varying degrees of light

2011-08-07T01:34:00.002-05:00

I wouldn’t know, but perhaps one indication of a person’s deep-seated interest is what they stay up in bed thinking of, what they read when they stave off sleep, and what they—with a fresh surprise of a paycheck—imagine they will acquire. My Google Reader is filled with food blogs. Whole leeks charred with coal, Alec Baldwin’s favorite pizza, and yet another dish combining chorizo and clams. I’ve never had this last one. It sounds pretty heavy and hedonistic though, which may be why I’m coming up on twenty hours awake.

Coming home is a surreal stage. I insist to myself, for some desperate reason, that it doesn’t count. (Searching for employment is an exercise in vulnerability, but it’s not nearly as bad as having to report such a state of limbo.) I can’t keep track of the days very well. And my mind takes an amount of concentration to figure it out.

In the morning, I’ll bike a few blocks west toward I-75, sneak into a seat in the back of Covenant CRC, gape at how tall the kids are, shake hands, smile, and steal away back home to have lunch with my parents and a handful of friends—a smattering of previous years’ gatherings. The sun will likely be out, and pouring through the leaves as the fire hisses with the dripping marinade. My skin, hair, and clothes will smell of soy sauce for the rest of the day, and a feast of some of my favorite foods will be presented. Mother and I have been discussing the offerings for the last couple days. Again, we toyed at making something we would make for ourselves—notably, not the 만두 (dumplings), not the 불고기 (marinated beef… which we are having), but the 김치찌개, 됀장국, and 낙찌복음. The back alley shack of a restaurant where laborers hurriedly slurp their lunch instead of high-heeled wives with shopping bags from Coach eating cream spaghetti and soup at Outback Steakhouse.

I’m awake because of so many meals. Most of them at home—a few bad ones out—with the parents and the begging dog at our feet, and seemingly effortless dishes turned out. More often than not, we all had a hand in the preparation, plating, and clean up and I asked more questions about something I’d been eating my whole life, but hadn’t an idea of what it actually was, other than comforting and familiar—what I imagine a Dutch person smells upon entering our house unexpectedly.

It’s quite a first-world problem I have: the food has been so plentiful and alarming and better than anything I’ve had, that I’m exhausted. I’m wondering about how lunch in the afternoon will go. The friends will tuck in, dad will laugh, mom will grin, conversation will lull to the sound of guests hunched over and chewing, and I’ll wonder to what to do.

2011-01-06T19:59:00.002-06:00

To remember: A lively apartment and the setting sun screaming red over the sky, standing before a tomato, a fresh, warm loaf of bread, and a clove of garlic smashed and peeled and all the smells forcing you to pay attention and sit still.

2011-01-06T12:37:00.003-06:00

A lot of people ask what it's like to be back in the States and what I missed most while I was living in Busan. I'm back in the States now, having spent a few weeks at home visiting the parents and sisters and reveling in the one place in town to see everybody who isn't bound by blood or household. I had lots of seasonal beers, shared a few bottles of wine, drunken midnight pizzas, Chinese food in Orange City, and savored everything my mom thought to put on a plate*... which really was a whole lot of food that was better than anything we found in Busan. Sorry, Kosin students and your enthusiastic recommendations. Sorry Elijah, Ashley, and Adam, and your "Oh, Oriental food is soooo good." I know it. You don't need to tell me. You all lose to a woman sourcing her ingredients from Sioux City and cooking in a small, snowy town with two traffic lights and seventeen churches. I'm in Los Angeles now, and what I've eaten so far includes Lebanese lamb chops, falafel patties, chicken mole tamales, chicken verde tamales, flank steak marinated in tomato sauce, chicken roasted with garlic and rosemary, sweet potato gratin, fennel salad dotted with pomegranate, roasted brussel sprouts**, warm potato salad, steamed/sautéed asparagus, balsamic chuck eye steak, and Greek salad. And wine. At the moment, I'm sipping a latte and thinking about what to have for lunch as well as what to make for dinner. "Beer-cheese soup?" I asked Christina, thinking of finding a hoppy beer and sharp cheese to mop up with a crusty loaf. "My husband is lactose-intolerant. :( " to which I shouted, "YOU'RE lactose-intolerant!" and the patrons at Antigua Coffee/Tea raised many an eyebrow.

What else to eat?

*I'd like to provide more detail, but I'll have to do so after calling home.

**ForageLA --Matty, pay attention. Also you, Andrew Kroeze.

2010-12-30T15:23:00.002-06:00

What she really meant is that the long distance sucks, but we're really very happy to be dating. But seriously, everybody else knew before us? Before me, at least. But her too?

2010-12-21T05:01:00.002-06:00

I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, and because when I think of this thing (I don't even want to say blog because I hate blogs--I don't even like the word blog), I imagine my arms firmly, nervously open and holding an old, dear friend that I've neglected for too long simply because I'm a big jerk. It's 5 03 AM and I simply decided just a little while ago that sleep wasn't going to happen. And let me tell you, realizing this was a huge relief. I feel more awake now than I have in days. So here I am, thinking of all the people--some of the people I love the most in the world--that have trouble sleeping at night, turning this way and that, feeling trapped under their sheets.

I'm here, old friend, because I'm unhappy. Happy is boring. Happy writing is boring. Even happy movies often begin with something awful. The set-up: a disaster; a divorce; a man who loves a woman but the woman is dating another man, a richer man, and she has a smile on her face and is wearing a fancy dress and the first man is in jail anyway. Things like that. So let's try this.

A boy is awake at 5 in the morning and whenever he looks at the person sitting across from him, whenever he remembers the person on the other end of the phone, whenever he drafts up an email, he can't think of a single thing that he actually wants to say. So his conversations dance lightly upon frivolities, rehearsals of actual conversations until his partner says something colored with truth that they can build on. His phone calls end quickly and uncomfortably. His emails go unwritten. A voice is a wonderful privilege, he knows. Like having enough money to give away, it's something that most everybody actually has, but few actually carry out. And anyway, a professor once said in a lecture, most of us get by with grunts and moans. Lately, he feels doesn't even have that.

His head aches slightly, from lack of sleep or dehydration or caffeine withdrawal, he doesn't know. In the school where he taught English Conversation, mostly to students that were just as old as he was, the students would claim a visit to the hospital because of a headache or a cough. They would miss entire weeks of classes, validated with a wrinkly stack of medication receipts stamped with red, official ink. He saw the vendors for these seals and crests in the city, where he and his colleagues would explore for dinner and the pleasant glow of neon lights and the buzz of beer. Two months in to the semester, he simply stopped logging attendance. He used the papers they brought in as scratch paper, feeding them into his printer for carrying hard copies of online articles to read in the courtyard, where he often took his breaks. When he was through, he would leave them in random lockers, empty classrooms, bathroom stalls, benches, and next to the coffee machines so as to encourage his students.

His head aches slightly and he wants a cigarette, but has quit. And anyway, if he would be at all relieved from an intake of nicotine, he'd be startled with himself. So, this is better.

But he wants better than not being addicted to nicotine.

2010-11-05T11:06:00.003-05:00

The students are dropping like flies. Though it's warmer today, the weather brought a sudden cold recently. Adam and I went to the city and wore our quick purchases: hats, sweaters, cardigans. We looked like jerks, but it was so cold. This evening, after classes and grading a few folders of assignments, I went to my apartment, took a nap, woke up with a fever and a sore throat. Elijah said that's not supposed to happen, but I'm just thankful that it came at the end of the week. I opened the door to my apartment and smelled snow in the air. Lovely, I tell you the truth. Bundled up, I went out to search for dinner.

2010-11-01T07:34:00.003-05:00

A tiger is more wild than a dog.

Lemons are more sour than oranges.

Red is more intense than yellow.

Sharks are bigger than goldfish.

Light is faster than humans.

A rose is more beautiful than weeds.

Ice is colder than fire.

The skin is warmer than nylon.

Honey is sweeter than medicine.

America is wider than Japan.

Jewel is more expensive than candy.

-Pierro

I like cats less than dogs.

I spend more time watching TV than playing computer.

I spend less time reading books than watching TV.

I like Zerg more than Protoss because I'm always playing Zerg! But I don't use the Protoss much.

-Jetty

I do more sleeping than exercising.

I make more girlfriends than boyfriends because I'm just a woman.

I wear shirt more than blouse because I'm not becoming in blouses.

I like humorous boys better than handsome boys because when I meet boyfriend, I always want to laugh.

I hear pop music more than jazz music because I don't know jazz music.

-Eileen

I hate cats more than snakes because I hate cats and snakes but cats are better than snakes.

I cook more kimchi fried rice than egg fry because I make kimchi fried rice taste good and difficult but egg fry is so easy.

-Jay

I like thin man less than a little fat man because a little fat man is so cute.

-Rebecca

2010-10-28T09:26:00.004-05:00

19. This novel is out of sight better than that novel.

20. Apples better than pears.

-Moon

2010-10-21T10:31:00.008-05:00

I don't have a mantra, and am somewhat wary of people who do. I can't imagine having one phrase upon which I quietly (or not so much) chant or mutter through all the events of my life. Sounds restricting, no? One all-encompassing phrase? I don't think I could. At the same time, I envy them. I assume qualities about them, qualities that I lack myself: that they more diligently practice what I fail to. In my mind, not only do they possess an admirable amount of focus and self-discipline, they have also managed to simplify their interests so as to capitalize on what they love the most.

(If you're tempted at this point, or any point in skimming through this post, to offer up your mantra in the comment section, please make sure first that it's a good one; this may well be the internet, but I can still read what you're saying.)

I believe a lot of things, and dwell on them as often as I can in the course of my days. Subsequently, I love and am troubled by many things. It's harrowing to feel, however, that the most I do is think about such things to myself and act like a normal human being otherwise. And many people have expressed concern that I think too much, which I never really understood. Perhaps if I had a mantra to delineate my every response, they wouldn't worry about me so much. Perhaps if I had a mantra upon which to delineate my every response, then my worrying would be suppressed. Perhaps, instead, I should be faithful. I'm trying.

One of questions I asked my Intermediate students this week is What do you wish you could change? As they consider this, I like to expand the question to How would you change your life? and How should the world be different? I realize these questions are, for many reasons, somewhat unfair to ask, but teaching has to be fun somehow, sometimes, doesn't it? (I'm just kidding; teaching is already always fun.) I ask these questions not only to allow them to demonstrate various tenses and key phrases we practiced in class, but to allow them to talk about something that they care about. Perhaps they'll share their mantras, and briefly forget the anxiety and restrictions of learning a new language. Perhaps they will want to share what they dwell on only when they're alone and would love to talk about, am suppressed to talk about, but are so busy acting like normal human beings.

2010-10-19T00:33:00.006-05:00

When can a professor be angry at students?

The students' answer, invariably, is never. "A professor doesn't have to angry at students." over and over again on the first unit quiz. And so, I'm trying. It's mid-term week at Kosin, which is really illogical if you think about it; why subject the students to examinations in all of their classes in the same week? Why, it makes them tough! Adam, Elijah, Ashley and I have schedules full of conducting interviews with our students and my question is: if a student comes in from the weekend, shaking from nerves and the crippling anxiety to perform and produce good grades and can't utter a complete sentence (in their case, from practicing their answers to the list of example questions provided the week before)... if all of this, and they admit that they did not study, or studied for ten minutes, do you get angry and promptly kick them out of the office? Do you laugh quietly, nod your head, and watch them squirm through an uncomfortable four minutes?

Question: How are you?

Answer: ... ...

Question: Nervous?

Answer: ... (nods head)

Q: Did you study?

A: ... ... (shakes head)

What I'm saying is, if you have the sheet of questions beforehand, you have absolutely no excuse to falter. (I'd go so far as to say you have no excuse to lose any points.) There's a space that Adam and I have provided before the exam to calm the students down and quell any debilitating nerves (hopefully), but again: if the student is unable to glance back into our eyes and speak at an audible volume at the end of the semester, who can say that they should pass the class?

I remember a professor begging our class to actually read all of the assigned material, to think through our individual response and struggle with the content. His concession to this outrageous request was that reading questions/prompts were not assigned. Oh, do you remember? I remember complaining to several of you of this--that the professor felt he actually had to ask his students to do the reading for the class.

Party Down has taught me many things--one of which is that you can't really be good at something you don't care about. This is fine. I don't think every Korean student really needs to learn English, as much as I love the language. (Perhaps they do, if what I'm being told is correct; that any college-grad needs English qualifications to even hope for a "good job.") I teach four Global English classes, which are for non-English majors to fulfill Kosin's mandate for English immersion, or exposure at the very least. It's been made clear by an amount of students in each class that they don't care. I think that's OK. They're old enough to think through their decisions, but not caring means accepting that a bad grade will be administered, maybe a failing grade, if one doesn't practice the language. The gall of these kids, I tell you. But back the question: When can a professor be angry at students?

2010-10-17T06:52:00.005-05:00

It's trickier than it seems--to say that adverbs give more detail regarding how or why something is done (and add an -ly to the end) isn't easy, but the students practice persistently. And then I come across this gem:

I really don't like my sister, because she treats me sillily sometimes.

Hmm. Darn.

I hate to eat pumpkin gruel because I ate it in childhood but I brought up it. (vomit) -K

You really hate bugs--kind of like spiders, moths, grigs because they're crawly. -Peach

My friends hate me so much because I'm more beautiful than they. -Esther

My boyfriend dislikes taller people than himself. Because he has a lot of greed for height. -Hani

Hahahahahah!

2010-10-16T08:43:00.006-05:00

This post is a reprise, or a "That's what he said," of Elijah's a few days ago. Except for the drunken fight, everybody seemed to be in good spirits. And who wouldn't be?

--Blogspot is terrible for viewing images. Click for more better.

2010-10-09T06:02:00.004-05:00

A lot of foreigner jerks take their table at a cafe for hours and hours to watch people and sip their much-too-expensive coffee (who do they think is impressed?) and--this is the good part--occasionally scribble something in a notebook with a thoughtful look molded on their faces. Even if I confidently spit out a few Korean phrases in a timbre that has been described "like a voice actor's" every once in a while, make no mistake: I am one of those foreigner jerks. And the coffee usually really is very expensive.

There are no binding rules in the journal(s). A dry exchange with interesting rhythm, a description of something or someone intriguing, or--most often--a prompt that may or may not be expanded and explore further if revisited.

And then you read something on the internet and wonder how to proceed because this jerk basically already did it, and did it better than you would have. The persistence and anger is equivalent to hating the new Christopher Nolan movie because you basically had that same idea a few years ago whenever. (Hahaha.)

Dispatches from Adjunct Faculty at a Large State University. (McSweeney's)

"One reason we're funny is, we keep tryin' and tryin', meeting infrequently for just an hour at a time, to profess something of value to a diverse and often large audience, who may not have had enough interest in the subject to look into it on their own, and who, over the previous 12 to 16 years of their educational lives, may have developed an antipathy to schedules, textbooks, the English language, teachers who remind them of their plumber fathers, and the screech of chalk on slate." --Oronte Churm

2010-10-04T06:01:00.004-05:00

So without shame, I spake: I will be wise, and just, and free, and mild, if in me lies such power, for I grow weary to behold the selfish and the strong still tyrannise without reproach or check. I then controuled my tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold.

Percy Bysshe Shelley from the dedication to Laon and Cythna.

I wrote this on the board today in my Intermediate English Conversation class--my most advanced class because the unit in the book that we would have covered today was in regards to what we want to do, how we want to be different. My most confident students, the outspoken ones, the ones that have lived abroad, asked me, "Why are we doing this? It's too hard. I can't think through this." and I felt at home, struggling through a passage from literature class. "You wrote spake instead of spoke... and you spelled controlled wrong."

And then we explored what was there: why the quotation begins with so, and what it means to respond; what it means to be just, and mild; what powers lie within our own selves, and when they are revealed; when and why we grow weary; who the selfish and strong are, and what they are tasked to do; that controlling tears means to stop crying and be at peace in conviction. Perhaps this passage was too difficult, but we worked through it as a class and within groups and as a class again, and struggling to understand is not exactly discouraged in a classroom.

And we talked about tyranny, and its many forms, and how we respond to it. How, then, do we respond to goodness and beauty?

Larger themes, sure, than "If I had ______, then I would/could _______ ." but I thought, every once in a while, that I should allow the conversation to wander towards something not incessant and benign. I don't really mean this. My primary argument for putting my students through the a glimpse of the glory that is Mr. Shelley was that I firmly believe good teachers show why they love what they're teaching, and why it's worth toiling through.

2010-09-21T11:10:00.002-05:00

We got off the train and stepped on to Seoul's wet floor. There had been worry and warning about some serious flooding, overtaking bridges and closing main roads, upon our departure from Busan and it had ended up with that smell of the city after a muchly-needed rain and a sad stack of sand bags guarding the door of the market. Adam and I wearily, and happily, trudged through the buzzing lights and I picked up some gifts for the matriarchs of our family tree.
We are here, as the rest of the nation is, to take the week--or the middle three days of the week--off and visit with family. I thought of my parents as we acted out the ritual of the nation, and how they would have been doing what we were doing had they not moved to the States at our age to pursue studies and start a family. I am their son here. I can't say that I am back, as I am a stranger in this land and to these people. The nurse checking my blood pressure, the lady selling us dumplings, the cabdriver taking us downtown, they all assure and scold me in the same way. You should speak Korean because you are Korean. And I hold back my inclination to correct them: No. I'm American.
But here I am on a journey, or family pilgrimmage, to present myself to my family. I am their son. This is who I am. This is my friend. We are your family.
In preparation for the week of visiting, and out of necessity and convenience, we are spending the night at a jimjilbang, or spa. This building is 6 floors high and occupied, from the bottom up, as spa, bath, and lockers; lounge and meeting room; cafe, pc room (my current location), and gym; and sleeping rooms. The guests are given a set of shorts and t shirts to change into, and lockers in which to store shoes and clothes. The men and women have separate facilities for the baths and lockers only, and the night occupants sleep on floor mats. I like the idea of thoroughly cleansing one self through the night, even though the cafe sells grossly unhealthy food and there are two dudes behind me playing Starcraft. Our stay here is a fitting start to our journey, taking part in this ritual.
And now, dear friends and readers, know that I am thankful for you and wish that we could collectively take work off and visit together. But we can't. 'Cause ya'll live elsewhere. So have fun at work/school, and know that you are missed.

2010-09-17T01:15:00.004-05:00

At the last quiz of this week, I answered any questions before handing out the sheets. The loud students finished first, then the smart ones, then the quiet ones. I walk around trying to look like a calm professor instead of the anxious, excited recent college grad that I am. This is their first quiz with me--this week has been full of first quizzes. The ones that raise their hands for clarification gain instant ranking as my new favorite student ever and I hope that they learned when to use said instead of told. I hope that their mind processes the difference in English until they are not differences anymore, but just two words that they are fully capable of using. I hope that they have not merely thought to look for an object as an indication, to pluck the rule from their minds later. I am thankful for the ones that put themselves in their Have you ever questions, hopeful for the ones that try, and exhausted from the ones that left blank spaces.

When I returned from my office, after quietly thanking them as they filed out and wishing them a happy Chuseok, I was handed a brick of cash--our first month's pay--and instructed to count it. We had been notified of this beforehand. We had only recently applied for our resident/immigration cards, and can't apply for a bank account until we receive them. Still, it seemed odd. Not that it was in cash, but that we were getting paid at all.

2010-09-13T03:28:00.006-05:00

I have students stop me in the hall to ask questions, give reasons why they missed class, and/or beg of me to accept their late homework (without docking points). It is still odd, and something I feel is necessary to document on the blog.

I love my students, and hope that I am encouraging to them. I love them as they are just starting to raise their hands when they don't understand something, not caring that they might embarrass themselves in front of their peers. I love them when they stop after class to clarify a grammar concept, or ask if "part away" is a common phrasal in English conversation, and why it is not. I love them when they cry and moan about getting homework, and beam with pride when they turn it in and I tell them that it must have been easy because they did so well. I love them when they ask why I keep saying "Boom." as an exclamation. I love them for writing things like, "In the wilderness, I shall wrestle with him." and "Today was sad. Tomorrow will be better." I love them when they realize how to say the word "realize." I love them when they volunteer to pray at the end of class, and pull out a piece of paper to read from. I love when they translate for each other, and I love them when they refuse to do so.

Yes. This is my cheesy teacher post, inspired by the great Ms. Dekens, wherever she may be.

I love teaching. I love it in my bones. I love the drudgery of staying up late to grade homework, and urging them to ask me if they have any questions.

But if I could do this in Los Angeles, with these students, I would. I would rather be there. Even if I could work on getting into grad. school, read, write, and be employed, thankfully, at a coffee shop, I would. I guess I could, if not for this contract.

Yes. This is also my cheesy Happy Anniversary post. Yikes. Who is this guy? Happy Anniversary to Hani and me.

2010-09-08T04:48:00.004-05:00

For the last couple days, I've been feeling sick. I lost a weekend to it--recently I was talking to some students about what we did this weekend, and I had a moment that I looked to Adam and said, "Whoa... that was Friday?" completely forgetting that I had stayed in my cubicle of an apartment for all of Saturday and Sunday. On Tuesday, I felt dramatic as I normally do when ill, and absolutely convinced that my body was deteriorating. I'll spare you the details for fear of sounding as if I intend to garner any pity (I'm better now), so just take my word for it because when you're healthy, you often forget what it is to be sick. And being sick is a full-time occupation--lying in full attention to the pain coursing through your arteries and spreading over the rest of your body.

But what I wanted to say was: On Tuesday, I was walking up to my apartment after my two shortened classes and took a rest to lean against the wall after the first flight of stairs. The wind rushed up the staircase and I felt God tousle my hair. You have to understand that Busan has been hot and muggy since we got here, and with the typhoon in the area, and the ships out from the harbor at a safe distance, the rain and winds have been a gift.

And also: Dude. Teaching English is difficult because English is difficult. I'm often tempted to distribute copies of the The Berenstein Bears and having a policy for no questions on grammar allowed until we get through the entire series.

2010-09-07T09:04:00.003-05:00

I yelled at two students so far, but neither incidents involved a volume that would register as yelling. At the most, I was stern.

The first was a student in my Intermediate English Conversation class. Previous instructors left notes on various students--skilled, but needs work on pronunciation; needs lots of gentle encouragement; etc. They were very clear that this student was a chronic skipper, but he was smart. I asked around some more and received confirmation on this guy who had lived abroad for several years. "He's very quick and intelligent, and he'll pass easily if he just shows up in class." I asked him to stay behind in class to relay this information. He was old enough, and smart enough, that I could be straight with him so I was. "If you don't show up, I have no qualms failing your ass." The image: two young Korean kids--one in a shirt and tie, the other in a Polo with his collar popped, and a sea of other students swirling around them. I didn't use those exact words, I didn't say ass but he laughed and nodded.

