New Zealand or Bust!

Possibly bust...
I still have this picture that someone posted on the Tolkien board back in high school of our group of Tolkien freaks riding to New Zealand on a fell beast. I wish this were possible because plane tickets are expensive and I'm not about to use a paddle-boat.

But yes, as to the hallowed After-College Plan I have determined that I'd like to try living in New Zealand for a year through BUNAC. The only real goal I have had for my post-college life is to travel/live abroad. I have always been curious about new places and I enjoy the novelty of travel and the ability to see life through a different and more comprehensive perspective. After watching the vast majority of my friends enjoy extended study abroad tours I've been feeling a little left-out. Now is the ideal time for me to pick up and move as most of my friends are moving away or starting a new phase in life. It's apparent to me that I need to do the same. I've always been really independent and I want to be challenged and step into adulthood without relying on any crutches, and what better way to do so than to head out on my own? It's a really good opportunity for personal and growth and for me to define for myself what I value and what I want to do with my life. As yet I'm quite muddled on that point. Yes, it's a scary proposition, but if you don't take risks like this, you never do anything worth doing. And I still believe in a personal God who will provide for me, after his quirky fashion. I hope that wasn't blasphemous.

So now you know my reasons for living abroad, why New Zealand of all places you ask? Well - it's not because I'm an LOTR movie fanatic. It actually came about in backwards way. I'd looked at BUNAC's Work in Britain and Ireland program last year as a possibility, but decided that it was too uncertain as far as actually getting work and supporting yourself was concerned. Then immigration laws changed and the Britain program was put on hold. After bouncing around various English teaching possibilities including Japan and the Peace Corps (which I still think would be awesome) and deciding I wasn't a good fit, I returned to BUNAC on the day after graduation in a fit of desperation.

The Britain program was still on hiatus, but I decided to look at some of their other programs. The descriptions of New Zealand intrigued me and I decided to do more research. The more I read about and thought about it, the more I liked the idea. It's not particularly exotic or historical as compared to other places in the world, but it seemed to fit. But was it possible? I made a rough estimate of how much money I would need and then checked to see roughly how much I had made at the summer job I would be working again this summer. They matched. Suddenly this became a real-world proposition and not just another of Heidi's farfetched dreams that keep her sane. So after a conference with the parental units I decided to try for it.

And I think it's going to happen. My initial plan was to "apply" (it's not a competitive program) in mid-August and depart in mid-October, but I'm going to have to wait until I have more of my summer earnings under my belt. So now I'm hopeful that November will work out. I'm ancy on several points. October was planned because that is before most college students get out for summer break in mid-November. Now it's possible I may have to wait until December or so before I step on a plane and the job-competition will be tougher. Plus I'm concerned about cost of living and exchange rates and student loans and such, although I have a plan and I think I can swing it. I think I'm going to try for work in customer service because I already have some customer service experience. I keep wondering if I'm really suited to that sort of a job, but then I wonder that about any sort of job and I think it's just me being unsure of myself. I'm pretty willing to do anything I have to. Safety and finding a place to live are other concerns, but that's why I'm going through BUNAC.

It's by no means a guarantee, and I'm fine with that. It's been a bit of a struggle to come to terms with the uncertainty of my life right now, but I'm learning to take things one step at a time. I'll keep you all posted on any progress made. I feel pretty lukewarm right now: not really excited, but not indifferent. Mostly impatient to get to the next step and get out of that blasted hardware store.

Three Questions

That arose for me today.

1. Is 3:2 the ideal ratio in Greek statuary, or is that something else?
2. Where does the term "Gestalt" come from?
3. What the heck is the difference between the FBI and the CIA?

The Power of Music (Take Two)

It seems Wordsworth already said it. Here's the real poem, not my piffling blog post.

AN Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,
And take to herself all the wonders of old; —
Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

His station is there; and he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim —
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss;
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt — burthened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky — browed Jack,
And the pale — visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

That errand — bound 'Prentice was passing in haste —
What matter! he's caught — and his time runs to waste;
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret;
And the half — breathless Lamplighter — he's in the net!

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; —
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!

He stands, backed by the wall; — he abates not his din
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there!
The one — pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is! — all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour! —
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.

Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:
They are deaf to your murmurs — they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!

Boxington

All 21 years of me sits atop my pink throne and looks down on my small kingdom of Boxington. Or rather, what used to be my kingdom. My country, with its four walls, three windows and blue carpet of a sea, has been invaded by outlying nations. Amidst the boxes of books and college paraphernalia that belong here by birthright lie boxes of immigrants from Kristinland, items not fit for basement storage. My father's desk and filing cabinet are firmly entrenched in the corner. Odds and ends recently relocated from our downstairs remodel fill up even more space. There is hardly room for me anymore.

