So, back at the very beginning of my plain adventure, I made a skirt. I didn't want an elastic waist, and I didn't know how to do a zipper, and I didn't wait to find a pattern, so the skirt turned out...well...predictably. The worst part was the hem. I hate hemming. I abhore it. I detest, despise, and loathe it. So of course, I did an awful hack job of it.
Right away, I ran off, determined to do it right this time, and bought some amazing, coat-weight wool. I decided I would make an invincible, winter-proof skirt. I couldn't find a pattern I liked, so I decided to just get one of those silly poodle-skirt patterns, which look so easy, and just make the thing out of grey wool instead of red felt, and leave off the poodle. I don't have a sewing machine, but still, the project is a good way to spend time, and good discipline for me, since I'm so flakey.
Well, I chickened out, and the thing sat untouched and uncut in my closet. Finally, yesterday and today, I took it out, and though horribly intimidated by all the squiggles, arrows, and Cantonese commands (well, they weren't English) managed to cut it out with no mistakes. My concience twinged a bit...I had wanted a substantial skirt, but the pattern called for a LOT of material, and seemed a bit wasteful. Still, I thought, I didn't know better when I bought it all, and I'll probably wear the skirt a lot, besides it being a good sewing lesson for me.
I was just congratulating myself as I noticed how short the side seams were, when suddenly I stopped in horror. Of course, the thing is a circle skirt. Of course, using nearly six yards of material, the circumference of the thing is roughly the square footage of my bedroom.
All hem.
I, the hem-phobic, am now doomed to spend the next six years hand-sewing this hem.
Of The Best Stuff, but Cracked
Monday, January 31, 2005
Tender
One of my odder theological habits lines up with my rabid love of words. Often, when boggled by a thought or experience, I seize on a central word and etymologize the hell out of it. This seems comparable with some scholars' lust for eighteen million translations of the bible. (I share the inclination but not the drive for that one. Too lazy.)
In the light of my current struggles, I was thinking of how my heart thrilled to the use of the word "tender" in Early Friend's writing. Kwakersaur's comment on this perhaps being the condition of the newly convinced made me think of it again. Bear with me on this, there's something amazing at the end.
Here's the dictionary definition.
ten·der 1 ( P ) Pronunciation Key (tndr)
adj. ten·der·er, ten·der·est
Easily crushed or bruised; fragile: a tender petal.
Easily chewed or cut: tender beef.
Young and vulnerable: of tender age.
Frail; delicate.
Sensitive to frost or severe cold; not hardy: tender green shoots.
Easily hurt; sensitive: tender skin.
Painful; sore: a tender tooth.
Considerate and protective; solicitous: a tender mother; his tender concern.
Characterized by or expressing gentle emotions; loving: a tender glance; a tender ballad.
Given to sympathy or sentimentality; soft: a tender heart.
Nautical. Likely to heel easily under sail; crank.
----
Okay... now for the fun stuff.
tender (adj.)
"soft, easily injured," c.1225, from O.Fr. tendre "soft, delicate, tender" (11c.), from L. tenerem (nom. tener) "soft, delicate, of tender age," from PIE *ten- "stretch" (see tenet).
-----
Stretch? Oooh, interesting. Let's see tenet, as suggested
-----
"principle," properly "a thing held (to be true)," 1413, from L. tenet "he holds," third person singular present indicative of tenere "to hold, to keep, to maintain" from PIE base *ten- "to stretch" (cf. Skt. tantram "loom," tanoti "stretches, lasts;" Pers. tar "string;" Lith. tankus "compact," i.e. "tightened;" Gk. teinein "to stretch," tasis "a stretching, tension," tenos "sinew," tetanos "stiff, rigid," tonos "string," hence "sound, pitch;" L. tendere "to stretch," tenuis "thin, rare, fine;" O.C.S. tento "cord;" O.E. thynne "thin"). Connection notion between "stretch" and "hold" is "to cause to maintain." The modern sense is probably because tenet was used in M.L. to introduce a statement of doctrine.
-----
There is so much amazing stuff there to be unpacked. If you go even further you can find direct links in translation from this to "created." Being stretched, woven, knit together, made new, reborn, re-created. To be convinced, each moment will mean being made infinitely tender, and then somehow managing to be both infinitely tender and infintely strong. I hate spiders passionately, but I'm siezed with the lessons and metaphors of spider-web silk.
In the light of my current struggles, I was thinking of how my heart thrilled to the use of the word "tender" in Early Friend's writing. Kwakersaur's comment on this perhaps being the condition of the newly convinced made me think of it again. Bear with me on this, there's something amazing at the end.
Here's the dictionary definition.
ten·der 1 ( P ) Pronunciation Key (tndr)
adj. ten·der·er, ten·der·est
Easily crushed or bruised; fragile: a tender petal.
Easily chewed or cut: tender beef.
Young and vulnerable: of tender age.
Frail; delicate.
Sensitive to frost or severe cold; not hardy: tender green shoots.
Easily hurt; sensitive: tender skin.
Painful; sore: a tender tooth.
Considerate and protective; solicitous: a tender mother; his tender concern.
Characterized by or expressing gentle emotions; loving: a tender glance; a tender ballad.
Given to sympathy or sentimentality; soft: a tender heart.
Nautical. Likely to heel easily under sail; crank.
----
Okay... now for the fun stuff.
tender (adj.)
"soft, easily injured," c.1225, from O.Fr. tendre "soft, delicate, tender" (11c.), from L. tenerem (nom. tener) "soft, delicate, of tender age," from PIE *ten- "stretch" (see tenet).
-----
Stretch? Oooh, interesting. Let's see tenet, as suggested
-----
"principle," properly "a thing held (to be true)," 1413, from L. tenet "he holds," third person singular present indicative of tenere "to hold, to keep, to maintain" from PIE base *ten- "to stretch" (cf. Skt. tantram "loom," tanoti "stretches, lasts;" Pers. tar "string;" Lith. tankus "compact," i.e. "tightened;" Gk. teinein "to stretch," tasis "a stretching, tension," tenos "sinew," tetanos "stiff, rigid," tonos "string," hence "sound, pitch;" L. tendere "to stretch," tenuis "thin, rare, fine;" O.C.S. tento "cord;" O.E. thynne "thin"). Connection notion between "stretch" and "hold" is "to cause to maintain." The modern sense is probably because tenet was used in M.L. to introduce a statement of doctrine.
-----
There is so much amazing stuff there to be unpacked. If you go even further you can find direct links in translation from this to "created." Being stretched, woven, knit together, made new, reborn, re-created. To be convinced, each moment will mean being made infinitely tender, and then somehow managing to be both infinitely tender and infintely strong. I hate spiders passionately, but I'm siezed with the lessons and metaphors of spider-web silk.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
I am One with the Universe, and it Hurts
In response to Jeff's stunning comment on my last post, I am re-posting an entry I wrote last summer on my old blog.
-----------------
It is continually astounding to me, the way books seek me out. I must have some sort of homing signal for important works.
I randomly found a little book called "Daily Afflictions: the agony of being connected to everything in the universe." written by Andrew Boyd.
The book in its entirety is a little dark for me. (The man is a worshipper of Nietzsche.) I am drawn more to the Hafiz brand of spiritual experience - the sheer, unbounded joy of existence - the sense that Reality is so vast and so beautiful, all we can do is dance, gasping for breath. And yet, in the middle of my dance, I remember the suffering, and I stop. My own suffering, I can generally reconcile after a period of pouting or weeping. But the suffering of other people is much harder to understand. This entry from that book was so true to me that I started to cry. This entry speaks of what I think Jesus meant to show us in his passion and death:
"What is to give light must endure burning." - Victor Frankel
Many of us have set out on the path of enlightenment. We long for a release of selfhood in some kind of mystical union with all things. But that moment of epiphany - when we finally see the whole pattern and our sense of place in the cosmic web - can be a crushing experience from which we never fully recover.
Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.
To seek enlightenment is to seek annihilation, rebirth, and the taking up of burdens. You must come prepared to touch and be touched by each and everything in heaven and hell.
I am One with the Universe, and it hurts.
I am constantly being told by my friends when they see me crushed by the vision of some great misfortune in the world, or the private grief of a friend or a stranger;
"You need filters, you need some armor, you can't just go through life feeling everything, because it will destroy you. You have to choose what you feel."
and yet, from my very youngest years, I can't remember a time when I didn't feel this sense of the entire world, full of pain and heartbreak and grief, rushing into me and shaking me down like the skeleton of an old house not meant to billet an army. I have sensed the impossibility of shutting something so enormous out without disfiguring my self. And I've also always questioned - if I could shut it out, would I want to? I can't shut another person out of my experience without shutting myself out of theirs. Somehow the pain of not sharing the sufferings of another seems a worse pain, to me. The agony of not being connected to everything in the universe seems much darker and more frightening.
I love this little book for the truth it contains, but I think he has not gone far enough. As the Buddha says, we must enter into our perceptions and feelings, positive, negative, and neutral, and seek out their roots. I can feel the blinding pain of another person, but if I allow it to blind me, then there are simply two suffering, blind souls instead of one, which helps nothing. There must be a way to truthfully and genuinely accept suffering without being destroyed by it. The Middle Path.
"Take up your cross and follow me!"
It's in every gospel. Yes, take it up, but take it up with joy. Is this what it means to go rejoicing into the flames, like all of my martyrs, laughing, filled with the deepest peace and contentment?
I think so, and if I can only get my mind around it, how beautiful it will be - to feel the grief of mourning and weeping in this valley of tears, and still dance in the joy and hope of Julian of Norwich that "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
At the same time, how refreshing for someone to acknowledge that we're not born in this state of peace, and that even the strong sometimes shudder and lose courage.
------------------
In the end I remember the last verses of Isaiah 40, which seems to strike a reccuring chord in my spiritual life...this is from an amazing Jewish translation:
Youths may grow faint and weary,
And young men stumble and fall;
But they who trust in the Lord shall renew their strength
As eagles grow new plumes:
They shall run and not grow weary,
They shall march and not grow faint.
-----------------
It is continually astounding to me, the way books seek me out. I must have some sort of homing signal for important works.
I randomly found a little book called "Daily Afflictions: the agony of being connected to everything in the universe." written by Andrew Boyd.
