It's All in a Name

It should surprise no one that I love words. I took Latin senior year of college; it was one of my funnest classes, since it combined puzzles and words. (I like crosswords, but I liked Latin better. I even bought Harry Potter: The Sorcerer's Stone in Latin.) But one of the most complicated parts of studying literature is that literary theory is nearly impossible to read. I had to read most articles twice, once to get the idea of the article and once to truly understand. Because here's the thing. How do you question the act of reading and what words mean through reading? You're questioning the meaning of the method you are using to question meaning. It's impossible to do that in any straight-forward method. To quote this week's book, The Name of the Wind, "using words to talk of words is like using a pencil to draw a picture of itself, on itself."

And one of the most fundamental questions is what do words mean. What do names mean? How can you capture an experience, a moment, a person? Given this, it's not surprising that there is a trope in fantasy of the power of the name. By knowing the true name of someone or something, a word that somehow encapsulates their being, you gain power over them. You have a way to see all the things they try to hide, all the parts of themselves they don't want someone else to know.

The Name of the Wind dances around this. By knowing the true name of the wind, a person can command the wind to attack someone, or to stop that person from falling. But the book goes beyond the trope. Rothfuss does a fabulous job of creating a new world, with its own legends and rules and culture. He includes the power of names, but talks more of humanity's ability to define itself. The main character, Kvothe, has had many names, played many roles, is defined by many people. By playing those roles and going by those names, he is redefined and redefines himself. The same issue with names is true of his love interest, Denna. Her name, her identity is constantly in flux. In to Kvothe, she seems to garner power from playing outside of the system. People tell stories about her and what her role is, but she seems to ignore that. She plays her own games and sets her own rules. She hides herself, both physically and emotionally, and because of that, no one else can define her.

Yet she is lonelier than Kvothe. He, at least, has good friends. He is allowed inside the system, despite his rebellious nature. She seemingly is only friends with Kvothe, a man with an inner knowledge of names. Is Rothfuss, then, suggesting that allowing others to name you is necessary to be close to them? Is it an intrinsic part of humanity? Without that closeness, she seems to be an idol to many. Something distant that they can love, lust after, but never truly know. And idols don't have friends. They don't have lovers. They have worshipers.

In the end, the book speaks of masks; wearing a mask can change who you are by changing who you believe yourself to be. Words have power, more so because of their fluidity than because of their ability to describe. Which then begs the question. Can only simple things be named, walls, movements of air? Where is the limit? If humans define themselves, what about other animals? What about trees? Is it knowing the power of definition that frees us? What does this mean for those who refuse to play in that system, like Denna? Is she, by refusing to allow others to define her, casting off her humanity?

An Excuse

So I haven't forgotten about blogging this week. But I'm behind on finishing my book (less that 100 pages left of The Name of the Wind) and am so exhausted I'm nearly incoherent. (Blame IA Summit, which was a great experience.) I promise I'll update in the next few days.

A Good Friday

I love Good Friday services (though at my home church, we did the same service on Maundy Thursday). This might sound strange; it is, after all, a service commemorating death. It is somber and reflective and sad.

For those of you unfamiliar with this type of service, the service is generally centered around readings and music. At my church at home, they slowly strip the altar, removing all decorations except for the cross. At my church here, they extinguish candles after every reading. The lights are gradually dimmed until the sanctuary is in darkness except for the one Christ candle. Then that is carried out. At my home church, they ring the bell 33 times while the congregation sits there in silence. It is deeply moving.

When I was there tonight, I wasn't feeling it. Not at first. The lights were up, I was concentrating on the music we had to sing (all a capella. I hate a capella), people were fidgety, we were super high up, so it was hard to concentrate. But then. Well, first the sermon was just the right tone (I'm so sad our associate pastor, who gave it, is leaving). I kept thinking of Lamb, which I read as a non-New Years resolution book because I love it and reading it now is oh-so-appropriate. And while Lamb is horrible sacrilegious, there are some striking moments. I was thinking in particular of when Jesus and Biff are in India, and they save children who were supposed to be sacrificed to Kali. And Jesus looks and says, "No more. No more sacrifices." Later, as Biff is struggling to accept that his best friend is going to allow himself to be killed, he realizes that that is how Jesus is going to ensure no more blood poured out. By making himself such a powerful sacrifice that he could convince God to move in a different direction.

I'm not sure how I feel about that, religious-wise. The thought that it would take the death of his son to show God that death is a bad way to worship is unnerving. But the need for a crucifixion in general is unnerving. It ties into the whole "God's plan/why do bad things happen to good people/what is going on with the world" questions that can easily derail faith. You can look at it as it takes something like that to prove to us, as humans, that God loves us and that we are doing things wrong. Which is also a hard pill to take.

Regardless, the book shows the pain of the people around Jesus. And the conflicts he faces. I think the strength of the book is that Jesus is human. He's real. He's laughing and making fun of people and struggling and trying his best to figure things out. Seeing Jesus as a person is to me necessary to see him as a part of God. The best thing about Jesus being human is that maybe, just maybe, God knows what I'm going through.

Anyways, as the lights continued to go out, as we sang our last song, the sanctuary was quiet. And I found myself moved and thinking of Christmas Eve, which is my other favorite service. And I thought, how perfect, that my two favorite services are so nicely tied, the bookends of Jesus's life reflecting each other. The two actually mirror each other; Christmas Eve the lights are turned out, and the congregation's candles are lit until the whole church is glowing. There is a peace and a hush until the bells ring out in exultation and everything is joy. You leave, chatting, catching up with people you haven't seen in ages. Everyone is happy and expectant.

