some really groovy people to play with you will be bored out of your skull. Which brings me to the next point
2. It Creates an Avenue for Interaction: This nixes out solitary and most computer games, which are engaging but rather unfulfilling unless you regularly discuss them with other players. Don't get me wrong, even if you don't say a word to your chess opponent you are still interacting. Playing games does not have to be just another way of being social, but it should allow you react to outside stimuli. 
3. It is Challenging: This is not an absolute criteria. Some games are perfect but not challenging at all. However, the best games make you feel as if you are doing something, even if it isn't super hard. Better games leave the difficulty up to the skill of your opponent. Thus, chess is better than trivial pursuit, which is better than Sorry. 

Focus

         I suppose it had to be addressed sooner or later, but I am not good at focusing. I get distracted pretty easily if I'm doing something even slightly tedious. For years this has led to late nights spent throwing myself into work that I just could not concentrate on before. Last minute panic was the only thing that could force me to work on something. This has, sadly, not really improved as I've aged, but I think there is still hope for me. Maybe. I'm starting to desire a more peaceful, thoughtful approach to my work. Before I didn't really care so much as long as I got it turned in, but now I really want to feel proud of what I've accomplished. 

            I'm starting to experiment with  strategic withdrawal, which I think might be necessary to prevent complete attention loss. If I accidentally start looking at this and that then, before you know it, whole days go by before I resume work. However, if I purposely go "okay, work for this much time and then take a break to do X" or "Finish this much and then give yourself  so-and-so amount of time to rest the noggin," then I won't be able to wander off. I'll have stopped working, but only to regroup. This is the difference, I hope, between a retreat and a desertion. It's still in experimental stages, like I said. In fact, right now is one of my breaks. Eventually I hope to mature to the point where my discipline is high enough that I can enjoy work for its own sake, and not merely to get it done. Until then, I just hope I can break the midnight habit.* 

       Here's an unrelated musing: I saw a funeral home the other night, out of the corner of my eye. I stared at it as I was driven by, its sign waving in the wind. It struck me, who would want their name on such a sign? Who would want their name used for a funeral home? Offices of law I can understand, but to have you name swinging in front of a place for the dead; every time I saw it  I would feel as if I were looking at my tombstone.  

* Well, okay, I'll admit that it has been a while since work has kept me up until Midnight per se, but that's really just splitting hairs, isn't it?  

Easter

"Christ the Lord has Risen today, Alleluia!"

                      Every year must have a first something, and this is my first Easter away from home. My first Easter without an egg hunt. My first Easter, in almost five years, without lamb. Lamb, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. The lamb is rubbed with olive oil, salt, pepper, and rosemary before being grilled. The grilling leaves the skin almost burnt and oh, so good. The mashed potatoes require a KitchenAid. The boiled spuds are placed reverently into the silver mixing bowl and a stick of butter is added while the blade whirls around, making fluffy, white mountains. Then milk, thick and creamy, is poured in, until the whole bowl is full of thick, creamy, smooth, satiny potatoes that melt in your mouth. Can you tell that the best spot to be on Easter day is the kitchen? The whole family hangs around, hovering over the chief, who, it so happens, is my father. Taste-tester is the most treasured position, and the favored one must endure, or bask in, the jealous, coveting stares of the unlucky majority.  
                   But, as I said, this year I didn't get to share in the Easter feast. I biked over to the closest church here instead. What a site I must have been, decked out in my Easter finest, my cream rain coat keeping the wind off. Peddling along on my bright blue bicycle. Most Sundays I go to church with friends, not only because of the enjoyable fellowship, but also for the much more practical reason that I do not own a car. Naturally, as my friends were spending time with their families this Easter, I had to celebrate with a closer church. During the service, as the preacher preached of joy, a man came out a painted a picture. There isn't really a word to describe what it was like, not a church flavored word anyway. Cool, interesting, neat-o. These make it sound like entertainment only, but I really do think it added something deeper to the service, I just can't place my finger on what. Maybe it was a sense of awe, a taste of wonder. I have heard of people using art during church to get a point across, but this was the first time I had ever seen anything like it. I guess I lost something old and gained something new this Easter.