I can't believe that I am once more sleeping on bunk beds (which are far too small, I hit my head last night). The top bunk is the only place that gets enough light for reading, so I crawl up to the ceiling with my Bronte and survey the geography below. It is odd to look down on such an amalgam of items ranging from childhood to adulthood. The whole of my development stares back at me in the form of stuffed animals, certificates of achievement, posters, art projects, little league trophies, CDs, college texts...

This room in which I was once queen and had many adventures is now void of all possibilities save that of storage space. I am its giant foreigner, trying to find space for my adult self. The knights from my castle set look at me with distrust when I open the closet door. Martin the Warrior's smile seems rather confused and weak as he surveys me from the wall. My polly pockets run back and forth between their little houses, whispering to each other, trying to figure out who the rather large blond lady is.

I suppose it would be a little depressing to be a foreigner in one's own room. The minute I walked across the platform and received my diploma COVER I became a nomad. I may return home, but it's not really home for the present. That's okay though. I much prefer the boxes as they assure me I won't be sticking around for long. Only a few long months of drudgery and I can be out. There may still be drudgery, but at least it will be somewhere new. I'm rather excited about being a nomad. For someone who's lived in the same place all her life, it's a rather mysterious state of being. I hope I move around a lot. At least, I think I do. I couldn't really say what it's like to move. I think there are boxes involved.

Billy Collins

I have always been adamantly anti-poetry. It's one of those positions you take because it's fun to ridicule the people you perceive as being smarter than you are. It's kind of like hating modern art, which I can say, because I DO hate modern art. Well... most of it. What I'm trying to say is, being someone who hates poetry is like being a member of a popular club where we can all get together and go rah-rah-rah and laugh and point and feel good about ourselves. It's one of those anti-intellectual stances that says "I don't believe there's really anything to this stuff. It's just a bunch of dumb show."

The problem is, I always knew it was a bit of a lie. I raised my eyebrows while reading Emily Dickinson in high school, but there was always a part of me that secretly admitted to being drawn to this form of writing, that resonated with her perspective and this odd way in which she chose to express it. Freshman year of college prompted me to be even less friendly towards poetry considering I had to read a collection of contemporary poems compiled (not written) by Billy Collins. Oh how I hated that man. I wonder how much of my dislike was due to the actual poetry and how much to the fact that that class was not going particularly well. Whatever the case, I never expected to fall in love the poems of Billy Collins. It can be traced back to two sources: his appearance on an episode of "A Prairie Home Companion" and fellow CA and pod resident Hannah's liking for him and loaning a collection of his poems to me. The humor is what clinched me. For instance, here is one of his poems from the collection "Ballistics."

Oh, My God!

Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.

Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe.

Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
spring unbidden from their glossy lips.

----

Here are a few others from that collection of which I am fond.

Tension

Never use the word "suddenly" just to create tension.
-Writing Fiction

Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,
and suddenly I was in the study
looking up the word oligarchy for the thirty-seventh time.

When suddenly, without warning,
you planted the last petunia in the flat,
and I suddenly closed the dictionary
now that I was reminded of that vile form of governance.

A moment later, we found ourselves
standing suddenly in the kitchen
where you suddenly opened a can of cat food
and I just as suddenly watched you doing that.

I observed a window of leafy activity
and beyond that, a bird perched on the edge
of the stone birdbath
when suddenly you announced you were leaving

to pick up a few things at the market
and I stunned you by impulsively
pointing out that we were getting low on butter
and another case of wine would not be a bad idea.

Who could tell what the next moment would hold?
another drip from the faucet?
another little spasm of the second hand?
Would the painting of a bowl of pears continue

to hang on the wall from that nail?
Would the heavy anthologies remain on their shelves?
Would the stove hold its position?
Suddenly, it was anyone's guess

The sun rose ever higher in the sky.
The state capitals remained motionless on the wall map
when suddenly I found myself lying on a couch
where I closed my eyes and without any warning

began to picture the Andes, of all places,
and a path that led over the mountains to another country
with strange customs and eye-catching hats,
each one suddenly fringed with colorful little tassels.

The Effort

Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"

as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts--
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.

Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail,
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield High will succeed.

with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.

Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,

not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the morning frost.

So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard,
and her students--a few with their hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards--

to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and to do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed.

Baby Listening

According to the guest information directory,
baby listening is a service offered by this seaside hotel.

Baby listening--not a baby who happens to be listening,
as I thought when I first checked in.