The book in its entirety is a little dark for me. (The man is a worshipper of Nietzsche.) I am drawn more to the Hafiz brand of spiritual experience - the sheer, unbounded joy of existence - the sense that Reality is so vast and so beautiful, all we can do is dance, gasping for breath. And yet, in the middle of my dance, I remember the suffering, and I stop. My own suffering, I can generally reconcile after a period of pouting or weeping. But the suffering of other people is much harder to understand. This entry from that book was so true to me that I started to cry. This entry speaks of what I think Jesus meant to show us in his passion and death:
"What is to give light must endure burning." - Victor Frankel
Many of us have set out on the path of enlightenment. We long for a release of selfhood in some kind of mystical union with all things. But that moment of epiphany - when we finally see the whole pattern and our sense of place in the cosmic web - can be a crushing experience from which we never fully recover.
Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.
To seek enlightenment is to seek annihilation, rebirth, and the taking up of burdens. You must come prepared to touch and be touched by each and everything in heaven and hell.
I am One with the Universe, and it hurts.
I am constantly being told by my friends when they see me crushed by the vision of some great misfortune in the world, or the private grief of a friend or a stranger;
"You need filters, you need some armor, you can't just go through life feeling everything, because it will destroy you. You have to choose what you feel."
and yet, from my very youngest years, I can't remember a time when I didn't feel this sense of the entire world, full of pain and heartbreak and grief, rushing into me and shaking me down like the skeleton of an old house not meant to billet an army. I have sensed the impossibility of shutting something so enormous out without disfiguring my self. And I've also always questioned - if I could shut it out, would I want to? I can't shut another person out of my experience without shutting myself out of theirs. Somehow the pain of not sharing the sufferings of another seems a worse pain, to me. The agony of not being connected to everything in the universe seems much darker and more frightening.
I love this little book for the truth it contains, but I think he has not gone far enough. As the Buddha says, we must enter into our perceptions and feelings, positive, negative, and neutral, and seek out their roots. I can feel the blinding pain of another person, but if I allow it to blind me, then there are simply two suffering, blind souls instead of one, which helps nothing. There must be a way to truthfully and genuinely accept suffering without being destroyed by it. The Middle Path.
"Take up your cross and follow me!"
It's in every gospel. Yes, take it up, but take it up with joy. Is this what it means to go rejoicing into the flames, like all of my martyrs, laughing, filled with the deepest peace and contentment?
I think so, and if I can only get my mind around it, how beautiful it will be - to feel the grief of mourning and weeping in this valley of tears, and still dance in the joy and hope of Julian of Norwich that "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
At the same time, how refreshing for someone to acknowledge that we're not born in this state of peace, and that even the strong sometimes shudder and lose courage.
------------------
In the end I remember the last verses of Isaiah 40, which seems to strike a reccuring chord in my spiritual life...this is from an amazing Jewish translation:
Youths may grow faint and weary,
And young men stumble and fall;
But they who trust in the Lord shall renew their strength
As eagles grow new plumes:
They shall run and not grow weary,
They shall march and not grow faint.
Generalized Spiritual Anxiety
From the tenor of my recent posts, even I can tell I've been struggling a bit on and off.
Since childhood, I've sometimes had these attacks of a strange, misty, unspecified feeling of guilt and unease. It haunts me through the day, surging up at random moments, and wakes me with a mild sense of dread at night. I can neither banish it nor attach it to any particular source.
I give myself an examination of concience, and try to match up my sins with the feeling, but while many of them have consequences and baggage of their own, they remain seperate from this malaise. It's a really yucky feeling - I try to escape it by centering down, but it seems to exist as a strong barrier against the one thing which could be its cure.
I know it will pass, as it always does, and in the meantime I recommend myself to my Friends' prayers, and abandon myself weakly to God. I am trying to be humble and peaceful in it, rather than taking it and running with it in some orgy of analysis.
It may be the Spirit's way of drawing me nearer by reminding me of my helplessness...not in a self-scourging way, but by lighting up the differences between cleverness and wisdom.
Trust in the Lord with all thy heart; and lean not to thy
own understanding.
In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy
paths...
...despise not the chastening of the Lord; neither be
weary of his correction:
For whom the Lord loveth he correcteth; even as a father
the son in whom he delighteth...
...The Lord by wisdom hath founded the earth; by understanding
hath he established the heavens.
By his knowledge the depths are broken up, and the clouds
drop down the dew.
My son, let not them depart from thy eyes: keep sound
wisdom and discretion:
So shall they be life to thy soul, and grace to thy neck.
Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall
not stumble.
When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: but thou
shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet.
Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of
the wicked, when it cometh.
For the Lord will be thy confidence, and will keep thy foot
from being taken.
Since childhood, I've sometimes had these attacks of a strange, misty, unspecified feeling of guilt and unease. It haunts me through the day, surging up at random moments, and wakes me with a mild sense of dread at night. I can neither banish it nor attach it to any particular source.
I give myself an examination of concience, and try to match up my sins with the feeling, but while many of them have consequences and baggage of their own, they remain seperate from this malaise. It's a really yucky feeling - I try to escape it by centering down, but it seems to exist as a strong barrier against the one thing which could be its cure.
I know it will pass, as it always does, and in the meantime I recommend myself to my Friends' prayers, and abandon myself weakly to God. I am trying to be humble and peaceful in it, rather than taking it and running with it in some orgy of analysis.
It may be the Spirit's way of drawing me nearer by reminding me of my helplessness...not in a self-scourging way, but by lighting up the differences between cleverness and wisdom.
Trust in the Lord with all thy heart; and lean not to thy
own understanding.
In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy
paths...
...despise not the chastening of the Lord; neither be
weary of his correction:
For whom the Lord loveth he correcteth; even as a father
the son in whom he delighteth...
...The Lord by wisdom hath founded the earth; by understanding
hath he established the heavens.
By his knowledge the depths are broken up, and the clouds
drop down the dew.
My son, let not them depart from thy eyes: keep sound
wisdom and discretion:
So shall they be life to thy soul, and grace to thy neck.
Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall
not stumble.
When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: but thou
shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet.
Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of
the wicked, when it cometh.
For the Lord will be thy confidence, and will keep thy foot
from being taken.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Silence
"I know of no other way, in these deeper depths, of trusting in the name of the Lord, and staying upon God, than sinking in to silence and nothingness before Him... So long as the enemy can keep us reasoning he can buffet us to and fro; but into the true solemn silence of the soul before God he cannot follow us."
- Quaker Faith & Practice (Britain Yearly Meeting) from John Bellows in 1895
There is a really great discussion going on in the comments of a Kwakersaur post about the reluctance of many Quakers to use "Jesus Language" - a sort of deliberate vaugeness of language about a definition of God, or relationships with God, and a commenter offered this quote, which really spoke to my condition. I was recently in an online discussion (which turned into more of a debate than I like) where we were talking about creeds - the use, value, shortcomings, and pitfalls thereof, and I find this quote applicable there, too.
I understand Friends' concern that this vaugeness and lack of definitive language can be more a sign of lukewarmness and cowardice than of thoughtfulness. It's an argument I try to stay out of, but one that I think about a lot.
The fact is, I share a deep craving for depth and reality, for real-world applications and consequences in the journey - I'm not here to skip stones. But my concern for truth rather than abstraction and the accompanying reluctace to seize on a proper noun for God is actually deeply at one with my horror of lukewarmness.
I want to be bold, I want to be sure, I want to go to a mountaintop and proclaim that "Yes, I believe in _________!!!!!!!!" I don't want to go soft and inoffensive around the edges, and yet I feel such a vulnerability, such a new, strong call to meekness, humility, and owning up to my ignorance, that for once in my life I am struck absolutely dumb. I cannot honestly lay claim to a Jesus, or a Christ, and only barely, some days, to a God. If a vauger word comes nearer to expressing the larger truth, it is a mortification to me, but I cannot in honesty deny it.
It does seem to me that the one article of faith that I cling to is that one can go from being a seeker to a finder - or rather, that there is something to be found. I have found Truth, or at least, encountered it. To say I've found in in partiality or in totality is actually a bit meaningless...by definition Truth (God) is complete, always, regardless of what I know or do not know of it, can or cannot say of it. To quote again from Hedwig, "There is nothing you can find that cannot be found." I have found something, I know. I can't say why I find my ignorance to be so huge in the face of this Truth. I can't really express how the fact that I have been a Finder makes me so absolutely sure that I remain a Seeker.
I am strongly convicted by this verse from 1 Peter:
"But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear.
I am in the odd position of strongly having that hope within me, but not yet having an articulable answer, or even worse, wondering if there is one. In such a time it is so absolutely sweet to have recourse to the silence. There I am reassured, strengthened, reminded, and doctored with that hope, which I cannot deny, even as I fail to define it.
- Quaker Faith & Practice (Britain Yearly Meeting) from John Bellows in 1895
There is a really great discussion going on in the comments of a Kwakersaur post about the reluctance of many Quakers to use "Jesus Language" - a sort of deliberate vaugeness of language about a definition of God, or relationships with God, and a commenter offered this quote, which really spoke to my condition. I was recently in an online discussion (which turned into more of a debate than I like) where we were talking about creeds - the use, value, shortcomings, and pitfalls thereof, and I find this quote applicable there, too.
I understand Friends' concern that this vaugeness and lack of definitive language can be more a sign of lukewarmness and cowardice than of thoughtfulness. It's an argument I try to stay out of, but one that I think about a lot.
The fact is, I share a deep craving for depth and reality, for real-world applications and consequences in the journey - I'm not here to skip stones. But my concern for truth rather than abstraction and the accompanying reluctace to seize on a proper noun for God is actually deeply at one with my horror of lukewarmness.
I want to be bold, I want to be sure, I want to go to a mountaintop and proclaim that "Yes, I believe in _________!!!!!!!!" I don't want to go soft and inoffensive around the edges, and yet I feel such a vulnerability, such a new, strong call to meekness, humility, and owning up to my ignorance, that for once in my life I am struck absolutely dumb. I cannot honestly lay claim to a Jesus, or a Christ, and only barely, some days, to a God. If a vauger word comes nearer to expressing the larger truth, it is a mortification to me, but I cannot in honesty deny it.