At the end of Good Friday, everyone leaves in silence. The sanctuary remains dim and undecorated. People whisper their goodbyes, and there is a heaviness. A sorrow at the way the world is tonight, that people would rather do great harm than face the truth. The question of whether you would betray, you would deny. I see so much of myself in Peter. When confronted, when it is my life at risk. Could I have done anything differently than he did?

This, too, is as much of the story as Easter morning, or Christmas. We cannot experience the joy without going through the sorrow. And most of all, how can we understand the miracle if we can't comprehend the loss?

Searching for Quiet

This week, I was forced to read in a hurry. I'd read most of Game of Thrones, but never finished it because it made me tired and sad. Then a couple of weeks ago, I was metaphorically put in the cone of shame for still having it (I was borrowing it from a coworker who wanted to loan it to another coworker). So I finished An Unexpected Light and then repicked up Game of Thrones and finished it on Tuesday. Which meant that between dance class and work and choir, I really didn't start this week's book until Saturday afternoon.

Somehow I wound up once again on non-fiction, opting to read A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle. I have long loved L'Engle's work. A Wrinkle in Time was one of the books that led me toward sci-fi/fantasy, and the whole series has had a profound impact on how I view the universe. Plus I wanted to be Meg, awkward smart Meg who turned into a beauty in A Swiftly Tilting Planet and who found a cute nerdy boy.  Sigh. If only I could meet a Calvin...

Besides that, I mainly picked it because the back had a blurb on how it would make you understand why you got out of bed every morning. And I've been stressed and unhappy and angry and feeling unappreciated because of work, and a reason to get out of bed in the morning sounded appealing. Maybe it would make me feel marginally better, maybe I wouldn't so frequently read emails and literally yell in frustration (which is bad for multiple reasons, including the fact that the writers of these emails could walk by at any moment).

It was exactly what I needed. There have been several moments like that recently, mostly around religion. I'm not particularly comfortable being overtly religious. I don't hide it; my coworkers, for example, all know that I have given up drinking for Lent and that I am in my church choir. But I don't like spontaneous talking about my faith. It feels mushy somehow, and pushy. I'm not a proselytizer, I'm indifferent toward converting those of different faiths, mostly because I question the existence of hell, and I have a hard time believing in a God who would send good people to it just because they grew up in a family with a different religion.

And L'Engle addresses that. The book is nominally about writing, but is actually about life and religion. And she was apparently a religious agnostic. She suffered from the same questions I have, she dealt with some of the same issues. She says things that I have been thinking. She addresses the need for community, something I've been working on, finding it mostly in my church groups, and with my coworkers.

Clearly we would have been best friends, since she also had the same mentality about birthdays I do, which involves reminding people often until they want to smack you, but they will never forget and they will make it special. She talks about some key decades for her, something that hits close to home given my rapidly approaching decade change. It was interesting to read about her challenges; apparently no one wanted to publish A Wrinkle in Time, in part because it didn't neatly fit into any genres. It seemed like most people who read it knew that it was really good, that it was worth publishing. But the fact that it was unusual, and hard to define. That was more of a battle than they were willing to take on.

While L'Engle doesn't really address this, this fits into many of the lessons of her books. After all, look at Meg, and Charles Wallace. Neither fit in. Both are rejected by their society because they don't fit into easy definitions, and both have so much to offer. What are we missing out on by ignoring things that don't fit into our own conceptions? Are we turning down great opportunities because we don't have the energy to fight for them? (This also hit close to home, since I have very little energy to fight for anything right now.)

Given my stress levels and my need for calm, perhaps the strongest reaction I had is not so strange. L'Engle mentions the fun she and her daughters had sitting on the star-watching rock, feeling the warmth it had absorbed during the day, and staring at the sky. And I had this intense reaction of familiarity. All of a sudden, I was shot into my mental image of the star-watching rock from A Wrinkle in Time, the quiet expectancy of the space. The calm serenity. And I wanted nothing more than to have a rock like that to go lie on.

I long for the sanctuary she built for herself and I love her for the awkwardness she describes. And I'm re-adding all of her books to my "must read again" list. Because these books show me who I am and who I want to be.

Risks, Danger, and Welcome in Afghanistan

My ex took Uzbek the first summer we were dating. He was never that good at it (at least not that I could tell), which isn't super surprising, considering it was an eight-week class. But once he met my uncle and they bonded over a fascination with that region of the world, my presents from my uncle took a particular bent. A mask, an antique rice steamer.

Between the two of them, I began to develop a fascination with the region, as did my mom (who was planning on taking a fabric trip to Uzbekistan, and who I believe is still obsessed with yurts). A fascination that was only strengthened by this week's book, An Unexpected Light: Travels in Afghanistan by Jason Elliot, which is part travel memoir, part history book.

I tend not to be good at reading these type of books. I start them with grand expectations. Hopes that I can live vicariously through the author, get a glimpse into a different world. And then I start. And I get bogged down, and I lose motivation, and I never finish.

BUT that is part of what this project is about. So when I felt like putting down the book, I plugged through. There is a lot of history included in this book, and while I enjoy history, at times, it turns into "and then so-and-so did x," and my eyes start to glaze over. That is not to say that I didn't enjoy the book. There are some truly beautiful scenes, and I long for the day that the region is peaceful enough that I can go without giving my parents a heart attack. The people, their culture. There were moments in the book that made me wish that we could be more like that. Elliot receives so much welcome; he shows up in strange towns, knowing no one, at most having a letter of introduction. And the only occasion where he is not welcome is because of westerners and their culture and lack of trust. The thought of a place where guests are revered, where someone showing up unexpectedly is not a problem or an inconvenience, but a gift, is alluring. A place where people have no reservations about giving others the best.