The second was in a Global class. After selecting a random name from the attendance sheet, he tried to read his homework in front of the class--a short paragraph about his favorite movie Salt. I took a quick glance at his paper and was impressed at its legibility and three-syllable words. When he struggled for fifteen full seconds to say "everyday" and gradually mumbled into silence and embarrassment, I asked him to stay after class also. I took another look at his paper--words like assassination and transvestite. I asked him what those words meant. He didn't know. I asked him to read the last sentence, and he could not. I asked him who wrote the essay and he apologized. I asked him who wrote the essay and he apologized again. I slammed the paper on the desk and asked him who wrote the essay. He said he took it off the internet, and he apologized again. I took my red pen out and wrote "PLAGIARISM" over his essay and told him to look it up. I told him that if I reported this, he would be kicked out of school. (I don't know what Kosin's policy on plagiarism is.) Given his grasp on the English language, I'm not so sure that he understood, but he nodded and I left.

When my dad would talk about students that were acting up, not attending, or putting themselves in trouble, I would try my best to let him finish the story before saying he should 1) kick them out 2) fail them 3) chew them out in front of class or 4) all of the above. It's harder to do than I thought. I hope I don't get that angry, though I still believe that option 4 is necessary. Some of my favorite professors were the ones who were clear and placid about college students taking responsibility for their own grades; why should they care if we attend class or not? I have found that I am not that professor.

Dang.

2010-09-05T22:47:00.004-05:00

The best of class is when we deviate from the loosely-drawn plans for the day and organically engage in a discussion. We are the most awake, attentive, and enthusiastic at these times. And I often ask questions, as the running question has been Who is the Kosin University student? What do my students care about? What do they do in between the spaces of class? This is hindered by, of course, the language barrier, and how entertaining it is to witness them earnestly trying to speak English. Don't get me wrong, we love them and we love that they try so hard. Don't get me wrong, it is hilarious each time. While writing this post, a student of Adam's came in to the office to ask for clarification about an assignment. Students, know that professors LOVE when this happens--I mean, asking a question that was answered in class is better than doing the assignment incorrectly. This student hesitated and thought more than she spoke, carefully calculating her syntax and rifling through her mental vocabulary. Again, we love this. We love when students try, because--too many times!-- we see students simply give up and look down at their desk.

Here's an extract from an essay about a favorite film character: In this story, Chul Soo is a construction site's foreman who [is] also aiming to become an architect. Chul Soo may appear like a rough and dirty construction worker initially, but he exudes sheer masculinity in its most basic physical form and is pretty handy when it comes to carpentry or house repair. It's also agonise while watching the wife he loved dearly forget who he even is.

A few mistakes, sure. But absolutely stunning work.

2010-08-30T08:11:00.003-05:00

Our office has a coffee pot. It is surprisingly comforting and exciting to have hot coffee again. For a little more than a week, we've subsisted on instant, iced (canned), and tea. Oh, I forgot. There are so many things to tell you. The church that Elijah and Ashley have been attending, the church that I've been twice and Adam once, is enormous, and has a cafe on the top floor with moderately priced delicious espresso drinks and I've been frequenting an Americano and Cappuccino while we wait for the English service to start. The cafe is pretty busy, and Ashley usually meets with her Korean teacher to go over their weekly lesson and I've enjoyed reading, and watching the bustling around with Adam.

What else.

Our office is huge, and my trusty assistant Wilson found us a couch on the internet for 20,000w or a rough equivalent of $20. He says that it will be delivered tomorrow (Wed.) before noon. We (Adam and I) are learning more of this teaching thing each day--I firmly believe we're at an advantage, that we are so close to the age of our students, that he is a tall, skinny, and white guy and I'm basically a Korean guy that speaks English. Because of these things, these novelties, our students are interested in us and our English phrases. We use this to our favor in and out of the classroom. Out of the classroom: walking down the street, Elijah, Ashley, Adam and myself (whitey, whitey, whitey, and me) and seeing people turn and comment on their height allows me to slip under the radar for the most part; I've had an intent to be mistaken for a local for most of my travels and it shouldn't be a surprise that this is easiest to do in Korea.

What else.

I'm learning Korean, or I mistakingly like to believe that I'm re-learning it. I remember it was my first language, along with the first fleeting images I remember of my life in Grand Rapids before school, which means, before I learned English. I would explore Seminary Housing (my brothers can attest to more detailed stories) and have adventures and run crying home to mom, screaming in Korean, and I feel envy towards that child--his Korean is very good, and here I am--22-years old with a college degree and I feel less than that kid before he started pre-school. Don't get me wrong--I'm happy to ask directions and questions of people, (Do you know where Home Plus is? How much is the camera? Do you sell film? How much is the fish stick? What kind of meat is this, that my friend just bought from you? What do you recommend for four people?) but you'll see me quietly muttering to myself afterwards, repeating their answers, trying my question in different ways, trying to instill that understanding in my brain again. Currently, I'm chatting with my mom and practicing Korean, which is even more of a process when you are learning to type on a new alphabet. She laughs, but says she is proud, and quietly corrects my spelling mistakes. She's a great teacher, and has always been--telling me that I'm probably basing my spelling on oral understanding rather than from how it's written... and seeing as I read phonetically, based on sound, that totally makes sense and I must get a hold of some books. (Note to self: Get assistant to find some easy Korean books.)

Oh, and yes--I am in Busan, South Korea. I landed safely. I'm teaching English (six classes) at Kosin University. It is hot here.

2010-07-29T02:35:00.003-05:00

A year ago, I wrote about a border patrol guy asking Paul, Christina, and I where we were all from and, after we answered, what we were all doing together. While I want to keep from exploring this topic very much further for danger of giving away the working draft of my toast for their wedding (What a strange journey it's been for us and all that...), I've been gauging the dependent levels of excitement and anxiety. Both skyrocket at such times and here's another: Paul's bratty little sister greeted me with a smirk and, "Don't you live in Iowa?" (Translation: I'm sixteen and I was born in Los Angeles.) I responded to this with no pride. "Actually, I don't anymore."

There's not a lot to say that can be better said than this: AUGH!

2010-07-26T02:20:00.003-05:00

I'm on the tail end of my stay in Los Angeles and I'm still aware that I try, and hope, to keep from looking like an out-of-towner. What I have learned is that while I thought carrying a backpack around would make me look like a student, it actually makes me look more like a hobo. Not like a hobo--more like a hobo. I'm just saying that if I could grow a beard, I'd look like a guy that might sleep during the day at bus stops.

2010-07-19T02:07:00.003-05:00

Are there any legitimate (read: good) Asian performers working in the US? Actors, comedians, musicians, etc.

2010-07-18T02:35:00.004-05:00

Hugh friggin' Grant can say, "My wife is a member of PETA; I have been meaning to join," to a bear, and I cackle like a seven-year-old girl.

When did people start taking Amanda Seyfried seriously?

2010-07-09T01:15:00.002-05:00

Every time I think, or am told, about living in Korea, I get excited. Tonight, I am reading about Lebron's decision to join Wade and Bosh in Miami (How American of me, yeah? Dan Gilbert is a tool.) and my aunt is watching a Korean show on KBS World--apparently, the most popular show--called Happy Together. The biggest celebrities get on to chat and laugh and do ridiculous things. When I say ridiculous things, I mean... like American Game show stuff. It's crazy, and I'm trying to imagine if American celebrities were this silly but the point is:

Watching this show makes me bummed about living in Korea.

If you've seen Lost in Translation, think back to the game show that Bob Harris agrees to go on; the spastic host with the technicolor suit and the flashy titles and the general feeling of ingesting something too sugary and obnoxious. I largely digress--my aunt, uncle, and cousin are kind of watching. My parents watch this show with vigor. A lot of people that I (at least) really, really like enjoy this show that I can't stand. I kind of grew up with this in the background, so I recognize some of the hosts (there seem to be several) with fondness... and by fondness, I mean I also grew up watching movies and stuff with Whoopie Goldberg in it. Whoopie Goldberg is on The View now (I know that because of Entourage) and I hate The View like I hate Happy Together, and for similar reasons. My cousins think I'll learn to like it.

2010-07-07T16:07:00.000-05:00

You're all a bunch of mooches.

2010-06-06T01:50:00.004-05:00

In less than three weeks, I'll have packed up my bags in preparation to move to Los Angeles, a visit to Washington, and an eventual placement in Busan. Joining the cavalcade of students graduating on to become something else, I'll fly away and my room in this house will likely end up being an extra study for the girls.

In slow preparation for this transition, I've dug out my books from their boxes, stacks, and bags and set about diligently sorting through which to keep, which to give away, which to sell, and which to leave behind at home.

A book of lyric and poetry is marked to a recently forgotten friend in Hamilton, for the memories.

A novel I recently finished promised to a friend, along with two collections by Andrea Barrett, who seamlessly weaves fact and data with human intimacy--all three books reminding me of her whimsy.

Flannery O'Connor and Anne Bogart are coming with me.

Next to my desk sit two stacks of books I've read or hadn't bothered to read--either way, they are were all listed on Amazon (all fifty or so of them) for a few dollars apiece. Immediately, notifications for shipment began. It's almost surprising that somebody in San Antonio purchased 1984, that a Texan bought an old anthology of short stories, or that somebody in Arkansas wants to learn How to Read Literature Like a Professor. All right: I purchased 1984 too. I enjoyed those short stories, noted its authors, and wanted to see how Professors read literature.

I suppose it is greed that piled these books in my possession, trolling through the library's tent sales and quietly pining through used bookstores; it is greed again that brings me to hesitate wrapping, addressing, and sending them off to various corners of the U.S. There are a few that I am ready to part with after having read through them; I wouldn't read them again and I know it, beautiful as they are. But most of the sixteen that I've sent so far are accompanied with a packing slip on which I have scribbled a note to their new owners: "Thanks for the purchase. Please enjoy this terrifying and wonderful novel, this small collection of poetry. If it is anything less than you expected, please don't hesitate to contact me for a refund; I'll take it back. Enjoy the smell." I hesitate leaving instruction to let me know what they think.

Anyway--does anybody out there want some books? Say yes, and I'll send you something that fits.

2010-06-03T23:18:00.003-05:00

I once read an article by Seth Godin, whom many claim to be a marketing genius. At the time, my brother--the one who quickly and quietly did well in school, impassively so--had just graduated with a degree in finance from Michigan State's business school. The economy was on its initial descent and even those graduating in the practical sciences were struggling to find placement after receiving their degrees. So it was with my brother, and we all held our breath for him as his interviewing skill sharpened to a numbing point. Much like he does now, well into his current job at 5/3 Bank in Grand Rapids and recently promoted to a less entry-level and less boring position, his enthusiasm was, as usual, impassive. The article I'm talking about was brief, and the bulk of its content was a quick list of ideas for what the unemployed can do in their "spare time" in order to fortify their resume--volunteer, take a course, organize, learn a language (Spanish, html, Illustrator, or otherwise), and so forth. What would it be like to get up of your own accord at 8 AM every morning to diligently continue learning? I've always thought this "work ethic," or curiosity, was something to take note of--something to consciously strive towards. And while this mentality can very easily overlap with restlessness--perhaps even frenzy--I don't know that the absolute alternative would be any better. "Onward and upward," some people once said, though there are better arguments than that.

2010-05-24T01:09:00.002-05:00

My mom and I realized earlier today that all the kids of the family, all three of her sons, are done being students. (And for the moment, please disregard that all three of us are enormously likely to pursue higher education; that's another good thought, but it detracts from this one.) I'm sitting in a hotel room outside of Chicago. We're on our way back from Grand Rapids and Paul's graduating from Calvin Seminary. Between that and my graduating from Dordt a week ago (it seems like it happened the day before), the family went through a gauntlet of social graces and the more festive side on the spectrum of emotions. We enjoy being with people--our friends of various capacities--but there have been more and more moments lately where we'd look at each other while preparing for the next activity and you could see in our eyes and slumped shoulders that we just want to sit down and pass the day together. I guess that's why we're in a hotel instead of staying with friends as we did on our way in. We want to continue our lives: Dad has faculty meetings to attend, Mom has the girls to take care of, Paul has two interviews in the next week or so, David has, and has had, work, and I have documents to fill out, introductory essays to write, and summer jobs to pursue. One more day to be under the same roof, please but no obligations--socially, or otherwise--this time. No? We concede; life intervenes and carries on.

Just a few minutes ago, I physically strained to hold in my laughter because I was reading Shit My Dad Says. My abs hurt. They shot a pilot with William Shatner playing, I assume, the dad and I'm astounded that they didn't get Alan Arkin to do it. Not that he needs the work, but that I heard his voice as I read these lines--Alan Arkin's and my own father's, but that would be too hilarious. Anyway, the pilot got picked up and I sincerely hope Shatner does well, but I can't imagine him saying "fuck" and "shit" without a huge, dopey grin on his face.

2010-04-24T20:44:00.009-05:00

I received this image when our team was visiting Hani and Danielle's team on our last shooting days. Our teams were sharing vans and drivers and I remember our groups were processing the end of our respective trips in different ways: Kelly, Pete, and I were exhausted--further exacerbated with the bumpy ride to the outskirts of the city, and wondering what would happen to all the people we got to know. We arrived, pulled ourselves out of the van and stood in front of a block of makeshift shelters; our friends were working busily somewhere in that maze. These two fine gentlemen fought through the language barrier and led us to them.

This was shot at a wildlife sanctuary. You can't see it, but all the tourists with their prosumer cameras, pleated khakis, and carefully protected skin are straining to get a good look at the baby elephants. Michelle and I grew weary of the spectacle, and found that observing the fellow tourists was much more interesting. I love the posture of the woman at the center, carefully and politely trying to get around for a better view.

His name is Peru. His interest is comedy. He told us this on the first day, surrounded by his brothers and using English when we were advised that they would be too embarrassed to try. No excuses; play like a champion. That is correct.

I don't know what to say about this man toiling in the street as I never shook his hand and learned his name. I want to say that he's resilient and, here, fighting through the economic turmoil that Kenyans were struggling to endure. Perhaps he was a victim of the matatu* strike that was in place during our visit. (That, and the New Years holiday gave us clear streets in the heart of Nairobi for a few days.) The irony was, of course, that in their efforts to quell police harassment and unfair regulations, the working man couldn't get to work. The streets were lined with pedestrians in commute, having to leave home hours earlier, and returning home hours later. Resilience is a necessity.

More.

*Matatu: minibus transportation. We couldn't find whether these were state regulated or not, but that's largely irrelevant. Policy enforcement was, as we saw, almost nonexistent. Some issues that were being contested were passenger limit and safety measures. Many Kenyans are unable to afford Matatu transportation; our driver was repeatedly hounded for a ride to the other side of town.

2010-04-08T14:52:00.002-05:00

[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unarmed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and an evasion of the visible and sensible world. But to say all this is only to say what you know already, if you have felt poetry and thought about your feelings.

-T. S. Eliot. The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism.

You say you lost your faith, but that's not where it's at; you have no faith to lose and you know it.

-Bob Dylan. Positively 4th Street.

2010-04-01T16:38:00.003-05:00

Laura wishes to lie down, she is tired of her hairpins and the feel of her long tight sleeves, but she says to him, "Have you a new song for me this evening?" If he says yes, she asks him to sing it. If he says no, she remembers his favorite one, and asks him to sing it again.

-Katherine Anne Porter. Flowering Judas.

2010-03-20T17:30:00.004-05:00

Thoughts from Spring Break.

The view is Escondido or, more specifically, the "backyard" of the Veldkamps' house. Vineyard, pool, hot tub, mountains, palm trees, sun, breeze, birds and so forth. Birds of paradise is right; they're everywhere. We will pack up and head back east tomorrow morning, amidst a flutter of arguments, protests and bickering on who will sit where, and in which car. I've been told the snow has all but melted back in Sioux Center--a town I've come to love and defend--and even that recent dusting (that, reportedly, hasn't stuck to the ground) is of no significance. Leaving California's steadily bronzing sun will be unpleasant, but there is no journey or location without the varying levels of individual context.

For example, in reading through Eugene O'Neill's play Long Day's Journey into Night, one suggestion is that being in love is not the same as being happy. The state, or condition, of one should not imply the other... though having both is assumed in how we've grown... in how I've grown to understand it... thus far.

This theme casts a light upon everyone I see. It's enough to occupy my mind though, in many ways and for many reasons, I wish it weren't.

2010-03-07T23:17:00.002-06:00

My heart swelled with emotion during various individual images and words of the Academy Awards tonight. Now, I'm listening to Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. Would you like to fight about it?

I dreamt that I had a snowball fight with Dave and Jeri Schelhaas as we were leaving a dinner party.

I dreamt that Bailey, Val and I were in an expensive room, dressed to the nines as they used to say. Caviar on the table. I've never had caviar, and Bailey and I indulged until we saw Val wasn't eating, her mouth set to a stern pout and her arms crossed against her gown. Our gentle pleading escalated to anger and throwing china. The crystal chandelier shattered and blood spilled.

2010-02-17T04:00:00.003-06:00

It's been ten days since I actualized a desire for a change in course. As a result, I've been approaching moments (mine or otherwise) through the question of ability. Much of this is a result of analyzing Naturalism in Dengler's American Lit. (Kate Chopin, Henry James, Edith Wharton), no doubt. The outcome of my prideful dissatisfaction and, you could say, shaking my fist at the heavens--what am I capable of? At the least, and dastardly ambitious at the same time, I'll learn to accept my insufficiencies and keep from making excuses. The short of it could be... I am in control of very little; the fault is mine. The emphasis is on the latter, I assure you. This is unacceptable still (and more terrible than confusing), but this is a crude translation of my restless constitution. I wonder what I'll say in a year, when I pull this page up and read it over again.

2010-02-07T21:47:00.004-06:00

If you're reading this, I'm sure you come to these words armed and braced to encounter a level of unbridled melodrama. If I may continue perpetuating this tone, if I may be so asinine and ridiculous:

There are a few times every year that I desire to introduce a turning point in my life. This desire is often large, and sometimes quiet like a whispered affirmation about a time of deliberation. And who can tell what prompts them? An image of snow, building up softly and pervasively across the fields, even blocking out the sun and one hopes that it comes to such a degree that not only would roads, work places and schools concede to its quiet tenacity, but electricity and heat as well. Those living in the Midwest have a few stories of such times, I'm sure, when the snow/ice/freezing rain/hail was so bad that year and we just didn't bother trying to do anything outside of our doors -- physically or digitally -- for a few days, until it passed through and we could assess the damage. Thank God for the wood-burning fireplace and all that. My story involves being blessed with that fireplace (as well as lots of peanut butter and beef jerky and the brothers returning home with a month of groceries just after the electricity went out.) I want that debilitation again, to shock the hourly/daily/weekly regressions of academia and established community and humble us to the point where, instead of working around nature, we are stilled to bear it.

And yesterday, the stories, notes, essays, pens, pencils and emails sat quietly in my bag and read through the pages of food blogs, the Momofuku cookbook, organized a series of spices next to a bowl of salt, quartered and cleaned a turkey, seasoned it and let it refrigerate for a few hours to let the juices draw toward the surface. I spent the day anticipating and preparing for a meal, excited in the overwhelming volume of food that a whole turkey brings and how will my roommates be fed? I spent the day preparing, consuming and reveling in that meal and the quiet slurping it brought. Oddly, this was one of the few suggestions for post-grad endeavors, offered in partial jest, that my parents were legitimately excited about.

Compilation

2010-02-05T00:01:00.004-06:00

He: You can't trust a thing girls say because it's all conditional; there's no way to tell what they mean to say, or even what they want to say.

She: You don't need to know.
---

Alice Haskett -- Alice Varick -- Alice Waythorn -- she had been each in turn, and had left hanging to each name a little of her privacy, a little of her personality, a little of the inmost self where the unknown god abides.
---

She burst into tears, and he saw that she expected him to regard her as a victim.
---

But the young man was conscious at the same moment that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little American flirt should be "talked about" by low-minded menials.
---

It struck him, with a curious pang, that she was very happy in being with him, so happy that she found a childish pleasure in rehearsing the trivial incidents of her day.
---

He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place.
---

Then he asked her if she would not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down.
---

In class, we spoke about the value in that response for our creative actions and how in presenting something, we're attempting to make others experience at least a glimpse of something so powerful and intangible. By placing an object on display, we're grabbing passers-by and saying, Look at this!
David Sedaris wrote about how he would type up passages from his favorite authors on his typewriter before he left town on the off-chance that, should someone break in, they might read it and mistakenly assume that he was the one who wrote it.
There's a short story called The King of Sentences where a couple find unbridled stimulating passion in beautiful sentences -- even when taken out of context. The cadence and meticulous construction enthrall the ear that cares to listen.

2010-02-03T00:15:00.003-06:00

When I was in high school, my family moved from Grand Rapids, Michigan to Sioux Center, Iowa. My two older brothers, Paul and David, had already begun their college years then -- something I envied -- and, after making that first-of-several twelve-hour drives with us, they returned home to the winding roads and rapidly-developing properties that I hope to always remember, and fear that, very quickly, I will have to. I went back (not home) to visit in the fall, during the first break we had and stayed at Paul's apartment. David was away at Michigan State, but managed to come back for the weekend as he would often do. I was sixteen years old. I made myself very aware of this as I lay in a sleeping bag on the floor next to Paul's bed, trying to still my nerves from the conscious reality of my life, "Iowa... are you kidding?" It will be beneficial for you to know that I was born in Grand Rapids and haven't lived anywhere else before the move, and also that, yes, I realize how dramatic I was being and, of course, I am very embarrassed to even be telling this story. Sixteen years old -- what can I say? I lay awake in the middle of the night and asked my older brother of twenty-one years (my current age) if life got any easier. The panic he must have felt, no? I remember his hesitating before trying the words out loud, "Not really... no. But it sometimes helps to realize how it gets harder, and you get better at that." I don't know that I found comfort in it at the time; I still haven't decided, I guess. Neither can I say what I wish I would have heard instead, but I have become used to that inability to sleep for fear, anxiety and an overwhelming volume for thoughts of the like. Every night requires a solid and deliberate time of processing down from the day and I've found that the most effective avenue of doing so is in reading a piece of fiction, watching a movie or talking to someone about their day. Perhaps there's an element of escapism in this; I remain unapologetic if there is. I am hesitant, however, if I begin to use others and what they offer up of themselves for my own benefit of alleviation. What they offer up, and what "works best" is conflict (like in every short story or film) and it's clear that a part of my inclination to listen is in consuming that very real sense of struggle. I become invested in it then; it enthralls me and, somehow because of it, I can rest.

2010-01-28T16:32:00.004-06:00

It's later in the afternoon on Thursday. The sun has been out today, and the wind isn't swirling so all the cold is blamed on just that -- the cold. At the table next to mine in the Bean, a Rook lesson is taking place. Three girls play a demonstration round. Two students listen attentively to one as she explains different strategies and understandings. Perhaps this will be put to good use in their next planned social event. Young American girls, no? Behind them, a professor and student sit with coffee and a legal pad. They laugh often. Steve Buscemi lies with his coat still on. A younger crowd enters warily and is greeted by the barista, ordering drinks to go. Sticking yellow notes into her book, a student of Marie Antoinette solidifies her productivity. On the table sits the Norton Anthology of American Literature, a worn copy of Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent and a partially completed list of activities from the summer that I rescued just a few minutes ago, from the wrinkled recesses of my bag. Chase bats. Drink beer with Dad. Recite poetry. Eat cherries, spit pits, attempt to plant. Eat waffles with Carmela. Eat something with leeks in it. Play with dog. Outside the window, the light declines as the casual noises erupts and falters from our wandering thoughts.