Leave the receiver off the hook,
the directory advises,
and your infant can be monitored by the staff,

though the staff, the entry continues,
cannot be held responsible for the well-being
of the baby in question.

Fair enough, someone to listen to the baby.

But the phrase did suggest a baby who is listening,
lying there in the room next to mine
listening to my pen scratching against the page,

or a more advanced baby who has crawled
down the hallway of the hotel
and is pressing its tiny, curious ear against my door.

Lucky for some of us,
poetry is a place where both are true at once,
where meaning only one thing at a time spells malfunction.

Poetry wants to have the baby who is listening at my door
as well as the baby who is being listened to,
quietly breathing by the nearby telephone.

And it also wants the baby
who is making sounds of distress
into the curved receiver lying in the crib

while the girl at reception has just stepped out
to have a smoke with her boyfriend
in the dark by the great sway and wash of the North Sea.

Poetry wants that baby, too,
even a little more than it wants the others.

The Lanyard

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past--
a past were I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

The Introduction

I don't think this next poem
needs any introduction--
it's best to let the work speak for itself.

Maybe I should just mention
that whenever I use the word five,
I'm referring to that group of Russian composers
who came to be known as "The Five,"
Balakirev, Moussorgsky, Borodin--that crowd.

Oh--and Hypsicles was a Greek astronomer.
He did something with the circle.

That's about it, but for the record,
"Grimke" is Angelina Emily Grimke, the abolitionist
"Imroz" is that little island near the Dardanelles.
"Monad" --well, you all know what a monad is.

There could be a little problem
with mastaba, which is one of those Egyptian
above-ground sepulchres, sort of brick and limestone.

And you're all familiar with helminthology?
It's the science of worms.

Oh, and you will recall that Phoebe Mozee
is the real name pf Annie Oakley.

Other than that, everything should be obvious.
Wagga Wagga is in New South Wales,
Rhyolite is that soft volcanic rock.
What else?
Yes, meranti is a type of timber, in tropical Asia I think,
and Rahway is just Rahway, New Jersey.

The rest of the poem should be clear.
I'll just read it and let it speak for itself.

It's about the time I went picking wild strawberries.

It's called "Picking Wild Strawberries."

See No Evil

No one expected all three of them
to sit there on their tree stumps forever,
their senses covered with their sinuous paws
so as to shut out the vile, nefarious world.

As it happened,
it was the one on the left
who was the first to desert his post,
uncupping his ears,
then loping off into the orbit of rumors and lies,
but also into the realm of symphonies,
the sound of water tumbling over rocks
and wind stirring the leafy domes of trees.

Then the monkey on the right lowered his hands
from his wide mouth and slipped away
in search of someone to talk to,
some news he could spread,
maybe something to curse or shout about,

And that left the monkey in the middle
alone with his silent vigil,
shielding his eyes from depravity's spectacle,
blind to the man whipping his horse,
the woman shaking her baby in the air,
but also unable to see
the russet sun on a rough shelf of rock
and apples in the grass at the base of a tree.

Sometimes, he wonders about the other two,
listens for the faint sounds of their breathing
up there on the mantel
alongside the clock and the candlesticks.

And some nights in the quiet house
he wishes he could break the silence with a question,

but he knows the one on his right
would not be able to hear,
and the one to his left,
according to their sacred oath--
the one they all took with one paw raised--
is forbidden forever to speak, even in reply.

This is also pretty awesome

One of the great things about the music building is you run across all sorts of music you wouldn't know about otherwise. I caught a few students watching this clip in room 200 today and decided to check it out on my own. Love the tango feel.

I also recommend

I Hate Music! - A cycle of five kid songs for soprano by Leonard Bernstein

I Recommend

Berlioz - Te Deum

This is so great!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

Anytime an outcast or underdog makes the world rethink its priorities, it gives me a little bit of hope. Too bad that the only reason people now value Susan Boyle is because of her voice, and not for the fact that old our young, beautiful or ugly, talented or not, all human beings are created in God's image and have intrinsic value. I pray that we would act on this reality, so that the "unacceptables" of society don't have to achieve such (unfortunately) unexpected accomplishments to be considered of any worth.

I fail.

So I pretty much am still the same irresponsible idiot I have always been. Not only am I failing to meet all of my internship requirements, but I'm also failing at jazz lessons and piano accompanying and basic responsibility. Go me. Maybe I won't graduate. That's an interesting future possibility...

Warning: Music Nerd Posts Ahead

Before Howard Shore. Before John Williams. There was...


PROKOFIEV!

