At the moment when Gandalf is attempting to rally some Minas Tirith folks, and Faramir comes by and get the chance to explain what happened to Frodo, I pause to go get a glass of water (this way I get to watch this scene again, and get the resurge of hope from Pippin that Frodo's alive), and find my Dad in the next room, watching.
"Faramir is a nice guy."
I am affronted. "Faramir isn't nice! Did you see him slaying orcs fifteen minutes ago?"
Looks at me, thinks this over. "Faramir's a nice guy."
"Faramir's a good guy," I explain. "Like Aragorn. 'Cept, all misinformed and the like. Good intentions, bad information. Should've heard 'em say, "Yo, Faramir! Ring Bad! You and your country want no truck with it!"
"Someone did need to say that to him, yeah."
"Yeah. Instead he thinks it's all strong and the like, will help save Gondor, be the only nation that DOESN'T fall to Mordor, despite being in their back pocket. Who puts their country right next to the land of evil, anyway?"
"Someone strong enough to defend against it, and keep it from getting out and wrecking everyone else's day."
"That's what they thought. Bring the ring to Gondor, brilliant. Put the most evil tool the evil guys have right smack in the safehold of the first not-evil country that the evil guys wanna steamroll. Bad information."
"Yep."
"Nice. Feh. They're good guys. They fight hard, they fight smart, and they fight for the right reasons. 'Nice' makes 'em sound all tame. There's nothing tame about Aragorn."
It should be noted that I quite admire, like, and generally approve of Aragorn (who is far too valiant to care if a random American girl approves or not), both for saving Frodo, and for stepping up to the plate and finally accepting the kingship. Rising up to his destiny, and all that. And various cool swashbuckling solid good guy things he does in battle.
"They're warriors! They're great!" Water, cookie-hunting.
"There are exceptions."
"Hmm?" Drinky-drinky.
"The Steward of Gondor is a miserable troll."
Fortunately I'd swallowed before the adjective, otherwise I'd be cleaning up the counter right about now.
At this point, we got into how he makes a lousy father figure for both Boromir and Faramir, and began debate on how Faramir ended up as good as he did with Denethorn for a dad. I love my family.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Playing Games
With winter setting in, most of the outdoor activities are curtailed, and in the vacuum the computer games rise.
Supposedly, you can tell a lot about a person by their games. Or, better still, how they respond to them.
Dad finds brightly-colored puzzle games that allow his brain to defrag while still mildly problem-solving, or possibly reflexive play. No characters, no storylines - just seeing the information and responding to it. Considering that he's usually pulling long hours (what is it with winter hours and people wrecking computer code more often?) during these months, anything to unravel the knots in his brain is good.
I play vampire games and horsie games, both of which I consider rather frivolous, but tap into a side of my imagination that I don't let play anywhere else. The POINT is that they're frivolous - I'm usually studying or something equally responsible and less silly. Getting to run around and be a vampire is completely irresponsible.
Elizabeth's interesting, because she's hailed by most of our friends as 'the most frightening' or 'the scariest' of the three sisters. She plays games about raising and training brightly colored adorable little animals. She will squee about how cute they are. She will drag you in and SHOW you how cute they are, and how many possibly color combinations they can have, and all their achievements.
She will also nail my ears to the back fence if she ever finds out that I've mentioned this. :)
Somebody in this house was into Mafia Wars for quite some time. I came into the kitchen, in search of egg nog, to hear her declare that her bull was ready to rush. "Or I could pet him. Or rotate him."
I consider this. If he's about to rush, petting him is probably not a good idea. Maybe in the game it calms him down. Or maybe if you turn him, he rushes into something else, like the neighbor's toolshed. I make eye contact and ask for clarification. "Your bull is ready to rush?"
"Brush. I can brush him!" she responds brightly. "Or he can be petted, or rotated."
Dad comes in at this moment. You can tell by the look on his face that he's really hoping she isn't talking about him. Being the only guy in the house, anything that uses the male pronoun has the potential to be him. He goes over to her to investigate.
She smiles up at him. "I'm playing Farmville!"
"You're playing what??"
"Farmville is for people who are too wimpy to play Mafia Wars. I've been resisting for months, but..." more rambling that I only half-listen to in my investigation of the refrigerator.
Her next comment reveals that Mafia Wars may not have gotten all of its hooks out of her mind. "I'm trying to grow weed to sell to the Russians!" Somewhat put-out, she continues, "So far I've got poinsettias."
I am at this point holding onto the kitchen counter, because I'm laughing too hard to stand without aid. Again, this is not Elizabeth who's playing. Selling weed to the Russians would be EXPECTED out of the middle sister in any game. Her character's actions in D&D nearly warrant the sale of tickets for each game. This is simply what Mafia Wars does to your brain, I guess.
"What?! If you're going to have a farm, it should at least be productive!"
My dad leaves, shaking his head. Back to Bejeweled.
Supposedly, you can tell a lot about a person by their games. Or, better still, how they respond to them.