"And instead of feeling miserable, you'd be jolly. So jolly," she repeated and smiled, for all the puzzled anxiety in her eyes, with what was meant to be an inviting and voluptuous cajolery.
He looked at her in silence, his face unresponsive and very grave -- looked at her intently. After a few seconds Lenina's eyes flinched away; she uttered a nervous little laugh, tried to think of something to say and couldn't. The silence prolonged itself.

-Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. Harper Perennial. 2006.

2010-01-28T02:43:00.000-06:00

My being is a finite, frail, temporal, conditional and vulnerable one. A state of susceptibility would wisely, and humbly, prelude that selfishly cathartic act of creation. Indulge, then. Why don't you? Not only is our collective prerogative disposed to suffering, there is also neglect and apathy. If only for sanity's sake, for a fleeting time of peace (as if there is a need to define the specific motive), indulge in manipulations, contortions and abstractions; laugh at the thought of accurate documentation. Why bother? Why bother to repeat the song of the sparrow back to the sparrow? Not only has the sparrow perfected what it was created to do, there is no shortage of song in its seemingly similarly finite entity.

2010-01-26T01:49:00.000-06:00

I wonder of the correlation between how 'good' we consider something to be -- whether, and how much, we love something -- and to what degree said object, idea, piece or person affects us. These are sprawling questions, I know, but it's difficult for a novel to be written if the protagonist is forgettable. David Foster Wallace wrote that every piece of fiction is a lie. I agree and, more significantly, am intrigued with his claim. Aren't we enthralled anyway? Don't we find ourselves captivated in the realm of what could fairly be described as make-believe? The ideas and characters that linger with us -- isn't that what beauty is, even if terrifying and challenging?

2010-01-24T19:25:00.000-06:00

2010-01-24T18:27:00.000-06:00

2010-01-16T12:15:00.000-06:00

While I was walking around this morning, a car pulled up right next to me. An old man was driving and wasted no time or pleasantries. "Direct me to the gymnasium." If it were a less beautiful morning, if I had less sleep in my bones, if he looked anything less like Walter Kronkite, I would have been a total jerk to him. "Direct me to the gymnasium," as if I were dressed in some shiny, rented vest and sharing weed with some talentless actor-hopeful outside while the rich and famous eat some overpriced, glitzy cuts of beef inside. If only he had known, of course, that I am a very big deal around these parts. The man smiled at me without smiling at me, before nodding imperceptibly and making his way with conviction. The next party I met, young pedestrians stood and hesitated before addressing me. I had my back to them, trying to focus on the top of a tree set upon a brilliant blue sky when I heard a mouse ask, "Um. Excuse me, sir?" I turned around to a frightened girl and two cowardly guys behind her. They all looked to be my age. "Sir," -- my goodness. The next was in the park, enjoying the hush of Iowa blanketed in January and allowing the sun to warm my face for a moment when a curly black dog came sniffing furiously. Her owner, a friend and a member of my parents' church (Faith CRC) came up with a smile and a camera of her own. She knew of me, had heard of me -- something about Dordt and so forth -- and I, her. The odd comfort was that, in our supposed familiarity but actual state of strangers, I found a calm security in her questions concerning all those big things: senior year, post-grad ambitions, Kenya. What we discussed wasn't advice as much as tangential themes and anecdotes. And after, she took a glove off so we could shake and I found myself placing my left hand over my right arm in doing so. She smirked in noticing this. I think I shrugged a little, apologizing.

2010-01-13T10:17:00.000-06:00

Best American Short Stories 2009, edited by Alice Sebold and the Norton Anthology of American Lit. (7th Ed. Volumes C, D and E) sit atop my library desk, towering next to the tiny one-use toothbrush that the bookstore is giving out like a more public institution might hand out condoms, except that I can't pump hand lotion into my disposable toothbrush and leave on my roommate's pillow. Well, I suppose I could. Anyway, the books feel like Christmas here. The short stories are not for a class I am taking -- they were under the Fiction Writing course that, though I completed two years ago, I sat in last night to decide on an independent study to round out my graduation requirements.

I've said that we don't know yet that we've been changed (but we can hope) and we don't know yet how we've been changed, but there are indications. I walk around saying asante instead of thank you, my hair is much shorter, my skin is a little more dark and my knees buckled in fatigue by eight last night. Jet lag... having me fall asleep catching up with old friends, greedily staying in while the room goes out bowling and waking at six the next morning, hesitating to play music for the shower for fear of disturbing the roommates. I still laugh, but I don't know the answer to how Kenya went... yet. Instead, I emit a gaggle of gibberish and hesitant indecision. "Uhhhhyyyyeaaahhh.... ummm..." Yep. Like an idiot, with my arms flailing about.

2009-12-29T04:08:00.000-06:00

tenshortdays.blogspot.com/

Yep. Another one. This one to chronicle something more specific and concrete than... the life and times of... all those adjectives that would give an idea of who I am. Never mind. This new one is to document the daily of thirteen people to the countless others who support us in various, indispensable ways, and to digest/process/solidify our encounters. Yes. Behind this blog lies another selfish motive: I severely want to remember.

Can someone relay the site to... well, everybody, but specifically to the congregation at Covenant CRC? And all you that I asked if your parents would be interested (assuming that you, Alvin's friend, are interested as well), please let them know. I failed to send out postal letters to the addresses I had collected, and won't be able to from Kenya, but if an email newsletter is preferable, we can do that too.

All right. In five hours, we'll be consolidating our baggage and reconciling our clothes with our equipment. Talk to you soon.

2009-12-24T04:17:00.001-06:00

It is four hours and four minutes into Christmas Even 2009. I spent it with Ross and Hani, talking about ourselves by talking about others. I wrote the following several days ago, in attempts to bring some thoughts of the last few weeks to some questioning conclusion. Maybe it has been too long since I last wrote, that it all ran into each other and I left the stove for too long. Maybe still, there are questions worth asking in there somewhere and, with my fingers crossed, that's the best that I can hope for because I don't imagine I'll find any reconciliation anytime soon in poverty, death and beauty and worship. And nor should I -- not anytime soon.

There's a lot of self-serving motives to maintaining a blog, not all of which are despicable or horribly vain. Just one of those is to reaffirm or practice a truth that I am postulating, so I can see this on Christmas Eve in 2009. I want to believe it and, in doing so, I want to embody it.

Everything that we do matters -- regardless of our attempts, and successes, at living Prov. 17, "A friend loves at all times."

---

I noticed that the last few posts share a somewhat similar theme. Biting down and blinking back tears; activity and despondency, looming silently aside; clinging instinctively to someone's sleeve, holding your arm within theirs and walking on. When I take deep breaths, I used to be surprised or frightened even to feel my ribcage cracking, my sternum adjusting itself as if it were restless and unable to fall asleep.

The trailer for Invictus includes a looming and carefully cut montage of Morgan Freeman, Matt Damon and the burdened people of South Africa. Danielle leaned over at a certain point to ask, "Why did they show the slums?" and later unloaded that she expected to be crying the entire time. I don't want to say that there are correct responses to every image and reality that we find ourselves encountering; there are no answers to find, as much as decisions to make. Yet, isn't she right?

In about ten days, we'll begin our departure to Nairobi, Kenya. Remember that fleeting thought on rapid urbanization? An unreliable infrastructure, a government rife with corruption, a fragile economy subject to political struggle... at the risk of assuming I can speak confidently on any of these topics, of course. Our job is to acknowledge that these are enormous mountains to scale, complex processes to evaluate and look at our subjects in the eye and, as she said, cry the entire time. For guilt? For a pleading for justice? Mercy? For the lack of access to clean water, enough food, for a child whose parents dismissed themselves from nurture, for growing up in an environment that perpetuates insignificance and dispensability? During one of the briefing/planning meetings we had recently, the last time our team would gather before we meet in Newark, we spoke of a day without cameras (I wonder if that will actually happen) to explore and become accustomed to our surroundings and to the Kenyans.

If we spent that day meeting our subjects, listening to their stories, living their day and crying and crying.

We feel that welling that might lead to an frantic search for a cathartic and closing response. There is no easy fix for any of these things. Initially, we will have no emotional ties to these people and still we find no words of comfort, or concession to the pain that we find.

These are not necessarily related.

2009-12-22T03:17:00.000-06:00

1. What do I need to be happy? (Not that much.)

2. What is my love language? (I know, right? But seriously. Would you like to hear the options?)

3. Why does anybody listen to me? (Sometimes, this astonishes me. It is a blessing.)

4. Why do people tell me things?

5. How often do I go crazy? Why? (Because I am finite, but also because of the first question.)

6. Do I need to be needed?

2009-12-18T16:30:00.000-06:00

The celebration of what has been weighing our hearts and shoulders down was somewhat culminated in our common ritual of drink, dance and conversation at that crappy Sioux Center bar that we can not deny will be missed dearly. I'll remember several things, have been turning them over in my mind since. One being Jane and her unabashed anxiety for student teaching, her sorrow for leaving three and a half vivid years behind. Her being who she consistently is to me (speaking briefly, excitedly and in all generosity and honesty), I held her face in my hands and pleaded with her to engage fear and pain with everybody that had gathered that night. And still, dear Jane, we celebrate tonight. Yes? We cry and laugh and shout in revelry together. Jokes are funnier, eyes are brighter, songs are more alarming, drinks are more tasty, hugs are tighter and longer. Emotions are all over the place! You are going to be an amazing, capable and enthusiastic teacher and I am so proud of you. Thank you for showing your joy and wit to me for the last few years of my life. I will miss you. I am happy that you are headed where you're headed and, perhaps this is selfish, but I anticipate hearing about it soon.

Strike up the band to play a song and try hard not to cry. And fake a smile as we all say goodbye. Goodbye.

2009-12-14T15:14:00.000-06:00

It's exam week. In fifteen minutes I'll take my Political Studies exam and do my best to perform a basic understanding of developing nations and their challenge to maintain basic civic services in an ever-altering and shifting globalized economy. Also, political violence and its origins. (It's origins: anger.) There are seven chapter outlines to read through and more presentations on faith groups in American politics -- some are more accessible than others, but it's all interesting. (Speaking in generalities, with economic growth comes the challenge of rapid urbanization and a heavy strain on civic utilities and services, usually a rise in crime, and a greater demand for access to goods and a better lifestyle. It has been said that globalization would more accurately be termed Americanization.) A friend stopped by my study space here, my cubicle, to kill some time. "I don't want to grow up." This directly relates to the exam -- I swear. (I'm back from it now.) "I don't want to grow up," is often a stance of anxiety and overwhelming fatigue that... rears it's nasty-ass face at the end of first semester senior year. Also, said friend happens to major in the Humanities, but that's largely erroneous. The Political Studies class is exhausting in its conflicting energies, with which we walk away from every time. We talk of poverty and corruption in developing countries, of nations without states to speak from and we are all, if we are listening, overwhelmed. If we are listening, we are groaning and if we are fulfilled, we think of ways to adjust our lives and alter our post-grad plan to somehow take further what little we've learned. We do this because we are dissatisfied with the current state of the world and not only do we justify our new course of action, we truly believe it will change something.
Or.
We experience every day as a conflict with ourselves and the people that we find ourselves surrounded with. Why can't we digest our anxieties? We hate that our only option -- the best idea we can come up with -- is to feign happiness and normality. Not only do we hate doing this, putting a face of apathy, strength and satisfaction up, we hardly ever believe that we're fooling anybody. And at the same time, we can see that it works. It works on ourselves too... but only when we're on stage, and the audience is roaring in laughter. And when we're not, we're licking our wounds alone and just making it outside to class, to sitting in Political Studies where, if we happen to be awake, if we're listening, we just fall deeper in despair. We're either crying and fighting or crying ourselves to sleep.

2009-12-09T16:28:00.000-06:00

I am that cloud that they will finally pierce with a spear, having had watched the buildup for so long now and waiting for a break; a calm and placid steep or an eruption, a flash of light, and how would one be more appropriate? Why might a quiet weeping be more expected, the next assumed step, than the violence and calamity that may just as well follow? I am that cloud, building and waiting. I am here looming silently.

2009-12-09T15:04:00.000-06:00

I take it as a challenge. I expect it to happen no matter how I prepare myself. My face will freeze and my senses will lessen their abilities when I step outside where the wind will only, and here's where the challenge comes, beat me back and down, but I will press on, biting and shouting the whole way. Would you believe me if I said that I enjoy the pain, the biting, the shock? That's why I (try to) bite back. Also expected: Unless you bundle up so the only exposed your eyes are exposed, navigating your wary path through narrow slivers between the hood of your coat and a warm scarf, your nose will redden, your eyes will water and we will not be able to tell if you are deeply upset. Maybe you are. Even if the sun is out (like today), even if the weather would be stark beauty, and painless, if not for the wind (like today), even we find each other overlapping onto our own paths and grab hold for the duration of our time together, we still take our steps with pained hearts. A perfect illustration for allowing ourselves to be taken care of and shared. Walk in the comfort of having someone hold you up, and of holding someone up - some might find that more satisfying. Heading to class. And when you arrive successfully and safely (if frozen), let go, thank them and be on your way.

2009-12-08T16:17:00.000-06:00

The library is a nice place to come in to, but I wish they had larger windows. From across the way, I only see narrow windows with the snow angrily swirling around. It feels like Grand Rapids, doesn't it? If the staff condoned spontaneous Fleet Foxes performances, for sanity and beauty's sake, I'm sure that everyone would benefit. How about one song every time someone loses their wifi signal?

This summer, I purchased travel insurance for the cancelled Honduras trip. You may also not know/remember that I arranged to produce a promo. video with Prof. Woodbury and Dr. Kok for $500. Today I met with Dr. Kok to see about the least complicated, and most beneficial way, to carry out that travel stipend. I was never really close to traveling to Rome this summer, but I thought I was. Oh, no big deal. Recent college grad. with a paid trip to Rome. Why, yes. I believe I will travel around for two years.

It was not to be had.

Instead, I go searching through emails and transactions to see if the insurance company, AccessAmerica, actually went ahead and processed our claim. Calling home to see if/when we received a check is frustrating because it's not that mom and I speak different languages, but the overlapping portion of the Venn diagram is represents how we communicate is a narrow space when neither of us wants to deal with the matter at hand. Also, it happened so long ago. Mom, remember that ticket to Honduras this summer? Yep. The one we had to print out and mail to the insurance company? ...yes. Did we ever get anything back from them? ...what? Did we get paid back for that ticket ever? ...no. What? What? And so forth. My voice gets louder because the area outside the library is made up only of hard materials and the noises travel from very far away. Also, I get frustrated.

I need to write. Several things. There are analyses, letters, reflections and prompts scribbled in my agenda to flesh out and present, even if only on here. Yet. Lately. I've been wondering if this - writing - is a selfish exercise. Not that it would lessen my desire for it. There are other actions to carry, other ways to serve. Or should I say, there are ways to serve. And I could spend my time with those but I use a few minutes here and there to write even, again, if only on here. Writing, of the non-personal, non-reflective sort... that is, the focused sort. The sort that has a specific audience in mind... not only can it serve and equip, it is necessary for any community to develop and progress.

The larger question circling my existence lately, here, is in reconciling that service and action with aesthetics and beauty. I believe they must be, and always are, but I'm struggling to actively live both seemingly antithetical emphases. I'm constantly asking myself stupid questions because I firmly believe that growing as a photographer requires a mirrored conviction in an area that has everything to do with... sociology, political studies, journalism and so on. (Photography is, after all, decisions to document.) At the same time, those areas of service and documentation are designed to allow the celebration and action of our fleeting and beautiful lives. And so, in addition to singing in the library, and rereading poems scrawled away in our tiny notebooks, we immerse ourselves in carefully composed and focused pieces of beauty (which means, we major in the humanities, where it is expected of us to dwell on how our souls stir). Sometimes, it feels selfish.

"Love KILLS everything."

2009-12-02T01:32:00.000-06:00

"No one should EVER fall in love with anyone. Or anything. Seriously."

My friend Sarah doesn't rant often (unless you deliberately provoke her) so you sit up and listen when she starts -- it might go uninterrupted for a few minutes. It was a brisk day in the middle of some tenacious week. We ran out for coffee and lingered to examine some Dutch novelty items and catch our breath before we ran into a new old friend, smiling at us from the day-old bread shelf at the door.

That was the guy, I said as we got in the car. That was the guy I told you about from Thanksgiving who made such an amazing life for himself at our age. "What happened after all those things you told me about?" He came back home to marry his wife. "Argh." And the carefully composed three-word sentence that lends itself to title this post. Subject, verb, object. Love kills everything.

And something more about "losing so much value," "wasted potential," and "Do you know how many cancers would have been cured..."

I wrote it down then. Total monologue moment, and maybe I wanted to solidify all the bold things she said. In panic, she grabbed the paper and pen and, in different, more presentable handwriting, wrote "Love is a many splendid thing..." in order to compensate for another of those terrible and shocking moments, when the speak-filter is malfunctioning. Yes, she smiled through the whole spiel and looked over with expectant and cheerful eyes after solidifying her rant with a triumphant groan of mock-frustration.

Still, I've heard her say these things - variations, but with the same key phrases - for almost a year now -- not all the time, but every once in a while. Whenever stories of friends with not-so-great fiances and intelligent, adventurous women who "settle for" (read: become engaged to) guys that don't treat them right. I think that's what she was channeling.

It's amazing how many things coherently lit up in my mind when she looked over hoping I would know that she was just kidding for the most part, that I would know she believed love to be precious, if elusive.

Carol Reinsma, my Colorado summer mom, was telling me about her kids and how, raising them, she strived for them to confidently and carefully make their own decisions and the one thing she really wanted to tell them was that if it came down to marrying someone or adventure, go with adventure. "Of course, now," she said, laughing that bouncy laugh that I'll always remember her with, "here we are with two full-grown single children."

If it took her five minutes to tell me about this one part of her children, she spent five days talking about her daughter and the amazing life she's leading. How the person she's become, how good and fearless, can't even be fathomed by her parents. And their son, working with a company that renovates dilapidated buildings through sustainable processes to benefit the communities in which they were originally designed for. They spoke of these two with such pride, I bristled to absorb everything I could, to be as proactive and eager everyday, to make my own parents proud of their son and the summer he had.

My own mom, earlier this year, and I driving through Sioux Falls and, while I sang Beatles' "All You Need Is Love" she was telling me that sometimes you think you know, and love, somebody. That sometimes it's not as simple as what you thought you knew for sure. That marriage especially isn't what you think it is and there are plenty of broken homes and neglected children that will speak for that -- for love that wasn't enough, didn't last or was never there in the first place. Relatives even, which, sadly enough, is what it took to make the story real. And I stopped singing to try imagining my little cousin (I've met her twice in my life) coping with the reality of her parents' divorcing. Who, in their youth, didn't go silent in terror at the thought?

And Carl Klumpeen. The man. Studied under Cal Seerveld and knew, but hesitated, that he was to be a preacher his whole life. Mr. Fulbright scholar who opened his home to Korean kids wearing Polo sweaters in pastel colors, Canadian kids with black jackets and Californians with Novembeards on Thanksgiving this year. He sat me down with pie and coffee and told me about his life - I got the feeling, as blessedly, I often do, that he wanted to share something assuring and comforting and maybe even wise. And so he did. We drank coffee and talked about how God worked in his life. Must be strange to chronicle your life to a kid when he's so young. Studied at Northwestern in Canada and went on Fulbright to study at the Free University. "In Amsterdam,"

Hold the phone. You were a Fulbright scholar too?

"Heh heh," the way that happily old people do. "You know, if anybody else got it, it would be a big deal. A great honor. But that I got it, well... it's not such a big deal." But one year at the Free University? After ten minutes telling me about the great conversations you had, the amazing friends and the courses you were taking, you came back after one year?

"You know what brought me back? Do you know?"

He sat up from his post-meal slouch and looked across the room. The soft sun was streaming in through the window on his granddaughter who was being entertained by three Korean Int'l students. At the next table, my roommates and some others were playing a card game, explaining the rules to each other over and over again. Next to that table, his wife - a quintessential little old lady - happily chatting with, yes, more Korean students as if they'd grown up next door, as if they'd been coming over for lemonade and wisdom their whole lives.

Like a child, I mean this, he pointed right at her. "I couldn't be away from her for any longer," and the biggest, most unabashed grin I've ever seen to solidify that, with kids and grandkids, he still loved his wife like some lovesick grad student. Luckily, he hasn't had to spend a day away from her in a long time.

And if he's some lovesick grad student at heart, then I'm a happy, old man because I felt some righteous sort of envy toward him. I don't know that I would believe that he knew about her back in the day. I don't know that I believe any of those stories -- "I saw her and I knew that I would marry her one day." It makes for a good story, and I love good stories because they quiet me down with questions, but I don't know that I can bring myself to believe it. It's better this way because I can argue that Carl put up more beautiful thoughts and ecstatic learning for the very real possibility of deceit, heartache and finding out that he was wrong. He can serve his God, raise confident and capable children and make one other person happy, make one other person feel loved every day, for the rest of her life. With her, he can open his home up and make a bunch of college kids feel at home when there's not enough time or money to go back to their families. And he can look at her after so very many years and still actually feel his heart quiver in joy.

Maybe it's the mere possibility of pain that makes his vulnerability illogical or impractical. His sacrifice offering may very well be rejected -- the lady decides otherwise, God does something you didn't expect, he finds he is unable to accept her whole self and everything else that could happen.

Ain't it hard when you discover that

He really wasn't where it's at

After he took from you everything he could steal

How does it feel?

How does it feel to hang on your own

With no direction home

Like a complete unknown

Like a rolling stone

And maybe he would have fulfilled some different scholarly value, brought some different pocket of academic potential to fruition.

It might have happened.

Do we not seek God desperately when we are tossed and trampled? Terribly beautiful and astounding words have been written by loveless and desperately lonely writers. Agoraphobic writers. Depressed, insane, grumpy and bitter writers. Writers that admitted defeat. I kneel in gratitude and humility for them. I am in awe for what they produced that brought so many others to beauty in such a resonating manner.

And still, one has to wonder if they themselves would have preferred to have experienced love. If they wrote so convincingly and effectively on love's wonder and destructive power, what might they have produced about love's glory?

Wasted and complacent, and you about the same...

2009-11-28T13:57:00.000-06:00

That's not exactly how I feel right now, but I'm very sure that it was just playing (Never as Tired as When I'm Waking Up - LCD Soundsystem) in Caribou Coffee at the Mall of America. They just changed to Feist. That's all right.