It's true. Prokofiev wrote film scores, and it's amazing to see how much he has influenced film scoring today. Prokofiev wrote music in Russia while Stalin was in power, one of the bleakest and bloodiest periods of Russian and world history. Stalin kept tight control on the arts and was very mindful of how they could be used as propaganda. Film was one of his favorite ways of spreading his ideology to the working-class and he wanted the cream of the crop artists to be working for the state to that end. From this we get the film collaborations between Prokofiev and film director Sergei Eisenstein. Yes, before Peter Jackson...

The sample I'm posting here is from "Alexander Nevsky," which tells the story of a knight/saint who helps his people repel a Teutonic invasion. At the time, both Prokofiev and Eisenstein were out of favor with Stalin, and this film was a chance for them to save their good names and perhaps their lives. It is pretty straightforward nationalist propaganda. The evil Teutons are a direct representation of Nazi Germany while parallels are supposed to be drawn between Nevsky and Stalin as the defender of Russia. What's amazing though is how much it resembles contemporary trends in movies, especially in light of the Lord of the Rings. Not only is the music similar, the visual aesthetic is also the same. It's important to note that this is an edited and spliced version placed to a more contemporary recording of Prokofiev's cantata based on his score. Not only was the recording equipment available somewhat primitive, the newness of movie scoring made for a much less sophisticated marriage of music and motion picture, in which Eisenstein spliced in cuts of music as he pleased, making for a very disjointed film. This gets the gist of it though.



Hmmm, seems a lot like several battles from LOTR to me. Not to mention the music. I know Howard Shore admits to using Wagner's Ring Cycle as a basis for his score, but the actual music resembles this much, much more. John Williams also frequently "borrows" from Prokofiev (and several others, Strauch jokingly proposed starting a class entirely focused on composers John Williams "borrows" from). So go listen to some Prokofiev. You really owe it to yourself. His cantata based on Alexander Nevsky is a good start. I can also recommend his Romeo and Juliet. More to follow.

One ring to rule them all?

This at least is true

The world is really messed up.

"Well, duh," you might say. And yes, it is rather obvious. I was once talking with an agnostic acquaintance of mine (as I simultaneously pursue my faith and form relationships with a wider variety of people I am finding that deep relationships with those who don't share my belief in Christ's redeeming power are rewarding but intensely painful) and asked if he would at least agree with me on that. He chuckled and said yes, he did. I'm sure he thought I was rather young and naive to even pose such a question. But you see my point was that, however you explain it, "something is not right."

As I consider my (somewhat limited) options after graduation and as my over-active imagination spins out all the possible paths my life could take, I can only reflect that the world is really messed up for a reason. The reality of human fallibility and sinfulness stares me in the face when I consider what my more selfish ambitions might lead me to, or my ignorance, or my laziness. This isn't even counting those times when I have truly good intentions. You know, those things the path to hell is paved with. Plus there is that huge segment of people who aren't bothered by these implications at all. They unabashedly live for themselves and I guess I can commend them in their honesty, unlike those of us who mask our will to power under aforementioned good intentions.

My point is that, as unpopular as the idea of Total Depravity is, it seems unfortunately accurate. Which is why the message of the redemptive power of Christ is such a powerful one. Popular conceptions of Christianity spit on the doctrine of original sin because it implies condemnation. Yet the need for a Savior is evident. As uncomfortable as I am with the concepts of hell and damnation, something I don't think I'll ever fully wrap my head around, the transformative power of Christ resonates for all of us who would attempt to honor God, follow Christ and serve humanity.

Paper or plastic?

I've always been terrible at decision-making. Ordering at restaurants is always an ordeal. I spend far too long in the cereal aisle of the grocery store contemplating whether I want Toastie-O's or Frosted Fiddlesticks. I even agonize over which sweatshirt I own goes best with which pair of jeans. It's a sweatshirt. It's not supposed to be fashionable. I'M not fashionable. And yet...

So no wonder I'm paralyzed with indecision when faced with actual choices about my future. Because somewhere, at some point, I'm going to have to take the step that puts me on a set direction and that closes off other possibilities by necessity. That's the part I hate. The fact that I could be missing out on something better, or at least something awesome or more enjoyable or more meaningful or that I would be better at etc. by choosing to pursue "X."