Dad finds brightly-colored puzzle games that allow his brain to defrag while still mildly problem-solving, or possibly reflexive play. No characters, no storylines - just seeing the information and responding to it. Considering that he's usually pulling long hours (what is it with winter hours and people wrecking computer code more often?) during these months, anything to unravel the knots in his brain is good.
I play vampire games and horsie games, both of which I consider rather frivolous, but tap into a side of my imagination that I don't let play anywhere else. The POINT is that they're frivolous - I'm usually studying or something equally responsible and less silly. Getting to run around and be a vampire is completely irresponsible.
Elizabeth's interesting, because she's hailed by most of our friends as 'the most frightening' or 'the scariest' of the three sisters. She plays games about raising and training brightly colored adorable little animals. She will squee about how cute they are. She will drag you in and SHOW you how cute they are, and how many possibly color combinations they can have, and all their achievements.
She will also nail my ears to the back fence if she ever finds out that I've mentioned this. :)
Somebody in this house was into Mafia Wars for quite some time. I came into the kitchen, in search of egg nog, to hear her declare that her bull was ready to rush. "Or I could pet him. Or rotate him."
I consider this. If he's about to rush, petting him is probably not a good idea. Maybe in the game it calms him down. Or maybe if you turn him, he rushes into something else, like the neighbor's toolshed. I make eye contact and ask for clarification. "Your bull is ready to rush?"
"Brush. I can brush him!" she responds brightly. "Or he can be petted, or rotated."
Dad comes in at this moment. You can tell by the look on his face that he's really hoping she isn't talking about him. Being the only guy in the house, anything that uses the male pronoun has the potential to be him. He goes over to her to investigate.
She smiles up at him. "I'm playing Farmville!"
"You're playing what??"
"Farmville is for people who are too wimpy to play Mafia Wars. I've been resisting for months, but..." more rambling that I only half-listen to in my investigation of the refrigerator.
Her next comment reveals that Mafia Wars may not have gotten all of its hooks out of her mind. "I'm trying to grow weed to sell to the Russians!" Somewhat put-out, she continues, "So far I've got poinsettias."
I am at this point holding onto the kitchen counter, because I'm laughing too hard to stand without aid. Again, this is not Elizabeth who's playing. Selling weed to the Russians would be EXPECTED out of the middle sister in any game. Her character's actions in D&D nearly warrant the sale of tickets for each game. This is simply what Mafia Wars does to your brain, I guess.
"What?! If you're going to have a farm, it should at least be productive!"
My dad leaves, shaking his head. Back to Bejeweled.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
I Shall Sing, Sing My Song...
Whoever I someday marry will have to be cheerfully resigned to my nonsense.
For example, whenever I'm looking for something, but not terribly stressed about it, I tend to idly make up nonsensical songs that would amuse the kids in the daycare. Today, I was trying to get dressed for the Christmas Eve service, and found this one coming out.
Where are my dress pants,
Where did they go?
Where are my dress pants?
Baby, I don't know
Where are my dress pants,
Where can they be?
'Cause I can't show up naked
To the Nativity!
There's almost no thought that goes into these. Having a thought that I'm pursuing while running around the house seems to inevitably lead to preschool-style songs.
EDIT: I just found my Dad singing Roy Orbison (with modified lyrics) to the plants. At least now we know where I get it. My Mom's a soprano, and my Dad's a goofball.
For example, whenever I'm looking for something, but not terribly stressed about it, I tend to idly make up nonsensical songs that would amuse the kids in the daycare. Today, I was trying to get dressed for the Christmas Eve service, and found this one coming out.
Where are my dress pants,
Where did they go?
Where are my dress pants?
Baby, I don't know
Where are my dress pants,
Where can they be?
'Cause I can't show up naked
To the Nativity!
There's almost no thought that goes into these. Having a thought that I'm pursuing while running around the house seems to inevitably lead to preschool-style songs.
EDIT: I just found my Dad singing Roy Orbison (with modified lyrics) to the plants. At least now we know where I get it. My Mom's a soprano, and my Dad's a goofball.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Even More Introspection
Tonight, the kid and I did sisterly shopping exercises. This is an important part of female bonding. Or so they tell us. I speculate that time together doing anything you enjoy could be bonding. All of the Camp Ladies were supposed to get together for Laser Tag later tonight, I think we bond much better with that sort of thing.
The business of my sister being in college (and having a boyfriend who's older than I am) affects nothing about her different nicknames. She's the youngest; she's the kid. Logic suggests that at some point, this will have to change. Precedence suggests that it never will.
And, yes, two days before Christmas is a perfectly fine time to go gift shopping. How else are we supposed to get the biggest snowstorm for driving conditions? We can't plan these things - such a combination must be created that Fate can't resist throwing the proverbial monkeywrench into the works. If we went shopping in November, we'd only have crowds to contend with. This is much more interesting.
I was shopping for Mom, she was shopping for Dad. Bed, Death, and Beyond was close enough to Kohl's to satisfy the kid. BDB is a miraculous place - I wander in, certain that here, at least, I will find something for Mom. The whole store has home stuff. And then I realize, as I wander the aisles, that everything here she either already has, she has a better version of it, she has no need of it, or it's definitely not her style. Amazing!