Thanksgiving didn't "feel" like Thanksgiving usually does. My brothers stayed in Michigan, we didn't spend a few days putting stuffing and potatoes together, brining a turkey, arguing about cranberry sauce... a lot of very "traditional" (read: white people) things to do around that time, but I love that stuff. It's fine that it didn't feel like Thanksgiving, because it still was. We shouldn't feel anxious or upset because we're growing up and our lives are changing. I fought a throat infection and divided up time between stationary friends, fleeting friends and family. The Koreans, my apartment, my house and the Klumpeens shared Korean-American Thanksgiving together. Carl (more on him later) opened the meal with a brief, episodic and erratic description of the origins of this meal. It was somewhat on-the-spot, though he did hold pages of internet research, and objections, clarifications and otherwise colorful commentary was thrown out.

I wonder how I would feel if they played Christmas music.

The "educating" of the young Korean, Canadian and American students on what a "traditional" Thanksgiving meal "should" consist of evoked some... defensive thoughts in me? I don't think that's the best way to describe it, but there seemed to be a large concession made - maybe even an excuse - to the fact that we were merging Korean food with traditional Thanksgiving food on the same plates.

The girl at the table next to mine (very cute) was patiently sitting Indian-style and humming to herself. I thought that she enjoyed existing anonymously and being surrounded by people too. Her friend just came in, a guy with his unda-pants showing. "That's really funny." He's not funny.

If I were younger, and I think I remember my brothers and I complaining about this at some point, I might have protested the fact that there was rice and kimchi next to my turkey. I was really dumb, and I was born in Michigan. Turkey and kimchi is very tasty, and that's not because turkey is largely flavorless.

Wow. Sometimes you can really/easily tell when people like each other?

I don't know that I should have thought the wordless, uncomfortable thoughts I did but I think I was mildly protesting because, well, who cares?

"I need a new phone. I swear, I'm turning Dutch. I swear. Dutch people never buy ANYthing unless there's a sale." Ha!

Who cares that our table doesn't look like a Norman Rockwell? This is America, Jack. And it's 2009. If you want (or if we wanted) a specific and traditional Thanksgiving dinner, well that's fine, but we didn't. Also, we're Americans. And Canadians. And Koreans. Feasting together because we're alive and thankful and celebrating.

"...this mall is huge." "THIS mall?" It's the Mall of America, dude. Come on.

I partially digress - a large part of Thanksgiving food... of all food events perhaps... is reliving the comforting combination of flavors and textures. Stuffing with lots of sage and caramelized onions, mashed potatoes that taste like potatoes and butter and salt, and so forth.*

"... ... ... ...yeah. This mall is big."

My favorite food-specific part of Thanksgiving is making sandwiches with the remaining turkey carcass the next day. Turkey, even with a great gravy, is largely useless in a sandwich. And I get bored a lot. So I usually add a sauce or glaze or additional preparation to that bland, dry meat before stuffing it in a sandwich of sorts. I'm getting hungry again, though we just toured the food court and, as I've come to find lately, any amount of food we eat completely fills us up. It's unhealthy and odd.

"I don't really have a life... I don't really see my friends anymore because they're busy. Doing college things. Being college-y." She really likes this guy.

I don't think anybody protested the... fusion of cuisine? I think everybody enjoyed both and hopefully noticed some new flavor combinations. "Wow, you really do eat kimchi with everything, huh?" "You bet your tasty freckled ass! Chomp, chomp, chomp." We had a great time. Last year's Thanksgiving involved mom doing Korean food and my cooking American food, which was fun and ambitious and an enormous exercise of bonding. We both put our aprons on and sharpened our knives and shared burners, chopped vegetables etc. Oh I wish we had taken more pictures. And it was delicious, but I know if I weren't there, if nobody specifically asked for a turkey or mashed potatoes or stuffing, that they (the parents) would have invited the Korean students over for Thanksgiving and prepared only Korean food. I would be OK with that. And it's not because my mom doesn't like turkey, potatoes etc. She loves white people food. I'm calling it white people food now, not American food. Which could mean anything. You should see her attack a pot roast. The thing is that she's, mom, is constantly perfecting Korean food and she doesn't bother trying to make white people food all that much (though she is pretty good) because she doesn't really have a frame of reference and, I'd argue, that some white people don't either. Having corn and green beans from a can because you think you're supposed to eat corn and green beans on this day. Gross. Unless, of course, your family grew up eating convenient and canned vegetables and that's what you expect/are comforted by. Go for it. Go crazy. I have some friends who grew up on boxed mashed potatoes and they really love them. We didn't, so it'd be a lie, a useless one, to consume it because some fleeting image of a sprawling national holiday demands it.

I have to pee, which means I have to pack up. And find the bathroom.

Much to continue being thankful for. What did you eat? What did you think of over Thanksgiving?

One more!

"So, what's your major?"

"Exercise science."

Nods. "What's that?"

"It's like... the science of exercise."

*Oxford comma. Did you see that? Yech.

2009-11-20T19:33:00.000-06:00

Angst.

Or whatever you want to call it that might imply less of a restless, frustrated and wound up young man. Surprising though, today, how motivation and discouragement don't balance each other out. That's how I put it earlier and it still doesn't make... well, not that it has to make sense. The day, weather-wise, was lovely if not the best of mid-November days. Ross and Carmela, a cup of delicious coffee made terrific with a spoon of condensed milk and that smug, comfortable grin in sitting with each other that says, "Hey, I haven't seen you since late last night..." No. I did not have a threesome with Carmela and Ross. It was a good, exhausting morning and early afternoon and Ross and I sat by the window and watched the kids in their bubble-wrap coats jump off the big, yellow schoolbus and run to their waiting moms, waving furiously to their friends as if they just learned yesterday how to use their limbs.

---

I rolled out of bed with a throat of bee stings again. Mom and dad expected the room to come home for lunch. Paul and I found Mark and Henk, in their Sunday gear, napping in the living room. Adam came out of the bathroom in a sweater looking drowsy. And hungry. My voice sounded like the grittiest of the rappers - my mom would not be pleased. But the day was gorgeous, and I grew furious at my finite body and immune system for keeping me unconscious through the fleeting daylight of the season. No call for enormous resolution however; the sun shone and a home-cooked meal awaited.

"The ABCs of Korean barbeque," dad said, as we sat down. Plates of sliced beef and pork in front of two tabletop burners, green lettuce, green onion salad, sesame oil dipping sauce, kimchi and - oddly - a 12-pack of Coca-Cola. I put on some hot water for tea before dinner, but was handed a bowl of miso soup instead and kissed my mom before taking my place at the opposite end of the table from my dad, cooking the meat and throwing the pieces at my roommates. They ate silently and efficiently - shoveling the food in and not putting any thought into facial expressions or conversation. My sisters watched them - the white kids with facial hair and skinny pants fiddling with their chopsticks and eating Korean food! I saw dad stare at them briefly and raise his eyebrows; mom smiled and continued to pile food onto their plates. Matty biked over to fill an empty seat and also went to work. After a bit, after enough meat filled the plates, and the room developed a bit of a haze, I grabbed an onion and a few cloves of garlic to cook with the meat - charring the former and softening the latter. I asked why they weren't out already. Dad agreed, looking playfully at mom as we watched on as she calmly explained, in Korean, that she didn't think our guests would have liked it. Dad and I shrugged, I chopped them up and we all enjoyed it together. Plate after plate of food, several references to how Hani would be freaking out (when we put the kimchi and rice on the burner with the meat) and going to town, lessons in Korean etiquette and language and the ensued laughter. Esther and Sally, whom Val tutors, were walking by outside, enjoying the day and we ran out to call them in and hang out with the white guys. They did. We had ice cream and tea and fruit and worked on digesting the plates and plates of food, the plates and plates of food and moaned for naps and activity and, "Oh look at this food baby. Whoa! Look at yours!" and, "I feel like I should be hungover right now," and "I don't hate my students. They make me hate them." I missed my brothers - they would have had a good time. I missed Joel and Travis who were still in bed when we left the apartment - they should have been there.

---

When do we believe each other? I love you. I'm fine. An embrace. A smile. A shrug. When do we believe what people do as an indication of who they are in light of our looming expectations of them, and how do we reconcile the growing realities with what we hope for? Every interaction is a moment to exercise our mantras - Prov. 17 A friend loves at all times; You may be ministering with every word you say or don't say; Continue being friendly. All words spoken directly to me, recently, by friends of varying intimacy and frequency in meeting. So we act and speak deliberately or I hope I do. I try. At the same time, and as I'm told, and as I claim and use to justify my wardrobe... I'm an English major; I don't like a lot of unnecessary writing, or speaking. I'm not against exploring possible truths or beliefs to be corrected afterwards - Irimi or Ura, for everyone in my Directing class with Prof. Hubbard (They're Japanese for entering the battle and possibly facing pain, defeat or death, Irimi, or continuing to go around in circles waiting, Ura). Does anyone else feel irritated when statements are thrown about without regard not only to who will hear, but to what kind of person you are for saying it? Still, so many more sleepless nights because of insecurity for unspoken words when they cry to be spoken, for facing the walls of our shortcomings, the veils we construct and hope, one day, to believe in. And still more nights of aching. Vulnerability. And honesty and, unfortunately, I'm choosing to keep from expressing specifics here, hoping that you manage to reflect and find something good here anyway, dear reader.

Our work is never over.

2009-11-15T02:25:00.000-06:00

As I told whoever happened to ask, this week defeated my finite body and mind by Tuesday. Afternoon.

Why and why and what is with putting on a nice shirt, black pants, black socks, and making sure the tie fits correctly to watch digital reminders that certain people on the other side of the world exist in heartache and strength and joy, just like we do on this side. Except, for the most part, we are kidding ourselves. And they are struggling to feed their children. Aren't we kidding ourselves? Aren't I?

And yet here we are. Trying to make sense of our lifestyles, plans and inhibitions. Justifying them, I guess, to make sense of what's practical, logical and effective... but mostly to adjust them to our own state of being finite. Practical often means watering down our own de-efficiencies to step up to what supposedly moves us. But I've come to terms with that. I think, individually, we expect the most of ourselves and we are the most critical of ourselves and an important step to humility and reality and surviving (mentally) is in acknowledging that we are finite creatures.

Here we are, running in circles, trying to keep tabs on all the people that have made a place in our lives, making room for them, because... here's my defense, what are we supposed to do? We can spend our time picking fights, getting mad and fuming about how we feel neglected from... well, what does it matter? But we do, don't we? We love to tell our friends about it, and they love to feign interest because - and I mean this - they love us, and they're not always feigning interest... they may be listening, they may be able to recall what we said, and they might even (if we're lucky) continue to dwell on what we told them, on what trivial moments took place in our lives that we, for whatever reason, decided to share with them.

And maybe we hear those things because we care and because, sometimes, we can actively aid our friends in addition to patiently listening to them, and perhaps - on some innocent level - there's a refuge of escapism in living vicariously and sympathetically, temporarily, taking on someone else's burdens, even if we continue to bear them after the conversation is over.

It's a game. And some don't stop playing, while others claim (sometimes truthfully) that we're sick of it. That we can't take it anymore! There are so many other issues that shake us to our bones and we are revealing, every day, that we are finite to them. And yet, here we are. Still here, existing and not erased from existence. If the universe made any sense at all, we would be already be erased from existence. Wiped from the Earth. Yet here we are. Calling out when they're asleep, reaching out as they laugh at us, and wrapping our arms around when they doubt us.

GIFT revisited

2009-11-08T21:43:00.000-06:00

I went to GIFT again tonight and made an effort to learn every song I didn't know so I could sing to (at least) one chorus and one verse and, as contemporary praise and worship songs are apt to include, one bridge of some sort. Save for the phrase "My God is Mighty to Save," I had to learn every song they played, which was nice - the critical distractions of lyric and melody will be thrust onto another avenue than this blog. If you haven't read the post from... a few weeks ago, you should find it, skim through it and read the comments because they are great. Linsay Vladimirov (who might be reading this regularly now... which weirds. me. out.) and I met a little bit ago to talk about the nodes, trends, practices and design of praise and worship as a student, professional and leader. It's interesting to try and keep track of what goes through my head during praise and worship. Largely, my attempts to focus myself (not necessarily to clear, calm or numb my mind down) on breathing the words from inside and to my lips, with my buddy Mark and the old guy on my other side (which is, by the way, one of the best things - singing next to crotchety-seeming old people with voices from the 60s) along with the rest of the student body and Sioux Center community that gathered together on Sunday evening, bringing their trials and joys from the past week, and expectations for the coming one, in a conscious attempt to worship.* And if the thoughts running through this past week were cast with the veil of Linsay's admonishing of me (yes, that's what she did; she yelled. at me.) to get over myself and wake up and realize, of course, that there will always be flaws and distractions and mistakes and, most of all, decisions that are made largely according to preference. So, in brief, get over yourself and don't let your critical thoughts on how this song should go, how that transition was bad, what they didn't do (exactly like I did in the previous post) get in the way of you worshipping the Lord God Almighty.

And I had this realization mid-song tonight at this terrific point. I even had my arms crossed when I laughed to myself, thinking, "WHY would they do that?" I forget what EXACTLY they did, but I know and will admit that I did this a few times in the evening. Understandably, I stopped singing when I did this, and when I broke from the presence of worship, and stared at the lyrics up on the screen, trying to resolve the actual melody with my understanding of the melody. And I hesitated to start again with the song because, and this is a big deal - believe me - even if it doesn't seem so, I hesitated to start singing the song that I had previously laughed at because I was, of course, much too good for this song now. It had failed the very rigid and temperamental exam of my approval, like so many songs and people before it, but not a lot of foods. And I was too good to worship the Lord God Almighty with this song. It's OK. You don't have to hurl stones; I sang the rest of the song after laughing at myself.

I have a question though - when do you stop singing a song? What are the signs of melody, lyrics or execution from the band that will take you willingly out of the presence and sacrifice of worship?

2009-11-01T18:38:00.000-06:00

I don't know that he thinks about it often, but I bet that my dad would enjoy living alone every once in a while. It's six forty on Sunday evening, the first time manipulation of the year, though it is still quite dark outside. Mom and the girls are at evening service and he came back home from the office just a few minutes ago. I'm here after a big Saturday and yet another night of struggling to fall asleep. Dad is downstairs now. I can hear steady, careful chopping and stirring. The TV isn't on and there's no music. I think, I couldn't say for sure, that my parents' marriage is a relationship where they could sit quietly and inhabit the same space peacefully in silence. I can't say whether they do that or not, whether they have that luxury and even if that is the case, it's not the same as quietly and deliberately cooking alone when that's all you want to do. I love my family, and try to see them at least once a week but I would spend so much more time at my house if it were empty. Having a wife and two girls in the house is different from living with six guys and the catatonic friends and lovers that we involve ourselves with. Yes. Yes, the last time the house was empty, there was a party with roommates and friends and lovers, yes and it was very fun. And it would probably happen again, but AFTER that... well, and maybe I would appreciate a change of scenery and pace as well. Being anonymous in a city would be nice, but it is not plausible for a few months yet.

2009-10-27T02:55:00.001-05:00

It's an October Friday

2009-10-23T15:50:00.001-05:00

Everyone is sick, and busy. We all seem to be just a little bit behind on what we need to be ready for. The pressure mounts, and we hit ourselves for letting it get this far.

The autumn sun glows, even through the slim windows of the library now at 3 5oPM. The leaves swell about, casting their rich smell about the campus as the sidewalks dry from the past few days of rain threatening to become snow. Nothing is completed or finished, but our syllables snap today - our words are quick, our thoughts transfer well over in conversation. And, doesn't it seem like, even after this nonsense, we're all holding our heads up and bringing our glasses together? It's the sun.

2009-10-16T02:31:00.000-05:00

The reality of traveling to the Philippines flew into our minds and shook our bones after we flew, waited, descended, landed, taxi'd, lined up, collected our bags, met our hosts and - finally - when we stopped through the last of the doors into the warm evening, and Manila rushed at our faces. The city was bustling, as one would imagine it to be, and the smell firmly set our feet on the ground and our hearts into our intentions. We were there, across the ocean, sweating in our worn jeans while, at home, there would be several more months of icy snow and biting wind. Of course there were months of excitement and anticipation beforehand. Even the hours up in the air, waiting to transfer in Hawaii and, before that, the meetings for preparation of what to expect and, as best as we could, how we should go about our teams and sites. In all honesty, those times were squabbling and hand-wringing. The thrill of travel and the unexpected is what was driving us, along with the hope for an effective and artful job of documenting the soul of the those without a voice in modern civilization. It became real - all of our preparation, prayers, frustrations and joys shared with friends, hopes for what we would learn and what we might forget came to a halting, shuddering motion with that first sight of the bustling city past the airport parking lot and that first warm smell of a people we didn't know.

---

Three friends stayed up several nights, and that's one of the greatest things about guys and the trust that is found and built: we can and, often easily, do. One night in particular, up until almost six in the morning, sitting around the table talking about what we should be doing and laying out the course of actions that we knew would be best. We knew these things to the point that we wanted them to happen. We wanted ourselves to be bigger, stronger, more honest versions of ourselves and were only held back by how small we actually were. It's difficult to focus on what one person is confessing when it is so glaringly similar to what you have to say, and so you do. Nights in the living room, long car rides through borders and patrols, the passing questions to remind ourselves not to push it away and, instead, to confront it but it all came to that halting, shuddering revelation of This Is Who We Can Be and now we have to deal with it. And others who haven't listened or spoken with us those nights will say that it's all for the better and why did you wait so long? And they will be right - it is for the better. It's good that actions followed words and the only reason to have waited so long was for fear.

---

The snow began falling in a blessed city - one that we had the enormous fortune to witness at night, to look about us in the dark of night, and still be able to see from the buildings and lights and realize that we would be here through it, until the next day. The snow began falling, as they had said it would, and as it had done every year of our lives and we still sat in awe at it. Had we really forgotten that it could happen? Did we convince ourselves that we wouldn't see it again, would have to live it through memories and photographs? We were fortunate enough to breathe it in, to smell the affected air, hear the muted sound of the streets and feel cold enough to be chased inside to view it from behind glass, but to view it for hours and hours and sit exhausted but awake. We knew that you would be leaving soon. The songs that we knew would be different once you did - they were already beginning to, I suppose. And the authorities assured us of it, we had written it in to our day-to-day like we were ready for it, had mentioned it casually because it was so for sure and, again, as if we were ready for it. And maybe you were (I hope you are now) but I wasn't, and I won't be for some time even if I know that it is real now. The halting, shuddering knowledge is acceptance - hesitant and rebellious as it can be, and all the necessary steps after this - plane tickets, class finalizing, packing, the passage of time - will be more smacks upside the head. But it's not as if I could use more of those, right?

2009-10-11T19:23:00.000-05:00

Paul and Mark came home from work at the Wesselius farm with radishes, carrots, rainbow kale and - as seen - arugula and dandelion greens. I was driving home from a great show, evening and morning in Omaha (Yo La Tengo concert) after a rough week of school, trying to enjoy the reddening landscape. This wasn't difficult, but strange after a morning with three inches of the best packing snow in a long, long time. Sarah with her arms crossed, scowling at the thought of our return through the most jaded sunglasses I've ever seen. (Exaggeration.)

We came home to rooms full of our friends and I put on the apron and got to work with Paul and Christina, who was in town for the weekend - a much needed gift. The community grill was gassed and turned up high to kill anything cooked before and to get the grill as volcanic as possible. The roast was quickly cut into steaks, salted, peppered, balsamic oiled and brown sugared with Bailey telling me about her weekend, and lending a free/clean hand when I needed. The meat sat for a few minutes as I put a makeshift mustard vinaigrette together - one like what I learned from Carol in Colorado Springs this summer, but without some key ingredients (white wine vinegar, lemon juice) but with some of the last chives of the season. Then we made hummus and Paul approved, which is a good thing. The steaks got high heat on both sides, made that lovely, animalistic sizzling that roared through the cold, dark evening. A few minutes on both sides and then held in the oven, still warm from Christina's bruschetta. Half an onion had been sliced and broken apart in butter/olive oil/salt on the stove-top. Not red, but only because we didn't have it. I mention the red onion for visual purposes as well as flavor, and not just because Bailey was cooking with me - some bold purple skin would have been nice.

Anyway, the beef was sweet, then rich and the greens were peppery and crisp. The feta cheese was tangy and creamy. The dressing complemented all these flavors, I think. The onion was there - not really necessary, but I like onion. Bailey's hands.

-Click the image to enlarge it-

2009-10-03T16:03:00.000-05:00

Here I go blabbering about again.

I'm with my brother and childhood friend at Barnes, reading up on various methods of literary criticism and getting totally jacked (not joking) and Andrew, childhood friend, looks up from his paperback to ask, "Hey. Remember dioramas?"

I did. Usually putting together a scene from English class (Sign of The Beaver), a historic event from social studies (Underground Railroad), a certain species from science (leafcutter ants in the rainforest) or (my favorite) a moon colony. I remember these projects, stuck in a shoebox, or a cut-away from pieces of posterboard fused together, were as detail-oriented as you wanted and you needed to have done your research before you start putting the visuals together. You also needed to gather your materials, have some sort of a plan, be able to work around problems and miscalculations and convince your parents and older brothers to help you.

"Do you think kids still do that? Or is it more on computers now?"

And that question concerned me so I looked to facebook to find an Ed. major and ask.

Alvin

Hey wake up.

3:45pmEmily

ha ha ha

at least im being productive....ha..ha..the hills

3:45pmAlvin

HEy! SCREW. YOU.

Right up the...

No, I have an ed question though.

3:45pmEmily

heyyyy!!

k shoot

3:46pmAlvin

My buddy and I were just talking about making dioramas for school projects and we're wondering if kids still do that, or if it's more on computers now...

3:48pmEmily

depends on how hands on the teacher is..some teachers(like I will be most likely) tend to do a combo of technology and "old fashioned", but we are taught how to use computers in our lesson plans, and that hands on stuff like dioramas is good for kinesthetic and visual learners

more than you ever needed to know

3:49pmAlvin

That was kind of vague.

"...she said it depends on the teacher."

3:49pmEmily

ha! nooooo..read more

the trend is towards tech stuff though

smart boards with 3D stuff and hand held student boards to interact with the main one

we now have a whole class on it

3:50pmAlvin

SCREW that.

3:50pmEmily

(tech in the classroom that it)

ha!

3:51pmAlvin

I mean, practically, they need to learn how to operate a keyboard and tech... 'cause that will keep exploding... but, in a sense, they'll learn that themselves, but critical thinking and creative problem-solving... is more hands on.

3:52pmEmily

true..which is why i think a mix is good...you cant replace making a plaster of paris volcano or a paper mache solar system

3:56pmAlvin

...paris volcano?

4:01pmEmily

plaster-of-paris

ever use it?

to make a volcano

4:01pmAlvin

...Ohhhhh. OK. I was just thinking that you were an idiot for a sec.