It does seem to me that the one article of faith that I cling to is that one can go from being a seeker to a finder - or rather, that there is something to be found. I have found Truth, or at least, encountered it. To say I've found in in partiality or in totality is actually a bit meaningless...by definition Truth (God) is complete, always, regardless of what I know or do not know of it, can or cannot say of it. To quote again from Hedwig, "There is nothing you can find that cannot be found." I have found something, I know. I can't say why I find my ignorance to be so huge in the face of this Truth. I can't really express how the fact that I have been a Finder makes me so absolutely sure that I remain a Seeker.
I am strongly convicted by this verse from 1 Peter:
"But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear.
I am in the odd position of strongly having that hope within me, but not yet having an articulable answer, or even worse, wondering if there is one. In such a time it is so absolutely sweet to have recourse to the silence. There I am reassured, strengthened, reminded, and doctored with that hope, which I cannot deny, even as I fail to define it.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Peace
I have recently begun reading a truly remarkable book... Einstein on Peace. I’m finding it deeply moving, because it speaks so specifically to an issue that is plauging me: the realization that it is very difficult for the life of one who works for peace to be peaceful.
This quote from Einstein betrays the deep sadness and sense of brokenness that a person of sensitivity inevitably feels when trying to take stock of the world:
"The international catastrophe has imposed a heavy burden upon me as an internationalist. In living through this 'great epoch,' it is difficult to reconcile oneself to the fact that one belongs to that idiotic, rotten species which boasts of its freedom of will. How I wish that somewhere there existed an island for those who are wise and of good will! In such a place even I should be an ardent patriot."
It's one of the obnoxious facts of life that there is no such place...no "Garden Enclosed", and that there is no "opting out" of the human race, and the world as it is, at least not without doing violence to your sense of perception. I'm thinking of two quotes, both of which I have found at times to be contradictorily true.
A person is never happy except at the price of some ignorance.”
- Anatole France
And:
"There is no duty we so underrate as the duty of being happy. By being happy we sow anonymous benefits upon the world."
- Robert Louis Stevenson
This brings me to the crux of a problem that’s boggled me since my first faint inklings of heaven and hell. How can I be happy while there is suffering? The Buddhist answer of detachment didn’t satisfy me, I couldn’t grasp it, how to achieve it in this life. The question was, and remains, since there is no such island, how to you remain fully engaged in the reality of life, and in the struggle to better the world we’re in, without simply dissolving under the weight of sadness and suffering, and worse, selfishness and disaffectation that surrounds us?
Thinking about this in the new light I’ve received, the partial answer, at least, is one I find disturbing in its banality: moderation. Blah! It becomes a matter of not outrunning the spirit, not trying to make use of gifts we might not yet possess to change problems that are beyond the reach of our ability to affect.
I’m a natural-born heroine, and like all of my kind, believe I’m here to fix the world. No one can deny it needs fixing, and fast. I have always taken my identity largely from this grandiose bit of drama. I’m the passionate one with big dreams and plans, enthusastic, extravagant, foolhardy, brave, brilliant, dauntless, all but annointed the saviour of humanity. If not humanity, my country. If not my country, my meeting. If not my meeting, my family. Coming to terms with the fact that just getting up and facing the petty responsiblities of the day can take all the courage and generosity I posess, or maybe more, is pretty humbling. Also a bit scary. Also a bit sad. But I’m realizing that maybe living my life in a fever of Miss America dreams for a single-handed Change the World campaign is actually a bit selfish, completely inefficient, and in the end, leaves me anything but a heroine. In fact, it generally leaves me pouting and snivelling all over this blog.
There are several things that make it hard to come down to any sort of realism. For one, if I aim for the moon and miss, nobody’s going to blame me. They’ll probably pat me on the back and buy me flowers for trying. But what if I’m just aiming for a humble, simple, honest daily life where I try and fulfil the responsibilities in front of me? What if I miss that? What then?
There is also the very real fear that “coming down to earth” will make a pedestrian, mindless zombie of complacency of me. I don’t want to go through life “just doin’ my bit” and thinking my responsibilities go no farther, never challenging myself, or attempting something big and difficult. That cow-like contentment, just going through the motions, never rocking the boat – that sort of false security will never work for me. I find myself pondering how thin the lines might be between consideration and cowardice, discernment and denial.
There is a Peter Pan in me that thinks “accepting limits” is for losers. That growing up means giving up. Isn't there supposed to something noble and adorable about that sweet courageous fool who keeps attempting the impossible and getting beaten down? So what if tilting at windmills leaves you dead in the end?
If I say that I cannot fix the world, and use it as an excuse to withdraw, well then, yes, that’s worse than my current floundering bombast. But my current pattern of expecting the impossible is threatening to make me worse than useless. Is there a realism that doesn’t smack of defeatism?
I think of Ionesco, again…
“Realism, whether it be socialist or not, falls short of reality. It shrinks it, attenuates it, falsifies it; it does not take into account our basic truths and our fundamental obsessions: love, death, astonishment. It presents man in a reduced and estranged perspective. Truth is in our dreams, in the imagination.”
I know I need to find a way to unite my dreams and visions of what my family, meeting, country, and world can be to a calm, reasoned, responsible routine of faithfulness. There must be a way to focus my efforts without reducing my drive. I can’t deny my nature, but what makes me think I can save the world when I can’t even pay my phone bill on time, or keep my temper? What is really driving all my indignation and raving about the state of the Society? If I was coming from a humble, quiet place, would I be upset, or would I respond with the love and wisdom that I’d fostered by just getting up and making my bed every day? How much energy am I wasting on emotionalism and dramatic thrashings about and wailings over the state of things?
These are certainly not new or novel thoughts, as can be seen by the fact that I am at no loss for quotes on the subject. (I’m never at a loss for quotes, see, here’s a quote defending my persistant use of quotes…Emerson said “The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself than he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, but they more." Ha.) But they are revolutionary, applied to my life. The challenge of living quietly, of becoming less dependent on expressing myself in Important Capitalizations and italics at all times, of becoming (barf!) slow and steady, seems somehow more daunting that foaming at the mouth over the last miserable thing Anne Coulter said, or crying myself to sleep about Tsunami victims, or staying up all night worrying about how the last Business meeting went. It would mean changing at a deep and maybe painful level. It would be a conversion of huge dimensions. It would mean going beyond soarings of the spirit and wallowings in the depths of despair. It would mean growing up, for real.
This quote from Einstein betrays the deep sadness and sense of brokenness that a person of sensitivity inevitably feels when trying to take stock of the world:
"The international catastrophe has imposed a heavy burden upon me as an internationalist. In living through this 'great epoch,' it is difficult to reconcile oneself to the fact that one belongs to that idiotic, rotten species which boasts of its freedom of will. How I wish that somewhere there existed an island for those who are wise and of good will! In such a place even I should be an ardent patriot."
It's one of the obnoxious facts of life that there is no such place...no "Garden Enclosed", and that there is no "opting out" of the human race, and the world as it is, at least not without doing violence to your sense of perception. I'm thinking of two quotes, both of which I have found at times to be contradictorily true.
A person is never happy except at the price of some ignorance.”
- Anatole France
And:
"There is no duty we so underrate as the duty of being happy. By being happy we sow anonymous benefits upon the world."
- Robert Louis Stevenson
This brings me to the crux of a problem that’s boggled me since my first faint inklings of heaven and hell. How can I be happy while there is suffering? The Buddhist answer of detachment didn’t satisfy me, I couldn’t grasp it, how to achieve it in this life. The question was, and remains, since there is no such island, how to you remain fully engaged in the reality of life, and in the struggle to better the world we’re in, without simply dissolving under the weight of sadness and suffering, and worse, selfishness and disaffectation that surrounds us?
Thinking about this in the new light I’ve received, the partial answer, at least, is one I find disturbing in its banality: moderation. Blah! It becomes a matter of not outrunning the spirit, not trying to make use of gifts we might not yet possess to change problems that are beyond the reach of our ability to affect.
I’m a natural-born heroine, and like all of my kind, believe I’m here to fix the world. No one can deny it needs fixing, and fast. I have always taken my identity largely from this grandiose bit of drama. I’m the passionate one with big dreams and plans, enthusastic, extravagant, foolhardy, brave, brilliant, dauntless, all but annointed the saviour of humanity. If not humanity, my country. If not my country, my meeting. If not my meeting, my family. Coming to terms with the fact that just getting up and facing the petty responsiblities of the day can take all the courage and generosity I posess, or maybe more, is pretty humbling. Also a bit scary. Also a bit sad. But I’m realizing that maybe living my life in a fever of Miss America dreams for a single-handed Change the World campaign is actually a bit selfish, completely inefficient, and in the end, leaves me anything but a heroine. In fact, it generally leaves me pouting and snivelling all over this blog.
There are several things that make it hard to come down to any sort of realism. For one, if I aim for the moon and miss, nobody’s going to blame me. They’ll probably pat me on the back and buy me flowers for trying. But what if I’m just aiming for a humble, simple, honest daily life where I try and fulfil the responsibilities in front of me? What if I miss that? What then?
There is also the very real fear that “coming down to earth” will make a pedestrian, mindless zombie of complacency of me. I don’t want to go through life “just doin’ my bit” and thinking my responsibilities go no farther, never challenging myself, or attempting something big and difficult. That cow-like contentment, just going through the motions, never rocking the boat – that sort of false security will never work for me. I find myself pondering how thin the lines might be between consideration and cowardice, discernment and denial.
There is a Peter Pan in me that thinks “accepting limits” is for losers. That growing up means giving up. Isn't there supposed to something noble and adorable about that sweet courageous fool who keeps attempting the impossible and getting beaten down? So what if tilting at windmills leaves you dead in the end?
If I say that I cannot fix the world, and use it as an excuse to withdraw, well then, yes, that’s worse than my current floundering bombast. But my current pattern of expecting the impossible is threatening to make me worse than useless. Is there a realism that doesn’t smack of defeatism?
I think of Ionesco, again…
“Realism, whether it be socialist or not, falls short of reality. It shrinks it, attenuates it, falsifies it; it does not take into account our basic truths and our fundamental obsessions: love, death, astonishment. It presents man in a reduced and estranged perspective. Truth is in our dreams, in the imagination.”
I know I need to find a way to unite my dreams and visions of what my family, meeting, country, and world can be to a calm, reasoned, responsible routine of faithfulness. There must be a way to focus my efforts without reducing my drive. I can’t deny my nature, but what makes me think I can save the world when I can’t even pay my phone bill on time, or keep my temper? What is really driving all my indignation and raving about the state of the Society? If I was coming from a humble, quiet place, would I be upset, or would I respond with the love and wisdom that I’d fostered by just getting up and making my bed every day? How much energy am I wasting on emotionalism and dramatic thrashings about and wailings over the state of things?