Throughout, the danger is prevalent. It is a part of the narrative, almost becoming a character in the story. Kabul is under constant attack while Elliot is living there. Driving around the city at night, they go through checkpoints which include having guns pointed at your head. Everyone seems armed. Rockets hit around the city, destroying buildings and lives. There are parts of the city he cannot go, there are limits to where he can travel in the countryside. At one point, he attempts to travel through the center of the country, and while he makes it further than many recommended, he stops when he is told that the next part of the journey would result in his death. "Even a chicken would be shot going through there." (Approximate quote, since I am too lazy to try and find the real one.)

And the danger leads to something in the book that really struck me. Sometimes I feel like I'm coasting through life, waiting to meet someone, get married, have kids. Then my real life will start. I've talked to other people who feel the same way. And Elliot addresses this, saying during his time in Afghanistan, he felt truly alive. Whether it's because of the risks of driving on perilous roads through the mountains, the knowledge of possible death, the lack of material goods, he seems to live every moment in a way that is difficult from a cushy, but stressed-out western perspective. What can we learn from both his experiences and the Afghan way of life, and how can we translate that into something that works for our culture?

Myself, I will try and be more open to surprises, and more generous with the guests in my life. And possibly, push my self to live as though I am "sucking the marrow from the bones of life."

Hanna's Daughters: A Mother's (Lack of) Voice

This week's book was Hanna's Daughters. The most interesting thing about this one was not the plot; it focused on three Swedish women, and to be honest, at times the characters were kind of flat and the plot trudged along.

What interested me, though, was what the book seemed to be saying about mother-daughter relationships. By the time you were 2/3rds of the way through the book, you realized that all of the plot, all of the descriptions of Hanna and her daughter Johanna came from Anna, Johanna's daughter. You see Anna involved in writing the very text you've already read, and you come to realize that she is an unreliable narrator; nothing that you've already read had came from the women it directly involved. At the time it's written, Hanna has passed away and Johanna is suffering from either Alzheimer's or something similar, and has no way to communicate. Both have lost their voices and are only capable of speaking of their histories through their relative.

This implies that Anna has inherited her mother and grandmother's voice. There are pieces of the text that only either woman would know, tied together with pieces that clearly could be family legend. How Hanna felt being raped would be a perfect example of the first (we learn that Johanna didn't realize this piece of her mother's history until she was an adult), and the fact that Hanna could only cry from joy for much of her life seems like a legend.

Yet how accurate can a daughter or granddaughter's interpretation be? We are so tied in by our own definitions of our relatives and the roles they have played regarding us. Anna remains bitter about her mother's acceptance of her father's treatment;given this, how can she provide a clear view? Her grandmother, she admits, she hardly knew and didn't particularly like, and her portion of the novel seems based on letters and those family legends.

What, then, is Frederickkson trying to say? The title defines the younger generations by their relation to the older, but the youngest is the only one with a voice. Do we, as a society, as daughters and sons, define how our parents and grandparents are remembered? Are we rewriting their lives simply because we outlive them? And by becoming parents, do we lose our own voices to those of the later generations?

The book ends after Johanna and her husband die, and when Anna finishes her book about her family. Only then, is she allowed to leave the bonds they had wrapped around her behind, and move on. Yet we see scenes of her with her daughters, suggesting that the cycle is continuing. Suggesting, in fact, that a new series is beginning, one that could leave her voiceless, defined by her daughters and granddaughters.

Seeing a Whole New World

I've always had a fascination with travel. If you ask me what I'd do if I won the lotto, my response is "travel for six months to a year. And then save money for later travel. and then buy a house." I hear about exotic places and I think, "I want to go there. I want to see that, experience that." I blame my childhood.

See, when I was little, we traveled a fair amount. My dad was in the air force, so we could fly really cheaply and we were stationed abroad for a couple of years. I still remember wondering around Japan, going into alleys full of shops. (And you will pry my kimono and slippers from my cold dead hands. I don't care if all that fits now is my right arm.) We hit several countries, all of which have moments that stand out for me. The bird sanctuary we went to, the giant Toys R Us (although they didn't really have different toys, just *more* of them). Even when we were in the States, we hit a lot of places. I have memories of wearing my poor dress, known to me as my spill dress, which I could never wear without some disaster happening. It had pink sparkly balloons and a teddy bear on it. We were on our way to Yosemite the first time I wore it; we'd stopped somewhere and I'd left McDonald's orange juice in the car. When I got back in and picked up the cup, the oj had soaked through the cup, and the whole thing dumped on me. I remember watching Ol' Faithful, and making fun of the smell. We went camping and skiing and biking, and just explored.

Eventually, we wound up in a small town in the south. Many there (and many of those I graduated with) stayed local and mostly vacationed in Florida. Whereas my mom has never been to Florida, and I only went for the first time because my dad wanted to go to a fly in. Instead, we vacationed in Seattle or San Francisco or Colorado or, later, in New York. In high school, I went abroad again, hitting four countries with my girls choir.