4:02pmEmily

haaaaa

riiiiiight

4:03pmEmily

guess what i found?

farmville

Emily is Emily Huston. This concerns me still... and I guess it will always depend on the teacher and age of students, but I feel that challenging younger students through the frame of a complex computer algorithm/game/interactive quiz is still challenging them through a limited frame. And I remember working through those exercises by finding the loophole, so we wouldn't have to be challenged anymore. Another hands-on, awesome and exciting project was the egg drop - we design a vessel to protect an egg from surviving a two-story drop. A lot of kids used parachute-esque devices, with or without a whole bunch of padding. (I stuffed mine in a teddy bear). But imagine how that project would go if it was computer simulated... and there was a limited, but vast, option of materials and applications to protect your digital egg with? "This game blows. See if you can use 'dick' on your egg.'" 3D boards and smart classrooms are cool, but I think the general idea is that tech classrooms are designed to instruct the teachers on HOW-TO operate these tools for learning, but the danger (I hate the way I'm acting like I know what I'm talking about) is that the tools become substitutes or deceptions of the original intention: innovation. To use a cliche, thinking outside of the box is - from what I hear - what keeps the cubicle drones in their cubicles.

---

Grand Rapids is terrific.

2009-09-21T01:12:00.000-05:00

If you're reading through Firefox, I apologize for the font and size crazy. I've tried some different things. I hope it's pleasing to read from where you are.

---

OK. To answer the query I just posited on facebook...

No. It is not easy to start writing with Wu-Tang streaming through your headphones. Have you ever tried to clarify the lyrics or melody to a song while another song was playing? It's damn near freaking impossible. So you can imagine trying to find the words to express what you felt today while this is pouring into your head,

Yo RZA, yo razor!
Hit me with the major
The damage, my Clan understand it be flavor
Gunnin, hummin comin atcha
First I'm gonna getcha, once I gotcha, I gat-cha
You could never capture the Method Man's stature
For rhyme and for rapture, got niggaz resigning, now master
my style? Never! I put the fucking buck in the wild kid, I'm terror
Razor sharp, I sever
the head from the shoulders, I'm better
than my compeda, you mean competitor, whadeva!
Let's get together

It doesn't work too well. But you sit back and let the track finish and keep up on the chat until it does.

I went to GIFT for the first time since sophomore year tonight. Robert Minto had a short piece in the last Diamond about the idea of unity in the various worship venues that Dordt campus has to offer. He called out how a lot of Dordt students see GIFT, Wellspring, Praise and Worship and Chapel. I know I thought of them all as separate services before and attended Wellspring even less than I had attended Chapel before, and GIFT or PW much less... if at all. OK, except that I was in a Wednesday night PW band freshman year (very sexy) with Andrew Voss (very sexy) and Brando Huisman and Bethany pre-Keep and Heather and Heather. So I was there when we, you know, played. The point is that I miss playing... wait, let me make sure I mean what I'm about to type. I miss playing praise and worship songs. I miss praise and worship.
And, for those of you who might not know this already, a large part of my life (about five or six years) was driven by praise and worship. I learned guitar with the hopes to play in youth group, but they needed someone to play the newly purchased bass (a sweet, lovely black Washburn that I hope they still have) so I did that for years, with John on the drums, then Pete when John moved back to Korea. Andrew took over on bass, tore it up, and I played back-up guitar with Min and Dan leading... and then, with little variation in the band, I led for almost a year (I think). Jean on keyboards, teaching me to sing. Rachel and Priscilla on vocals. James from time to time. Mikey took over on drums when Peter and David and Jean went off to college. My best friends were playing drums and bass and keyboard and on vocals and we lived all week together, culminating our experience and angst and gratitude twice every weekend leading praise and worship. (We were really good.)
It's good, I think, to ask "What is worship?" for so many years as a stupid, young kid. Not that all young kids are stupid; I was. It leads to good discussion and deliberate actions every week - practicing, playing, singing and praying songs with a trusting group of people. Did we do enough? No, of course not. Do we do enough now? No, of course not. But the point is that I grew up in a Christian setting - the Korean Christian Grand Rapids scene - that had praise and worship as its foundation. (Brothers, am I wrong? Is it different now?) I moved to Iowa and found that, even within the CRC, white people do praise and worship differently, which is a whole different conversation. Maybe it was the move to Iowa as much as it was me "growing up" and "maturing" but I got tired and disgusted with large groups of North American youth raising their hands and singing poorly written songs as an expression of love to a Lord and Savior - an activity that could very easily be mistaken for having a pleasing emotional and self-serving time with your friends. (Singing in a group is therapeutic. Live music is fun. It's easy to convince yourself that this is good for the soul, but is it challenging and genuine?) I was that guy, that North American scum, for so many years in my life and believed that the most faithful and righteous action we could perform was praise and worship.
OK. I know a large part of the change was from a closer examination of some popular CCM songs. We don't need to talk about those... Every Move I Make? Really? I was a counselor at Dordt Discovery Days two summers ago (summer camp for pre-high school Christian kids... a fun time and a serious recruiting avenue) and encouraged my group to sing at the nightly praise and worship sessions around the fire, but I literally cringed when we sang this song and -horribly - I wondered if singing these words, adding the motions and filler-sound effects made them simplify their understanding of their relationship with Christ. I wondered if it made them stupid. Cushy Christian homes in cushy Christian suburbs, man.
I felt that GIFT (Growing in Faith Together) and mid-week Praise and Worship were high school worship sessions... largely for the people in college that never "grew out," or got sick, of high school worship. As they are, arguably, the two best-attended ministry sessions on campus, it's an indication of what the larger student body wants in worship - and for those that don't, they're showing, with much smaller numbers at Wellspring, that they are the minority, or they don't really care. They're not voting. Don't get me wrong - some of my best friends regularly attend GIFT and/or PW and I've done some grumbling about the lack of worship diversity on campus etc. The idea, however, much larger and more holy significant than my idea of it - thankfully. The auditorium was largely filled tonight with students who weren't expressly required to be in attendance and music was lifted up with what I believe was the genuine hope for glorifying the name of our God. I didn't know a lot of the songs tonight, or most of the people in the band, and - of course - I was distracted by a lot of the technical details/mishaps as well as the questions, again, of worship and service. I was critical of lots of things, noticing decisions that I would have made differently, comparing worship leaders to others I knew and played with - wanting to speak, angrily, to the guy about what it means to lead worship as a servant and not as some sort of vessel having this amazing individual experience of your own that everyone is supposed to, somehow, benefit from. Put your hands down, sir. Open your eyes and sing into the microphone so the people that came to worship won't be distracted and worried about which verse they're on.

"There's a typo on the screen. They should really get somebody who knows the flow of the songs to work the Powerpoint. There should be a better program for this than Powerpoint. I miss using overhead projectors. Why is there such a glaring, awkward pause in between songs? Why don't they do something about that? Why isn't the lead singing into the microphone? Why isn't that other girl singing into the microphone? I don't even know what their voices sound like. Why do they call this Growing in Faith? There has to be a better, more fitting, more accurate acronym for what this is. Shoot, I don't know this song either. They're looking at each other like they don't know when to end the song. Did they not practice enough? Is that the American flag on the side of the stage? Is that the Iowa flag next to it? Iowa has a flag?"

Etc. All very distracting. It's unfair already to judge, but it's REALLY unfair to judge a new band off of one night at a relatively early part of the year. Afterward, a new freshman friend (Paul Alberts) said that, based on his first impression of GIFT, tonight, he probably wouldn't be back. I wanted to encourage him to give it another try, to come with us again next week, but I hesitated because I realized that I probably said the exact same thing when I was a freshman. I don't want my freshman friend to go because I want him to go... I'm not even sure I want him to go. I know I don't want him to go if he feels obligated to, or that he thinks he should for some bullshit reason... OK. I do want him, after processing his decisions and humility and desires, to go but, moreso, I want him to be unsatisfied with a Christian lifestyle that ends in praise and worship - or any other session that is designed for an exclusively Christian audience.

2009-09-13T17:02:00.000-05:00

There's a photo buried in a box somewhere at my house. It's me with thirteen of my friends from high school at prom. It's our junior year and, of those fourteen guys, six are married now. We're in our tuxedos, smiling pleasantly as if our moms were watching. I dreamt last night that I went to go see Dan Poel get married. Poel is the first one to take his shirt off and improv a pole dance (very sexy) and did the best impressions in high school. He has a quote on his facebook from Vince Lombardi (Confidence is contagious; so is lack of confidence) and his job description reads, "i help people lift weights." He has a heart condition that kept him from playing football last year, but recently got approval from the doctor. His dad was a huge prankster in his years at Dordt. I saw a photo of him when I was a sophomore sitting on Dan's desk. He had a mullet and a party animal face; he looked like a nice guy. If I remember the story correctly, he died of a heart attack when he was in his thirties. Dan has a tattoo on his left bicep - his dad's name in a large novelty black font. He also got both his ears pierced with big diamond studs and walks around campus in shorts and t shirts from some athletic training camp or wherever. More often than not, the sleeves are cut off of those shirts and you can totally see his nipples. He'll notice you noticing his nipples and he'll ask if you want him to come over later to knock boots. THAT's who Dan Poel is.
So he got married last night to some girl that I had never seen before but now, thinking back on it, I imagine I respected the shit out of her - taming the beast and its hormones. I traveled via tugboat to a town that looked like it had seen more thriving days. The streets were empty, the buildings needed paint, the sidewalks were overgrown etc. The reception took place in an old Catholic church with winding, carpeted stairs and wood-paneling in the basement. Everybody was there. Dancing. There was a jazz band battle - some hired band tearing it up against the likes of Jason Kornelis, some other friends and Dan Davis. Who knew Dan Davis played standup bass? Who knew Dan Davis played standup bass so well? I thought that to myself sipping a glass of wine and he looked over and smiled in a way that said, "Yeah, how you like me now?" I danced with Scott and Margaret. I have to say this again: Everybody was there. I arranged to have drinks out on the town with some, shall we say, old friends when the reception began to slow down. Quick drinks. I had to get out of there, throw my stuff in a suitcase, and leave early. No, I know. I'm sorry. I won't be at the hangover-tending brunch the next morning. The dance floor was dark, the music was slow and smoky - I want to say elemental, and I can because this is a dream that I remember and also because screw you. I traveled to see my friend from high school marry a girl he loved, and was celebrating that with, like I said, everybody. We danced to dozens of beautiful songs and the dance floor was dark, slow, smoky and elemental. I remember after that, after drinks so brief we barely spoke, but looked at each other and sipped in a small place outside in the quiet, after that, on the tugboat pulling away from the island, I read message after message after message... from everybody... telling me they were happy, sad, angry, disappointed, surprised, disgusted, indecisive, anxious... mostly unhappy, but a few people were happy.

2009-09-02T01:14:00.000-05:00

I ran into some old friends at Tofher's the other night. Super ex-girlfriend and Chicago resident Renae, current roommate and chill drinking buddy Adam and I walked in on what we expected would be a slow night - the middle of the week - and found... who was all there that night?

Emily Stam and Brady, Jane, Jason, Mikey, Dee and Mela and a handful of other people that I don't remember, know too well, or don't know at all. I said hi to the bartender, ordered a pitcher of Blue Moon and pulled out my ID but she shook her head and said, "It's OK. I remember you." That has nothing to do with what I want to relay here - I just thought it was cool. The fun thing about having a drink in a small town bar is that you can go back, and forth, and make the rounds with your drink, stopping in for an argument, making a sly joke, pulling friends out for a bar and taking a breath for conversation in a loud(ish) room. Near the end of the night, as they were headed back to the brick house and we were headed back to campus, and Mela was relaying her parents' visiting, she left with an invitation to join them. I had to decline. We were tired, our other roommates and friends were expecting us back and if I went to the brick house, I would probably end up spending the night on the couch. "OK. If I don't see you tonight, I'll probably see you two other times this year," she said with a smile that wasn't really a smile, but a "Yeah, how ya like me now, you beautiful bitch?" That made me sad (and electrified) because the truth is that I can, and feel comfortable, taking my roommates over to the brick house, any circle of friends over to the brick house (and back to my apartment, out for a walk, a drink at Tofher's, Orange City for an escape, the Bean etc. etc.). Introducing new friends is one of my favorite things, but sometimes I feel like I am neglecting some friends over others. I live with, and have a great time with, my roommates and I'd argue that I'm the odd one out in the group. I don't want to call them the Bean crowd, but I love them too - individually and communally - and we celebrate a lot of the same interests. There are other friends too - the rooms upstairs that hold an indispensable refuge from the activities that take place in my apartment. Just last night I read in Bailey and Val's room while they were already fast asleep and earlier today, I took a pre-dinner nap in there with Pam and Amanda and Devil Wears Prada. (You heard me.) But we fall into a routine, you know? Class, class, see friends in between classes, lunch, class, stop by rooms, some people come visit, etc. So I'm wondering, dear patient reader, what it is that leads people to be friends. Note that some people... some personalities are more prone to be friendly anyway, to everybody, and others are more guarded.

2009-08-22T21:56:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting in my Southview apartment, in the middle of bags, boxes, open suitcases with clothes spilling out, lamps, a lineup of speakers and LCD Soundsystem blaring, a sink of dirty dishes and a few magazines that I have to catch up on from my time away. Just a little bit ago, Troy and I met Dordt faculty and staff upstairs in the mezzanine to welcome the freshmen class to their college experience. We sat as student representatives on the stage and sang with our professors and administrators as the freshmen filed in and took their seats. I'm glad we did it, even if they looked dazed, confused, tired and/or bored. That's all expected from their first day of orientation. One thing I wanted to say: College is nothing like orientation - shake it off. Their PC leaders and advisors and everyone else has, no doubt, welcomed them to our fine institution already, and even if some of them are looking forward to starting the semester, I'd put some money down that none of them feel as terribly excited as the professors, administrators and their parents. Dr. Kobes spoke for the faculty right before us. The house was brought down. The man tore it up. I firmly believe that the ceremony should have consisted of songs, prayers and Dr. Kobes affirming the hopes and promises of the incoming class. Troy and I stood at the opposite microphone and felt our knees shake. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting from the stage, I saw more and more familiar faces in the crowd - people I knew would be there and, unfortunately, others I forgot had graduated high school. One thing I wanted to say: It's astounding to realize that these friends will be walking the same halls, that we'll be there as they grow and affirm who they are and what they believe. Especially for those of us whose younger siblings will be starting this year, I can't take how excited we are. I've stepped over onto sentimental now, but you can believe how strange I felt before the sea of confused and anxious students. One thing I wanted to say: This is their school now. How they choose to lead (or not to lead) this year will be much more significant than anything the upperclassmen manage to pull off in the next couple months. Hats off to them. Here's to a good year.

2009-08-16T01:38:00.000-05:00

The clock on my laptop reads 1 38 AM, which means it's 11 39 PM here in Mount Langley. Bear and I set up our dinner just a few minutes ago. Deep breath.

Olympia oysters pan-seared then topped with a dot of herb butter. After learning to shuck an oyster, and considering that these water-filtering gender-switching creatures are still alive through our sticking a knife into their most intimate spaces, sweeping through the muscles to reveal them in all their vulnerability, I still find myself silent and focused at the counter with a small knife. I've read that oysters are the only food we eat still fully alive. I guess I did have squid in Korea that was still moving, but I think those were "just" nerves reacting - the way a daddy longlegs' leg still spasms when you rip it apart. I know. I know. We're talking about food here. What I mean to say is that shucking an oyster is a dangerous and serious ability - like slaughtering a chicken to feed people you care about, to entice their senses and provide sustenance. And they taste so good. Even as they shrink to the size of dimes in the pan and take on the coloring and flavors of the butter, we taste the ocean.

Roast tomato. As simple as ripe, organic tomatoes, marinated for fifteen minutes in sea salt, black pepper, chopped shallots and olive oil then slow roasted at 225 degrees for... must have been almost two hours, slowly filling the kitchen with an escalating dance of comfort and sensuality. We topped with a few drops of balsamic vinegar right before serving. It was more subtle than sticking your face over a pot of tomato sauce with the music going, and friends laughing in the tail end of spring semester, but along the same lines. This bowl of tomatoes is so precious, we'll keep the juices that are left when the last piece is eaten. It might be the base to a sauce we make, or we might sop it up with a nice piece of...

Olive baguette. We purchased this at the Mount Vernon Food Coop, but we believe one Nate Smith could (and probably has) reproduce such a crusty, tasty canvas for a forkful of...

Roast vegetables - zucchini, red bell peppers, leeks and fava beans with olive oil, lemon juice, sea salt and pepper. This was probably the most visually vibrant plate we had, and a wonderful salad to behold. We could eat this all week, but we'll have polished it off in two days. (You don't understand how much we made of this. If we stuffed it in a bag and placed it under Beardface's shirt, people would ask if we were having twins.)

Salmonberry Wine, picked in May of this year from the back 17 acres of Child's Creek Farm, among the creek and muck, bottled the 4th of August... which is just last week. Beard has a winemaking store owner friend Bob who, with his dog, caught up with us on the way to the co-op for afternoon coffee. Beard gifted him four pounds of Salmonberry when he picked them so they could both make their own wine and share. Bob ranted and raved about how good Beard's was - he shared it with some winemaking aficionados (read: nice snobs) and they thoroughly enjoyed it. So we opened it tonight to see and record notes.

8/15 First Bottle (w/ Alvin) + oysters!

- tang, good berry bouquet and flavor

- very bright and refreshing

- reddish rose color

- lemon on back of tongue?

He's right and there's a very, very clean and appealing finish. It's almost a buzz on the roof of your mouth, but there's no fuzzy film left on your tongue which adds greatly to the drinkability. Right now, I'm not trying to sell this guy. It's a great wine and I'm not a huge fruit wine drinker. So, ladies, first year winemaker and single bearded guy. Must be great with kids and OK with asian life partners and goats.

I was going to take pictures, but most of the food is gone. Later, photos of wine.

---

D9 was... well, it's an interesting story of how it was made... apparently a Halo movie (the xbox game) was in the works, but it fell through... and that is somehow related to this... where Producer Peter Jackson approached Director Neill Blomkamp and basically said, "Do whatever you want and I'll support it. I'm Peter Jackson." Whatever Peter Jackson touches is studio insurance (even mediocre, three-hour King Kong with a world profit of well over $250 million). So previews were all over the place, a creative marketing strategy for the bigger cities was executed and a bunch of girls rolled their eyes. When a movie gets well over 90% on Rottentomatoes, it's kind of a big deal, but those usually aren't movies that might be described as "Not enough like Time Traveller's Wife," or "Too much like Transformers, not enough like... insert geeky sci-fi movie here," or even "Where are the boobies?" Let's talk about the flaws first.

The first half or so of the film took a documentary-style to relay the exposition of the plot - interviews and "stock" footage of anti-alien/non-human regulations. The second half is the Transformers/Harrison Ford/Bourne with shakier camera and quick cuts. There was one POV of the alien looking out the window, he is dejected and... claw-cuffed and hopelessly observing some physical abuse and the POV shot itself is swooping all over the place. That, and the gross content, with the cherry coke and theater popcorn, led to a pretty rough headache.

It dipped, for just a few scenes, into the sentimental. The rogue alien and cast-off human kneel before each other, wounded and bleeding with bullets tearing all around them. They look each other in the eye - one set is kind of gray and blue, the other is yellow and black. "We stick together! I'm not leaving you!"

That being said, it's pretty impressive that the film had the audience to resonate emotionally with the aliens. Glory had us caring about Denzel Washington, WallE had us crying for a robot that only said one word, and District 9 had us rooting for a prawny, skeletal creature from space. Nice.

The metaphorical significance somewhat dissolved itself as the specific resolution was being sought out. I think I'm OK with that because it gave way for character structure and decision, but I'm not too OK with as simplified a resolution as, "They have the thing we need, let's go Die Hard on their asses. Thug life." I should have said that I'm not a big sci-fi viewer, and maybe it all dwindles down to the geeky guy getting really mad and picking up a gun that makes people explode in order to make a movie.

I guess the previews led me to believe that the black muck the guy gets sprayed with is some sort of initial infection that would spread, of course, to other humans, which is why the aliens are there in the first place... like several other alien films or, even worse, some vampire flicks and, even better, a handful of zombie flicks. One guy gets infected and starts spewing his business on everyone else, the aliens successfully plague another planet. How many movies are coming to mind right now? Independence Day, Dawn of the Dead, Shaun of the Dead, 28 Days Later, The Faculty etc. That's not what happens here. What happens is, the guy goes back in time to see what his wife was like when she was, like, six years old. It's OK! It's not creepy because he tells this little girl, while they're standing alone in a field, that he's going to marry her someday. Not creepy. Romantic.

Right?

Happy Allison's birthday. Allison, all my friends like you better than they like me. Enjoy it.

2009-08-13T03:24:00.000-05:00

Eerie.

...I feel like a part of my blog was put through Google translator, brought back to broken English and then posted on this clusterbone of a blog. Or maybe it's a rogue non-English speaker teaching him/herself by tediously translating word-for-word with an outdated dictionary. If the latter, keep at it Poytiki. Either way, at 1 30 AM, after crosswords, Entourage, wine and laughter, this is nothing short of terrifying.

But anyway.

Tonight marks the last of nights that I'll stay here in Langley because tomorrow, the minute that Stina and Jess return home from work, to the waiting arms and greetings of Paul and myself (two able, educated, competent and healthy American young men), we will journey past the border into Washington.

I hate to say this, and many will scoff, but I'm looking forward to being able to use my cell again. Simultaneously, I wonder that I may have been happier, more calm, with a stunted ability to make calls and texts. There are voices I miss, so I have calls to make - especially back in Mount Vernon, contacting Beardface as we run our circles around.

I miss watching movies. I had this big idea to walk through a

District 9 VS. The Time Traveler's Wife

, which would have been very fun (and would have put a few people in their places), but I would have been largely going by trailers. Still would be interesting, I think, but I guess I'd like to see more movies than I have been lately. Also, I'm tired and there are a few others out that look interesting.

I've started about five different paragraphs, with five starts on five different subjects, but they are boring and I'm not sure how/that I want to talk about them here.

2009-08-07T03:14:00.000-05:00

A moment. Thursday, Paul driving the Passat down Hwy 1 back towards Langley. Having had picked up Christina from work, and abandoning the Buick from where it stood in the parking lot, after a tantrum and shutdown with the engine (and the brakes, then the ignition and...), we sped back to Ralph's, a semi-outdoor produce place, before they closed. We were hungry, Stina had a big day, and we wanted to get groceries so we could make Mexican food for dinner and relax together into the evening.

I sat in the back, staring straight ahead and occasionally sipping my carbonated lychee drink. They softly chatted and talked out their day, and current decisions - small as they were - to each other. Paul offered Christina a sip of his drink each time before he took one for himself. He wore jeans and a t shirt, both dirty from having had worked construction in the morning and staining the deck. She in greys and blacks with her hair partially up in elegant swoops. The sun was on its way down, and I looked at the empty seats next to me, the landscape flying by, and two good friends of mine, trying to imagine, and hang on to, what we must be right now, in a moment. One college grad, working an actual job. Two students - graphic design and writing - entering their senior year. A week ago, the border patrol asked us how it was we all went to the same school when we were from Langley, LA and Iowa. I guess I've been turning that question over in my head since we drove away, baffled at how we were supposed to answer.