These are certainly not new or novel thoughts, as can be seen by the fact that I am at no loss for quotes on the subject. (I’m never at a loss for quotes, see, here’s a quote defending my persistant use of quotes…Emerson said “The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself than he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, but they more." Ha.) But they are revolutionary, applied to my life. The challenge of living quietly, of becoming less dependent on expressing myself in Important Capitalizations and italics at all times, of becoming (barf!) slow and steady, seems somehow more daunting that foaming at the mouth over the last miserable thing Anne Coulter said, or crying myself to sleep about Tsunami victims, or staying up all night worrying about how the last Business meeting went. It would mean changing at a deep and maybe painful level. It would be a conversion of huge dimensions. It would mean going beyond soarings of the spirit and wallowings in the depths of despair. It would mean growing up, for real.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
On God and Being Lonely
I was reading an interview with Douglas Coupland today, and he had something very interesting to say about being in your 20s these days, especially living in a big city.
"We live in an incredibly transient culture. You go from the intense
socialization experience of school, then move to the other side of
town — or to Los Angeles — where you're dumped into this culture where
it takes an incredible amount of money just to live. You're stuck
finding your own way and not quite sure who's good or evil, who's
using you, "Is it me or is it the alcohol?" And in the midst of all
this, you're feeling totally disconnected from a lot of people. Are
you clinically depressed? No! You're just lonely, and no one told you
what it was or how to identify it, the shapes or colors or forms of
it, so you think you're going mental. And because people tend to hang
out with people their own age, everyone around you looks great, like
they all just stepped out of a shampoo commercial or something, so you
think, "They couldn't possibly be experiencing all this crappy shit
that's inside of me." Before you even discuss it with people, you've
already shut yourself down. And that's your twenties!"
Loneliness is something I mused about a great deal in my just-arrived-in-NYC blog.I had more friends than I had ever dreamed of, a full social calendar, and I still found myself occasionally staring in a bathroom mirror asking myself what's wrong?! Why do I feel so lonely? Occasionally, those moments return, even with my refound faith in the One who has promised to never forsake us.
Williamsburg is muffled and deserted tonight...you can stand outside in the snow for ages without seeing or hearing another soul. I went to a friend's house after a solitary Saturday spent staring at old movies and watched Hedwig and the Angry Inch, a movie I had not seen since another Saturday, this one alone in my apartment for the first time. Erik was away for the weekend, and I took advantage by going to the video store and renting all the movies he never wanted to see. I had a boringly wonderful Jane Austin flick, some new release things that didn't have a good enough arthouse pedigree...and I can't remember what other things, because I didn't end up watching any of them at all. I'd tossed Hedwig into the mess because some of my theatre friends had mentioned it once. I put it in first, and then watched it on repeat the rest of the weekend. I was in an odd state of soul-shock. Melodramatic, yes, but I had somehow found in this queer, campy bombast a perfect depiction of what it felt like to be me at that point. Alone, Godless, a freak, a fraud, a failure, and somehow still trying to find a way (any way)to avoid loneliness. One song in particular gripped me for months afterwards, but I hadn't thought of it in ages, after I'd left that horrible period, that wicked little town in North Carolina. When I watched the film again today, the same song had me by the throat.
It still applies, with the old meaning, and new ones. The "voice" in the song has changed now. The first time, I had no idea who was singing the song, though I knew it was to me. Listening again, I was flooded with thoughts of how far I've come, and how lost you can feel in the process of "finding yourself".
You know, the sun is in your eyes
And hurricanes and rains
And black and cloudy skies
You're running up and down that hill
You turn it on and off at will
There's nothing here to thrill or bring you down
And if you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town
Oh Lady Luck has lead you here
And they're so twisted up
They'll twist you up, I fear
The pious, hateful, and devout
You're turning tricks 'til you're turned out
The wind so cold it burns
You're burning out and blowing 'round
And if you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town
The fates are vicious and they're cruel
You learn too late you've used
Two wishes
Like a fool
And then you're someone you are not
And Junction City ain't the spot
Remember Mrs. Lot and when she turned around
And if you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town...
....when everything starts breaking down
You take the pieces off the ground
And show this wicked town
Something beautiful and new
You think that luck has left you there
But maybe there's nothing
Up in the sky but air
And there's no mystical design
No cosmic lover preassigned
There's nothing you can find
That cannot be found
'cause, with all the changes you've been through
It seems the stranger's always you
Alone again in some new
Wicked little town
So when you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town
Oh, it's a wicked little town.
"We live in an incredibly transient culture. You go from the intense
socialization experience of school, then move to the other side of
town — or to Los Angeles — where you're dumped into this culture where
it takes an incredible amount of money just to live. You're stuck
finding your own way and not quite sure who's good or evil, who's
using you, "Is it me or is it the alcohol?" And in the midst of all
this, you're feeling totally disconnected from a lot of people. Are
you clinically depressed? No! You're just lonely, and no one told you
what it was or how to identify it, the shapes or colors or forms of
it, so you think you're going mental. And because people tend to hang
out with people their own age, everyone around you looks great, like
they all just stepped out of a shampoo commercial or something, so you
think, "They couldn't possibly be experiencing all this crappy shit
that's inside of me." Before you even discuss it with people, you've
already shut yourself down. And that's your twenties!"
Loneliness is something I mused about a great deal in my just-arrived-in-NYC blog.I had more friends than I had ever dreamed of, a full social calendar, and I still found myself occasionally staring in a bathroom mirror asking myself what's wrong?! Why do I feel so lonely? Occasionally, those moments return, even with my refound faith in the One who has promised to never forsake us.
Williamsburg is muffled and deserted tonight...you can stand outside in the snow for ages without seeing or hearing another soul. I went to a friend's house after a solitary Saturday spent staring at old movies and watched Hedwig and the Angry Inch, a movie I had not seen since another Saturday, this one alone in my apartment for the first time. Erik was away for the weekend, and I took advantage by going to the video store and renting all the movies he never wanted to see. I had a boringly wonderful Jane Austin flick, some new release things that didn't have a good enough arthouse pedigree...and I can't remember what other things, because I didn't end up watching any of them at all. I'd tossed Hedwig into the mess because some of my theatre friends had mentioned it once. I put it in first, and then watched it on repeat the rest of the weekend. I was in an odd state of soul-shock. Melodramatic, yes, but I had somehow found in this queer, campy bombast a perfect depiction of what it felt like to be me at that point. Alone, Godless, a freak, a fraud, a failure, and somehow still trying to find a way (any way)to avoid loneliness. One song in particular gripped me for months afterwards, but I hadn't thought of it in ages, after I'd left that horrible period, that wicked little town in North Carolina. When I watched the film again today, the same song had me by the throat.
It still applies, with the old meaning, and new ones. The "voice" in the song has changed now. The first time, I had no idea who was singing the song, though I knew it was to me. Listening again, I was flooded with thoughts of how far I've come, and how lost you can feel in the process of "finding yourself".
You know, the sun is in your eyes
And hurricanes and rains
And black and cloudy skies
You're running up and down that hill
You turn it on and off at will
There's nothing here to thrill or bring you down
And if you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town
Oh Lady Luck has lead you here
And they're so twisted up
They'll twist you up, I fear
The pious, hateful, and devout
You're turning tricks 'til you're turned out
The wind so cold it burns
You're burning out and blowing 'round
And if you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town
The fates are vicious and they're cruel
You learn too late you've used
Two wishes
Like a fool
And then you're someone you are not
And Junction City ain't the spot
Remember Mrs. Lot and when she turned around
And if you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town...
....when everything starts breaking down
You take the pieces off the ground
And show this wicked town
Something beautiful and new
You think that luck has left you there
But maybe there's nothing
Up in the sky but air
And there's no mystical design
No cosmic lover preassigned
There's nothing you can find
That cannot be found
'cause, with all the changes you've been through
It seems the stranger's always you
Alone again in some new
Wicked little town
So when you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town
Oh, it's a wicked little town.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
A poem for the day
Stop Being So Religious - Hafiz
What
Do Sad people have in
Common?
It seems
They have all built a shrine
To the past
And often go there
And do a strange wail and
Worship.
What is the beginning of
Happiness?
It is to stop being
so religious
Like
That.
What
Do Sad people have in
Common?
It seems
They have all built a shrine
To the past
And often go there
And do a strange wail and
Worship.
What is the beginning of
Happiness?
It is to stop being
so religious
Like
That.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Gorilla snow angels
I'd like to thank God, the Universe, and Everything for this snow. This is the first real snow in the city this year. Last year I arrived to a city full of grey snow, tears from wind and other things freezing to my scarf constantly, for months and months.
This year the snow has come like a suspension of some bitter sentence, making me feel about five years old. I just got in, and my cheeks are tingling in a nearly forgotten way. As Scott, Lor and I were walking to the subway from band practice, I snowballed poor Lor in the hat (it was a beaut of a shot, but he has a right to never forgive me) and then, back in Brooklyn, I asked a perfect stranger in the street if it was a captial crime to snowball someone you didn't know. He lowered his head and ran away. I snowballed him but missed on purpose...he never even looked up. In the last three block stretch to home, I saw on the sidewalk an untouched Amanda-sized patch of snow. I couldn't help it - I, yes, I, sophisticated little Miss Amanda of the City laid down in an NYC street and made a snow angel. She was lovely, but the outline of the Big Ugly Parka added a certain, erm, simian touch. Still, the lines were graceful.
I think I will be ninety and love the snow like this.
This year the snow has come like a suspension of some bitter sentence, making me feel about five years old. I just got in, and my cheeks are tingling in a nearly forgotten way. As Scott, Lor and I were walking to the subway from band practice, I snowballed poor Lor in the hat (it was a beaut of a shot, but he has a right to never forgive me) and then, back in Brooklyn, I asked a perfect stranger in the street if it was a captial crime to snowball someone you didn't know. He lowered his head and ran away. I snowballed him but missed on purpose...he never even looked up. In the last three block stretch to home, I saw on the sidewalk an untouched Amanda-sized patch of snow. I couldn't help it - I, yes, I, sophisticated little Miss Amanda of the City laid down in an NYC street and made a snow angel. She was lovely, but the outline of the Big Ugly Parka added a certain, erm, simian touch. Still, the lines were graceful.