There are roughly three different paths I can see as possibilities at this point. I won't go into details. That would get complicated. But each is challenging and daunting in its own way. The frustrating and absolutely terrifying part is that none of them are guarantees. There's no guarantee of getting my foot in the door, there's not guarantee I'll like it if I do, and there's no guarantee I'll be remotely good at it. If ever there was a time for Divine Guidance I'd love a sign in the proverbial desert just about now. I'd be alright with the lilac bush at home bursting into flame and telling me to take off my sneakers and to brush up on my public speaking. But I think God is delighting in the fact that I'm having to make a decision. That's right, you get to make a choice. You can see the implications of each of them. Where do your priorities lie? It's up to you. Then I always imagine him chuckling evilly, which is probably blasphemous. But who knows. Maybe I will get a little more help. I'm trying hard to be patient, obedient and humble in this. I shouldn't worry, and I know it. Some days are better than others.

Part of it is life after college still seems so surreal. I hope some of my daring (for me) ideas become realities. And if so, I hope they turn out to be more exciting than they are in my head. Each life scenario I come up with seems more boring than the last. I do have one hope, but if I wrote about that I'd sound trite. This post is making less and less sense, so I think I'll just quit. I guess my point was that I AM trying to figure it out. I'm NOT just a lazy bum who hasn't made any plans for life after college. I DO have certain, or rather uncertain asperations. And even if I DON'T have a set direction yet I'm working on finding it. And that ought to be good enough. So stop giving me pitying looks. I WANT to work hard. I'm happiest when I'm being productive. I have an impulsive need to prove myself against all odds. I'm angsty and cliche. I need to go to bed.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

St. Patrick's Day - John Mayer (is amazing)

Here comes the cold
Break out the winter clothes
And find a love to call your own
You - enter you
Your cheeks a shade of pink
And the rest of you in powder blue

Who knows what will be
But I'll make you this guarantee

No way November will see our goodbye
When it comes to December it's obvious why
No one wants to be alone at Christmas time

In the dark, on the phone
You tell me the names of your brothers
And your favorite colors
I'm learning you
And when it snows again
We'll take a walk outside
And search the sky
Like children do
I'll say to you

No way November will see our goodbye
When it comes to December it's obvious why
No one wants to be alone at Christmas time
And come January we're frozen inside
Making new resolutions a hundred times
February, won't you be my valentine?

And we'll both be safe 'til St. Patrick's Day

We should take a ride tonight around the town
and look around at all the beautiful houses
something in the way that blue lights on a black night
can make you feel more
everybody, it seems to me, just wants to be
just like you and me

No one wants to be alone at Christmas time
Come January we're frozen inside
Making new resolutions a hundred times
February, won't you be my valentine?

And if our always is all that we gave
And we someday take that away
I'll be alright if it was just 'til St. Patrick's Day

Mysteries In Our Modern World

This essay pretty well describes my afternoon. After a very stressful week and with midterms looming on the horizon I've been no mood to buckle down and study. I woke up late today after a much-needed late night of hanging out with friends, but even though I was rested I was in no mood to work. All I really wanted to do was finish "The Dead Man's Knock." When I finished it I noticed this essay on the back and felt vindicated.

The mystery story is the answer of modern times to the problems of modern times.

A few years ago business logged along at an even pace behind a horse and buggy transportation. Radio was unknown, the telephone was only being perfected, mails were slow and businessmen copied their correspondence by placing a letter between sheets of moist blotting paper and screwing down the wheel of a letter press.

Then high pressure hit business. Everything is speeded [sic] up so much today that the great problem is how to relax.

The busy executive can't simply forget his problems. They are too pressing, too urgent and too intimate. The only answer is to find something else which will fully occupy the mind. The ordinary novel simply doesn't have the power, the punch, the action.

That's why the sale of sleeping tablets and of mystery stories have multiplied to astronomical proportions during the last twenty-five years.

It is, of course, a lot better to refresh the mind by giving it something new and interesting to work on than to dull it into oblivion by the use of drugs.

Several years ago I wrote a book dealing with what was at that time a novel adaptation of scientific principle. My publisher, fearing there might be some inaccuracies, asked on of the most noted scientists in the country to check certain pages, and sent him the entire manuscript.

That scientist was "up to his ears" in war work. The letter which he sent was a classic.

He said he had started to read the first page of the manuscript, had become interested, had dropped everything else, and didn't realize the passing of time until two and a half hours later when he finished the last page of the manuscript. Then he turned out the light and had the first uninterrupted, blissful eight hours of repose he had had in years. He awakened the next morning refreshed and eager to tackle the problems which confronted him. The mystery had been exciting enough to drive the problems right out of his mind.

Quite by accident that scientist had learned the secret of perfect mental repose.

Which is why the modern mystery story is selling like hot cakes to the more intelligent class of reader. It is no accident that mystery stories have been in the White House for the last twenty-five years. The "intelligentsia" may speak disparagingly of the mystery, but the best minds in the world are reading them.