So when I read a book like The Historian, while I feel like I should focus on the plot, instead I focus on the descriptions. Kostova describes Budapest, and I try to sync that with my memories (one of the high school choir trips) and make plans to go back. The plot has the main characters bouncing around Europe, going into Soviet territory, all while going through horrible things and living in fear. Yet... all I can think is, "I want to SEE that." In all aspects, it's a good book. The plot is intriguing (though the ending is rather abrupt), the characters are fleshed out enough, and much happens. But I would mainly read it again for travel ideas.

Stressfully Paranoid

So despite the fact that I finished this week's book on Sunday, and mentioned it in last week's post, I never actually talked about it (although that is where the chaos part of last week's title came from). And Falling Under is one of those books that taps into my neuroses in a way that makes me feel normal.

See, when I hit a certain level of stress, I get anxious. Like insanely so. It's somewhat of a vicious cycle; the more stressed I get, the more I freak out about things that have very little likelihood of happening. The worst was last summer. We launched a major project in May. The week before it launched, I worked 70-80 hours, and was so incoherently exhausted it routinely took me several minutes to answer basic questions. All coworkers not so involved in the project avoided those of us who were, and I've been told we were particularly mean. I honestly barely remember that week, which was not surprising since I'd worked 17 straight days and god knows how many hours. After launch, we went to a happy hour with the consultants who worked with us on it, and I'm pretty sure I misunderstood half of what everyone said, because I didn't have the capacity to understand context or make logical connections. (Particularly awesome, since I hadn't met a lot of the team before in person. Yay for good first impressions!)

What was worse was that the launch wasn't really the end of the project; in many ways, it was the beginning for us. My coworker took a much-needed week off a couple of weeks later, and the work load plus the stress led to me having one of the most random breakdowns of my life, in which I made it home (at like 9) before I started crying, but then just couldn't stop. It's not like one of those sessions when you are thinking sad things, so you keep crying. I was sitting there, deciding what to make for dinner, with tears streaming down my face.

Then we had several other mini-launches that lasted the rest of the summer. My coworker E and I (two of the people most involved in the launches) both had physical effects from the stress levels that for me lasted until I went on a 10-day, out-of-the-country vacation in August. (This is also a warning for all of you. Stress is bad. You should try and work somewhere that will prevent stress levels that mean three days into a week off, you're getting random bursts of adrenaline flooding through you. That's no fun and makes you cranky for no good reason.)

Before my August vacation, I freaked out. First I was convinced that I was going to forget something. then I was convinced that something horrible would happen to my cat. Then I was convinced that I was going to die of an embolism on the plane, or that the plane would crash, or that something would happen to one of my family members while I was gone and no one would be able to reach me. Walking to the metro to go to the airport, I checked for my passport, my sunglasses, my wallet, my passport again, my sunglasses again, my wallet again, my chapstick, my umbrella, cycling through until I got to the train.

And my paranoia is not only tied to things like planning trips. When I'm that stressed, I lie in bed, thinking about how the floor of my bedroom is slanted and wondering if that part of the house could just fall off, and if so, should I move the stuff I love into a different room, and would my cat know in time to get out. I avoid grates on sidewalks, because what if they broke? I worry about tripping and falling onto the metro tracks, about a light pole falling and hitting me, a gas leak, my couch being too close to the radiator and catching on fire. I worry about others, too, frequently focusing on my cat, because I am responsible for her, but also family members, friends, and people just around me. "What if that person fell right now?" I wonder, and think about how quickly I'd be able to call 911, and if there is someone else around who looks like they might be better than me in an emergency.

Which leads me back to the book. The main character in Falling Under has some major psychological issues mostly stemming from a traumatic childhood. On a normal day, she is even more paranoid than I am on my worst. She too avoids grates, but she also is so paralyzed by fear that she can barely drive, barely cross the street, barely leave her apartment. Since the book is narrated from her viewpoint, though, such fears start to seem not necessarily ordinary, but understandable. I liked the narrator. I'd want to be friends with her. It kind of reminded me of how I felt reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. We all have instincts that lead us to look for patterns, to think that something beyond our control is a sign, just like we all worry about irrational things from time to time. But the beauty of books is that we can see these impulses from another angle, and understand another person's viewpoint. And maybe feel a little more normal.

And for myself? I think I'll go do some yoga and take a bath and just not worry about anything for a while.

Living, Literature, and Chaos

Between Friday night and Sunday night, I finished both my book for last week, Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi, and this week's, Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman. Because I am just that awesome.

It was a compacted week, not because I didn't plan ahead, but because I'm not enjoying the book I was reading, Illusion by Paula Volksy, despite the ringing endorsement by Anne McCaffrey. It's a little too much of a political commentary buried under fantasy; I like some of that and think playing out possible scenarios in a fantasy world can be fascinating, but I feel like I'm being hit on the head with it. Plus I don't like any of the characters, and it's over 600 pages. I may or may not finish.

But Reading Lolita in Tehran... it was everything that I liked about being an English major. It had social commentary, literary analysis, the examination of power structures, all wrapped up in a beautifully written text. I remember having read an article on how liberal Iran had been. It's hard to imagine, both from the viewpoint of our current political climate, in which Iran is constantly posturing against the West and working toward gaining more power through developing a nuclear weapon, and from the humanistic standpoint of putting myself in the place of those who lived through the transition. How does one go from living in an atmosphere where you are free to think, to opine, to teach what you want, say want you want, write what you want, to one in which merely having been associated with the wrong person at any point in your life means that you can be arrested, or blacklisted, or killed?