I think I found a pair of socks that might do, but really not the direction I was hoping for.
Kohl's. Ay. In high school, I'd had friends who worked here. I narrowly escaped working here myself, thanks to a rejected interview. Penney's was the other killer for those of us who wanted a decent job in high school. It's just the hours. Some of us are indeed planning on working in the fields of medicine or music education, but everyone else hates a twelve-hour shift.
This led to a conversation with the nice girl cashiering. She's somewhere between seventeen and college-freshman, and I asked if she was closing tonight. Yeah, she said ruefully - almost sadly, really. Kohl's doesn't close until midnight, and if you work retail, you know you've got an extra hour of cleanup after the store officially closes. She was more worried about the weather than anything else, she had to drive back to Dodge Center that night.
Well, do you have anyplace in town where you can crash if the roads are too bad? I was thinking of our family's tactics - all of us have friends in Roch who will take us in for a night. I could probably show up at my ex's mom's, and she'd welcome me in. It's Minnesota - as long as you know someone's name, you're going to offer them a place to sleep if they don't have anywhere else. I don't know if that reflects more on how nice we are, or how bad our weather can get, but it's part of the unspoken culture.
No, she doesn't. And I mentally bite my lip. My hometown is directly on her way home - there's really only one road that you'd be taking from Rochester to Dodge Center, but it's the third town on her way out from here, and mine's the first. My house is easy to find - if you can make it to Byron, you can find my house. I will meet you at the KT if you can't find my house, and get you there safe.
I really want to give this girl my name, my phone number. We've got the couch room for another four people to stay here if they needed it. My house is easy to find. It's safe. In the morning, the weather will be better - it always is. From here to Dodge Center, without ANY safe checkpoint, in this blizzard? Not okay.
Doesn't matter that I don't know her. She's of an age with my sister, and I can't help it - every girl like that might as well BE my sister. If she's in trouble, I want to be able to help. Even if she doesn't need it, sometimes it's a lot off your mind to know that if things ARE too wretched, you've got a fallback.
Of course, she wouldn't accept if I offered. That's the other side of Minnesota-nice. The first half is that you offer whatever you have; the second half is that you refuse whatever you're offered, unless it's offered at least three times. There's an exception if you're really desperate, and that's because when you're desperate, manners be hanged.
Same thing happened at the bookstore the other day. A woman came in, her husband's in the hospital, so she's staying at the Kahler for a few days. Not realizing that Minnesota could be colder than her home state, she'd forgotten her coat, or figured that she didn't need it. I happen to have a really nice coat - it was a gift from my mom one year. It's suede and warm and huge and heavy and fabulously warm. Warm warm warm. Wonderfully warm. I love my coat. But, really, for that weekend, I didn't need it. I work indoors. I usually park in the garage, so I'm outside for all of forty seconds before I get to the skyway. If we went off snipe hunting in the woods, I could probably borrow one of my sister's extra coats. All of this ran through my mind, and I wanted to say, "You can borrow mine, you're just in town for a couple of days. You're at the Kahler, you'll see us at the bookstore most days. It's warm, and it's no trouble for me - really." But I didn't. I thought it might be too weird. The incident stayed with me.
Because, so what if it's weird? I already knew that I wouldn't see her again after this trip. If she turned it down, no big, it's already forgotten. If she accepted, it'd be because she really needed it, and I was okay with that. Yeah, okay, there's a chance that she'd be too busy on her departure day to get it back to me, and I'd really miss it (this is probably the nicest coat I've ever had), but forget about that, what if she needs it now?
And what if she really did need a place to crash tonight, because the roads were wretched on the way to Kasson (as a delivery-working friend of mine mentioned later), and I was the only person who'd asked how long she was going to be there that night?
Denise said, as soon as we were back out in the snow, that I was a very caring person, and she was surprised that I hadn't offered. Not surprised because it was what she would expect of anyone, but surprised because she knows me, and she saw it on my face. I told her that this was part of the reason that I need to move out soon - it's not my house. I can't actually offer it like that without checking with the parents. Or so I rationalized to her. Thinking about it, I knew Mom would probably be fine with it, and Dad's the one who's instilled in all three of us that "look out for other people" business. My excuse only worked as long as I was talking about generic parents, not the ones I actually have.
Three years ago, I was working as a cashier in one of the shopping Meccas of Rochester. There was a woman who needed help with something, but she was deaf. Of the twelve or so cashiers who were working, I was the only one who had even a rudimentary grasp of ASL, but I didn't use it then. I figured that it wasn't good enough, I didn't know enough, it wouldn't be enough to help. And really, she was just trying to find a certain kind of bread, so maybe it wasn't that big a deal. But I still remember the frustration on her face, that there wasn't anybody who could really help her at the time.
Isn't that weird? I know I've stepped up to help dozens of times at Camp, or church, or random people at the gas station...whatever. All these random things, where I saw what needed to be done (or, more likely, someone told me what needed to be done), and I just did it. Or we did it, and it was cool, and something about being together. And I know there've been times when I saw something bad, and wished that there was something that I could do about it, but I didn't have anything I could offer. I don't remember any of those, though. Not the ones where I helped, because that was taken care of and I felt good, but it was time to move on to the next thing. Not the ones where I couldn't do anything.