                   Have I shown you this picture already? It's of the church grave in Japan. It's rather interesting actually, not something you'd ever really think of here in America. But in Japan people place their ashes in a family shrine, or grave. Every New Years, and at other times during the year too, depending on the depth of belief, families across Japan go and pray to their ancestors at these graves. Naturally, if you're a Christian, the idea of your family members praying to you is slightly disturbing (If you're a Christian and this idea is not disturbing I don't know what to make of you). To circumvent this unholy problem, the church in Hikari has it's own tomb where its members can put their ashes after they die, safe in the knowledge that they are not going to be part of some later idolatry. It is still strange to think how different life for a Japanese Christian can be. Can you imagine your mother disowning you for changing your beliefs? Can you imagine it having an impact on where you will be buried?

Mellow-Drama

                       I can already see it, this month is going to be full of deadline drama. Already, on Sunday, there was a brilliant piece of time management that encouraged me to make a little schedule. I love making schedules, I just rarely ever follow them. Do you think I could get away with it if I called myself a free-spirit? Nah, I didn't think anyone would buy that either. But you know what, I may not have to plead anything. On Monday I heard a very edifying message and proceeded to check off all the assignments for the day. I was so happy. And bored. Goodness, it's hard to find something to do when you're not avoiding work.
                       Today has been slightly less productive, and a great deal colder. I've been listening to Pandora all day. I have it seeded with the Partridge Family, so it's playing lots of things from the sixties. I'm surprised by how many of these songs I know, how many of them I grew up listening to. Then again, I think my mom's radio was permanently stuck on the oldies channel. At any rate, between "Can't you hear my heart beat" and the bright, cold day, I'm moving a lot slower than I did yesterday. But the end is in sight, if only I had a little incentive. Unfortunately, I just ate my last square of Chocolate shortbread. Oh yes, I made another batch of it on Saturday ("S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y!" - that's another song Pandora keeps playing). A friend came over, and ten minutes into Singin' in the Rain she turns to me and says "Do you want to bake something?" An hour later we were eating Chocolate shortbread with spoons, it was warm and mushy and screamed "Get me some vanilla ice cream!" In this selfish, mellow mood, I'm thinking I shouldn't have let her leave with half the batch.
                     The obvious fix is to make more, but I think once a week is probably already over doing things. To add lemon juice to this paper cut, I also downed the last of my milk. Oh milk, so sweet, and full, and smooth. Sometimes I get milk and it's milk, sometimes I get milk and it's something masquerading as milk, and then there are the times when I get milk and it's white ambrosia. This half gallon was like that, cold as steel and sweet as sugar. The weird thing is, I always buy whole milk. How can it be so different each time?



P.S. Yes, more photos of Japan! I'm araid that' all you'll be getting for a while, gomennasai ( ごめんなさい：sorry).

P.P.S Oops! I guess that burst of productivity didn't last too long. Look how manny days it's taken me to publish this post!

Clouds for Cookies

It's a cold, clammy, cloudy day. Everyone trudges to their rooms and shuts their door tight, as if able to lock out the lack of sky. For there is no sky today, just a whiteness above us. And not just above us, but around us, stretching down the sides of the mountain, seeming to continue behind distant buildings. It feels as if the whole world is encircled in fog, or perhaps it is only our lives here that are so shrouded. At any rate, the cold seems to creep even into our bones as we, the pressured, stare paralyzed at the approaching due-dates that have popped up with all the warning that accompanies a mushroom. If only we could turn our clouds to cookies. 

                But it's okay, we had our sun on the weekend. For those who are interested it went really well, by the way. The ball, that is. My dress was finished in time, my safety pins stayed pinned (more or less), and the actual dancing was thrilling. For some strange reason the ladies out numbered gentlemen 2.5 to 1, which caused a quite a bit of laughter and merriment for the simple reason that, when two people wearing hoop-skirts do anything together, they take four times the room usually required.  Lots of skirts were stepped on, but no dreams were trampled. 

Oh, and I managed to drop and break my camera just before the ball. 

              The above mentioned due dates have driven me to knitting, which should seem counter intuitive - if not, I'd advise therapy. I'm knitting fish with my sister, lakes and lakes of fish. They are about as brainless as you can get, all garter stitch glory. They are also as colourless as the clouds, in other words, nothing to make conversation out of.  Another way of, uh, encouraging that inspirational nirvana known as last minute panic, I've started thinking about my books, and even my scripts. The later being very appropriate, considering it is Script Frenzy month, according to the blogosphere. 