One of Nafisi's points was that by fighting so hard to control women, the Iranian regime was in fact admitting that those women had the power to destroy the regime: "Does she realize how dangerous she can be when her every stray gesture is a disturbance to public safety? Does she think how vulnerable the Revolutionary Guards are who for over eighteen years have patrolled the streets of Tehran  and have had to endure young women like herself  and those of other generations, walking, talking, showing a strand of hair just to remind them that they have not converted?" (pg 27)

The fact that many of these battles, these fights for power, occur over control of the female body shows how powerful that body can be, something that despite having written my thesis on it, I still feel needs more exploration. Possibly because I don't quite understand it in this day and age. I mean, as far as ensuring the continuation of the species, having more women than men is important, since one man can. But we are no longer threatened. In fact there are too many of us. Why are women who can dress and think and act however they want so terrifying?

The women in Iran are defined by the state, a state that refuses to see them as individuals with hopes and dreams. Nafisi, in her discussion of Lolita, discusses how Humbert uses Lolita as a prop, a fantasy for him, but never seems to see her as an actual living, thinking human being. While Nafisi refuses to simplify the complicated power structure in Iran by strictly comparing the government to Humbert, she does point the reader to the similarities, as the women struggle to define themselves within a system that has taken away their voices.

But beyond that, the book shows the power of literature. The Iranian population is so tightly controlled; the government censors movies, book, art. But the people in this book escape that. They explore what it means to empathize, how to define morality, how to connect with those who seem to have nothing in common with you. Literature becomes the way that the characters can escape the strict confines of their current life. A weekly book discussion becomes far more than it may seem; it is in fact a rebellion.

Writing, and Living, Bird by Bird

I've always wanted to be a writer. Well, that's not true. There was an odd period when we were in the Philippines when I was planning on being a dishwasher. (No, I don't remember what I liked about it, or why I fixated on dishwashing. But despite the fact that I now hate washing dishes, some days it still seems like a valid option.)

But then in second grade, my teacher not only gave me special projects (I spent several days once painting a diorama of Amelia Bedelia. It was awesome.), but gave us writing assignments and then, most importantly, told me I was good at it. I'm not surprised. I found my report cards from elementary school, and the military teachers? Kind of in love with me. Reading some of them, I felt like they were close to stealing me away and raising me as their own. Luckily, we were on a military base and that doesn't fly there.

I've always loved being good at stuff. So much so that I have to force myself to do things which I don't have a natural talent for (my foray into ultimate frisbee springs to mind). Being good at stuff is just about tied with being right in the list of things that I love. So my teacher told me I had a talent, which combined with my love of reading, and boom. The problem of what I want to be when I grow up was solved. You know. Until I actually became an adult and realized that writing is hard and making money at it is even harder. You have to be driven and motivated. And so I went into the non-writing world.

Despite that, I still think someday I'd like to write. And so, every once in a while, I read books on writing, despite the fact that I have done no real fiction writing since college. (I do write poetry. Don't judge.) Which leads to this week's book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I've never actually read any other books by her, and I only have this one because I stole it from my mom. Who actually is the source of most of my "how to write" books.

My favorite parts of the books were less about writing, and more about being human. A. she's crazy. And the more stuff I read by people who are amusing, the more I realize that we are all crazy. And that makes me feel less alone. B. There was a part about how people use work or drugs or life to lull themselves to sleep. To live in a fog. Given how much and how hard I work, and how foggy that can make me feel... it hit a little close to home (ignoring how much my office drinks to deal with the stress).

Ironically, the human parts were also my least favorite; it's a book on writing, stop proselytizing at me. I know Anne's a Christian. Her new book is on faith, and got rave review from my pastor. But. That's not what I'm looking for in a book on writing. I loved Stephen King's On Writing. It equally dealt with humanity, but I didn't feel like I was being lectured to, or more accurately, like there was a subtle hint of "you should be Christian." I'm not sure why that bothers me. It's a non-fiction book and her faith is obviously an important part of her life. Why would she not include it in a book that talks about how she deals with the pressure of being a writer? But still. It annoyed me.

And yet we'll see. Maybe I'll actually start writing again. Maybe I'll just keep blogging (did you know, I apparently used to update it three times a week?). If that's all that it gets me to do, it was worth reading.

Dodging Reality

I finally finished last week's book, Dodger by Terry Pratchett. I love Pratchett so hard. Last year, I spent a few months reading all of Disc World (which I think got better as you go through the series. The first were good; the last were AWESOME).

Though I have to be honest. I enjoyed the book, but I'm not blown away. Maybe I'm looking for something more from the books for the next year, but the only one I've really felt like satisfied me was Pretty Birds. Dodger was good; it had Charles Dickens as a character, and an engaging main character. But shouldn't this be challenging? I mean, reading a lot has never been an insane challenge. Yes, I missed finishing a book for one week, but that just means I didn't have the like five hours finishing a book usually takes. (Yes, I'm bragging. No, I'm not actually exaggerating, although obviously it depends on the length and complexity of the book. And I was knitting a ridiculous pair of direwolf mittens for a coworker, and had very little free time. PS. Those are awesome.)

I want books with a social commentary, not just ones that I can check off a list. I tried with The Light Years. But it was just a narrative about the life of the upper classes before the start of WWI. Which had potential. I mean, I love Downton Abbey, which is essentially the same thing but more full of cheesy drama. But nothing ever happened. There was no real character growth, no change. No message.

So now I must decide. Is a new year's resolution worth spending time reading books that I'm not sure are worth it? Do I spend more time to try and find the best books of the ones I currently own? I kind of wish I'd thought through this earlier. Then I could have prepared a list: "Books you should read." Instead every time I finish a book, I haphazardly dig through my piles and try and find something interesting. Is it worth reading mediocre books for the sake of being able to give them away?