~Erle Stanley Gardner

So this definitely gives me the justification I need for my afternoon. I'm not wasting time, I'm finding the "perfect mental repose." Reading that mystery was my way of coping with the constant pressures of my crazy student life. The speeded upness of it all and technology and things. Plus at the end he just strokes my ego by placing me in the company of the best minds in the world. I can see why the marketing department of that publisher decided to use that essay. And I am perfectly willing to use it as an excuse for my liesurely afternoon.

Driving to Canada, or Oregon...

Sometimes, when I'm on my way home, I just want to keep going.

Why Georgia - John Mayer
I am driving up 85 in the
kind of morning that lasts all afternoon
just stuck inside the gloom

Four more exits to my apartment but
I am tempted to keep the car in drive
and leave it all behind

Cause I wonder sometimes
about the outcome
of a still verdictless life

I rent a room and I fill the spaces with
wood in places to make it feel like home
but all I feel's alone
It might be a quarter life crisis
or just the stirring in my soul

Either way, I wonder sometimes
about the outcome
of a still verdictless life

So what, so I've got a smile on me
but it's hiding the quiet superstitions in my head
Don't believe me
Don't believe me
When I say I've got it down

Everybody is just a stranger but
that's the danger in going my own way
I guess it's the price I have to pay
still "Everything happens for a reason"
is no reason not to ask myself

Am I living it right?

The Little Prince, cont.

So I'm realizing that there is a lot you can say about children's lit. So here goes.

I love the first chapter of the Little Prince because it is such a good example of what divides my closest friends from the rest of my acquaintances. I also love it because if I had ever run across a book of jungle stories when I was six, I'm sure my response would have been similar. Not that I would have drawn a picture resembling a hat, but that I just tend/ed to really get into things like that.

I was also very aware that adults just didn't get it most of the time. And like Peter Pan I was terrified of becoming one of them eventually and losing, I guess you'd call it the freedom to imagine, or create. And I have done my best to resist this ever since, which accounts in part for why I am so weird.

But eventually we do have to grow up and come to grips with the practical and uncomfortable realities of life. We do have to "put away childish things" and emerge from our idyllic fantasy land to the world of uncertainty, confusion, complicated relationships, bills, inconveniences, monotony, routine, stress and responsibility. This picture of adulthood isn't the sunniest, but I think it's pretty accurate and also not entirely a bad thing. I mean, that's how we grow and that's also how we impact the world. Yet it seemed appropriate that, as I'm on the verge of becoming independent, to look back and not completely lose that childlike perspective. But we have to give up some of the wonderful yet impractical pursuits of childhood in order to study geography, history, arithmetic, and grammar. We can't all become artists. Some of us must become airplane pilots, which actually is pretty cool as far as adult professions go.

I always assumed that being an adult was equivalent with maturity. But the more I interact in workplaces the more I realize how truly selfish and childlike people can be. I suppose I'm not exempt from this. But as he says "I have seen them at close range...which hasn't much improved my opinion of them." The adult world is crazy and often laughable. All the petty motivations that drive people. Sometimes I just don't know how to respond.

But then there's the pay off. How often have I wished to have such a straightforward litmus test of whether or not someone really has that fundamental understanding of what I find to be beautiful and worthwhile in life. I wish I had a drawing Number One that I could pull out to test people with. And how often have I found myself masking my actual observations and feelings in order to make myself acceptable and reasonable. It's like that section in Jane Eyre where Rochester and Jane randomly start talking about "the men in green" and Mrs. Fairfax is entirely puzzled. There are just certain people you have an affinity with, who understand why stars and jungles and boa constrictors are important, even though it sounds silly to the rest of the world.

The Little Prince

Once when I was six I saw a magnificent picture in a book about the jungle, called True Stories. It showed a boa constrictor swallowing a wild beast. Here is a copy of the picture.In the book it said: "Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing. Afterward they are no longer able to move, and they sleep during the six months of their digestion."

In those days I thought a lot about jungle adventures, and eventually managed to make my first drawing, using a colored pencil. My drawing Number One looked like this:I showed the grown-ups my masterpiece, and I asked them if my drawing scared them.

They answered, "Why be scared of a hat?"

My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. Then I drew the inside of the boa constrictor, so the grown-ups could understand. They always need explanations. My drawing Number Two looked like this:
The grown-ups advised me to put away my drawings of boa constrictors, outside or inside, and apply myself instead to geography, history, arithmetic, and grammar. That is why I abandoned, at the age of six, a magnificent career as an artist. I had been discouraged by the failure of my drawing Number One and of my drawing Number Two. Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is exhausting for children to have to provide explanations over and over again.