                In honor of this event I downloaded Celtx, a nifty piece of script writing software, and started transferring old projects into it. I'll write you a full review in a few weeks (read: May), but at first glance it is ingenious, free, and not technically meant for novels. 

Interludes of Tired Dreams

                     These days seems so long, as if meant for lulling around on the green, sun soaked grounds, with the blue, blue skies above, and the song of the birds mingled with the murmur of trees. But instead they are filled with nothingness of another kind, as our minds, longing to play with Spring, are forced to bend to very different tasks. And there we find ourselves drooping over Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel, or a chapter of philosophy concerning the moral argument; or, in order to rouse ourselves from unintended slumber, we throw  ourselves whole heartedly into baking muffins. Two dozen, wrapped in tin foil, and tossed into the freezer like coal into the the coal bin to be used on another day.  

                     The 'B' post is almost done, but I'm waiting for a card reader so I can get pictures off my camera. It should be here by Thursday. I'm busy trying to hem my dress for the ball next Saturday, while trying not to fall behind on my studies. And during it all I find myself dreaming of May, weeks spent with my sister, and imaginary vacations to mountain tops. Perhaps listening to "North and South," and Mrs. Gaskell's descriptions of a country life is not the smartest thing to do in this situation, but I have put The count of monte Cristo on the back burner for now, and, having ruled Hulu out, am forced to fall back on English novels. Besides, I've never read it before, and I hear the movie is very good. As to this ailment, I know it's cause. It does not spring from beautiful but chilly days, no, it's a natural outcome of the sun crossing the equator. That's right, Happy Vernal Equinox day. 

What Begins with 'B'?

Beautiful, Bountiful, Braids, Bento and Bikes.

                   Spring has sprung. Again. It's Beautiful. I accidently stumbled upon this poem by Traherne, who I had never heard of before, but now that I've read it, "Wonder," I really want to read more of him. Flying down the hill on my shiny blue bike to come home and read "How like an angel down I come!" Can there be anything more breathtaking than words matching soul?

I within did flow

With seas of life like wine;

I nothing in the World did know

But 'twas Divine.

                                   – Wonder, Thomas Traherne

                       As if spring as awoken something crafty within my soul, I woke up on  Thursday morning and decided to make this: 

                That's right, it's my first Bento. The bottom compartment holds the traditional rice, and the upper tier plays host a ham stir fry, leftover from last night (actually, I think I made enough of it to last me a whole week of bentos, if I could stomach the monotony). I'm loving the cute, plastic, muffin molds, especially that bright blue against the yellow pineapple. The meal was a complete success, only 1) I can't eat rice with such short chopsticks! Next time I'll pack a longer pair, and 2) by the time I opened my bento the shortbread had become a little soggy. Everyone say  "eww!" No, it wasn't that bad, but I guess I'll have to remember to wrap breads and cookies separately to keep them from getting damp. 

                I've finally shot pictures of the overskirt, which I need to start working on. My mom has sent out the rest of my dress and I can't wait to finish all the fiddly little details. Bountiful is the Lord, they say, and that my soul knowth right well.

I'm still flabbergasted at the amount of work my mom has put into this dress, it's going to be mind-boggling. Completely white – or, to go with the 'B' theme, blanc – the overskirt is gauzy goodness, with little, silk ribbon roses sewn on to it (well, it will be like that. I'm still sewing them on), and larger roses pinning it up to make elegant drapes.  These drapes will be imitated on the bodice, and their will be a rose on each sleeve. Of course, their are matching shoes, white ones, to which roses will be attached. It's all going to be gorgeous when it comes together, which needs to happen before the ball on the  28th. 

                   In honor of the ball I had my hair braided. That was my official excuse, really I was just bored with the regular french braids I do. It's really hard to take pictures or your head, do you think this one came out okay? ( I colored it a little, forgive me)

         Oh, least I forget, the photos which this post is just full of are all courtesy of this cute little card reader. I ordered three, because some people complained about duds. Only the highest praise so far. No more camera trouble, yay!

A is for......

              Atlanta. She was the alarmingly aberrant lady who didn't want to get married after her first love died (his mother killed him by burning a log. A surprising effective, long-distance murder). But her father refused to have her stay single, so the two struck a bargain. She would race her suitors, with her hand as the prize. The version of the story that I read as child described her as faster than the wind. I can close my eyes even now and see her, her hair streaming out behind her, laughing as she outran that elusive element. 