I think I will be ninety and love the snow like this.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
At this very moment
I am at the crisis of the movie Roman Holiday
Can you believe I've never seen it before?
I just wanted to record that this is the very moment in history that I am breaking my heart over the best movie ever, which I have never seen before but know will have a wonderful ending.
Gregory Peck's resolve is shattering before my very eyes.
Thank you.
Can you believe I've never seen it before?
I just wanted to record that this is the very moment in history that I am breaking my heart over the best movie ever, which I have never seen before but know will have a wonderful ending.
Gregory Peck's resolve is shattering before my very eyes.
Thank you.
*beep*
Sometimes I have this conversation.
Amanda: I don't believe in you, God.
God: Ah. So who are you talking to, then?
Amanda: Oh, f*ck!
I think if God had an answering service, that might be his recording. Not the last bit. The middle bit.
I think I was having this conversation on the way to the subway this morning, but I'm not sure. It's hard to hear anything but unintelligible muffled noises from within this mountain of clothing I have built for myself to live in. It is COLD in NYC, boys and girls. It's about -15 celcius, which is much colder than fahrenheit. I finally had recourse to the Big Ugly Parka, even.
The Big Ugly Parka is a hand-me-down, several times over. It is either some sort of military surplus, or it would like to be. It is big. It is ugly. It is also a parka. I've been trying to give it away for a year, no one would have it. This morning, when I tumbled regretfully from my nest of warm air that is a loft-bed (heat rises) I shrieked with the draft coming through my window and I knew I was going to have to play nice with the parka.
It's about 4 feet long, green on the outside (slightly reflective) orange on the inside (slightly introspective) with a collar/hood of grey fake marmoset fur. If the rest of my wardrobe were skimpier/cooler/more ironic/80's inspired, this coat would likely be my most valuable accessory, matched to, say, a pair of turquoise pumps and hot-pink fishnets. Alas, instead it transforms me into a long green turd-shaped object.
But!
I fell in love with the Big Ugly Parka, ladies and gentlemen.
I was (and am) already remarkably layered. I am wearing, in rough order, a pair of my old thick ballet tights, a pair of "wool thermal boot socks", a pair of long thermal pants, a pair of flannel leggings, a log thermal slip, a thinnish wool skirt, a cotton cardigan, a thinnish wool dress over all of that, a heavy wool sweater, and a wool scarf. And it's still cold, until I put on the Big Ugly Parka. Then, only my face has to deal with the unfortunate choice of breathing or freezing. The rest of me is toasty, oblivious to the outside world. Bad luck, face.
Anyhow, thanks, Big Ugly Parka.
Also, in a bit of extreme oddity, perhaps you have all read this, but newscientist.com is reporting on recently declassified papers about "Really Bad Ideas For Chemical Weapons" (my title) rejected by the pentagon. One of these ideas is a "Gay Bomb" which would apprently turn entire platoons of enemy combatants into raging homosexual monsters. Such a weapon, says the proposal, would strike a "distasteful but completely non-lethal" blow to morale.
For the love of God.
Amanda: I don't believe in you, God.
God: Ah. So who are you talking to, then?
Amanda: Oh, f*ck!
I think if God had an answering service, that might be his recording. Not the last bit. The middle bit.
I think I was having this conversation on the way to the subway this morning, but I'm not sure. It's hard to hear anything but unintelligible muffled noises from within this mountain of clothing I have built for myself to live in. It is COLD in NYC, boys and girls. It's about -15 celcius, which is much colder than fahrenheit. I finally had recourse to the Big Ugly Parka, even.
The Big Ugly Parka is a hand-me-down, several times over. It is either some sort of military surplus, or it would like to be. It is big. It is ugly. It is also a parka. I've been trying to give it away for a year, no one would have it. This morning, when I tumbled regretfully from my nest of warm air that is a loft-bed (heat rises) I shrieked with the draft coming through my window and I knew I was going to have to play nice with the parka.
It's about 4 feet long, green on the outside (slightly reflective) orange on the inside (slightly introspective) with a collar/hood of grey fake marmoset fur. If the rest of my wardrobe were skimpier/cooler/more ironic/80's inspired, this coat would likely be my most valuable accessory, matched to, say, a pair of turquoise pumps and hot-pink fishnets. Alas, instead it transforms me into a long green turd-shaped object.
But!
I fell in love with the Big Ugly Parka, ladies and gentlemen.
I was (and am) already remarkably layered. I am wearing, in rough order, a pair of my old thick ballet tights, a pair of "wool thermal boot socks", a pair of long thermal pants, a pair of flannel leggings, a log thermal slip, a thinnish wool skirt, a cotton cardigan, a thinnish wool dress over all of that, a heavy wool sweater, and a wool scarf. And it's still cold, until I put on the Big Ugly Parka. Then, only my face has to deal with the unfortunate choice of breathing or freezing. The rest of me is toasty, oblivious to the outside world. Bad luck, face.
Anyhow, thanks, Big Ugly Parka.
Also, in a bit of extreme oddity, perhaps you have all read this, but newscientist.com is reporting on recently declassified papers about "Really Bad Ideas For Chemical Weapons" (my title) rejected by the pentagon. One of these ideas is a "Gay Bomb" which would apprently turn entire platoons of enemy combatants into raging homosexual monsters. Such a weapon, says the proposal, would strike a "distasteful but completely non-lethal" blow to morale.
For the love of God.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Definitions
There are times when I am seized with a great fear that Quakerism is just my newest delusion. One of the greater banes of my life is my seemingly endless facility for fooling myself. If you give me a week and some solitude, I can convince myself of nearly anything. My query for myself this week (at least)is...
What does it mean to be convinced?
I have a good inkling it has nothing to do with convincing myself, but rather having an experinence beyond myself - it's nothing I can talk myself into or out of, which is frustrating. I have a feeling that is is a lot like what is referred to in the Velveteen Rabbit as "becoming real."
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."
The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him."
I wonder if this is it - if becoming convinced is less of a St. Paul thrown by his horse moment and more of a continual happening. If I want to get metaphysical about it, maybe it is a happening outside of time. No, screw that, I don't want to be metaphysical about it.
All I know is that for the past year, I have had this line of Aeschelus ringing in my ears...
"He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
What does it mean to be convinced?
I have a good inkling it has nothing to do with convincing myself, but rather having an experinence beyond myself - it's nothing I can talk myself into or out of, which is frustrating. I have a feeling that is is a lot like what is referred to in the Velveteen Rabbit as "becoming real."
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."
The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him."
I wonder if this is it - if becoming convinced is less of a St. Paul thrown by his horse moment and more of a continual happening. If I want to get metaphysical about it, maybe it is a happening outside of time. No, screw that, I don't want to be metaphysical about it.
All I know is that for the past year, I have had this line of Aeschelus ringing in my ears...
"He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
In honour of MLK, regarding dreams...
"There is nothing truer than myth: history, in its attempt to "realize" myth, distorts it, stops halfway; when history claims to have "succeeded," this is nothing but humbug and mystification. Everything we dream is "realizable." Reality does not have to be: it is simply what it is."
~Eugene Ionesco
~Eugene Ionesco
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Hmm
Well, a bit of silliness, those of you wanting to know what I looked like before I went plain, when I still wore makeup *gulp* click on my profile, and look it that picture full-sized, because I'm not so googly-eyed as the thumbnail. Soon I should have an "after" picture, and we can all have a chuckle. :) I just found this photo-booth shot on a webpage where you can recommend your friendly exes to other girls (I recommended a great one, but he's taken now by a very sweet woman, sorry ladies. What can I say, I'm a natural at sales), and was all "Dude! Who's that chick?!" So I thought I'd share.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Here I Yam
as my little brother (the 5th one) would say.
Well, the rain or something's been sealing my lips, or fingers, I guess, and I've been disinclined to keep up my end of most correspondance or blog or any such thing. The days have been mostly spent murdering time gruesomely and brutally within the four walls of the wee coffee shop where I live, but it didn't go by without a couple of noteworthy happenings.
Noteworthy happening #1... Lor and I recorded a song for a human-rights convention in Calcutta. He'd written the song last year after a little girl named Purnima, held a press conference about her gang-rape and torture. It is epidemic in Bangladesh as well as all over the world. You can read brief accounts and see pictures of women, some as young as 4 years old, who have been victims of this racially-motivated violence at the website of the Bangladesh Awami Leauge. I think the song will be very well recieved. The person who requested the recording was nearly in tears, and he begged us to write a short message to Purnima and autograph it. I wouldn't have dreamed of it - I felt quite ashamed to be seen as a celebrity by a little girl who has been through such horrors and been so brave. But he insisted it would thrill her, so we did it, though I had to go away and cry somewhere afterwards.
#2 We played a benefit for Tsunami victims at the Park South hotel. It went really, really well, though I had the most wretched stage-fright before. All of the music was wonderful, and everyone was very kind. It is a funny thing, performing in plain-dress. It seems in a way quite a bit at odds with itself, but then, my motivations for plain dress are less humilty than truth, and since in truth, I'm a performer, there's no real conflict. More noticiably, it was the first time since moving to NYC that I've gone to a big social event and not been hit on - at all. Everyone was friendly and anxious to speak with me, which was very gratifying, but nobody flirted with me at all. It sounds ridiculous, but it was a little sobering. I've been so used to making a character of myself before I "go out" and attracting all the attention I want whether I really want it or not. Costume and makeup are powerful social tools. I can't say I was upset or even disappointed - I'm so far from the dating mood these days that it was actually a good relief. But it was sobering in that - "Oh gosh, this is actually real and not just in my head anymore" way.
#3...well, no number three. I guess that's it.
Well, the rain or something's been sealing my lips, or fingers, I guess, and I've been disinclined to keep up my end of most correspondance or blog or any such thing. The days have been mostly spent murdering time gruesomely and brutally within the four walls of the wee coffee shop where I live, but it didn't go by without a couple of noteworthy happenings.
Noteworthy happening #1... Lor and I recorded a song for a human-rights convention in Calcutta. He'd written the song last year after a little girl named Purnima, held a press conference about her gang-rape and torture. It is epidemic in Bangladesh as well as all over the world. You can read brief accounts and see pictures of women, some as young as 4 years old, who have been victims of this racially-motivated violence at the website of the Bangladesh Awami Leauge. I think the song will be very well recieved. The person who requested the recording was nearly in tears, and he begged us to write a short message to Purnima and autograph it. I wouldn't have dreamed of it - I felt quite ashamed to be seen as a celebrity by a little girl who has been through such horrors and been so brave. But he insisted it would thrill her, so we did it, though I had to go away and cry somewhere afterwards.