Pretty Birds: 3 down, 49 to go

This year, for New Year's, I decided on a new resolution. Rather than make vague promises about what I would like my life to be in the next year, or changes that I would only be able to keep up for a day, a week at most, I decided that I had too many books. Too many that I had been carting around. There are books in my apartment that have been moved 6 times and never read. To change this, I'd read one new book per week, 52 books total.

Some of you may think this isn't a challenge for me. And in some ways, it's not. I love to read, and I do it quickly. I can start a book on Friday night and finish it by noon on Saturday. But I also use it as my escape. I tend to stay away from books that hit too close to the heart; I want to be moved, but not depressed. Satanic Verses, Skinny Legs and All. Even Virginia Woolf's novels. I can be challenged intellectually, but not emotionally.

But. Many of my books don't do that."Funny, but tragic. You'll laugh while you sob." And I have been a coward in avoiding them. My first two books did not challenge me. One was a fluffy romance, so horribly written it gives me hope of ever being published. The second was The Lost Gate by Orson Scott Card. And it was thoroughly enjoyable, but in my usual style.

This week's, though... Pretty Birds follows a young teenage girl in Sarajevo during the Bosnian War. The text shows her and her family learning to cope with the horror, to accept the death of loved ones, of innocents. Most of all to survive.

The thing that hit me hardest about this book (except for the ending, which truly was heart-breaking) is that I remember studying this. I was in elementary school when it was a humanitarian crisis. I remember learning about ethnic cleansing and the numbers of dead. And while I can't blame the 10 year old me for not understanding, not really caring, it makes me sad for both myself and the world. Because how many other atrocities go on today, when I can no longer hide behind innocence and youth? Look at Syria. How many innocents have died there, how many starve and plead? And they are not alone. People in countries around the world are suffering. And yet I still don't know what to do. Does anyone, though?

In the book, the people of Sarajevo mock the United States (although not as much as the UN), mourning the lack of interest. No one cares, no one stops the deaths of innocents.

While the book ends with some hopeful signs, I find myself wondering still. What can and should we be doing? Is it enough to donate money. To try and work in something that has meaning, betters the world? How can we change something that has been happening for centuries?

Magic and Wonder

This Sunday, I went to church. I know, SHOCKING. (On the one hand, I'm joking because, well, I'm Christian and I grew up going to church and I have not given up on these things. On the other, I've been absolutely AWFUL about going lately. I'm working on that.)

The sermon was on, not surprisingly, Christmas. It was interesting; I'd just read the thread on Ravelry about someone telling their stepchild that there was no Santa, and the sermon was on the question, "Have you been good?". In the Rav thread, some people talked about how Santa was awful, a way to force kids to be good by manipulation and an example of how parents lie to their kids. Which made me sad. I don't remember Santa ever being that to me. Santa was... pure magic. Something utterly wonderful that I couldn't and shouldn't understand. I don't remember threats of "If you're not good, Santa won't bring presents." Instead, I remember lying awake, listening as hard as I could for the sleigh bells my beloved babysitter had told me she'd heard (I may have passed this on to kids I babysat). Being so excited I couldn't sleep. Believing that *anything* could happen.

Anyways, so the sermon was on how it should be less about whether or not you'd been good (the children's sermon made the excellent point that everyone was a mix of good and bad), and more about who you follow. We all screw up. Every day I feel like Jiminy Cricket on "Once Upon a Time" (Amazing show, btw. Watch it. WATCH IT NOW.). I see so clearly the person I want to be; and I so often fail. (Dude at teh Christmas party. You were annoying, but I was mean. I'm sorry.) Does that mean Santa (or God) is going to take all my presents away (or smite me)? I hope not. A part of what I believe is forgiveness, and accepting we all fail and we all get back up and try again. And a religion should support that.

And at the bottom of Christmas is love and experiencing the unknowable. And to me, that's what matters about Christmas. It's not that I get presents; one of my favorite parts of Christmas is singing while candles are lit at the Christmas Eve service. It is so beautiful and mystical and beautiful. I tear up every freaking year. I love being with family. I love feeling that peace and calm and joy. I love feeling that magic that, even if I no longer hear sleigh bells, pervades the season.

A Day for Corduroy and Dreams?

Let's face it, I'm mainly blogging today because of teh date. It's not the first time; I've been journaling on cool dates for YEARS. Who cares if I have nothing to say! What I was doing on 11/11/11 must be known! Though the whole corduroy thing is a bit ridiculous. "It looks like corduroy, so we're going to declare a day after it." What other fabric gets a day? Well, I know Congress has seersucker day, but that's just because of the freaking heat and humidity here. I want a plaid silk day. I have the perfect skirt, even.

I've become obsessed with Once Upon a Time. I mean, obviously a part of it appeals to my romantic nature, plus the natural desire to hate people. A part of it is figuring out what is going to happen. A part of it is... well, let's just say that I get the feeling of a happily ever after thwarted. And I am NOT implying that X was Charming. I didn't think that when we were dating. But I sometimes feel like everything is just out of reach. If only I were in teh right spot, joined the right group. But beyond that, I *want* to believe. Even if not for me. I'm obsessed with the thought of magic and fairy tales. And a place where things are black and white. I know they aren't. Not in real life. But wouldn't it be nice if bad were obviously evil, and good always won? Plus it's just a damn good show. And it's hard to beat horseback riding and sword fights. Man, I miss horseback riding...