I remember the ones where I knew exactly what I could do to help, and I didn't do it. Here's hoping I can learn from that.
On the subject of random things I remember, it's been almost two years since a night when a friend was trying to make a decision, and without knowing what the options were, I asked him which one he'd regret more if he didn't do it. Made up his mind on the spot.
Hopefully I've got the same answer now.
The business of my sister being in college (and having a boyfriend who's older than I am) affects nothing about her different nicknames. She's the youngest; she's the kid. Logic suggests that at some point, this will have to change. Precedence suggests that it never will.
And, yes, two days before Christmas is a perfectly fine time to go gift shopping. How else are we supposed to get the biggest snowstorm for driving conditions? We can't plan these things - such a combination must be created that Fate can't resist throwing the proverbial monkeywrench into the works. If we went shopping in November, we'd only have crowds to contend with. This is much more interesting.
I was shopping for Mom, she was shopping for Dad. Bed, Death, and Beyond was close enough to Kohl's to satisfy the kid. BDB is a miraculous place - I wander in, certain that here, at least, I will find something for Mom. The whole store has home stuff. And then I realize, as I wander the aisles, that everything here she either already has, she has a better version of it, she has no need of it, or it's definitely not her style. Amazing!
I think I found a pair of socks that might do, but really not the direction I was hoping for.
Kohl's. Ay. In high school, I'd had friends who worked here. I narrowly escaped working here myself, thanks to a rejected interview. Penney's was the other killer for those of us who wanted a decent job in high school. It's just the hours. Some of us are indeed planning on working in the fields of medicine or music education, but everyone else hates a twelve-hour shift.
This led to a conversation with the nice girl cashiering. She's somewhere between seventeen and college-freshman, and I asked if she was closing tonight. Yeah, she said ruefully - almost sadly, really. Kohl's doesn't close until midnight, and if you work retail, you know you've got an extra hour of cleanup after the store officially closes. She was more worried about the weather than anything else, she had to drive back to Dodge Center that night.
Well, do you have anyplace in town where you can crash if the roads are too bad? I was thinking of our family's tactics - all of us have friends in Roch who will take us in for a night. I could probably show up at my ex's mom's, and she'd welcome me in. It's Minnesota - as long as you know someone's name, you're going to offer them a place to sleep if they don't have anywhere else. I don't know if that reflects more on how nice we are, or how bad our weather can get, but it's part of the unspoken culture.
No, she doesn't. And I mentally bite my lip. My hometown is directly on her way home - there's really only one road that you'd be taking from Rochester to Dodge Center, but it's the third town on her way out from here, and mine's the first. My house is easy to find - if you can make it to Byron, you can find my house. I will meet you at the KT if you can't find my house, and get you there safe.
I really want to give this girl my name, my phone number. We've got the couch room for another four people to stay here if they needed it. My house is easy to find. It's safe. In the morning, the weather will be better - it always is. From here to Dodge Center, without ANY safe checkpoint, in this blizzard? Not okay.
Doesn't matter that I don't know her. She's of an age with my sister, and I can't help it - every girl like that might as well BE my sister. If she's in trouble, I want to be able to help. Even if she doesn't need it, sometimes it's a lot off your mind to know that if things ARE too wretched, you've got a fallback.
Of course, she wouldn't accept if I offered. That's the other side of Minnesota-nice. The first half is that you offer whatever you have; the second half is that you refuse whatever you're offered, unless it's offered at least three times. There's an exception if you're really desperate, and that's because when you're desperate, manners be hanged.
Same thing happened at the bookstore the other day. A woman came in, her husband's in the hospital, so she's staying at the Kahler for a few days. Not realizing that Minnesota could be colder than her home state, she'd forgotten her coat, or figured that she didn't need it. I happen to have a really nice coat - it was a gift from my mom one year. It's suede and warm and huge and heavy and fabulously warm. Warm warm warm. Wonderfully warm. I love my coat. But, really, for that weekend, I didn't need it. I work indoors. I usually park in the garage, so I'm outside for all of forty seconds before I get to the skyway. If we went off snipe hunting in the woods, I could probably borrow one of my sister's extra coats. All of this ran through my mind, and I wanted to say, "You can borrow mine, you're just in town for a couple of days. You're at the Kahler, you'll see us at the bookstore most days. It's warm, and it's no trouble for me - really." But I didn't. I thought it might be too weird. The incident stayed with me.
Because, so what if it's weird? I already knew that I wouldn't see her again after this trip. If she turned it down, no big, it's already forgotten. If she accepted, it'd be because she really needed it, and I was okay with that. Yeah, okay, there's a chance that she'd be too busy on her departure day to get it back to me, and I'd really miss it (this is probably the nicest coat I've ever had), but forget about that, what if she needs it now?
And what if she really did need a place to crash tonight, because the roads were wretched on the way to Kasson (as a delivery-working friend of mine mentioned later), and I was the only person who'd asked how long she was going to be there that night?