"After this week, the next time I'll be riding in a car with you two up front... your kids will be here. Your firstborn will be named Quincy."

They did laugh, and went along with the premonition, which is great (because the premonition is great) and I wondered if it would be true and, if it will, how accurate it will be.

(Their next kid will be named Alvin.)

Because in a little more than a week, I'll be back in Iowa and the semester will start, and end, much sooner than we will be ready for it. Friends will go for their semester away, others will come back for their last, and we will all still be adjusting to having the '09 class gone. And who are all these little kids running around? Paul will follow a few days after. Christina will stay and work and continue to seek out jobs with better pay and more to offer in the motivation department.

Yikes. I just freaked myself out. Again.

The Man

2009-08-05T02:32:00.001-05:00

Say what you want about Bill Clinton, rehash any old jokes and supercilious comments about any decisions made in the past. And then read this story and watch the video. I'd honestly like to hear any ideas about what a former American president would say to the dictator of the most secretive and arguably the most oppressed nation in the world. Do you shake hands and smile in the face of a childish monster?

View more news videos at: http://www.nbcmiami.com/video.

2009-08-02T03:57:00.000-05:00

I'm in Langley now. Up in British Columbia. Paul and Christina came out this morning to pick me up from Mount Vernon, to stop by in Bellingham and to cross the border.

Border Patrol: How is it that you three went to school together?

On the ride out here, she told me about a book... something about searching for rose (the wine)... and a couple traveling with a friend who is hilarious and a womanizer to... search for rose (the wine). I'd like to read it after she's done, because she recommended it. Guess who the hilarious womanizer is. How ya doing?

So we're back together... another sort of triple threat, if you will... with the addition of Stina's sister Jess, and spent a big exhausting day in Vancouver and came back to chat and enjoy libations with John and Lynn, to laugh at hiccups etc. etc.

At one point in the evening, Christina slammed her hand down on the dining table. "I don't care. We're going to have pillow talk tonight. It's going to happen." It's not very often that Paul and I exchange bewildered looks without erupting in laughter. We were confused, for slightly different reasons. She went to... contain her excitement, to get more wine, to get some pillows... I don't know, but when she was out of earshot, I whispered to Paul,

"... ...what does she want to pillowtalk about?"

In a regular situation, my answer might have been.

"Bitch, I don't know!"

"Hell if I care!"

"Whatever I want, ho!"

...and so forth. But we were tired.

So we stay up - Paul, Jess and I - quietly listening to soft music, writing letters, searching for lost computer files, sipping more beverage... winding down, one might say. After some time, Jess goes to change into sleep clothes, and Paul disappears shortly after.

Jess came back into the room with her hair tied up. Paul returns with the slightest, most reserved of grins on his face.

"Hey, where's Christina?"

"She's asleep."

It's strange to remember that I'm in Canada now. And with the Beimers at their house, and not at Sandy Hollow sitting outside of their camper as a sweet escape from campus life. The Pacific Northwest is agonizing in its beauty and I'm doing my best, also, to soak in familiar friends in their settings. It's exhausting, the thoughts that constantly stem out from being in the same vicinity with everyone here, everyone I'll hope to spend (more) time with for the duration.

Anyway.

I watched a family in Vancouver earlier tonight. They were young - mom, dad and son. I think they were Chinese, but we weren't close enough to hear what they were saying to each other. They sat upon newspapers that they brought along to wait for fireworks. Just like us, and the 500,000 others. Not a lot of people reading this will know really what I'm talking about, but the young Asian couple... dressed in bright colors, simple garments... very skinny, and looking as if they can live efficiently, as if they're sensible around a calculator etc. etc. Tiny people really, all three of them. Stina reported that the mom and son could comfortably sit on one newspaper square together. They laid back against the gently brushing waves, the sun and water matching each other in exploring the possible colors as the evening dripped away, and the boy rolled about his parents. At one point, the father put his forehead against the back of his son's as he sat quietly on his lap. The child was, no doubt, mesmerized by the dancing water and the father might have been exhausted, working tirelessly to give his family the best start that he could provide. They sat like that for what seemed to be ten minutes. The boy's hair was the same as his father's - cut short to reveal the same efficient, simple head with nothing to hide from each other.

2009-07-30T01:54:00.000-05:00

Why do people become fans of Pissing People Off! on facebook? Why do some of those people have to be kids that were in your group at Dordt Discovery Days last summer that you want to encourage? And if you had any words to give them... they would be to be confident about who they are. That's what we want for anybody we know, right? And if they're young (and so much moreso if they're bright), then we want them to grow enthusiastically and enjoy the time of their youth... pre-youth.

---

I'm talking to a friend, let's call her Dianne, about whether people have types or not... and I just asked Beardface's mom (I almost called her Mrs. Beardface, but Paul Westra doesn't have a beard. Her name is Sharon... er, Mrs. Westra, but I can call her Sharon... and him Paul) because she is the only one awake. I came away with a few chuckles and the knowledge that she wouldn't have dated a Hindu party animal... her red flags were guys who were 1) non-Christian and 2) obnoxious party animals.

That's different from having a type, I argued later. Having a series of red flags, especially for a young Christian on the dating scene (do Christians have dating scenes?), is expected in everyone to some level. For example... I wouldn't exactly ask a girl out to coffee if she were a fan of Pissing People Off! on facebook. Girls don't look cute(r) with ironic phrases on their t-shirts.

Some people have a type, or types. Dianne has a type. There are certain characteristics that she either consciously ascertains from guys, or that she's noticed are common attributes with guys she's fallen for... or both (the latter, then the former). Guys with dark hair who aren't stringy tall and have calm, clear eyes. Not loud guys. (Dianne doesn't like me that much.)

Dianne and people like her are, generally, the same people who have separate mental lists of People I Could Date and People Who Are Just Friends... and there is some transition that takes place between those ladders, but not so often, and the criteria... ... ... I have a headache, and anyway, it's much more interesting to have someone explain it to you for themselves.

I don't have a type. Sorry. I maintain that I don't have a type because... it's so interesting when you talk with someone, and you walk away saying, "Who is this person?" as in, "I want to see this person again," and "I want to know this person." Girls who can be mean... that's hot. Girls who laugh when they want. Also hot. I could go on for pages...

Other friend, she'll be Isabel tonight, says that the people we don't find intriguing on some minimal level are the ones that guard themselves. Sadly, perhaps these are also the people that bore us.

Or, more truthfully, what I said was that some people bore me. That might be the most pompous thing that could be said about another person. "Maybe there's a correlation between how guarded people are, and how boring they seem to be."

...maybe I'm just bored by people who have different interests than I/people who suck.

No, because really, guarded people are intriguing initially.

And there are things that catch your eye with a member of the opposite sex. I don't mean being an ass-man or a breast-man, because that's a totally different, generic conversation. (It's still a fun one to have occasionally.) I mean things that you talk about when you haven't seen your bearded friend in awhile and you're up late playing Cribbage and having some wine. It's not that you're immediately interested in a GIRL when she wears black with silver jewelry (for example)... but you notice it, and think it looks nice and wish more girls would do that.

And then THAT girl (any number of them) does it, and you crumble.

But anyway.

That's all different from having a type. I just thought it was interesting. I mean, if I met a girl from India with a British accent... that'd be great. Mostly because of that frickin' movie Bend It Like Beckham... and then she was on ER later. That was cool.

/Someone who will die for you and more, but it ain't me babe! No! No! No!

The only way to enjoy the sun

2009-07-27T17:25:00.000-05:00

An old, fat, happy looking man sat in the shade outside of his house. He wore gray sweatpants and a western-style shirt on the sidewalk, shaded by an unfettered magnolia tree (it seemed) on one of the hottest days during one of the hottest summers that Mount Vernon has seen in several years. Jeremy and I were walking back from the town (library for books, coop for coffee, groceries and late gifts for my sister's birthday). We passed the amtrak station, a few pubs, a small movie theater that's doing outdoor screenings for the summer. With onions, oats and yogurt in our packs, we made our way back to the neighborhoods, walking mostly uphill in 90+ degree weather. We met a nice guy on the way.

--

Just now,

"You might want to put some pants on. Maybe even a light jacket. And if they start swarming you, don't swat too hard. Just swat lightly."

"...don't freak out?"

"Yeah! Don't freak out! If you're five feet away, you should be fine. Just walk away if they come after you."

"..."

"And maybe... you might want shoes and socks."

Jeremy manages two medium-sized bee hives and we're going to set in some frames he assembled this afternoon. I will not freak out, and take photos. Hope to write more, and hear from you, later.

Five Operators and Me

2009-07-22T01:47:00.001-05:00

I felt like the worst kind of person when I picked up my phone tonight. It was some 360 number that I was unaware of. Jeremy on the other end, asking if I had landed in Seattle yet.

This happened a few hours ago, when it was still Tuesday, July 21. It's now Wednesday, July 22 and the original plan that my mother and I carefully arranged online for was tomorrow, Thursday, July 23, depart Sioux Falls, SD to Seattle, WA to arrive back on August 18, the day before Symposium prep. meetings with Troy and Bethany began.

I thought Jeremy was kidding, and he thought I was kidding.

And then there was panic. A rush of anger, disbelief, sweat and blood to my brow. I felt like the worst kind of person and flipped open my email.

The itinerary online said Depart: Sioux Falls August 18, Return August 19.

We were both wrong. Actually, all three of us were wrong. I don't know how. I don't know how. I don't know what happened and, as I said (I hope kindly and patiently to the five operators) I don't really need to know what happened. What can we do from here? It's not about why/how the flight changed twice since whenever it was earlier this month that I booked it.

"Red Quail Dog Six Gopher Kansas." That's my confirmation number. I gave it four different times, and they always typed before responding "OK, Alvin Shim? What can I do for you?"

Gina, Andrew, Mike, Elaine and Cassidy. The last two are supervisors, and very courteous and straightforward. I don't want to say whether any of them passed their job on to another operator in another cubicle, though Mike did consider passing me back to online connection, which was Andrew's department, and I just wanted to say, to all of them, to please not waste any of our time.

One by one, they found me an alternate schedule, applied the flight change fee ($150) and calculated the difference in flight cost from the original reservation ($311.99, considerably more than the original ticket price), waived the change fee and discussed the various options I had from there. Cassidy felt that the best option would be to shop around online for a cheap(er) flight that would work into my schedule, assuring me that the credit I had with the original ticket would carry over so long as I gave them the correct numerals and informed the agent to document the "remarks on ticket" with the waiver code.

Mom says that maybe God doesn't want me to go to Washington. It should be noted that Mom doesn't want me to go either. Hani says maybe I should've asked God about it... which I did, but I think God and Mom talk more anyway.

The semester starts in one month. After the frenzy in Honduras, and rearranging the flight and summer schedule, building anticipation, having it broken and rebuild, I'm now sitting in the living room at 2 in the morning, trying to gather up the energy to search for another flight out... by this weekend hopefully. And if not, I'll have less than three weeks to (at least start to) make some sort of a living before the semester starts.

And Jeremy (and Elbert) drove out to Seattle to pick me up. And a 40-year-old pastor in New Jersey, with three kids under the age of 5, died of a heart attack. He was on the treadmill at the time. Isn't that ironic, and terrible? My family grew up with his apparently. I don't remember, but I probably would if I saw their faces. I did see my friend Poel's face tonight, under the light of the SV/East Campus parking lot. He and two dudes were launching water balloons at Sarah and I, practicing for when campus security showed up, but ran out before he actually did. (What a bunch of amateurs.) Poel's mom, as you may know, suffered an aneurysm last week and died Thursday morning. Mikey's little brother, the super intelligent and quiet (like all the Olthoff boys), will be in hospital for months more of healing, but he's doing better than anybody would have imagined. Sarah's home in Godfrey will be her former home officially very soon. Hani's mom doesn't want her to drink. Her dad just doesn't want anybody to pressure her. Scott and Margaret celebrated their two-year anniversary yesterday. Bree's car broke down on the way to Sioux Falls. Hani's broke down IN Sioux Falls. Caitlin said to yell, or cry, on the phone... maybe she really should have called for me.

What happened after I became the worst person ever? Bree decided she was too tired and finite to run about at midnight, so as Hani and I biked over to East Campus, we said a small prayer passing by her house. Sarah passed by in her car, cutting through that beautiful Sioux Center-in-the-summer air, and I relayed the evening to her, feeling like I was about to hurl the bike across the lot. I hate that anger and frustration bleeds over to unrelated people and irrelevant things.

Tease

2009-07-12T01:24:00.001-05:00

I normally hate trailers for films. Even though I love (and miss) the guy who performed the "In a world..." voice-overs, I often can't stand watching trailers for films I've seen, even if I hate the movie too. Don't get me wrong. I love watching them, but so often there seems to be a tried (but not necessarily true) formula for enticing an audience... even if it isn't necessarily accurate to the content, tone or story of the film in question. The narrator says something very brief, but largely unnecessary, clip of the actors saying something entertaining, maybe something more indicative of the story, flash cut to action, flash cut to action, louder music, more action, explosion/blood/sex scene, CUT MUSIC, witty line of dialogue, titles up, release date. What's the purpose of a trailer? Like a book cover, it's generally for publicity - so more people will buy tickets, or pick up the book. "Here's what the story is, and the big name actors, maybe some awards it won already... and some A.D.D. video editing." Go!

But! Look at this!

You should (eventually) see the film because it's haunting, brutal, beautiful and terrible but I've never had as much fun with a trailer. And it goes against almost everything I've just whined about.

The thing is that films rarely are enticing when you describe the story itself. It shouldn't be this way, but take a look at the tops of the box office lately. According to imdb, they are...

1) Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen

2) Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs

3) Public Enemies

4) The Proposal

5) The Hangover

What are the synopses for these films? By themselves, not great movies. (Are any of these great movies?)

Robots come to earth and explode things, nasty "actress" bounces around, nerds freak out.

A bunch of semi-famous screen actors provide the voice for some animals running around in the... um... ice age.

JOHNNY DEPP kind of plays John Dillinger (but not really), robs a few banks, breaks out of a few prisons, has a few suave lines of dialogue.

A strained, forced relationship between a cold boss and a promising assistant turns romantic... Sandra Bullock, people!

And finally, a bunch of guys (including Andy from The Office) go to Vegas for a bachelor party and it gets out of hand.

So you need big name actors, and the right compilation of scenes (action, dialogue, sex appeal etc.) because the story isn't going to sell it... ... ... by itself.

WHICH is why the A Clockwork Orange trailer is so hilarious and awesome, because it tells you almost NOTHING about the story, not even bothering to tell you the most basic plot points or any actors involved. Instead, it vomits the most generic buzzwords that will be attached to the film - WITTY, SATIRE, METAPHORICAL, FUNNY, BEETHOVEN (that was my favorite). The crazy is that the story is, by itself, pretty enticing... even without mention of the director, or that it is based on the Anthony Burgess novel, or that it's set in a dystopian Britain.

Remember whenever it was that The Simpsons Movie was coming out? There were a few brief trailers out there that was merely the title, the release date, and Homer doing the Spider-Pig bit. That's a different scenario - a Simpsons movie is a Simpsons movie, and I'd read an article, that I'm too lazy to track down and link now, that said the writers really didn't want that clip to be given away in the trailer (it was, undeniably, the best part of the whole film) but the studio producers were adamant about it. Something about keeping the only funny clip out of the trailers and having half-empty theaters... etc.

But I forgot to ask the question. What makes you want to see a movie?

What you might not know, because we're drifting apart and that's only because you want to.

2009-07-10T17:17:00.000-05:00

My hands smell like tomato plants, the taste of peaches lingers on my tongue and hot Dominican coffee is probably not the best thing for a post nap-in-a-hot-room dehydration headache... but it is delicious.

Manuel Zelaya is the ousted president of Honduras. The man is friends with Hugo Chavez. Earlier this summer, he (Zelaya) organized what he claims was merely a poll on whether the president should be allowed to serve additional terms than the current one. It wasn't official. Its outcome was not supposed to be a deciding factor, but perhaps a note for future motions. Chavez pulled it off, but he is apparently more popular. Anyway, the Honduran Congress ordered the army to confiscate the elections materials (ballots and so forth). They did so, which led Zelaya to lead a mob to retrieve said materials from... was it an army barracks? I don't think so, but something very exciting like that. In the morning of the election, one hour before the ballots were to open, masked soldiers apprehended Zelaya at gunpoint (reportedly, he was still in his pajamas) and flew him to Costa Rica in exile. The Honduran people are more than split on this... some support Zelaya and are protesting the Congress and their actions, some don't necessarily support him, but are concerned about the (illegal) coup, others are all, "Zelaya was a tyrant anyway, let's move on."

I know this from BBC, CNN and Time and not because I went with Dr. Woodbury, Bekah Ahrenholz, Megan Pothoven and a few other Dordt girls to Tegucigalpa for GEN 251: History and Culture of Honduras, as was planned. We were to depart the Friday after the coup took place, which was Sunday and perhaps the deciding factor was that the US Embassy advised against any "unnecessary travel" into the country.

The housing assignments - details of the families, pets, etc. - were sent out and all the speakers/seminars were finalized. I had a not-very-rough outline for the video written out... loosely inspired by Matthew Gray Grubler's video intern work on The Life Aquatic dvd (hilarious AND informative). The texts for the course were purchased and read and marked, our bodies were getting adjusted to the chloroquine.

Instead of all that, there's a wedding in Chicago, a farm to take residence and put weeding hours in near the Bellingham area in Washington State... a winery and a restaurant just a few miles from the property that needs summer help, a guy with a beard to live/work with (who gave me permission to fall in love with the women), friends who live SURPRISINGLY close to the area, other friends who are deciding whether to drive up and spend the rest of summer there. Video, photo and fiction can still be had. It would have been very exciting to be in a country that could almost be following some of the recent steps of the Irani people. But we're not.

2009-07-05T02:08:00.000-05:00

Apparently writers know that "happy is nice, but it's hard to explain." Excuse me for a second while I scribble it in my notebook. I suppose I agree, but I'm not sure yet. We saw Public Enemies earlier today and walked out of the theatre, collected in a group in a moment of frazzled silence - confusion really - before rubbing our eyes to let them focus and unloading that, "That was the worst movie ever." Dane was already pacing around the parking lot, furiously smoking a cigarette. The next several hours were bound to thinking up the myriad of sins and flaws the film had. In doing so, I think we were attempting to digest it fully so we could wash the tastes from our mouths to let it go. It was fun. Our phrases were colorful and they were said with such angry vigor. And then the corn and chicken was on the grill, the guacamole on the table, the libations in hand and the evening was settling steadily away from muggy to clear and cool. Conflict is the main ingredient for story and, luckily, our lives have no shortage of it. Happy IS nice, and happy should be taken deeply and/but we're complex individuals grasped on all sides by individuals that we might find we're comfortable with from time to time, and maybe that has to do with the layers we build and the holes we dig, but what are we really doing but scurrying about frantically? Maybe another way to see it, to think of what we do, is that we're dancing constantly - slow or frenetic, but we are. At least. What's happy then? Are we happy when we hear a good song and see a good friend? Or is it when we realize that what we're doing, that all we're doing, is dancing?

Cryptic enough? I'm just having trouble organizing my thoughts. My body is worn, especially down at the tips of my toes. It feels good. Fireworks are magnificent. They're almost too dazzling and surprising for anybody older than seven, right? Especially in the middle of an empty tennis court, with racquet and balls and similarly equipped friends.

2009-07-04T00:45:00.001-05:00

And it will rain all night, I hope. It's lovely because while your dad sleeps off the jet lag, you can sit on your sheltered porch with a bowl of pasta and green beans and a glass of wine and listen to the rhythm of it all. And also, after several hours yesterday evening of weeding, tilling and fortifying the plants with compost, the rain is such a divine blessing, it might as well be a sacrament.

Here's the catch up: I'm back in Sioux Center. The Honduras trip was officially cancelled. Otherwise, I would've already landed there and would have been trying to memorize names and documenting initial thoughts upon arrival. Instead and currently, looking for jobs in... Des Moines, Chicago, Grand Rapids and Skagit area in Washington state... finding places to hire rest-of-summer work won't really pan out in this lovely, dinky town. Also, as I said, dad is home and it's been very, very chill with our respective work places. Mom flies back on Monday coming and, hopefully, I'll be out of the house soon after that week. Craigslist is a sprawling beast, but it's much more useful when one has already put a resume together. There are nine rogue tomato plants, three additional ones that I actually planted, three sprawling zucchini and some outrageous, towering hollyhocks. All of them growing like children.

I don't really know what to report... which is the anxiety that manifests when one gets out of the groove of posting... much more often. I suppose. Watched My Kid Could Paint That earlier today... among other things. Which was great, and inspiring for art AND video... thought through the years when documentary film was the focus...

I do love Sioux Center in the summer, and the timing has been great lately... with the productivity, sun, solitude and laughter at the appropriate times. It will not last and the summer will turn again, somehow, hopefully somehow soon. Which is, largely, a problem of my own if it doesn't.

Maybe I'm starting to miss working in collaboration/on a big project... because Honduras video, photo series were to be large projects... say the empty space on the hard drive, the three CF cards and the box of fifteen blank miniDV tapes downstairs.

Another lesson, of course. In self-motivation... towards staying up late AND getting up in the morning, to start the coffee and jumping in the shower, keeping up the cycle with night runs, and hopefully tennis soon. Ross! Matty! Wake up! Spontaneity is great, but it isn't really possible if you droop around on your ass all day.

More to do.

2009-06-25T05:38:00.000-05:00

I spent the last month and a half driving around these mountains, editing a manuscript, double-checking facts and phrases, searching for crowded rooms in which to get lost in, searching for quiet rooms in which to write in. In less than six hours, I hope to be driving away from the mountains, past the reaching fields of Nebraska, up the stinky 75 and to my home. It will smell like my family, though my family will not be there, and I will probably collapse. If not, if I'm still having trouble keeping my eyes shut like I am now, then we'll find something to do.

Thankfully, there are people to chat with who are wide awake on the other side of the world. It's strange to imagine talking to someone when their mental state is almost the complete opposite of yours. We reveal ourselves differently when we know we should be asleep, when we're laying in bed in a dark room. If we are sitting up, showered, made up, probably caffeinated and it's light and activity outside, maybe guarded isn't the right word to use, but we're at least distracted and moving, on a momentum for the day and looking forward. If there are birds singing there, she could probably see them outside the window. Here they are phantom noises. Songs from ghosts and shadows.