So then I had to choose another career, and I learned to pilot airplanes. I have flown almost everywhere in the world. And, as a matter of fact, geography has been a big help to me. I could tell China from Arizona at first glance, which is very useful if you get lost during the night.

So I have had, in the course of my life, lots of encounters with lots of serious people. I have spent lots of time with grown-ups. I have seen them at close range...which hasn't much improved my opinion of them.

Whenever I encountered a grown-up who seemed to me at all enlightened, I would experiment on him with my drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I wanted to see if he really understood anything. But he would always answer, "That's a hat." Then I wouldn't talk about boa constrictors or jungles or stars. I would put myself on his level and talk about bridge and golf and politics and neckties. And my grown-up was glad to know such a reasonable person.

Mahler - St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes

I thought this was fun. Consequently the video of it I found features Thomas Hampson, who is singing at the Lincoln Festival on the 28th... Weird. Anyhow, Mahler then uses this in his 2nd symphony, the 3rd movement of which is found below.



St. Anthony arrives for his Sermon
and finds the church empty.
He goes to the rivers
to preach to the fishes;

They flick their tails,
which glisten in the sunshine.

The carp with roe
have all come here,
their mouths wide open,
listening attentively.

No sermon ever
pleased the carp so.

Sharp-mouthed pike
that are always fighting,
have come here, swimming hurriedly
to hear this pious one;

No sermon ever
pleased the pike so.

Also, those fantastic creatures
that are always fasting -
the stockfish, I mean -
they also appeared for the sermon;

No sermon ever
pleased the stockfish so.

Good eels and sturgeons,
that banquet so elegantly -
even they took the trouble
to hear the sermon:

No sermon ever
pleased the eels so.

Crabs too, and turtles,
usually such slowpokes,
rise quickly from the bottom,
to hear this voice.

No sermon ever
pleased the crabs so.

Big fish, little fish
noble fish, common fish,
all lift their heads
like sentient creatures:

At God's behest
they listen to the sermon.

The sermon having ended,
each turns himself around;
the pikes remain thieves,
the eels, great lovers.

The sermon has pleased them,
but they remain the same as before.

The crabs still walk backwards,
the stockfish stay thin,
the carps still stuff themselves,
the sermon is forgotten!

The sermon has pleased them,
but they remain the same as before.

Internship

So. Just to clarify on how the internship is going thus far, since people seem to be curious. It's nothing earth shattering, but then, I haven't exactly been expecting that. It's funny, because when I tell people I'm interning for the Spokane Symphony, even people who have absolutely no interest in classical music whatsoever, they get very excited. Far more excited than I am. Well, in defense of the ones who have no interest in classical music whatsoever, I think the assumption often is that "internship" with the symphony means I'm "playing" in the symphony. Even music majors don't seem to have a very solid grasp on the fact that the symphony isn't just a group of extreme music nerds but a non-profit arts organization, the biggest in Spokane if I remember correctly, and like any organization a large part of what actually happens goes on behind the scenes. The musicians don't just magically organize rehearsals with guest artists and appear on stage autonomously.

So, everyone gets really excited and then asks "so, what will you do?" *blink* It seems somewhat illogical to me to be really excited about somebody's unpaid occupation without knowing what it is, but I guess I understand. I mean, it sounds all prestigious and grand. The ridiculous part though is, I don't even know! And I've spent a good seven hours at their offices now. But I usually give some vague reply about marketing and operations and music libraries and hope that somewhere in the jargon they'll get confused and smile and nod and stop asking questions. Before I go any further, I want to make it clear, this internship is a great fit for me. Even if I end up learning absolutely nothing at all, it will look excellent on my resume, and it will be better than learning nothing at all somewhere else. And I think I will learn something, it's just not getting off to a grand start.

My supervisor seemed eager to meet me and get me started, which was encouraging. I had been a little surprised at how quickly she had given me the internship, but I attributed this to the fact that I had been so proactive about it, and I found out that I was right on that score. I went in on Monday and was disconcerted to find that she hadn't even looked at my resume. I mean, she didn't even know what my major was, obviously hadn't read my carefully prepared cover letter, and hadn't remembered her earlier promise that I would also be able to meet with the operations department. I was a little disappointed, but not particularly hurt. I mean, I'm a whiny college student and she has a job to do. I don't exactly expect to be spoonfed. And I figured that marketing would be more versatile than operations, although I don't know that I'm particularly suited for it. She then explained her big vision for my time with them. Social networking. Yes, three of my five major goals would consist of facebook, myspace, and twitter. I nodded politely, unwilling to put my oar in so early in our relationship but thinking all the time at the back of my mind that THAT is going to change. Basically she sees me as a pool of knowledge for this new world of the internet that she is not very versed in. I don't mind that, and am happy to help them. But I'm not going to learn anything sitting and updating their facebook page. Unfortunately that's about all I've done the three days I've been there.