#2 We played a benefit for Tsunami victims at the Park South hotel. It went really, really well, though I had the most wretched stage-fright before. All of the music was wonderful, and everyone was very kind. It is a funny thing, performing in plain-dress. It seems in a way quite a bit at odds with itself, but then, my motivations for plain dress are less humilty than truth, and since in truth, I'm a performer, there's no real conflict. More noticiably, it was the first time since moving to NYC that I've gone to a big social event and not been hit on - at all. Everyone was friendly and anxious to speak with me, which was very gratifying, but nobody flirted with me at all. It sounds ridiculous, but it was a little sobering. I've been so used to making a character of myself before I "go out" and attracting all the attention I want whether I really want it or not. Costume and makeup are powerful social tools. I can't say I was upset or even disappointed - I'm so far from the dating mood these days that it was actually a good relief. But it was sobering in that - "Oh gosh, this is actually real and not just in my head anymore" way.
#3...well, no number three. I guess that's it.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Okay....
This is not very Quaker, nor is it very current, nor is it very nice. But wow, it's very funny.
"Notice of Revocation of Independence
To the citizens of the United States of America
In the light of your recent failure to elect a
reasonable President and thus to govern yourselves, we
hereby give notice of the revocation of your
independence, effective today...
...Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume
monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths and
other territories. Except Utah, which she does not
fancy. Your new Prime Minister (Tony Blair for the
97.85% of you who have until now been unaware that
there is a world outside your borders) will appoint a
Minister for America without the need for further
elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded.
A questionnaire will be circulated next year to
determine whether any of you noticed.
To aid to the transition to a British Crown
Dependency, the following rules are introduced with
immediate effect:
1.) You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford
English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium". Check
the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just
how wrongly you have been pronouncing it. Generally,
you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels.
Look up "vocabulary". Using the same 27 words
interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and
"you know" is an unacceptable and ineffective form of
communication. Look up "interspersed".
2.) There is no such thing as "US English". We will let
Microsoft know on your behalf.
3.) You should learn to distinguish between English and
Australian accents. It really isn't that hard.
4.) Hollywood will be required to occasionally cast
English actors as the good guys.
5.) You should relearn your original national anthem,
God Save The Queen, but only after carrying out task
one. We would not want you to get confused and give up
half way through.
6.) You will no longer be allowed to play American
football. There is only one kind of football. What you
refer to as "football" is not a very good game. The
2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world
outside your borders may have noticed that no one else
plays American football. Instead you should play
proper football. Initially, it would be best if you
played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those
of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play
rugby (which is similar to American football, but does
not involve stopping for a rest every 20 seconds or
wearing full body armour like nancies).
7.) You should declare war on Quebec and France, using
nuclear weapons if they give you any merde. The 97.85%
of you who were not aware that there is a world
outside your borders should count yourselves lucky.
The Russians have never been the bad guys. (Merde is
French for "sh*t".)
8.) The fourth of July is no longer a public holiday.
The 3rd of November will be a new national holiday,
but only in Britain. It will be called "Stupidity
Day".
9.) All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap
and it is for your own good. When we show you German
Cars, you will understand what we mean.
10.) Please tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us
crazy.
Thank you for your co-operation."
"Notice of Revocation of Independence
To the citizens of the United States of America
In the light of your recent failure to elect a
reasonable President and thus to govern yourselves, we
hereby give notice of the revocation of your
independence, effective today...
...Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume
monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths and
other territories. Except Utah, which she does not
fancy. Your new Prime Minister (Tony Blair for the
97.85% of you who have until now been unaware that
there is a world outside your borders) will appoint a
Minister for America without the need for further
elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded.
A questionnaire will be circulated next year to
determine whether any of you noticed.
To aid to the transition to a British Crown
Dependency, the following rules are introduced with
immediate effect:
1.) You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford
English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium". Check
the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just
how wrongly you have been pronouncing it. Generally,
you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels.
Look up "vocabulary". Using the same 27 words
interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and
"you know" is an unacceptable and ineffective form of
communication. Look up "interspersed".
2.) There is no such thing as "US English". We will let
Microsoft know on your behalf.
3.) You should learn to distinguish between English and
Australian accents. It really isn't that hard.
4.) Hollywood will be required to occasionally cast
English actors as the good guys.
5.) You should relearn your original national anthem,
God Save The Queen, but only after carrying out task
one. We would not want you to get confused and give up
half way through.
6.) You will no longer be allowed to play American
football. There is only one kind of football. What you
refer to as "football" is not a very good game. The
2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world
outside your borders may have noticed that no one else
plays American football. Instead you should play
proper football. Initially, it would be best if you
played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those
of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play
rugby (which is similar to American football, but does
not involve stopping for a rest every 20 seconds or
wearing full body armour like nancies).
7.) You should declare war on Quebec and France, using
nuclear weapons if they give you any merde. The 97.85%
of you who were not aware that there is a world
outside your borders should count yourselves lucky.
The Russians have never been the bad guys. (Merde is
French for "sh*t".)
8.) The fourth of July is no longer a public holiday.
The 3rd of November will be a new national holiday,
but only in Britain. It will be called "Stupidity
Day".
9.) All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap
and it is for your own good. When we show you German
Cars, you will understand what we mean.
10.) Please tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us
crazy.
Thank you for your co-operation."
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Deep calleth unto deep
Psalm 42
(To the chief Musician, Maschil, for the sons of Korah.)
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.
My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?
My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?
When I remember these things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that kept holyday.
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance.
O my God, my soul is cast down within me: therefore will I remember thee from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar.
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the daytime, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.
I will say unto God my rock, Why hast thou forgotten me? why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?
As with a sword in my bones, mine enemies reproach me; while they say daily unto me, Where is thy God?
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.
(To the chief Musician, Maschil, for the sons of Korah.)
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.
My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?
My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?
When I remember these things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that kept holyday.
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance.
O my God, my soul is cast down within me: therefore will I remember thee from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar.
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the daytime, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.
I will say unto God my rock, Why hast thou forgotten me? why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?
As with a sword in my bones, mine enemies reproach me; while they say daily unto me, Where is thy God?
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.
Ah me.
Well, I took myself out to the movies and saw Spanglish, which had me sniffling or outright weeping the whole way through, when I wasn't laughing hysterically. I loved it. It actually captured some of the most excuciatingly uncomfortable bits of being human and imperfect in such a singluar way. It is sobering to watch Sandler pull a Carrey and actually nail an exceedingly sensitive role - the only slight hints of Sandler-ism comthing through in a scene where he's absolutely hammered. The laughs nearly all come from his wife, who's a complete basket-case in an over the top yet strangely all-too believable way. Also, the two young girls steal the film, I think, especially the one who plays Sandler's daughter. I just fell in love with her and hope I have a kid just like her someday. She slew me. Congratulations, kid, whoever and wherever you are. I'm so pleased, I just expected a silly chick-flick, and this was nothing of the sort.
back to the Shipment O' Plain I got today, here's something I wrote to our Friend Jeff...
"A little something to make thee giggle - I was bored when I got home and triedon the daft apron again. I suddenly realized that I'm supposed to pin the apron, rather than tie it, and it looks much, much better. I think. There are no full length mirrors in our house, since my non-Quaker agnostic roommates are both actually nearly as plain as me (it's such a great reality check) so I've been wandering aound the apartment trying to get a glimpse of my vain plain self in one of the windows. Heh. The cape part of the apron does SUCH a good job with what it's supposed to do, I actually feel extremely sobered when I do get the slightest glance at my shapeless self! Eeenteresting.
I'm still not going to wear it out, except to show a few on my friends who will be amused/intruiged. Blatant misuse of plain garb, I know. Heh."
Someone asked if people treated me differently when they encounter me "plainly"...well, sometimes. To be honest, I think my plain (until I put on the silly apron) is subtle enough that notbody really bats an eyelash. Those that see me everyday raised an eyebrow at the fact that a.) I only seem to have two or three outfits in rotation, b.) that they all consist of longish skirts and a sweater in grey or brown, and c.) my hair is always covered by a bandana, or a crochet skull-cap worn as a snood. If you just saw me and didn't know me, you might assign me to the "hippie" group as much as the "slightly obsessively religious" group.
This is what I thought. Until last night. I wasn't even dressed super-plain, I thought, but I stopped by a pub for a drink with a friend. Some really annoying really drunk dude yelled out "You look like a mennonite!" I smiled and said "I'm not a mennonite, I'm a Quaker." He shook his head and yelled, louder, a few inches from my face..."Welll....you LOOOOOOOK like a MENNONITE!". I replied "Yes! and you look like....an asshole!" but I only whispered it, and he didn't hear.
Which is good.
Yep.
back to the Shipment O' Plain I got today, here's something I wrote to our Friend Jeff...
"A little something to make thee giggle - I was bored when I got home and triedon the daft apron again. I suddenly realized that I'm supposed to pin the apron, rather than tie it, and it looks much, much better. I think. There are no full length mirrors in our house, since my non-Quaker agnostic roommates are both actually nearly as plain as me (it's such a great reality check) so I've been wandering aound the apartment trying to get a glimpse of my vain plain self in one of the windows. Heh. The cape part of the apron does SUCH a good job with what it's supposed to do, I actually feel extremely sobered when I do get the slightest glance at my shapeless self! Eeenteresting.
I'm still not going to wear it out, except to show a few on my friends who will be amused/intruiged. Blatant misuse of plain garb, I know. Heh."
Someone asked if people treated me differently when they encounter me "plainly"...well, sometimes. To be honest, I think my plain (until I put on the silly apron) is subtle enough that notbody really bats an eyelash. Those that see me everyday raised an eyebrow at the fact that a.) I only seem to have two or three outfits in rotation, b.) that they all consist of longish skirts and a sweater in grey or brown, and c.) my hair is always covered by a bandana, or a crochet skull-cap worn as a snood. If you just saw me and didn't know me, you might assign me to the "hippie" group as much as the "slightly obsessively religious" group.