The End of Things

This weekend... was exhausting. On the one hand, it was great. My parents flew up my grandparents and rented a house on the Eastern Shore for my immediate family, and my grandparents. Which was lovely. I love the Eastern Shore. It was so lovely, great weather. I finally won over my niece. Not as much as my dad, but still. It's nice to get smiles as opposed to funny faces and crying.

But on the other hand. Well, first of all, my room was creepy as hell. It was up this crazy staircase, and the first night I hardly slept. There was an antique mirror. It freaked me out. The house creaked and no one was on the same level and the house was built in 1790. I'm just saying. If there were going to be a haunted room, it was this one. By the time we left, I was fine with sleeping up there, but the stairs still made me nervous.

But the saddest thing was realizing that my grandparents are aging. I'm not sure how much longer they are going to be around, especially my grandpa. My grandpa has Parkinsons, and last I saw him, he was doing okay. Better. He's always been a great storyteller, and every once in a while you see a glimpse of that. but... now. You still see glimpses, but he's having a hard time. I think help and maybe a dog would be good.

But I sat there, and I watched him and my grandmas with my niece and nephew, which was oh-so-sweet. And on the one hand, I'm so glad they got that. On the other, I can't help but wonder if I ever get married, if they will even meet my so, much less my kids (again, if I have them). I love my grandparents, and having someone be such a part of my life who doesn't know them... it just makes me a bit sad.

After

Some of my friends posted about their experiences being in New York on 9/11. I know many DC friends have similar memories. It almost feels strange to not have that experience. Despite living in DC for seven years, I can't imagine what I'd do, how I'd react. I can't picture the city shut down, people walking home. The smells, the sounds, the terror of not knowing what happened to people you know and care about. Seeing the gaping holes. People in NY mentioned being afraid of planes, always plotting their trajectory. I can't imagine those in DC. DCA is right outside the city and desperately close to the Pentagon; planes are constantly on the last approach over that area. How unnerving that must have been.

My story is no where near as dramatic. I was a sophomore in college, in the shower getting ready for class when the first plane hit. My mom called nearly immediately, "just to be sure, even though I know nothing happened to you." I had no idea. I hung up with her (they were stuck in Denver trying to get home for several days), and turned on the tv. I sat there, hugging a teddy bear, watching what was happening, seeing the second plane hit and then the towers collapsing. Being shocked and terrified and horrified. And then getting up and going to class, because I didn't know what else to do. We were supposed to have a review for an exam, and that's exactly what we did. Our professor wanted to keep things as normal as possible for us.

There was a strange atmosphere over the whole campus. No one knew how to cope; should things go on as normal, should we take time to grieve? My dorm had a kind of fluff "getting to know the dorm" class; in that one, we colored, which seemed strangely appropriate. I had a paper due the next day on Machiavelli and *The Prince*'s impact on politics. I wrote it that night, trying to ignore what had happened (I got a C+, one of two in my whole college career. The other was my first paper at Oxford, from my tutor who wanted me to be writing at a grad school level, and graded at that level). There were probably 30 vigils. I went to two or three, singing and holding hands with people I'd never seen before, and didn't see after. I lay in bed at night, feeling unsafe, thinking how easily we could be attacked. I remember CSF's banquet the next year, and the sister (a CSF alum) of Todd Beamer came and spoke about her brother.

After, several country singers wrote songs about it. Some are angry, like "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue" by Toby Keith, but my favorite is "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?" It makes me tear up almost every time I hear it. Things changed for America that day, but I look at how people banded together, and *that* seems like a good thing.

I have other friends who have mentioned that they don't want to look back, they want to look forward. That all the media attention is too much, that the best way to pay tribute is by living. And I get that; every other year, I've done my best to ignore the anniversary. And today, I'm not watching the news, I'm not going to any vigil. I went to the local coffee shop, I went to the farmers market. Life continues.

But I'm a sucker for anniversaries anyways, and this was something that had a profound impact on not only me, but everyone I know.

The Seinfeld of Blogposts

Welcome back to my blog. I know you have missed it dearly. It changed appearances a bit while you were gone; I'm going to change the background pic to one I took in Wales, but I'd have to bend over to plug in my media drive and it's too hot. Also, I'm feeling random, so I am declaring this to be the post of random snippets I thought about blogging on but didn't.

I love Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day. I don't know why. I find it so soothing. It's like the perfect combination of romance and calm and Britishness. It's like Chicago, but without all the killing.

I was going to go into drama here. Then I was going to go into some stuff about my own two-year-old drama (It's a toddler!) that I recently found out and was hurt by. But really. It's exhausting and I'm tired and really who the hell cares. Especially after three days of nothing but talk about it.

So lately. I started a new job. I am overly paranoid about everything involved, mainly because of my old job. Bought too much yarn. Went to my friend's wedding. She had a plan that nearly worked, but I am giving up hope on it now.

Every once in a while, I get emails from OKCupid with the title, "someone chose you!" I find them insulting. It's like they're surprised. "NO, we can't believe it EITHER." You know what, OKCupid? Screw you.

I was also going to blog about a piece on NPR on size issues (It was really good). I was then going to tie it into an article on Rosario Dawson and how she was deeply disturbed by getting comments about how good she looked when she was losing weight so she could play Mimi, a crack addict dying of AIDS, in Rent.

Or I could blog about the sad state of the world right now. (Seriously. SO glad I'm not planning on retiring. You know, ever. Alternate plan, marry rich.) It's not like I can even pretend like it's not happening, what with being surrounded by it at work. We occasionally meet to just shake our heads in shock.