I have a small cubicle in an area on the mezzanine level with particularly hideous red shag carpet. I've found our initial few meetings to be particularly unhelpful and concise. I've pretty much had to fend for myself. By exploring the computer drives and past emails I've been able to learn a bit about important little details like parking passes for interns, how to use the network and where past interns have left off. If they really were as unmotivated as it seems, I think my supervisor has another thing coming, because I WILL NOT be shoved into a back corner to mess about on instant messaging while pretending to learn about marketing by sending invitations to all my friends about the symphony facebook group. Seriously. I can't really figure out what else the interns have been doing, unless it's clipping news articles (the work study student they currently have, Justin, takes care of that right now) and making gift certificates for auctions (I did that on Monday). I think the danger is that she will treat me like a work study student, but I'm not getting any compensation for this, so it's not a matter of picking up odd jobs that nobody else can get around to. I'm here to learn about arts management dang it.

ANYHOW, Wednesday I met a few other people who work for the symphony, but not to the extent that I would remember any of their names. I wonder what they think of me. The weird blonde girl who's doing an internship for free and stays secluded in the corner while goofing off on facebook. Criminy. My supervisor made a point of telling everyone that I was Jane's niece, which was fine, but felt awkward. The best part of that day was the most wonderfully awkward moment when I left. There's a law office adjacent to the symphony's marketing offices. I was waiting by the elevator to go to the lobby when I heard someone call out "see ya!" I turned around, a bit surprised because I didn't recognize him, but I figured I had met a lot of people in a 30 second time span so it was probably a symphony employee. "Oh! See ya?" I timidly offered, only to realize just after the words had left my mouth that it was an employee of the law office saying goodbye to the receptionist on his way out. He smiled at me, realizing my mistake, and we silently waited for the elevator. "So, how are you?" he asked out of nowhere. I gave the usual response, trying not to smile. The elevator came. We both entered it. I was trying very hard not to laugh. Luckily a third person entered and we were allowed to be silent. It was deliciously awkward. I don't think I've ever had such a backwards conversation before.

So today I was expecting a formal meeting with my supervisor as well as briefing on what I would be doing at the concert this weekend. I was again disappointed, because all she said was that they might need some ushers and Justin and I might have to fill in. Great. Just what I want. To stand around with a bunch of older women in an unflattering vest while handing out programs to Rockwood Manor residents. I hope nobody I know shows up. At least I finally got to meet the mysterious Justin, a fellow Whitworth student who transferred from California last semester. He's a comm major who for some reason got a work study job with the symphony even though he professes that he didn't know anything about classical music before he took the job. It was a little awkward though, because he was doing legitimate (if boring) work while I was wondering what else of merit I could do on facebook. At one point he came out and asked me what I was doing for the symphony's facebook page, and I gave a vague reply about events, knowing full well that it takes about half an hour at most to update events. Yeesh. Still, he was very nice and at least I had a human being to talk to instead of the odd unsupervision I've experienced the past couple days.

I will be meeting with Brent on Monday to draw up some specific goals, that I hope to have the guts to press for when I meet with my supervisor that afternoon. I've already forced myself to ask about possibly attending a meeting (small battles, baby steps), to which I was given the reply that there usually weren't meetings after 2:00. Well, I get that, but how the heck am I supposed to know WHEN I should be there if nobody tells me!? I might be going to a press conference on Tuesday, which could be mildly uninteresting if I'm lucky, but I want to be actively DOING or LEARNING something. I mean, I get that I won't be handed a lot of particularly skilled work and I also get that a lot of the work is mundane stuff like filing and answering phones. It's a symphony office, not the CIA. But I could at least shadow someone, or find out how they track their attendance, or target their marketing, or what specific departments do, or how they plan marketing campaigns, or... something. When I left today my supervisor said she'd like to help me so that I wasn't floundering around on my own. Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but strangely enough I resent it a little. Anyhow, I know it's all very outrageous and shocking and that I should have been receiving more help from the get go blah, blah, blah, blah, but I'd rather that you didn't worry about it. Like I said, it's a symphony office. It's not like anything particularly exciting is going on there. But, these are the people that make it possible for classical music to be performed live. It may be a boring job, but it's important to me nonetheless. I think I can stomach the tedium knowing that at least somebody is getting a good concert out of the deal. Because I'm that pathetic. Cheers.