I remember when I was much younger, and felt like the worst person ever when I would fall asleep praying at night, I tried to organize my thoughts for a moment before taking that huge breath and rushing in with the Dear God... The trouble is that there isn't enough time to pray for everyone's everything and maybe that's one way I justify the lesser-winded prayers. There was a retreat some time ago, lost in the blur of how many we went to every year, how many times we got on our knees and bawled and held each other to wake up early the next day and head home in the bright sunlight, I remember the speaker for that particular year was saying something about how you pray for everything and everyone you can think of, for every little detail you release from yourself and then, when you're "clear" and kneeling there in silence, it just so happens that you can hear what the person next to you is praying about... "And you say, 'OK. I can pray about that.' " So you do, and so on and so on. It's like brainstorming... for everything in existence.

The sun is starting to rise. I can see a soft blue, the color God would assign your mom's hand on your face when you've got a fever, the most comforting color in the world, and the early workers are already on the road. I can hear them. Maybe I should just make some coffee because, dear worried reader, I can't bring my eyes to shut for more than five seconds. My therapist is about to end her day at work. The sun, the same sun, is maybe just starting to ease itself on its way down to the horizon. That means that, from here, it's about to reach over and the blue light will eventually be yellow... which really makes you wonder about white light. I mean, the idea of white balance isn't really as objective as we'd like to think. She's not a very good therapist; she just said that I'm going to die on my drive home. Actually, maybe that makes her a great therapist... or a concerned acquaintance. I don't think I will. When the caffeine wears off, the hydration and calories will help, the movement and activity. The nap(s) as well. Then the caffeine again. Tell my mother not to worry.

Am I too excited to sleep? Are the latter tracks of More Adventurous haunting me? The Safran Foer book that Jermy sent? The pile of keys that rattle around the film canister where I keep letters? That she puts on red lipstick to study for exams? Awesome. Chicks, man.

Adios.

List!

2009-06-23T01:25:00.000-05:00

What to do when back in town, in no particular order...

-play with dog
-run with dog
-comfort dog
-eat kimchi
-check/tend garden
-spend several evenings in backyard with friends and food and drink and Sigur Ros and Yo La Tengo and Iron & Wine and Bob Dylan and hookah
-string up lights and torches and music in backyard
-watch Anchorman
-see Rob Taylor, Todd Montsma, Prof. Volkers, Prof. Hubbard, Bethany Schuttinga
-dance face off at Jess, Katie's wedding
-move out of apt. with Matty
-pack for Honduras
-pick up dad from airport
-talk to/hug people my age
-finish short story
-see if flight can alter to land in LAX
-lots of sweet late night tipsy tennis action
-hello, hello, hello, hello, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
-find a turtle, become attached
-watch sunset/sunrise from roof
-visit Pencil Box
-write out Honduras pre-reflection
-chase bats
-play guitar in private
-have breakfast with friends on porch
-secure camera for Honduras
-drink beer with dad
-dig firepit? Otherwise, visit Sandy Hollow
-streeeet hockey EXTREME
-recite poetry
-long walks on beach
-go fishing, feel bad when fish swallow hook, then angry
-sleep outside
-eat cherries, spit pits, attempt to plant
-make guacamole with Mama Dee, attempt to plant
-make hummus, borscht, eat chips and salsa with Matty, run out of chips
-eat waffles with Carmela, have Dan take her to work
-eat something with leeks in it
-hear Discovery Days stories, laugh fondly
-guilt trip Bailey for not visiting, feel bad
-night time bike rides
-hackysack
-visit Blue Mountain bar

What else? What did I forget?

2009-06-21T22:46:00.001-05:00

Add Mike Olthoff's family to your prayers. Little brother Ben was flown out to the burn unit in St. Paul's hospital after a bonfire accident Friday night. I can't imagine what would happen if one of my brothers were badly burned over the majority of their body and had an estimated six months in the hospital to fight through. They are there now, trying to get some rest for these important first few days.

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-21T14:45:00.000-05:00

There are two mother-daughter sets here at the bagel place where I come to drink coffee, research and talk to the bagel at the counter. The girls are all young - six or so - and you have to wonder where the dads are. Sleeping in, or out golfing, maybe "out of the picture" because that girl with her mom in the corner booth looks much too sad for a girl her age.

To my left, at the employee table, a high schooler with a subtle nose ring calls her friend back. "I know. I didn't pick up because I'm at work. Well, yeah obviously. Technically, I'm not even supposed to be calling you back..." It's so great, the edge in her voice and I'm trying to stifle my laughter with both hands.

Oh goodness. The mom in the corner just moved to sit next to her daughter and they're both staring at the door with pleading eyes. The sun is all business today. Mid-90s and harsh, brutal light. Obviously they gave the father an opportunity to meet his daughter, who just started ballet day-camp, here at their favorite bagel place and, like the deadbeat he was, he couldn't muster up some balls to meet his daughter. The mom, Karen, clutches her phone nervously to her chin, rocking back and forth. Daughter Cassie quietly eats her bagel, carefully wiping her mouth with each bite. She wore her bright orange hair band for today, her favorite, and watercolor sundress.

What a sad story for Father's Day.

They decide it's about time. Karen places her large sunglasses over her eyes and clears the table as Vicky stands quietly by the door, drinking her tropically colored smoothie.

I love you dad, and mom, and brothers and sister.

2009-06-20T02:55:00.000-05:00

Maybe I also did it because it's a step towards maturity. Maybe, but not likely. I really like the new template and header and... the other title didn't make sense at all. What have I ever been neutral on?!

Insomnia!

2009-06-19T05:20:00.000-05:00

I had thought we were through - she and I - and yet, here we are. Four twenty-one in the morning, and the birds are making a steady ruckus outside. I see myself alone in this large room when I look at the window, which means the sun hasn't come up yet. They have to tend to the earth, I know. And they start early. I know that too. I'm supposed to be at the office in... six and a half hours or so, making edits and going down the to-do list that will, undoubtedly, be lying on top of the pile of printed emails and script fragments next to Linda's computer. Coffee will help, but five... and a half hours of sleep would help more. Can dehydration keep you awake at night? Even if you don't feel thirsty?
Maybe it's because I looked at photos.
Maybe it's because I thought about my own personal to-do list that is still more to-do than done.
Maybe it's because I had a platonic DTR-type, why are we friends, conversation. (Funny!)
Maybe it's because I'll be in Sioux Center in one week, and that is weird.
Maybe it's because Honduras travel is after that, and arranging for the camera from Volkers and thinking up a loose script for the video.
Maybe it's because Volkers and Rob Taylor and Hani and the film festival to be planned.
Maybe it's because there's a running list of people I want to talk to before summer continues to slip away from our clenched fingers.
Lying in bed and making an effort to keep the eyes closed, kicking around and trying to slow your heartbeat is one of the most frustrating times you will experience in your life, I think.
Unless you golf, and are bad at golf.
I know what you're thinking. "Alvin, you should drink a beer as fast as you can! That's what I do and it always works for me." Well, all right mom. I'll keep that in mind if it gets to six and I'm still up.

Four thirty-six. Took a break because I'm not too interested in this post and read that Iran's supreme leader claims that because so many people voted in the election, there's no way voter fraud could have taken place. Also, "The legal structure in this country does not allow vote-rigging." It's a tall order of pomposity* and delusions with a bowl, not a cup, of organic lies on the side.

Four forty-one. Do you ever get it when you're running around during the day, lying awake at night, or showering (or doing anything, really) and a scene or a dialogue pops into your head, and you play around with it mentally, before you scribble it down somewhere. And then, when you finally do, you can't believe how self-centered you are? I mean, seriously. There was a time in my life when I used to observe the scenes and exchanges of the people around me, and not just my own.

Linda has a masters in theology and drama. Hopefully we'll get to talk about that before I take off.

I want to ask why Koreans like posing so much, but I'm starting to think that maybe it's just girls...

Four forty-eight. Birds still going. Getting that late-night, exhausted but wide-awake cold creeping in. It starts with the extremities of course, working its way toward the core.

Why doesn't Matt eat sushi anymore? What the heck is that about? Maybe he tried it in France and it sucked, but he thought it would be good because it's France and so forth. I bet that's what happened. Crazy.

I'm going to try and secure the nickname The Body this year. Really go for it this time. Alvin The Body Shim. I know. I KNOW. There should really be at least two syllables in my last name for it to really catch on... are there any asian last names with two syllables? Shim, Kim, Han, Yang, Yoo, Kang, Lee, Park, Ryou is one I guess... James The Body Ryou. Damn, that sounds better doesn't it? I need an epithet that goes well with my first name... like Alvin The Battleship Shim. Oh crap. Ship Shim. Nope. I really want the article though... Alvin The Pain Shim. Geez. That last name is really screwing this up... Alvin The Rage Shim. Alvin The Hazard Shim. Alvin The Taskmaster Shim. Alvin The Blade Shim. The Blade... Boris the Blade... try for alliteration? Alvin the Alka-seltzer. Alvin the Alienated... Rage.
Frick.
Seeing all those asian names in one line is weird. I know (several) people with those names. I know them well... but all of a sudden, we're a bunch of stereotypes. Our families own convenience stores (some friends do), laundromats (some friends do) and sushi restaurants (yes, some friends do - many others work there).

Five o'seven. David The Middle Brother Shim, got the job at a Bank in GR. I don't know if I told you this already. Big news, though!

Also, yes, we are very good at math.

-------------

Ext. Front porch. Late evening.
Three characters: Amy Adams, Tom Waits, Martin Sexton.

AMY and TOM step outside. Tom's clothes are rumpled. Amy holds a glass of wine.

Amy: What are you doing here?

Tom: I'm sorry?

Amy: Sorry. Hi. How are you? is what I meant to say.

Tom: Hello. What am I doing here?

Amy: It's good to see you.

Tom: I'm all right. I just got back...

Amy: Oh. Right. Yeah, I knew that. What's up?

Tom: Um. Well, shit. Do you want to hang out?

Amy: Ah. Yeah...

Tom: I mean, I just got back. So, whatever. Sorry.

Amy: No, it's just that a bunch of people showed up out of nowhere.

Tom: Sorry. I'm kind of tired anyway.

Amy: I don't even know who they all are, actually. They just kind of called each other.

Tom: I've got to do... something tomorrow. I have to do it, but I forget what.

Amy: Ah shit.

Tom: I'm sorry. This is weird.

Amy:No! It's... Fuck, what happene-

(enter MARTIN)

Martin: Hey! You're back! How's it going?"

Tom: Hi Martin. I'm really, really tired. I'm about to collapse right now. I was just about to go away to sleep and all that. How are you?

Martin: Doing well! Yourself?

Tom: ... ...?

Amy (mumbles): You stupid fucker...

-----------

Five sixteen! The sky is a deep, dark blue. Let's try for a few hours.

*The actual noun is pompousness, but which do you think is more fun? Exactly.

Iran and Twitter

2009-06-17T00:44:00.000-05:00

Roughly ten new messages on Iran every seven seconds sent out on Twitter. (#IranElection) While the access and ability to communicate is a serious matter for those who are being censored (citizens of China, Burma, North Korea, Iran), it isn't hardly as useful because, of those last ten messages, five said not to list the Iranian twitter IDs, three others said to change your timezone to Tehran's.
One of them asked "isn't this a good way to spread misinfo too?" The user, simpleurbane, must have thought what anybody would have if they were following this cascade of chatter. Nobody is reliable on Twitter, and information is perhaps more prone to being lost in the various circles it runs through. The army has moved in. No it hasn't. The Lebanese army is in. No it isn't. etc.
Still others relate the feed and the protests to their safe day-to-day, maintaining, it seems, the social-journal function of Twitter.

"i should sleep after a 13 hour shift yesterday and work at 6 tomorrow. reading about #iranelection is too crazy though"

Some others post on photos from the attacks, new videos are up, reputedly from Iranians in Exile, asking the rest of the world to keep from apathy and stand with their human counterparts demanding a fair governing party. I don't know how to do that.

"RT We may be thousands of miles apart, but we all stand together today. #iranelection"

I DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, if anything.

Posting photos, videos, listing off email servers that are being blocked, reporting murders and reporting that camera/laptop carrying citizens are attacked on the street - this is all information that is spun around and used, collaboratively, to put pressure on an oppressive theocracy and band a digital legion of individuals together, sloppy and unorganized as we may be.

http://bit.ly/Q6T1s - Q/A with NYU professor Shirky on Twitter's effect on Iranian riots.

The representatives of our government have a difficult position to uphold (that is, if one sees a government as a tool for/of a people) and it would have been that a nation's united individuals would call on their government to speak for them. We can call on ours to acknowledge that an actual election did not take place and that it won't support a government that oppresses, censors and attacks its own citizens. What can we do, as citizens, to take a step past messaging each other constantly?

"Twitter's impact inside Iran is zero," said Mehdi Yahyanejad, manager of a Farsi-language news site based in Los Angeles. "Here, there is lots of buzz, but once you look . . . you see most of it are Americans tweeting among themselves." http://tiny.cc/3gNFY

It's a good article, and it goes on to cite an Iranian student saying that Twitter is the only means of communication they have to the outside world.

2009-06-16T13:50:00.000-05:00

We're driving through Mexico with a mixture of friends from Grand Rapids and Dordt students, with some professors (Kobes, Fessler, Den Boer). "Friends from Grand Rapids" is a loose description. For instance, cousin Ducky was there, as were previous youth pastors. And others. And others.
I'm in one car, a small convertible (it was raining so the top was down) with brother David, previous youth pastor Yoon (the army guy), and cousin Ducky who keeps switching places with Dordt friend Allison... and when Ducky is there, she's always really sad and at age, like twelve. When it's Allison in our car, she's about to barf or narcoleptic. Right. And it's rainy and we occasionally see the other cars spin out and crash into the barricade. The highway is a littered with car frames and fire dancing in the rain.

So we've been on the road for awhile, so we stop by a Korean convenience store and spend lots of time deciding what we want... gourmet dark chocolate pop tarts, dried squid, Ring Pops, milkshakes, popcorn? Ducky/Allison get distracted with the knockoff purses they also have on display, and previous youth pastor Yoon steps outside to do some exercise. I decide on grapes and water - they don't have 7UP for Allison's stomach.

Boom. The grapes are, like, $7 a bunch. And David is chewing me out. I'm saying, "I didn't round up the costs, mentally. Sorry. Dang." And he's all, "Yeah, that's why I owe you $90!" and he slams my credit card down on the counter. I don't really know what that was about, but we didn't get the grapes.

It stopped raining outside and 12-year-old cousin Ducky is lying on the back of the car, soaking in the sun and feeling a little better. We hit the road until we reach our destination...

A tiny Catholic orphanage for Mexican-Korean children who, let me stop here and tell you, are THE MOST BEAUTIFUL imaginary children in the world. They are stunning. Their skin is golden, their eyes are enormous and sharp and they smile like middle school crushes.

It's situated right on the Atlantic Ocean, not the Gulf, and I don't know if the water is clean there or not, but it was - of course - perfect. We undergo an epic tale of soccer with the ninos. They terrorize us, laughing all the while, and our hearts melt and evaporate and rain down again on our delirious heads.

The strict carekeeper (of COURSE she's strict) calls us in for evening meal and we run in to grab a seat. Somehow we manage a table with the strict carekeeper... she was British actually, somehow... and my brother David STARTS EATING BEFORE PRAYER, and she smacks him off his chair with her ruler. Everyone else at our table laughs crazily. David shakes his head straight, climbs back up, and puts the bread back in the basket.

We pray and begin eating and Kobes and Fessler have a GREAT TIME talking about how they're not in labs, but on the beach in Mexico eating swordfish. They are slapping each other on the back, and coughing from their laughter. It is great.

Summer Questions

2009-06-15T02:17:00.000-05:00

You meet your friends during the semester to ask "How's it going?" If you're good friends, you can be more specific but maybe what we're really asking is "Are you OK? Is there something especially good, bad or interesting that we can talk about?" That's when everyone is around. That's in person, when we can make use of tonal inflections and body language.
During the summer, over the phone, "How's it going?" may very well mean "How are you?" and "Are you OK?" and we might briefly check in sometimes to ask that. "You're doing all right?"
The answer has been more elusive lately.
It is still gorgeous here - I got to watch a thunderstorm make its way from across the valley, seeing the shades of rain and the occasional strike of lightning. Birds singing, sunlight streaming all the while where I was sitting. The hue of the grass shifted as the minutes ticked by, the wind carried whirring sounds past the leaves.
It was a good weekend. Larva called on her way from Iowa City to visit and we exercised social lifestyles - talking over beer, over fish, over whiskey, over coffee, over soup and burgers. With one friend's focus, and the coveted permission to ask elaborate and visceral questions - even if primarily to make sense of it to yourself, putting it up for approval - we got to describe the consecutive stages of our individual identities (student, graduate, teacher, assistant, friend, girlfriend, brother, daughter) and prescribe what we might've been, what we learned we wanted to be, what we're trying to be (leader, activist, artist).

And maybe what was easier and/or more appropriate to ask was "What exactly are you doing here?"

Because that was the grounded question of a lot of what we talked about. Who are our friends? What are they doing, what are they interested in? Who do we find we've surrounded ourselves with? And why? And what is it about those we used to love?
I meet with Linda Seger, a script consultant/author/speaker, in the mornings usually to discuss the new manuscript for her book Making A Good Script Great. (I think what we're working on is the seventh edition, but I may be mistaken.) What that means is a few new chapters, some elaboration, edits or additions to previous chapters on various tenets of scriptwriting.

Examples: montage, sub-plot, voice-over, flashback, thematic characters, thematic monologue, convincing voice and dialect, expository dialogue

Some of the work is simple - double check the names for the characters in The Usual Suspects. Pull off the opening monologue from Michael Clayton. Sometimes it's more of a challenge and she'll ask for a list of film examples to illustrate a love interest character or foreshadow/payoff and I'll scour my notes and imagine the films I left at home. The idea is to use recent (for the new edition after all) and successful films - the best way to understand these concepts is to walk through a film that you know well AKA films that have been seen by the general audience. I do that. I edit some little typos, I fill in the blanks, I come up with suggestions and watch about two films a night, adding on to the list of things to look out for...

Example from my notebook: Ch. 12
Ensemble casts - The Women, Babel, Crash, Lord of the Rings, The Royal Tenenbaums, Snatch, I'm Not There...
Catalyst Characters - Mrs. Robinson, The Graduate; Tyler Durden, Fight Club; The Joker, The Dark Knight; Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), Vicky Cristina Barcelona; shark, Jaws; demon, The Exorcist...

etc.

Most films contain a lot of these elements. Knowing this is frustrating, because it would sound easy to isolate this one piece of filmmaking in your mind and scroll through every film you've seen. That was a very mediocre road trip game actually. A long time ago, we went around the van and listed all the films we've seen one-by-one. Boggle style. So, if you said In Bruges, I couldn't say it on my turn, but I would think you were cooler. It's not that easy, and that was a long trip. I've found the most effective way is to try and keep just a few different look outs on my mind at a time.

Like this, reader. List five film examples for each idea (overlapping is allowed).
-Double protagonists
-Comic-relief characters
-Protagonist playing the skeptic against the film's plot, thereby becoming the lens through which the audience sees the film, thereby learning to suspend belief together

(You're not doing my job. I already went through this chapter... but if you come up with something good... who knows?)

Aside from that, I arrange flights and hotels, look up directions, make reservations and appointments, make/update facebook accounts, read memos on class-action lawsuits involving Google and see if other phone companies would be cheaper. Also, I know how to work a fax machine now. AND, there's an original piece by Impressionist painter Gustavo Arias Murueta that she wants to see what it could move for on eBay. Also, she wants me to set up an eBay account. I've tried to find out more information on him, and might have to look him up at the library. The internet has been little help. Isn't that weird?

When I'm not working... I read to prep. for Honduras course, recently finished some pages for Signet, research for some work to make up for Dengler's Early Brit. Lit. course, read Tolkien's thoughts on fairy stories for De Smith's Lit. Studies, write some letters, write some bad, undisciplined fiction, eat, drink, talk, laugh with Carol and Jerry, watch the lights of Colorado Springs and ask friends to come visit. (New Belgium Brewing Company is two hours from here.)

So. It's going well. But you can't expect that to really tell you anything, right?

Maybe I've got such a short attention span, or maybe I'd like to move my mind more, but I've been laying awake at night thinking about taking a weekend - the whole weekend from Friday to Sunday night - to walk through the thickest of urban Denver with the camera or taking better paper and charcoal to the park or... maybe it's just after watching so many films, and thinking and writing about creativity so much...

People have asked if I'm ready to leave Colorado. Almost. I have less than two weeks before a week in Sioux Center to move and pack and prep. before Honduras. And then, of course, Honduras, which will be a different day-to-day then here - travel with video and photo, with a handful of girls I know very little for a month and a half. Trying to dig up Spanish phrases and syntax from early high school, journeying with a heavy load and the constant, solo attempt to document with a bulky camera, an expensive one, AND a still when my ideal summer week would be one of those, and one or two good friends, and the country to explore.

I don't know that I was trying to get anything across this time but I'm tired now, and find much encouragement from reading of others' adventures. So here are mine.

ALSO. I changed the blog template. I noticed a lot of people have been using the white-on-black minima and it was getting hard to tell one from the other, mine from yours, etc. The list of you below now includes sloppy epithets, anecdotal character sketches and (in)accurate synopses. Fire away.

LARVA'S HERE!

2009-06-13T00:03:00.000-05:00

We had Irish coffee stout, at Trinity Brew, and you might get a postcard from us with more details.
Then we had lots of sushi and (some) plum wine. It was awesome. It is my favorite thing to do with friends (eat sushi - other than cook and drink wine and smoke hookah).

THEN we drove through a windy roads, slaloming enormous boulders and...

Now we're here. And the air smells SO GOOD, apparently.

Hope you are happy too.

Bye!

2009-06-11T19:35:00.000-05:00

Could you explain the concept behind "Information Environmentalism" and what you think about it?
"Information Environmentalism" is a term that David Levy, a professor at the University of Washington, has come up with. The idea is that we need to take an active role in deciding what information we're consuming and what it is that needs to stay by the wayside. We can't turn off our computers, nor should we want to. But I do think that we need to take a curatorial attitude towards our information streams and be very realistic about how much time we have to read and consume stuff online.

Have you done that yourself?
I'm trying to, but it's difficult. I love the novelty just as much as everybody else does. It's very, very hard for me to look away from my RSS reader with its constant stream of new stories or new takes on new stories. I'm very much into what everybody else is interested in at any given point in time.

A Time Q&A with Bill Wasike. Full Interview.

"I was talking to the head of school lunch in Baltimore, and he had a field trip where he took some kids out to a peach orchard and he said a significant percentage of kids had never had a fresh peach. They'd only had peaches in syrup, and it blew their minds. And that should not be. Everyone in America should experience a fresh peach."

Michael Pollan, discussing the new documentary Food Inc. on Newsweek. Full Interview.

We should really get that a screening of that film at Dordt.

Apologies for the links and pointing on this post, but I don't have much to say at the moment...
EXCEPT that I'm house sitting for my boss in her beautiful cabin situated remotely in the mountains AND I got a call from Miss Laura Mac notifying that she will be in the area tomorrow evening (just missing the Farmer's Market down the street), but it will be a good dosage of sanity to speak with a good friend in person. Microbrew!