Denise said, as soon as we were back out in the snow, that I was a very caring person, and she was surprised that I hadn't offered. Not surprised because it was what she would expect of anyone, but surprised because she knows me, and she saw it on my face. I told her that this was part of the reason that I need to move out soon - it's not my house. I can't actually offer it like that without checking with the parents. Or so I rationalized to her. Thinking about it, I knew Mom would probably be fine with it, and Dad's the one who's instilled in all three of us that "look out for other people" business. My excuse only worked as long as I was talking about generic parents, not the ones I actually have.
Three years ago, I was working as a cashier in one of the shopping Meccas of Rochester. There was a woman who needed help with something, but she was deaf. Of the twelve or so cashiers who were working, I was the only one who had even a rudimentary grasp of ASL, but I didn't use it then. I figured that it wasn't good enough, I didn't know enough, it wouldn't be enough to help. And really, she was just trying to find a certain kind of bread, so maybe it wasn't that big a deal. But I still remember the frustration on her face, that there wasn't anybody who could really help her at the time.
Isn't that weird? I know I've stepped up to help dozens of times at Camp, or church, or random people at the gas station...whatever. All these random things, where I saw what needed to be done (or, more likely, someone told me what needed to be done), and I just did it. Or we did it, and it was cool, and something about being together. And I know there've been times when I saw something bad, and wished that there was something that I could do about it, but I didn't have anything I could offer. I don't remember any of those, though. Not the ones where I helped, because that was taken care of and I felt good, but it was time to move on to the next thing. Not the ones where I couldn't do anything.
I remember the ones where I knew exactly what I could do to help, and I didn't do it. Here's hoping I can learn from that.
On the subject of random things I remember, it's been almost two years since a night when a friend was trying to make a decision, and without knowing what the options were, I asked him which one he'd regret more if he didn't do it. Made up his mind on the spot.
Hopefully I've got the same answer now.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Easy Day
Completely took the day off. Can't remember the last time this wasn't illness-related. Felt marvelous. Really, not just an adjective - I was marveling at feeling this good. It was a physical marvel.
I slept 'til eleven, dreaming strange dreams of sci-fi and imagination. I seem to recall jetskiing and saving a civilization of koala bears. They made me their prince, until I explained to them that I was female, and then they angrily stole back the sash and snubbed me out of the village. It's okay. They didn't smell so great. And I had toast.
In hopes of meeting my sloth quota for today, I proceeded to stay in bed another hour after waking. Reading. Denise came in to share body space and blankets, and we got into a few short discussions about what she was reading. She missed a comma in a verse that made the proverb in question far more entertaining, and we had some fun with that.
Read more over breakfast, and listened to Denise practice some piano. Read four more books while she took Beau to the dog park. Thought about watching The Postman again. Haven't seen it for about a year, but there's something about the story that I like. Denise and I now have a date to watch it together sometime before Christmas.
I do actually have another sister, we all live in the same house, but her schedule allows fewer meetings some days.
The Postman had to be postponed, as one of my books slipped to the floor and I took a four-hour nap by the Christmas tree. Very cool, balsam-flavored dreams. I was in Narnia, but I never left the wood outside the wardrobe, just kept going through the trees, because I had this job about finding lost travelers and guiding them. Guiding them away from the witch, or back to the wardrobe, or to Aslan's How, I don't know. But I kept waking up and seeing the lights and needles and familiar ornaments that I've seen since I was a child, and they made me smile before I slipped back in again.
Had supper with the family (save for Mom, who's at Jazz rehearsal). There's something funny about having Chinese days before Christmas. When I was a kid, Chinese was in the same mental category as McDonalds - it's fun junk food that you pass off as a meal when you don't have time for anything better. I like it better now. Mostly because the place up the street from our house believes in giving everyone more rice than they should be able to eat in a night, so I can have a whole little bucket to myself.
My carb-loving is the reason that my middle sister and I have the same skeletal frame and drastically different weights. And, happily snacking on my bread, mashed potatoes, or rice, I don't particularly care. Weight's a number, and you cannot measure happiness in units.
We tried once, using a kiss as a unit of happiness. Fresh bread translated to four kisses of happiness, fresh bread that Mom made translates to about sixteen. This is now a touchy concept, as two of the three girls are unexpectedly single. It also doesn't work - I haven't been kissed in months, and I'm plainly happy on a deep level, though it gets a little random near the surface.
A fit of whimsy seized me while I was checking my email, and I doodled a caricature of one of my favorite teachers. As my caricatures go, this one isn't half-bad. Came out looking shorter, and the facial expression was more what I thought about grading papers than anything the instructor might actually wear, but it made me smile.
I'm usually drawing women. I need to practice drawing guys. Guys don't have the curves that girls do, so I have to think of them as walking polygons. With girls, the more dressed up they are, the tighter and more form-fitting everything is that they're wearing. Up to a certain point, it also means that they're wearing less. With guys, if they're wearing tight stuff, it's usually very casual, and the more formal the attire becomes, the more layers it seems to involve.