This is what I thought. Until last night. I wasn't even dressed super-plain, I thought, but I stopped by a pub for a drink with a friend. Some really annoying really drunk dude yelled out "You look like a mennonite!" I smiled and said "I'm not a mennonite, I'm a Quaker." He shook his head and yelled, louder, a few inches from my face..."Welll....you LOOOOOOOK like a MENNONITE!". I replied "Yes! and you look like....an asshole!" but I only whispered it, and he didn't hear.
Which is good.
Yep.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Just noticed...
One of the URLs that pops up when you try to enter a comment is
"http://www.blogger.com/add-comment.do"
It made me smile because I heard it in my head in this beseeching voice, coaxing me to "Add a comment - doooo..."
I dunno why I feel the need to say that except to say, I'm coming to value to comments on this blog more and more - so, add a comment - dooooo...
In other news, my clothes from Plainly Dressed.com arrived today - or rather, I should say I picked them up today. One of the fun things about being poorish and living in an apartment building is that there is no doorman, no office, no butler, no house-robot, no nothing in the building to accept packages, so you have to walk to the post office in the rain and pick them up yourself. Uncivilized! I'm really quite put out about it. :)
They arrived at the post office on Monday, but working 7 am - 7 pm, and the post office being open 9am - 5am, it was hopeless. Today being Saturday, the coffeeshop doesn't open until 10, and I was able to make it.
Still not sure what I think of my dress - I'm so tall and it turned out shorter than I expected it, and it looks a little funny. It makes me look both younger and wider than I really am, which in terms of battling my delusions of elegance is probably good. But I keep looking for a skipping rope to jump - I haven't had this particular mid-calf hemline since oh, grade 3? Whatever, it's beautifully made, and all signs point to it wearing like iron.
The apron I ordered for protecting it at the coffeeshop I rejected out of hand as soon as I half-tried it on. It's not wide enough to be really useful, and it seems more symbolic and decorative than anything else. Plus it makes me look really, really silly.
Like rolling around in a mudpuddle hooting silly.
Like a fish on a bicycle silly.
Like Weird Al "Amish Paradise" music video silly.
That one is going home to the little sisters for them to add to their dress-up costume closet.
The thing I was dying for most in this cold winter rain were my boots. I was so nervous about them coming too small I ordered a size too big, and - ta-da! They are a size too big. Well, it's better than too small, and I'll get some thick socks. But they seem watertight, which is a big improvement over the old dying Payless Pleather monsters. They also seem very sturdy. Boots, meet Amanda - Amanda, meet boots. Since this will be my sole footwear for the forseeable future, I figure we should get to know each other well. I'm looking forward to when I've broken them in. They are not too stiff, but still...I also think I'm going to buy some arch supports or something, because they are nearly as flat-footed as I am.
The rib-knit slip I ordered is thinner than I expected, but it makes sense - it's made out of that very thin thermal material, like undershirts and stuff, which magically works like a much thicker fabric. Theoretically it should help keep me warm, but on colder days I still think I'll need a long-sleeved thermal undershirt. I'm feeling kind of chilly as I type this. The flannel things I ordered were medium weight but are very snuggly.
Next time I order I'll see if I can't pay extra for another 3-5 inches on the bottom of the dress. The very strict part of myself scolds, saying this is a perfectly good length, modest, convenient, servicable, I'll never trip on it going up subway stairs, and it saves fabric. But for the love of God, the 4 inches of be-stockinged leg visible between my hem and my boot tops may tempt men into sinful thoughts, and have them cast into hellfire to burn forever more. That, and I keep having that damned urge to skip rope.
"http://www.blogger.com/add-comment.do"
It made me smile because I heard it in my head in this beseeching voice, coaxing me to "Add a comment - doooo..."
I dunno why I feel the need to say that except to say, I'm coming to value to comments on this blog more and more - so, add a comment - dooooo...
In other news, my clothes from Plainly Dressed.com arrived today - or rather, I should say I picked them up today. One of the fun things about being poorish and living in an apartment building is that there is no doorman, no office, no butler, no house-robot, no nothing in the building to accept packages, so you have to walk to the post office in the rain and pick them up yourself. Uncivilized! I'm really quite put out about it. :)
They arrived at the post office on Monday, but working 7 am - 7 pm, and the post office being open 9am - 5am, it was hopeless. Today being Saturday, the coffeeshop doesn't open until 10, and I was able to make it.
Still not sure what I think of my dress - I'm so tall and it turned out shorter than I expected it, and it looks a little funny. It makes me look both younger and wider than I really am, which in terms of battling my delusions of elegance is probably good. But I keep looking for a skipping rope to jump - I haven't had this particular mid-calf hemline since oh, grade 3? Whatever, it's beautifully made, and all signs point to it wearing like iron.
The apron I ordered for protecting it at the coffeeshop I rejected out of hand as soon as I half-tried it on. It's not wide enough to be really useful, and it seems more symbolic and decorative than anything else. Plus it makes me look really, really silly.
Like rolling around in a mudpuddle hooting silly.
Like a fish on a bicycle silly.
Like Weird Al "Amish Paradise" music video silly.
That one is going home to the little sisters for them to add to their dress-up costume closet.
The thing I was dying for most in this cold winter rain were my boots. I was so nervous about them coming too small I ordered a size too big, and - ta-da! They are a size too big. Well, it's better than too small, and I'll get some thick socks. But they seem watertight, which is a big improvement over the old dying Payless Pleather monsters. They also seem very sturdy. Boots, meet Amanda - Amanda, meet boots. Since this will be my sole footwear for the forseeable future, I figure we should get to know each other well. I'm looking forward to when I've broken them in. They are not too stiff, but still...I also think I'm going to buy some arch supports or something, because they are nearly as flat-footed as I am.
The rib-knit slip I ordered is thinner than I expected, but it makes sense - it's made out of that very thin thermal material, like undershirts and stuff, which magically works like a much thicker fabric. Theoretically it should help keep me warm, but on colder days I still think I'll need a long-sleeved thermal undershirt. I'm feeling kind of chilly as I type this. The flannel things I ordered were medium weight but are very snuggly.
Next time I order I'll see if I can't pay extra for another 3-5 inches on the bottom of the dress. The very strict part of myself scolds, saying this is a perfectly good length, modest, convenient, servicable, I'll never trip on it going up subway stairs, and it saves fabric. But for the love of God, the 4 inches of be-stockinged leg visible between my hem and my boot tops may tempt men into sinful thoughts, and have them cast into hellfire to burn forever more. That, and I keep having that damned urge to skip rope.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Blah blah blah blah...
I'm a little tired this week, though I have no particular reason to be. While my mind and heart have been working overtime sending out letters in a bottle to God, my inclination to speak about them or share them has shrivelled. I trust this is temporary - I think it would require a major tear in the fabric of the universe to shut me up for long.
So, at the risk of closing what is already a smallish circle of bloggers, I really want to encourage everyone to take a look at beppeblog because our Friend is blogging really amazing stuff about the tsunami that is really speaking to me. I'll quote beppe quoting Tom Wright to give you a taste...he includes a link to the rest of the article in his entry:
"...it tells a story about Jesus's own sense of abandonment, and thereby encourages us to embrace the same sense of helpless involvement in the sorrow of the world, as the means by which the world is to be healed. Those who work for justice, reconciliation and peace will know that sense, and perhaps, occasionally, that healing.
This isn't the kind of answer that the Enlightenment wanted. But maybe, as we launch into the deep waters of another new year, it is the kind of vocation we ought to embrace in place of shallow analysis and shrill reaction."
So, at the risk of closing what is already a smallish circle of bloggers, I really want to encourage everyone to take a look at beppeblog because our Friend is blogging really amazing stuff about the tsunami that is really speaking to me. I'll quote beppe quoting Tom Wright to give you a taste...he includes a link to the rest of the article in his entry:
"...it tells a story about Jesus's own sense of abandonment, and thereby encourages us to embrace the same sense of helpless involvement in the sorrow of the world, as the means by which the world is to be healed. Those who work for justice, reconciliation and peace will know that sense, and perhaps, occasionally, that healing.
This isn't the kind of answer that the Enlightenment wanted. But maybe, as we launch into the deep waters of another new year, it is the kind of vocation we ought to embrace in place of shallow analysis and shrill reaction."
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Jumbled.
I'm completely making this entry up as I go along. (Why should this entry be any different?)
I thought I'd set the standard of profundity for this year's blog by discussing the contents of my solitary afternoon in my Brooklyn apartment. I'd like to make the following points...
1. Playing by Heart is an astoundingly bad movie.
2. I cried anyhow.
3. Despite the banality and bathos of the film, Jon Stewart as a romantic lead is a stroke of genius, and why can't they do that more often? *obligatory swoon*
3.1 How can Gillian Anderson score this calibre of leading men, and remain so solidly B-list?
Thank you.
I am currently listening to a CD entitled:
"CD 4 U ♥ TONY"
from one of my stalkers. It is a very good mix CD with a great version of the ballad Matty Groves sung by Joni Mitchell, and also the incongruous, blasphemous, but astonishingly apt "What if God Smoked Cannabis"
...
Oh yes, now for the Quaker content. I went to both early and late meeting this morning. I am feeling so tremendously lazy at the moment I don't even want to start on my reactions and all, but I'll give it a wee go anyhow, because I'm just that dutiful.
The most important thing that hit me, I think, was when I was sitting in meeting thinking about the command we have to love one another. This is something I can get a bit arch about, feeling as if I have an infinite capacity to love. I thought, how long can we dare to ignore this command? Who, I thought, do we think is meant by this command - Osama Bin Ladin, some blue-eyed orphan we see on TV? Then I began thinking about some people I can't stand (well, I'm not ALL sweetness and light) feeling strongly the temptations of hermitism, and remembering that line attributed to Fox: "I love that of God in him, but very little else." and I was thinking...
I say that to myself all the time as if it is a kind of license to be annoyed and disgusted by people. What exactly IS "that of God" in this or that person? I realized that I was visualizing it as some clean, glowing, yellow ball of light floating just over their foreheads. Unthreatening, disembodied, undemanding. Just an abstract little halo that I could say I loved, and leave the rest. I realized that this was hogwash, and my stomach turned over. It's so easy for me to have abstract love for everyone from a newborn baby to an exhumed evil dictator. But a real, bloody, in the flesh heart-love? That I reserve for very few, if any.