I've started back on Twitter, did some cleaning of those I was following, and added much more to try out. I asked Betsy just a minute ago, when she thought I was being grumpy, to sign on and combat the drivel by posting intelligent and interesting updates but she decided to be a pacificist. Chicks, man. Anyway, those two gems of current events were found through Twitter. SO, you should join Twitter - Carmela, Ross and Jess especially - and act like an educated person.

"Stop Following Me!" or Why Twitter sucks, though it may be a big deal at one point in our lives...

2009-06-10T02:19:00.000-05:00

Two good friends of mine started following me on Twitter today... which reminded me that I had Twitter. But it's OK! One of the friends is really, really bored and the other is using it to find a job... I hope that helps, but I honestly can't see that it would. A business, that you happen to admire and follow on Twitter, is going to say, "We're hiring two spots!" and you have to reply in order to get an interview?

I started Twitter several months ago when I read that Chef Grant Achatz, of Alinea in Chicago, and Mike Ruhlman, the go-to food-writer of modern cuisine - gastronomy or otherwise - had Twitter. I really liked what they said, or did, in regards to cooking and was really excited to get to see the casual, unrehearsed, behind-the-music thoughts of these two figures in American cuisine. Then, I don't know how they found me, the people who actually know me, but I starting receiving these email notifications from Twitter. My friends and peers found me and, through them, I found other people I knew. That was cool and exciting and communal, except that everyone I was following turned out to be... extremely dull.

Edit: Everything they said turned out to be extremely dull.

Re-Edit: Everything they said, on Twitter, turned out to be extremely dull.

"Wooooo... I want some village pizza...... Yuuuum...."

"Kind of bored."

"has started to pack :D"

"hoping that the penguins force a game 7..."

"making stuff"

"Met with Dr. Veenstra this morning. I wonder what he thinks about me. 'What are you doing in my office?' probably."

OK. That last one was me, but the others are from people I love, respect and think are hilarious. And I could honestly care less about any of the above. If these people said these things to me, in person, out of the blue, I would be puzzled. "Bitch, I don't care!" and the like. You know how it goes. Then go get some pizza. Geez.

It turned out, though, that the celebrities were boring people as well. If they weren't peddling what they had already written about (in their blogs or whatever), then they actually used twitter to connect with the people in THEIR lives. This is a problem to me! I want my celebrities to stay on their pedestal! If Philip Seymour Hoffman were to come to town, I would love to have a drink with him and he would think I were hilarious and we would be friends but I wouldn't want to follow him on Twitter because that would make him boring. Twitter makes you boring. Twitter takes celebrities off their pedestal - where they should be - and makes them say stupid, insignificant, human things that let you down because you were expecting them to be groundbreaking with every breath.

We're not all living to such high expectations, of course. There should be some credit to an avenue that encourages contact and writing, of all things, from one person to the world. Says Sarah Milstein, who wrote a book on Twittering, "An individual post may not be interesting, but over the course of weeks you build a meaningful picture of somebody, you get a sense of the rhythms of someone's life." (Full Arti cle - with tips on how to write interesting tweets) Instead of seeing a fact-by-fact feed for information, Milstein is actually claiming that Twitter is a way to get to know somebody.

Really?

It is satisfying, in some strange way, to send out a small piece of exposition or identity in the midst of a hectic week or late at night alone in a workspace. This isn't isolated to Twitter - blogs, facebook notes and journals hit on the same spot.
This site maintains that 10% of the users are responsible for more than 90% of the content. I bet 40% alone are from Rainn Wilson (Dwight, from the American Office - you'd think he was funny from his acting, and from that brief and eloquent letter to CNN. I mean, clearly, he's a complex and capable human being... but his tweets are hit-and-miss, and mostly dumb.) Regardless, it seems most people abandoned Twitter, having realized that they didn't have interesting things to say in 140 characters (or that they would be better said on facebook or, oh crap, their blogs) and quit, or they're quietly on but not contributing. This article titled "How Twitter Will Change the World" says that hearing what people had for breakfast is actually more interesting than one would think. "We don't think it at all moronic to start a phone call with a friend by asking how her day is going. Twitter gives you the same information without your even having to ask." Without our even having to ask... thereby exacerbating the lack of filter in our digital lives. Except that most answers to "How's it going?" are rendered insignificant when the conversation is reduced to one-sided, 140 character rants. All of a sudden, YOU become that one co-worker who won't let you idly exist and breaks the peaceful quiet with, "So my kid did the cutest thing the other day..." YOU become that guy we try to avoid walking down the hall with because he thinks you want to hear about every drink he had over the weekend. And when dozens of people are simultaneously telling you about their eating habits or hopes for the Lakers, that's when people stop caring and start drinking. The problem: few of us can manage to be interesting in 14o characters. We're filling up the servers with our shinfo.
But the kids are doing it because they still text during movies and their hormones drive them to care about when their friends are feeling sleepy or insecure. And who better to tap into the world's young, vulnerable and dim? The church. Apparently it's a good idea to allow caffeinated youths to feed their ADD by talking constantly through service instead of raising hands or breaking up into groups. I sent the article to my youth pastor brother and said that I would never join a church that regularly held their services this way. Crazy. He wasn't, if I remember correctly, ready to whip out the holy water, but he wasn't pulling out the projector in the sanctuary and asking the congregation to bring in their laptops either.
And there's a space for quick, digital communication in the business arena... somehow... I'm not really in the loop on that if someone wants to explain how Twitter is better than, or different to, emailing than please do so. For conference buzz?
And if the public won't read/watch/listen to the news, then politicians can keep their constituents updated on any policy updates... which, if it's intriguing or threatening enough, will to lead to their web site or a news source. All major news sources are Twittering as well and if some people find usefulness in their access to information, by all means.
But this "social interface," like any other, is about the people. Let's not forget that. And Twitter is currently best when we, as a collective group, come together to acknowledge our seemingly menial, daily culture. The existence of our voices, our expressed thoughts, is a celebration to our unified humanity. Our opinions, thoughts, desires, failures, triumphs and epiphanies are a product of the lives we lead and Twitter is best used to collect that and make fun of each other. (You can sign in to comment and bring other morons in for humiliation with your Twitter account.)
Otherwise, you should just check The Onion regularly and not have to depend on Twitter to let The Onion tell you when it has new stuff up. If we're going to fill it up with redundant updates for higher ad counts and our mundane details of - holy crap! - how difficult finals are, then we might as well use it as a shooting range. Maybe each social/professional group will have to have a computer geek (Travis, pay attention) to set up a private Twitter for certain individuals, and maintain keeping the unpopular kids out. WITH a shinfo foul option... or, you know, we could just not spew shinfo down each other's throats. We could take 140 blank characters as a challenge. Accountability, coupled with ruthless elitism, is our hope for productivity. And... go!

2009-06-07T04:16:00.000-05:00

It's interesting, if not completely unsettling or hilarious, to compare the understanding of evil I have now to then, and earlier back when. Back when Satan was a scapegoat, but unattached to any actual practice in the world because such practices didn't exist. Keep in mind this was very far back and, for that matter, God was a hero for most things because most things were good. And I ran around home, school, church - the weekly routine - merrily spewing what I was taught to recite. When I was a bit older, I found a cigarette in my house and remember my spine immediately chilled and, as dramatic as it seems, there was no sound. I must have been eleven or twelve when I locked myself in the bathroom, set it on my lips, looked in the mirror and actually went dizzy from the image. Total badass, I know. Nicotine, alcohol, sex, swearing - all inexcusable then. Black and white and that was good enough. I went to public school after sixth grade, after that first innocent encounter with the cigarette, and made friends with the greasy, hacky-sacking stoner kids. Their parents had complicated, strained relationships; they smoked weed when they could; smoked cigarettes aggressively and (talked about how they) had sex every weekend. I was friends with them up until we moved to Iowa . They knew I didn't smoke or drink or sleep around and, somehow, we were pretty good friends. I'm older now, and my understanding of evil shifts to what silences me during the day and keeps me up at night - none of those earlier vices even comes close to the list now, but it must have been easier living an existence with such specific targets. Is nicotine a stronger addiction than greed? Corruption? Injustice? Apathy? Fear? What I'm noticing is that my initial understanding of sin, of DONTs, involved vague but specific-seeming rules. Don't lie, cheat, fight or ask questions. From there it was don't smoke, don't drink, don't have sex and don't talk about it. (For the record, family, I'm not having sex.) I'm not afraid that my current roster of evils will "phase out" into yet another list, and that to another etc. but it's an unsettling idea to consider when you go about your day, meeting with people, reading about what's happening and hearing stories. And it's necessary, I think, to being to understand what's been built in your existence to stay up at night to wrestle with.

---

Jer - I saw Annie Hall recently too. Had a strong New York/Seinfeld conversation energy to it, I thought.

Dee - Scott and Margaret and Dan recommended Robertson Davies to me on various occasions. I have to yet to do so. I saw 'The Girl with the Pearl Earring" in a used bookstore today. Really, don't read it?

Joel - Persepolis the film is fantastic - lovingly drawn (by hand). I'm sure the graphic novel is as well. I don't want to fight your family, but it seems you want me to. So... SM was a waste of talent, craft, preparation and lots of money.

Up (2009) - Carl loses his balloon when Ellie whirls around and scares him in her clubhouse. They go upstairs to see it across the dilapidated room and she pushes him to cross the single plank and retrieve it. Halfway there, he falls through and CUT TO: ambulance wailing down the street CUT TO: Carl, heavily cast in plaster, in bed and Ellie comes to visit. Then there's a montage of them getting married, buying the dilapidated house, fixing it up, going on picnics, thinking of children, sharing their dreams, growing old, getting sick, dying, leaving. In all seriousness, it could have ended there.

The Hangover (2009) - The lines from the trailers are still funny in the film. That rarely happens. Not a great film, but an OK one and a really good time for guys who dream about debauchery and hedonism in Vegas with their pals and having Meat Loaf sing at their wedding... which is most of us.

El Espinazo del diablo or The Devil's Backbone (2001) - His awesome majesty, Guillermo del Toro's "brother" twin film to Pan's Labyrinth (2006) is another story that explores supernatural notions against a very harsh, very visceral, war-torn Spain. "What is a ghost?" is the first line of the film and it reverberates with the characters as they struggle with friendship and self-worth (orphans), passion and responsibility (caretakers, teachers) and anger from their past. Though not as crisp or beautiful as Pan's Labyrinth (or Hellboy, for that matter), it's an engaging, violent and menacing film. A film that makes you hate the antagonist as much as this does is one sign, among many, of effective storytelling. It's a personal and complex hatred and it's thrown right back at you.

Peddling pt. 1

2009-06-02T00:16:00.000-05:00

It may seem like I'm turning into that "friend" who's always telling you about some new product, film, album or book that you HAVE to read... in fact, I read a really great short story in the New Yorker on that very premise. Let me see if it's available to read online...

Boom. Click.

Amazing what the internet can do, right? Especially on the super-sleek dual core processor of a Macbook...

Um. So I've been reading McSweeney's since before it was mentioned on Juno, but after I moved out to Iowa where I met my buddy Jason and, via Jason, Ben Folds, Robert Post, gin, the north Minnesota coast, Mountain Dew, the pseudo-Irish, robot penises and, like I said, McSweeneys. Currently, the New Today feature on the site is a very quick, genuine, sad and funny essay by Robin Hemley (writing professor at Univ. of Iowa, for crying out loud) on his current experience in the Philippines. There's a lot of good writing on McSweeney's - some features are more hit-and-miss than others... it seems the lists used to be a lot funnier than they have been... but I started reading 'Dispatches from Manila' after, well, we traveled to Manila for ten days.

This was during Christmas break 08-10 with Professor Volkers. We spent only ten days there, but we spent ten days there with the sole purpose to meet poor people and see how they live. I've rambled enough about that experience elsewhere...

But there's a lingering, how would you say, sentiment? Maybe not, but we won't take any more time to think of a more accurate word. The memories of certain scenes from that trip still play vividly in my mind. It helps to have a stock of images and notes to fall back on, but even during the semester when we got back, even here in a nice suburb of Colorado Springs, certain moments will come back to me. So there is, of course, an interest in the country, and in hearing other stories... and if they're from a writing professor's experience on his Guggenheim fellowship, why not?

OK. I made about $68.33 from this post. There's lots of microbreweries in Colorado.

Run

2009-05-30T17:15:00.000-05:00

A Saturday morning, spent finishing a marvelous and wrenching novel Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje, whose name is very, very fun to say exuberantly (On-da-che!). He is, you may know, the author the the highly-esteemed The English Patient. It's been a while since I've picked up a novel without any expectation of it or the author's previous work (I haven't read The English Patient) deciding, in one of five fiction aisles at the Pike's Peak Rock-rimmon branch library, to add it to the pile after reading the first few pages. The chapters are short, and some of them are in italicized print, which means that while the POV remains in the third-person, the focus switches from Anil to Sarath to Gamini to Ananda and, when italicized, back to time of the murders and chaos that the three investigate. I generally don't like when novels juxtapose characters and events like this - I think I actually groaned when I found this - because it seems like such an easy way to reveal plot twists to the reader, like Tarantino and his incessant out-of-sequence editing. Ondaatje doesn't do that. Much of the exposition the novel gives, the ideas and elusive journeys that drive the characters, that idea of forensic studies and archaeology as ways to discover truth and life - studying the bones and be able to glean your hobbies, injuries and occupation; studying the soil in which the bones were buried to see where, and when, it took place - do just that. They shed moments of life from war-torn Sri Lanka, the stretched life of a forensic residency and etc. It's a beautiful novel, I encourage you to pick it up and I am not, in any way, benefiting from mentioning this novel. For the record.
OK. I had to get that out because I went for a brief run today in the cool, fresh mountain air and came back with a bloody nose and a wrenching headache. Stupid, stupid, stupid body not yet adjusted to the elevation and less oxygen available and storms off in the distance. So, this and a few cups of water slowly ingested helped. Thanks all. What have YOU been reading/watching this summer?

Bleck

2009-05-28T02:08:00.000-05:00

I am unsatisfied with that previous post. What's the point of it? Eh. It's a series of poorly executed snapshots of insignificant parts of my Colorado daily, bumbling across and weakly reaching for... I'm not really sure what. I spent a lot of my initial efforts here interfacing and introducing and letting my gracious hosts and employers know that I'm competent and approachable and willing to give input and not an abrasive prick. I like to think I succeeded, they're all smiles so far and I'm working to keep it that way, of course. My brother texted me today and said, "Middle-aged women love the boys in our family for some reason..." I wonder if that's true. Well, no - really, I wonder WHY that's true. Because it is true. Awesome... ?
OK. This cavernous home is lovely and there are, of course, the necessary creaks and hitches etc. to keep us on our toes when we get too comfortable. And I'm getting back there (to comfortable) but I'm still carrying around this solid steel meat tenderizer/mallet. Yes. I've practiced quick, furtive (and deadly!) swipes into the dark. One recent night, while working away on my laptop in the kitchen, the fireplace in the nearby sitting room turned on. This means, the gas was released and lit and a fire was burning pretty aggressively. All of a sudden.
I know! I was just sitting here! EITHER it's on some strange timer... in May... or the obvious answer, there's someone(s) else in this house with me... but they don't want to kill me (yet) because, of course, they lit the gas... otherwise, they would have merely released the gas and slowly fill the house, and my mind, and I would have gone with a sudden blaze or a gradual, catatonic slumber.
I FOUND the switch for the fireplace a handful of frantic hours later BEHIND THE TELEVISION where I had never been remotely close to venturing... Carol and Jerry, if you're reading this from Tajikistan, you could have mentioned the wandering souls in your home... I'm still cool with it, I still have the mallet, but it could have been brought to my attention. Not a big deal. Also, I didn't take the garbage out on Monday night because I accumulated half a bag, so I just didn't bother.
What else? Creaks, inconsistent shade positions, water dripping, toilets randomly flushing, pale English children in antiquated riding clothes playing in the basement/watching me sleep from beneath the bed etc. I'll keep an eye out for the next really freaky thing though.

Barb Wire Fences

2009-05-28T00:27:00.000-05:00

It's an interesting sensation to walk up to a barb wire fence in the middle of the woods. The wire is rusty and worn, drooping down to the countless hikers who, if they have boots, simply grab the post, step on the line and continue on their way. If they have light hiking shoes, like me, they sling their bag and tripod over before bending down to slide carefully over.
It's been raining semi-heavily every day since the weekend. Today was the first with consistent sun and I wanted to see what the camera could capture at dusk. Cacti, boulders, wildflowers, brooding and engulfing trees etc. This is all much more invigorating in person, with the cool mountain air, and not read in Georgia font on your computer screen, but just imagine if you feel like it. I've still to completely adjust to the elevation and...

NOTE: Columbia Winery, Cabernet Sauvignon 1998 is maybe the WORST wine I've ever had. I wish I could go into some passionate Paul Giamatti soliloquy about why this sucks so bad, probably using the word 'vapid' a few times... the thing is... after going through the ceremony of uncorking, unwrapping, pouring and swirling and sniffing - all in eager anticipation - and then tasting nothing until the faint finish... there is disappointment.

crouching down to squint through a tiny viewfinder and adjusting the focus THROUGH said tiny viewfinder and tinkering with that tripod and then

standing up

and taking in the multiple depth of fields of real life and having your eyes automatically adjust to the groves and tall grasses and the breadth of "I climbed up here, from down there, and I'm looking down at where I stood looking at this rock I'm currently standing on and it's minuscule." Hiking down must be a steady, gradual trip if only to balance the necessary fluids reaching and fleeting from your brain. And, anyway, it's so very calm.

I've been telling friends, through various digital communication means, that I haven't spoken to anybody near my age since I arrived here. I have no money for casual cups of coffee or microbrew sampling (until June, if then) and there's always work to do in several different departments etc. I'm keeping busy, but the solitary situation is getting to me... and, somehow, the Pikes Peak Public Library had Forgetting Sarah Marshall in its collection and I'm freaking out with it. It's good to write and read and watch films alone, plot the day for myself etc. but there's that scene in the bar with, "Let's pump the brakes," and I laugh hard before sighing and missing hanging out and, AND there's even that insipid exchange with the girls pretending to be nice to each other and the "...and you're so pretty." "Oh my gosh, you're, like, so much prettier than I am..." which, if it were to happen two weeks ago, I would vomit and/or leave but I laugh here - hysterically, in this cavernous home and the noise comes back to me, adding to the laughter that continues so I get... freaked out by the volume of my own laughter.

Same with the outtakes and the extended scenes and the initial table read with the final cast and I start to get excited about production again, thinking about... how we would do things differently, all that we've learned etc.

All right. Send me your address if I don't have it. See you soon.

Injustice and Failures

2009-05-21T02:38:00.000-05:00

I usually don't title these, and I'll probably regret it later. I can't sleep. I can't sleep. And there are various factors and details, complex threads to even begin resolving these issues for those living below the poverty line, even those right above it, in the US... and it has me up thinking. Someone else please, please read it and tell me if there's anything to be done. Or do we say, "That's horrible" and go back to our day? I'm exhausted. Before I read the article, I was ready to shut my eyes. So I picked up a book I got at the library today - Cannery Row, John Steinbeck - and read just up through the most anticipated and wrenching part of the novel (so far).

"So long. Say, Mack -- what happened to your wife?"
"I don't know," said Mack. "She went away." He walked clumsily down the stairs and crossed over and walked up the lot and up the chicken walk to the Palace Flophouse. Doc watched his progress through the window. And then wearily he got a broom from behind the water heater. It took him all day to clean up the mess.

In the Philippines, in the trash pile slums and I don't speak Tagalog except for 'Hello' and 'May I take your photograph?' so the kids that flocked us from the moment we stepped out of the vans and pressed up against the windows when we got back in were still kept at that distance. The older ones eagerly smiled at us, shook our hands and beamed while their younger siblings trounced about in a language we didn't understand, but would hear for ten enormous days. I asked Ate Rachel to ask one girl what she wanted to do when she grew up, expecting the same kind of answer we'd been receiving from the school children (doctor, doctor, lawyer, nurse). She answered timidly, but quickly, and Rachel threw her head back and laughed. "She wants to marry an American." Hahahahahahaha. The girl's younger sister (it's hard to tell how old they are because filipinos are short and, even as they grow up, they don't age... at all) bravely, enthusiastically grabbed our hands and took us around her home and I wish I had been able to speak to her and her sister and ask them, ask their parents, what they needed most. It might be that what they need most is cash - they're fumbling for it all day to feed their kids and keep healthy, stay energized. Cash that might keep the older sister from submitting her body at night, that she actually lives a life we feared in our suspicions and then heard about later, from Ate Rachel and Ate Marian. That it's a common, ugly fact. What does that do to self-identity? For a growing person's already complex, and confused, understanding of value and worth? God damn it. It might have been that what they, like some impoverished families in the States, need most was a few weeks in an apartment, with plumbing and steady food and a phone line and a chance to work towards progress instead of barely scraping by. Some families managed, somehow, to send one of their kids to school. It's an appalling thought to be fortunate enough to send ONE child to school, when you have five. That's enormous pressure and urgency to put on one child. Who is there to encourage that child, attending a school where one teacher leads a classroom of fifty/sixty kids? If the family is dependent on that one child to "make it" and bring the family out of poverty, where the economy has been faltering for much longer than it's been "bad" here in the States, what happens when the child fails? For that matter, how can that child possibly succeed?

Jeremy told me about visiting the orphanage in Nicaragua. Mike did later, briefly, as well. I'll be spending roughly twelve days there after the program is over, with the still and video camera. OK. I'm expecting desperate, almost-feral children falling upon us as we step through the door, soaked in piss and shit and there aren't enough workers to wash their bodies. Orphans - having had given up on the notion of existence, trained to carry out their days with glue-soaked rags wrapped around their faces, covering their noses and mouths. Twelve days documenting them and then I step on a plane to go back to class. What do they need the most? Funding? Workers? Books? Tutors? Families?

2009-05-20T18:22:00.000-05:00

University of Colorado - Colorado Springs.
They have a nice library, and tons of literary events/discussions going on all week, and the people (students, staff, community people milling around) are very comfortable and friendly. The large windows give a great view, of course, to those mountains surrounding this school that's actually situated on a hill. I'm here working on some papers I need to finish from last semester, and two hurdles.

1) the wifi is password protected, and they regretfully explained that there is no GUEST login... so I'm researching here, like a chump, on the THIS IS A PAY-FOR-PRINTS machine... which totally ruins my "I'm a local kid, don't worry about me" angle... damn. I'm here with the Gary Busey look-alike, sitting on these high stools like, as I said, a chump.

2) They close at 7:00. It's about 5:30 now. I realize they had their final day of exams yesterday... but this is still, from what I can tell, an active community where students from small Iowa schools come to work and make use of their resources.

Give me a guest login, you jerks. Just kidding. Once I have my resources in place, I won't need the internet to punch out these papers. I've become a much stinkier geek since the summer started, everyone. You don't, and won't, even realize.