I usually draw while listening to music. This might be the one time when Christmas carols don't work, and Pandora fails me. It has to be something more controlled, because I stay with the same emotion the whole time I'm sketching. Once the emotion shifts, whatever I was drawing just wanders off.
But it was good. Really laid back, accomplished squat, but y'know, that might be okay sometimes. It didn't feel like guilt, when you think you'll feel better for knocking off a few chores and then later you feel worse. It just felt good, like this needed to be done. "Nothing" needed to get done, because I hadn't taken care of it for awhile. It was a good day.
I slept 'til eleven, dreaming strange dreams of sci-fi and imagination. I seem to recall jetskiing and saving a civilization of koala bears. They made me their prince, until I explained to them that I was female, and then they angrily stole back the sash and snubbed me out of the village. It's okay. They didn't smell so great. And I had toast.
In hopes of meeting my sloth quota for today, I proceeded to stay in bed another hour after waking. Reading. Denise came in to share body space and blankets, and we got into a few short discussions about what she was reading. She missed a comma in a verse that made the proverb in question far more entertaining, and we had some fun with that.
Read more over breakfast, and listened to Denise practice some piano. Read four more books while she took Beau to the dog park. Thought about watching The Postman again. Haven't seen it for about a year, but there's something about the story that I like. Denise and I now have a date to watch it together sometime before Christmas.
I do actually have another sister, we all live in the same house, but her schedule allows fewer meetings some days.
The Postman had to be postponed, as one of my books slipped to the floor and I took a four-hour nap by the Christmas tree. Very cool, balsam-flavored dreams. I was in Narnia, but I never left the wood outside the wardrobe, just kept going through the trees, because I had this job about finding lost travelers and guiding them. Guiding them away from the witch, or back to the wardrobe, or to Aslan's How, I don't know. But I kept waking up and seeing the lights and needles and familiar ornaments that I've seen since I was a child, and they made me smile before I slipped back in again.
Had supper with the family (save for Mom, who's at Jazz rehearsal). There's something funny about having Chinese days before Christmas. When I was a kid, Chinese was in the same mental category as McDonalds - it's fun junk food that you pass off as a meal when you don't have time for anything better. I like it better now. Mostly because the place up the street from our house believes in giving everyone more rice than they should be able to eat in a night, so I can have a whole little bucket to myself.
My carb-loving is the reason that my middle sister and I have the same skeletal frame and drastically different weights. And, happily snacking on my bread, mashed potatoes, or rice, I don't particularly care. Weight's a number, and you cannot measure happiness in units.
We tried once, using a kiss as a unit of happiness. Fresh bread translated to four kisses of happiness, fresh bread that Mom made translates to about sixteen. This is now a touchy concept, as two of the three girls are unexpectedly single. It also doesn't work - I haven't been kissed in months, and I'm plainly happy on a deep level, though it gets a little random near the surface.
A fit of whimsy seized me while I was checking my email, and I doodled a caricature of one of my favorite teachers. As my caricatures go, this one isn't half-bad. Came out looking shorter, and the facial expression was more what I thought about grading papers than anything the instructor might actually wear, but it made me smile.
I'm usually drawing women. I need to practice drawing guys. Guys don't have the curves that girls do, so I have to think of them as walking polygons. With girls, the more dressed up they are, the tighter and more form-fitting everything is that they're wearing. Up to a certain point, it also means that they're wearing less. With guys, if they're wearing tight stuff, it's usually very casual, and the more formal the attire becomes, the more layers it seems to involve.
I usually draw while listening to music. This might be the one time when Christmas carols don't work, and Pandora fails me. It has to be something more controlled, because I stay with the same emotion the whole time I'm sketching. Once the emotion shifts, whatever I was drawing just wanders off.
But it was good. Really laid back, accomplished squat, but y'know, that might be okay sometimes. It didn't feel like guilt, when you think you'll feel better for knocking off a few chores and then later you feel worse. It just felt good, like this needed to be done. "Nothing" needed to get done, because I hadn't taken care of it for awhile. It was a good day.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Can't Buy Me Heart
I observed once to my psych teacher that there seems to be a strong inverted correlation between how much you love your job, and how much you get paid for it. She agreed completely. This is not always true, obviously - I worked the typical fast food job as a teenager, was not a fan, and was not paid at all well for it. But I also worked as a waitress, which meant that with tips I was making double the fast food wage. I think that job might have been okay if I wasn't carrying two others at the time, but it wasn't exactly something I believed in.
I know a pastor who spent a year living under a bridge in England, in the years before he really knew what he wanted to do with his life. He lightly recommends this to the college students - he plainly thinks it's a good idea, but he's also aware that he's talking to the doctors' kids. ARC is the doctors' church, in the doctors' town. The teenagers know that if they turn their backs on their parents' substantial financial support, these same parents might take it personally, that the kids are rejecting them, not just the money.
It's been pointed out that most people keep that kind of teenage-brain until they're about twenty-five. This has a lot to do with my mom's preference that none of us sisters marry before that magical half-decade. But, we still expect kids to know what they want to do well enough to pick a degree and finish it up a few years before then. I admire the kids who do. I kind of wish I was one of them.