               This week I read Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers, which was amazing, and I thought I'd write something about the awkwardly average, just to prove that I do read outside of school. But then I spent the weekend glued to the hulu-dominated* screen of my computer while the dashing Remington Steele fought, looked handsome, and stole all Ms. Holt's credit. Now, Monday, I am all worn out. I feel like Atlanta. I was determined to run the race, I enjoy the race – though, in this case the race refers to writing an essay, and my enjoyment of that is debatable. But then I spied this curious, shiny thing and, as if drawn to it, I stopped and picked it up. Once. Twice. If I watch the third season I feel I will strike out, so I'm making vain plans to keep my self busy instead. I really hate feeling addicted to something, it's awful. 

 

                 One of the worst things is that I didn't get enough sleep, which makes me such a drama queen. I even woke up this morning and put tea bags on my eyes. Yes, I sometimes dream I'm Laura Lamount, that the world is my stage, and that I've a perfect right to mutter under my breath as I walk the hallways, or chuckle darkly as I type up the final version of my paper.I find my self shrugging my shoulder, my left one, constantly. My classmates can't be blamed if they think I've developed a twitch. 

                But, life is also good. When the sun comes out I'll give you all a taste of my overskirt for the Civil War Ball I'll be attending in two weeks. Three cheers to moms who know how to  sew and are willing to sacrifice time, sleep, and their last bite of ice cream. I hope one day I can have such love.   

*If you have never heard of Hulu, run for the hills! If you have experienced it yourself then you know just what a curse it is. "And the best part is there is nothing you can do to stop it. I mean, what are you going to do, turn off you TV and your computer?" (Hulu ad)

Look! It's the elusive Endpaper Mitt, 

clutching a japanese Sweet potato! 

Add a Little Weird and Stir

What a snow fall! At least ten inches. I think, looking back, that I probably will always regret not playing in it more, but I was too humiliated. I took a huge plastic lid outside, walked through this enchanting path, all evergreens and sparkling whiteness, topped the hill, sat on the lid, and sank. Sank right into the snow. I stood up, held the lid in front of me, took a running start, and dove down the hill..... about an inch in the half. My feet flailing in the air, shaking snow all down my legs; my socks and skirt completely covered with snow. I sat and pouted a bit, but I continued trying until witnesses arrived to the scene. Then it was time to pack up and go in. 

                         Oh, this is supposed to be my obligatory mid-terms-before-spring-break complaint session. Since it's expected, here goes:

Rant. Rant Rant. *Sob*. Rant. *Stomp Foot and Stalk Away.*

I hope that fills my quota, because I'm feeling too weird to complain. Like everything is a little surreal. Like "oops, I didn't mean to stare. I just happened to have my eyes focused on you when I zoned out."  I have such plans for Spring Break, and such apathy for the here-and-now, that I can't focus on anything unless it's random, tragic, or hilarious. Luckily, all my classes fall into one or more of those categories, so I'm safe. Well, not so much Philosophy, but that class has a very soothing quality to it. 

                   No, instead of complaining I'm going to rejoice. I have my new shoes. Oh, they are so nice. I was walking towards my room, carry  them and wearing my boots. Oh, these boots. They are good for walking in the snow, but unless you are wearing two pairs of socks, you will end up walking with a wad of cloth under you heel. Not comfortable. Halfway to my dorm I had a thought, put on the your beautiful new Merrells. So I did. Immiedate satisfaction. I was all a grin. And then the pain came. Man, after those flat boots, the craddling action felt almost harsh. I was a little worried. But I later walked down to dinner and they felt fine. Better than fine. If my Little Black Box was working I'd take a comparison shot between my brand new shoes and my old ones, but since I can't, lets just say my old one are very, very loved. Their heels are worn away, as if  someone took a sword to them and sliced off the black rubber. And the elastic on the tongue, one side of it's completely stretched out, probably because I  literally  kick my shoes off when I come home. 

                 Oh, heads up, in the next twenty-six posts I'm going to try to bring a bit of structure to my writing. I'm going to go for  content  first, and, if that turns out okay, I'll then start a serious study of styles. As they might say in, Japan まったね！(Pronunciation: ma-ta. Literally: again. Bunberry-ation: Until next time!)