I remember having a temper tantrum before God when I was a young teenager, and very lonely, spitting God's disembodied abstract love back at Him. What good are moonbeams like that when all you need are a pair of arms?
I wrote a very sad little poem named Gepetto's daughter when I was 18, a mixture of children's fairy-tales Pinocchio and The Velveteen Rabbit about what it might mean to love a real person for the first time, instead of all the millions of daydreams and fairytales I had loved, and one bit went...
Puppet, we will barter all these
blue light specials
from an old blue fairy,
for you, real boy.
You are a real boy.
Flesh and blood breed fleshly fear
Real brings broken whiskers...
It was a slightly overwrought way of discovering before I understood it what it means to try and love the reality rather than the abstraction, whether it's a life partner, a friend, an enemy, or a God. Every time I come back to it, it is a rude shock. I am dying to raise my face to a celestial idol-God, ask Him to lift me up, take me away....disembody me...and all the time I am learning that often I must stoop down to Him, in the oozy, smelly, weepy primordial muck of us all. Just that sentence can show you how good I am at this.
I do rapture quite well. It is this knowledge that is making me so beastly strict with myself in opening up the religious sensations I may have. I can forfeit a true knowledge of God, what I say I want, by substituting my own glowing halo for the face of flesh He has taken on. All of this is not a matter of "I must do this to be good" but - "I must do this for my own good." As long as I refuse to love the incarnated God here with me, I will never truly experience the spiritual God. My worship will continue to be empty, and I will continue to be disappointed by the emotional idols I build in my imaginations of Him. How many times have I thought in despair "But just last week God was so REAL to me and now I can't feel anything!" and thought I was being abandoned? It always turns out to have been some unsustainable fantasy God that I had cooked up out of enough eye-squinching and soul-straining. If I truly hunger for the Real God, I know where I have to find Him.
When I think of Jesus, that troublemaker, I think, Why? There's a lot of the Gnostic about me - half the time I wish He had stayed Up There, where I could handle Him - then I'd know where He was and I wouldn't have to trouble myself with the sniveling reality that humanity (and I include myself, of course) can be. But when you truly think of it, where would that leave us? If I didn't have to find God in my fellow man - if there were no God buried somewhere in side each of them calling out to me, would I spare them a thought? Would they spare me any love? We'd all be lost in abstraction and that pale moonlit love that I found so unsatisfying as a child.
Even that last bit is off the mark - God is not buried somewhere inside these people I must struggle to love - He's in every cell, gesture and tic, in every phrase that makes me bristle, every expression that makes me wince, in the very things that irritate me into a state of confusion. It is these very things that I must learn to love, or it will go badly for me.
Drat!
The horrifying image of St. Francis scooping the pus from a leper's sores into his mouth in love, because he found God there, still nausiates me, but isn't that what I must do, metaphorically? My worries that trying to love someone I find distasteful will be an exercise in pride are shattered by this idea. In this shocking example there is no pose, no room for pomposity. What kind of transformation of soul would be necessary to reach that level of humility, passion, lunacy of love? St. Francis didn't MAKE himself do that, he was compelled to, by the strength and reality of his passion. I can only pray, because I DO have to force myself - although I define myself first and foremost as a loving person - am very proud of my lovingness, in fact, I have no overwhelming bottomless well of divine love that makes me react that way automatically. How am I to find this capacity for Love?
I have often prayed, "Fill me, O Lord!" and then, later, I realized that I was filled - filled with my own memories, resentments, predjudices, pain, anger, experiences, judgements. And so I prayed, "Empty me, O Lord!" waiting for some divine dumptruck to come and cart it all away, and leave me ready to receive Him - I remember the words from Ezekiel:
"A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you a heart of flesh."
But rereading in context, I see this promise is part of a covenant - in fact, five verses later -
"And you shall remember your wicked ways, and your doings that were not good: and your iniquities, and your wicked deeds shall displease you.
It is not for your sakes that I will do this, saith the Lord God, be it known to you: be confounded, and ashamed at your own ways"
I see it is a long process of repentance on my side...as well as grace on His side. Bit by bit, all of those things filling up my heart must be transformed- because they cannot be taken away without doing violence to reality. My new prayer must be "Transform me, O Lord!"
The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.
Pearl S. Buck
I thought I'd set the standard of profundity for this year's blog by discussing the contents of my solitary afternoon in my Brooklyn apartment. I'd like to make the following points...
1. Playing by Heart is an astoundingly bad movie.
2. I cried anyhow.
3. Despite the banality and bathos of the film, Jon Stewart as a romantic lead is a stroke of genius, and why can't they do that more often? *obligatory swoon*
3.1 How can Gillian Anderson score this calibre of leading men, and remain so solidly B-list?
Thank you.
I am currently listening to a CD entitled:
"CD 4 U ♥ TONY"
from one of my stalkers. It is a very good mix CD with a great version of the ballad Matty Groves sung by Joni Mitchell, and also the incongruous, blasphemous, but astonishingly apt "What if God Smoked Cannabis"
...
Oh yes, now for the Quaker content. I went to both early and late meeting this morning. I am feeling so tremendously lazy at the moment I don't even want to start on my reactions and all, but I'll give it a wee go anyhow, because I'm just that dutiful.
The most important thing that hit me, I think, was when I was sitting in meeting thinking about the command we have to love one another. This is something I can get a bit arch about, feeling as if I have an infinite capacity to love. I thought, how long can we dare to ignore this command? Who, I thought, do we think is meant by this command - Osama Bin Ladin, some blue-eyed orphan we see on TV? Then I began thinking about some people I can't stand (well, I'm not ALL sweetness and light) feeling strongly the temptations of hermitism, and remembering that line attributed to Fox: "I love that of God in him, but very little else." and I was thinking...
I say that to myself all the time as if it is a kind of license to be annoyed and disgusted by people. What exactly IS "that of God" in this or that person? I realized that I was visualizing it as some clean, glowing, yellow ball of light floating just over their foreheads. Unthreatening, disembodied, undemanding. Just an abstract little halo that I could say I loved, and leave the rest. I realized that this was hogwash, and my stomach turned over. It's so easy for me to have abstract love for everyone from a newborn baby to an exhumed evil dictator. But a real, bloody, in the flesh heart-love? That I reserve for very few, if any.
I remember having a temper tantrum before God when I was a young teenager, and very lonely, spitting God's disembodied abstract love back at Him. What good are moonbeams like that when all you need are a pair of arms?
I wrote a very sad little poem named Gepetto's daughter when I was 18, a mixture of children's fairy-tales Pinocchio and The Velveteen Rabbit about what it might mean to love a real person for the first time, instead of all the millions of daydreams and fairytales I had loved, and one bit went...
Puppet, we will barter all these
blue light specials
from an old blue fairy,
for you, real boy.
You are a real boy.
Flesh and blood breed fleshly fear
Real brings broken whiskers...
It was a slightly overwrought way of discovering before I understood it what it means to try and love the reality rather than the abstraction, whether it's a life partner, a friend, an enemy, or a God. Every time I come back to it, it is a rude shock. I am dying to raise my face to a celestial idol-God, ask Him to lift me up, take me away....disembody me...and all the time I am learning that often I must stoop down to Him, in the oozy, smelly, weepy primordial muck of us all. Just that sentence can show you how good I am at this.
I do rapture quite well. It is this knowledge that is making me so beastly strict with myself in opening up the religious sensations I may have. I can forfeit a true knowledge of God, what I say I want, by substituting my own glowing halo for the face of flesh He has taken on. All of this is not a matter of "I must do this to be good" but - "I must do this for my own good." As long as I refuse to love the incarnated God here with me, I will never truly experience the spiritual God. My worship will continue to be empty, and I will continue to be disappointed by the emotional idols I build in my imaginations of Him. How many times have I thought in despair "But just last week God was so REAL to me and now I can't feel anything!" and thought I was being abandoned? It always turns out to have been some unsustainable fantasy God that I had cooked up out of enough eye-squinching and soul-straining. If I truly hunger for the Real God, I know where I have to find Him.
When I think of Jesus, that troublemaker, I think, Why? There's a lot of the Gnostic about me - half the time I wish He had stayed Up There, where I could handle Him - then I'd know where He was and I wouldn't have to trouble myself with the sniveling reality that humanity (and I include myself, of course) can be. But when you truly think of it, where would that leave us? If I didn't have to find God in my fellow man - if there were no God buried somewhere in side each of them calling out to me, would I spare them a thought? Would they spare me any love? We'd all be lost in abstraction and that pale moonlit love that I found so unsatisfying as a child.
Even that last bit is off the mark - God is not buried somewhere inside these people I must struggle to love - He's in every cell, gesture and tic, in every phrase that makes me bristle, every expression that makes me wince, in the very things that irritate me into a state of confusion. It is these very things that I must learn to love, or it will go badly for me.
Drat!
The horrifying image of St. Francis scooping the pus from a leper's sores into his mouth in love, because he found God there, still nausiates me, but isn't that what I must do, metaphorically? My worries that trying to love someone I find distasteful will be an exercise in pride are shattered by this idea. In this shocking example there is no pose, no room for pomposity. What kind of transformation of soul would be necessary to reach that level of humility, passion, lunacy of love? St. Francis didn't MAKE himself do that, he was compelled to, by the strength and reality of his passion. I can only pray, because I DO have to force myself - although I define myself first and foremost as a loving person - am very proud of my lovingness, in fact, I have no overwhelming bottomless well of divine love that makes me react that way automatically. How am I to find this capacity for Love?
I have often prayed, "Fill me, O Lord!" and then, later, I realized that I was filled - filled with my own memories, resentments, predjudices, pain, anger, experiences, judgements. And so I prayed, "Empty me, O Lord!" waiting for some divine dumptruck to come and cart it all away, and leave me ready to receive Him - I remember the words from Ezekiel:
"A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you a heart of flesh."
But rereading in context, I see this promise is part of a covenant - in fact, five verses later -
"And you shall remember your wicked ways, and your doings that were not good: and your iniquities, and your wicked deeds shall displease you.
It is not for your sakes that I will do this, saith the Lord God, be it known to you: be confounded, and ashamed at your own ways"
I see it is a long process of repentance on my side...as well as grace on His side. Bit by bit, all of those things filling up my heart must be transformed- because they cannot be taken away without doing violence to reality. My new prayer must be "Transform me, O Lord!"
The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.
Pearl S. Buck
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