Frankly, if I could survive on it, I'd work with kids, teenagers, whoever wanted a counselor/teacher/random-buddy in a camp setting for life. I probably could survive on it, if I wasn't living in an ecosystem where humans required protection from the elements for three-fourths of the year. I've a friend who wants to spend a year or two riding trains hobo-style, and forget about the money and the systems. Another friend wants to move to Wisconsin, away from all the people, build a cabin, get married (we think he may have to come back in contact with people again) and raise his kids with nothing more technologically advanced than a radio in their house.
Of course, this is the same friend who believes that he was sent to this world to replace Garrison Keillor.
There's a recklessness, I commented to someone recently, that comes from losing everything. Liked the idea and it ended up in a paper where I may have done more rambling than actual writing. Despite losing my English teacher's respect for me (if, by that point in the semester, he had any left), I think the idea holds true. "Solid!" as Spaz would say. I think that once a person loses everything that he thinks matters - not losing everything, just everything that matters - then he reaches this point of absolute fearlessness. No one can take anything more away from him - there's nothing to be afraid of losing. No one can really reward him, either, because he now has this understanding that everything can be lost. He's probably not far from going beyond what makes us human by then, but there's no fear left. Without fear, and without rewards, there's no control left.
In keeping with my 'nerdlet' title, I can explain that this is where the Reavers come from in the Firefly series. They've been alone too long, they've seen too much blank space, they've lost what it is that makes them human, and they're now uncontrollable. They don't rape, murder, and cannibalize for pleasure, they do it to steal the humanity from everyone else. "Because the status is not...quo." Or they would if they had enough rationale left to analyze why they do it.
I don't know what I'd be like if I lost everything. I know that I don't want to know. There's a very ugly side of every person somewhere in there. You combat it with finding joy, appreciating beauty, helping people who need you, all that good stuff. Maybe I just work at Camp because it's the best combat I've found against all that. Or maybe it's the satisfaction of giving everything you've got to somebody who needs it more than you do.
There's a thought. Huge difference between giving everything you have to something that matters, and having everything that matters be taken from you. The psychological response is fascinating. Practically speaking, you're still empty-handed at the end of it, but you're not. Life generates. As long as you're alive, you've still got something, even if it's bitterness. You can hang onto bitterness.
So, what if we're all giving everything we've got, to something that matters, so that nothing can come along and steal it? Is that good? Is it acceptable? Can something like that even be morally judged?
It's entirely possible that, the instant you believe that you're qualified to morally judge another person, you're disqualified by that belief.
I know a pastor who spent a year living under a bridge in England, in the years before he really knew what he wanted to do with his life. He lightly recommends this to the college students - he plainly thinks it's a good idea, but he's also aware that he's talking to the doctors' kids. ARC is the doctors' church, in the doctors' town. The teenagers know that if they turn their backs on their parents' substantial financial support, these same parents might take it personally, that the kids are rejecting them, not just the money.
It's been pointed out that most people keep that kind of teenage-brain until they're about twenty-five. This has a lot to do with my mom's preference that none of us sisters marry before that magical half-decade. But, we still expect kids to know what they want to do well enough to pick a degree and finish it up a few years before then. I admire the kids who do. I kind of wish I was one of them.
Frankly, if I could survive on it, I'd work with kids, teenagers, whoever wanted a counselor/teacher/random-buddy in a camp setting for life. I probably could survive on it, if I wasn't living in an ecosystem where humans required protection from the elements for three-fourths of the year. I've a friend who wants to spend a year or two riding trains hobo-style, and forget about the money and the systems. Another friend wants to move to Wisconsin, away from all the people, build a cabin, get married (we think he may have to come back in contact with people again) and raise his kids with nothing more technologically advanced than a radio in their house.
Of course, this is the same friend who believes that he was sent to this world to replace Garrison Keillor.
There's a recklessness, I commented to someone recently, that comes from losing everything. Liked the idea and it ended up in a paper where I may have done more rambling than actual writing. Despite losing my English teacher's respect for me (if, by that point in the semester, he had any left), I think the idea holds true. "Solid!" as Spaz would say. I think that once a person loses everything that he thinks matters - not losing everything, just everything that matters - then he reaches this point of absolute fearlessness. No one can take anything more away from him - there's nothing to be afraid of losing. No one can really reward him, either, because he now has this understanding that everything can be lost. He's probably not far from going beyond what makes us human by then, but there's no fear left. Without fear, and without rewards, there's no control left.
In keeping with my 'nerdlet' title, I can explain that this is where the Reavers come from in the Firefly series. They've been alone too long, they've seen too much blank space, they've lost what it is that makes them human, and they're now uncontrollable. They don't rape, murder, and cannibalize for pleasure, they do it to steal the humanity from everyone else. "Because the status is not...quo." Or they would if they had enough rationale left to analyze why they do it.
I don't know what I'd be like if I lost everything. I know that I don't want to know. There's a very ugly side of every person somewhere in there. You combat it with finding joy, appreciating beauty, helping people who need you, all that good stuff. Maybe I just work at Camp because it's the best combat I've found against all that. Or maybe it's the satisfaction of giving everything you've got to somebody who needs it more than you do.