A Mourning.

Between watching the episode where Angel breaks up with Buffy and the time of year, I'm feeling a bit maudlin. See, while the X and I didn't break up until August, we had a close call before. I now think of this as the beginning of the end. It was the Wednesday before Maundy Thursday, and X tried to break up with me. While this time, he didn't tell me that he couldn't see a future with me, he did go through the motions. And I went along, for 24 hours. That day was one of the worst of my life. I don't know that I have ever hurt so much. I walked to work and thought of throwing myself in front of buses. Then I went to church that night. I walked in and felt... calm. Peaceful. Like I was supposed to be with X, and that it would all work out. So after the service, I called and went over to his place and fought to stay with him.

I wonder if he expected the same thing when we actually broke up, that I would fight. But see, after the Maundy Thursday event, I spent so much energy. I worked HARD to keep us together, fought with everything I had. Whereas he... He did nothing. he shut me out, pushed me away. I think he wanted me to fight for him, but wasn't willing to put forth any effort of his own. I'm not saying I was the perfect girlfriend; I have my own baggage, I have my own childish needs that I try to push forward. I hadn't treated him well before the first close-call. I took out the fact that I hated my job on him for a while. But after? After I did everything I could think of, only to be continually shut down.

So this Good Friday I mourn. Not for our relationship; I'm over that. If I never see him again, I'll be happy. But I mourn for all the torment I put myself through. I mourn the scars that I might have avoided if I'd just let him go then. I mourn the issues that he made worse, the extreme self-doubt that I have. And I blame him.

Family et al.

I was looking at some drafts of blog posts, and one was written the day before my niece and nephew were born. BIG SIGH. Which, of course, was after the last time I wrote. So for those of you not on Facebook (and let me tell you, you're missing out. I'm hilarious over there.), I became an aunt in mid-October. I love being an aunt. I love being a local aunt even more, though I have got to time my visits more so I'm not there at dinner. The babies are adorable, and I heart them muchly. I can't wait to see what they become. Right now, my niece smiles every time you catch her eye, which is so freaking cute. That is, of course, when she's not screaming. My nephew sits there and makes funny faces at everyone. I swear, he's got the whole doomed chipmunk look down pat.

Anyways, I have been driven back to blogging by my friend Mandy, who blogs here nearly daily and makes me feel ashamed of myself and my total lack of blogging. She writes heart-wrenching, bared-soul truths. I wish I had that courage; I don't.

Though in all honesty, I have never known the trauma she's had to go through. The more people I know, the more of an anomaly I realize my family is. Loving and supportive and nice. Not perfect. Not perfect at all. But I see some of my friends and how their parents and other family members tear them down or wear them down, and I think of my own family, my own parents who unfailingly support me? And I know that's a support that many of my friends lack.

Not that I haven't needed that support lately. It's ridiculous how little able I am to cope with stress, but I can't. And there have been a couple of things in my life that I am not cool with. I'm working on changing them, but it's hard. And once I've hit a point where I know a situation is not healthy, I have a really hard time dealing with it until I can easily leave.

Frustration, or Why I Hate People

I've been really frustrated lately, somewhat unfairly at people. I'm under stress at work, my roommate is never ever going to move out, leaving me with the options of allowing Stephie to do something horrible, to sell her and her unborn baby into white slavery, or (what I'm actually doing) keeping my mouth shut and trying to deal until she moves out in January. I know, I know. I said she wasn't ever moving out, but she was supposed to be out at the beginning of this month. Then it was November. Now it's January. And she's passive-aggressive about everything, refuses to acknowledge that this is any kind of inconvenience, and hasn't bought toilet paper since January. She's also using my salt. I realize these may be small and petty things, but they add up to me not liking her (along with some other stuff), and living with people I don't like, even if they are only in town a few days a week, stresses me the hell out.

But she's not the only one I'm frustrated at. I see so many people who say "I want x," but they act like they want y. And this drives me a little insane. It's mainly in relationship stuff, and it's not that I want to be in a relationship with these people, it's the incongruity. The attitude of, "If I can't find the right one, well, I might as well date/hook-up with whomever." It's not that I can't understand that thought. It's one that has crossed my mind. But it is fundamentally not who I am, and one that just seems wrong. If you want to be in a real relationship, why waste time with other people? Why hang out with someone just because you want to have someone to hang out with? Why risk the possibility of meeting someone special, but not noticing because you were too busy trying to hook up with someone else? The whole thing makes me sad, in part because I can see so clearly what I want. And it's not to date, it's not to hang out, it's not to find someone I can stand. I am so ready, and these other people are driving me nuts.

Besides that, I keep seeing people act like 14-year-olds. Is it me? Am I expecting too much of people? I'm not going to say I act like I should; I see lots of areas for improvement. I will avoid things. I will be horrible at communication. But if you are my friend and you need me, I will be there. If I invite you out to celebrate something, we shall celebrate. Your happiness may make me feel a twinge of longing for what I don't have, but I will wholeheartedly be happy for you, and I will damn well keep that twinge to myself. If friends come to visit, visiting shall be had. They shall be the theme and centerpiece of the visit.

All this is not to suggest that there are not people in my life who don't act like that. I have some truly lovely friends, people who help me and are there for me and who I hope know that I would do anything for. These are the people who help to show me what I want to be, and give me hope that maybe I can be better.

The rest of you? Well. Be glad that I am non-confrontational.