There's a thought. Huge difference between giving everything you have to something that matters, and having everything that matters be taken from you. The psychological response is fascinating. Practically speaking, you're still empty-handed at the end of it, but you're not. Life generates. As long as you're alive, you've still got something, even if it's bitterness. You can hang onto bitterness.
So, what if we're all giving everything we've got, to something that matters, so that nothing can come along and steal it? Is that good? Is it acceptable? Can something like that even be morally judged?
It's entirely possible that, the instant you believe that you're qualified to morally judge another person, you're disqualified by that belief.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Guy Fun
"The recipe for fun is pretty simple raising boys: Add to any activity an element of danger, stir in a little exploration, add a dash of destruction, and you've got yourself a winner."
-John Eldridge
I can believe this. I can FIRMLY believe this. I have seen evidence of this on nearly every adventure with the guys, and this line just explains it to my girl-brain: "Oh, THAT'S what they're doing."
Ethan and I were talking about this the other day. We were at the mall, because neither of us really 'get' the mall, but I was starved for sunlight and it was too cold to walk and talk outside. By definition, if you say, "it's a guy thing," you're referring to anything where all the guys say, "Cool!" and all the girls say, "Why?!"
For example, last summer, my dear friend and manager (for lack of a better term) was making plans to build a trebuchet at Camp.
Immediately,
Guys: Cool!
Girls: Why?!
Being female, I can see the logic on the latter. Camp is about the kids. You couldn't possibly keep the kids off the thing. Camp only owns property on one side of the river. Presumably, if you have this thing AT Camp, the already-cranky neighbors on the OTHER side of the river are going to assume that it will at some point be used against them. There's limited open horizontal space at Camp - if you WERE to build such thing, the only stable place for it is in the middle of the soccer field.
But, after being convinced of the opening statement here, and hanging out with the guys, I can see the logic supporting having a siege engine at Camp. Mainly, that there isn't one there yet.
This, of course, is not to suggest that if there were a trebuchet at Camp, the guys would scrap these plans. Never. Rather, the plans would immediately be to improve the trebuchet, to hurl new and larger objects with it, to increase its accuracy, and most importantly, to at some point build a second one, so that battles might be had. At some point, this would be so out of control that we would be changing our name to Camp Trebuchet*.
Guys: "Duh."
Girls: "What??"
*I actually kind of like the ring this has to it, but I can't quite see parents being keen on sending their offspring to such a place. Or, at least, I can't see mothers sending their offspring to such a place. Fathers would be trying to figure out how they could sign up as campers.
This is because, no matter how old a guy gets, some part of him will always be fifteen. And I think that there's been some unnecessary bashing of that quality. I can't precisely pin down what it is, but there seems to be something truly worthwhile about that explorative spirit that has far greater priorities than self-preservation.
Yes, entertainment is also a result, but that might be more of a byproduct than anything else.
-John Eldridge
I can believe this. I can FIRMLY believe this. I have seen evidence of this on nearly every adventure with the guys, and this line just explains it to my girl-brain: "Oh, THAT'S what they're doing."
Ethan and I were talking about this the other day. We were at the mall, because neither of us really 'get' the mall, but I was starved for sunlight and it was too cold to walk and talk outside. By definition, if you say, "it's a guy thing," you're referring to anything where all the guys say, "Cool!" and all the girls say, "Why?!"
For example, last summer, my dear friend and manager (for lack of a better term) was making plans to build a trebuchet at Camp.
Immediately,
Guys: Cool!
Girls: Why?!
Being female, I can see the logic on the latter. Camp is about the kids. You couldn't possibly keep the kids off the thing. Camp only owns property on one side of the river. Presumably, if you have this thing AT Camp, the already-cranky neighbors on the OTHER side of the river are going to assume that it will at some point be used against them. There's limited open horizontal space at Camp - if you WERE to build such thing, the only stable place for it is in the middle of the soccer field.
But, after being convinced of the opening statement here, and hanging out with the guys, I can see the logic supporting having a siege engine at Camp. Mainly, that there isn't one there yet.
This, of course, is not to suggest that if there were a trebuchet at Camp, the guys would scrap these plans. Never. Rather, the plans would immediately be to improve the trebuchet, to hurl new and larger objects with it, to increase its accuracy, and most importantly, to at some point build a second one, so that battles might be had. At some point, this would be so out of control that we would be changing our name to Camp Trebuchet*.
Guys: "Duh."
Girls: "What??"
*I actually kind of like the ring this has to it, but I can't quite see parents being keen on sending their offspring to such a place. Or, at least, I can't see mothers sending their offspring to such a place. Fathers would be trying to figure out how they could sign up as campers.
This is because, no matter how old a guy gets, some part of him will always be fifteen. And I think that there's been some unnecessary bashing of that quality. I can't precisely pin down what it is, but there seems to be something truly worthwhile about that explorative spirit that has far greater priorities than self-preservation.
Yes, entertainment is also a result, but that might be more of a byproduct than anything else.
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